#but its been slowly accruing even tears later

[maid-of-the-golden-deer]

not this fic nearing 10k views while i stopped paying attention to it...

[serpentinesarang]

Familiar

pairing: chan (bang chan) x gender-neutral reader

genre: no smut, married!au, emotionally heavy, lots of plot build-up/context description, slow burn, fluff at the end, second-person POV

word count: 2098

content warnings: themes of death, depression/grieving, lack of eating, swearing; this is a SERIOUS piece that may make you cry. please proceed with caution and take a mental breather after. 

summary: your husband chan died a year ago, and life hasn’t been the same until you meet a peculiar stray dog whom you decide to keep.

a/n: partly inspired by the netflix anime film “a whisker away.” hint hint: australian dingo...

korean key:

⦿ sasaengpaen (사생팬) = crazy spy-like super fans, sasaeng for short; pronounced “sah-seng”

⦿ annyeong (안녕) = multipurpose word that translates to hi/bye and no; in this story, it’s used in the hi/bye sense. pronounced “on-yawng”

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

Preface

It happened a year ago. The crash. The sasaengs. The coma. The stroke. The doctors’ denial of life support. The funeral.

Your husband Chan had died tragically after a catastrophic car accident outside the JYPE building in Seoul when a group of sasaengs tried to take control of an already chaotic situation on the street. Chan had been rushed to the hospital, so bloodied and so internally fractured that he immediately fell comatose and incidentally suffered a stroke due to the bodily trauma. 

You’d begged with all your might for the doctors to put him on life support, but they refused, saying he’d be vegetative for the rest of your life. They even sent an insurance liason up to Chan’s ICU suite to speak with you about having to pay for his life support as long as you continued to live, and you were just so beaten down by all the hospital staff that you agreed to release his body to the funeral home his parents had flown in to coordinate with.

And you were destroyed. 

Your employer had given you three months’ bereavement, but you still couldn’t bear to go to work for four more months. You slept 12 hours on Chan’s side of the bed every night and only wore his clothes during those four months of intermittent crying. After you used up the remaining sick days and paid time off you’d accrued over the years, your manager finally terminated you for missing too much. The next two months were spent on the couch with no appetite and inconsistent sleep, the good memories of Chan continually flooding back to you at random times. 

This was when you’d decided it was time to get your shit together because the scale declared you 15 lbs [7 kg] lighter; the circles under your eyes scared you each time you dared to glance in a mirror; and your phone’s mailbox had filled to its limit with messages from anyone and everyone offering their condolences for your loss. So three months passed, and you were able to gain back most of your weight, sleep more consistently, and clean out your social media.

Those last three months were the cleansing your soul so desperately needed, and for the first time since the incident, you were starting to feel a level of normalcy again. You’d even pushed yourself to get back into the workforce, and thankfully, this new employer didn’t cause a scene about your 11-month gap in job history. 

The dominoes were falling back into place. Sadly, you’d felt compelled at one point to ghost the rest of Stray Kids because it was just too painful for you to act like you could handle yourself around them. Out of worry and compassion, they all individually sent you messages here and there, but you told yourself maybe in the future. After all, your life had disintegrated to less than dust, so you were your priority moving forward.

Now

Your phone’s alarm wakes you to another dreary November day. It’s a snippet of an audio message he’d left you long, long ago when he was away for a tour. “Good morning to you, [Mr./Mrs.] Bang, my beautiful angel. I’m thinking of you as always. Text me when you get this. Love you, honey.”

November 25th, to be exact: the one-year anniversary of Chan’s death.

You sigh, whispering to the ceiling, “I love you too, baby.”

You pick yourself up, go through all the usual motions, and head to work in the morning snow, trying to keep your mind as numb as you’ve been recently feeling. Perhaps you’ll do a little something once you return home, you resolve.

The workday passes; the snow continues blanketing the city; and nothing really good or bad has happened in the meantime.

You step off the elevator onto your floor of the apartment building. You’re freezing from the windchill, mindlessly deleting spam email on your phone while trudging in your heavy boots to your door.

Once you reach your unit, something at the edge of your eyesight causes you to freeze. You take in the sight before you: a large, tan and white dog lying on your welcome mat with its front paws extended toward you. Its deep brown eyes stare right into yours, and you feel all the air in your lungs disappear.

“A-annyeong,” you murmur softly, pocketing your phone. 

The dog blinks in response, not moving his gaze.

You crouch down in front of the dog slowly, trying not to spook it. “Are you lost, sweetie?”

The dog emits a barely audible whimper, and you can’t tell if it’s sad or relieved to have been found. It’s not wearing a collar, and its abundant fur looks clean, like an inside pet.

Feeling conflicted, you purse your lips. “You must be... I’ll tell you what: you be good and stay here for me, okay?”

The dog exhales sharply before closing its eyes.

Wow, well trained pupper, you think to yourself as you rise. You spend the next five minutes ringing the entire floor’s doorbells, even banging on the doors of the units that didn’t respond to the bell. Each and every neighbor of yours denies owning a dog that looks like a Shiba Inu, and they all claim to not know anyone else who might have one.

“Fuck,” you hiss under your breath after the last person closes their door.

Returning back to your unit, you find the dog hasn’t moved an inch, but it must recognize your presence because its eyes fly open, and its head shoots up toward you.

“I guess you’re mine for now,” you address it. You enter your passcode and push the door open, pointing expectantly with an approving facial expression for the dog to understand it’s okay to go in.

And it happily trots inside, sniffing around the entryway while you shuck off your boots, parka, and other winter layers. 

The dog seems to be waiting for you to finish because, once you turn toward it, it immediately turns around and saunters to the bedroom on the far end of the apartment. You keep up at its side and determine with a friendly visual inspection that this dog is a boy.

Approaching Chan’s old side of the mattress, he turns back to you and sits down in front of the nightstand, digging his eyes into yours once more.

Your brow furrows as you try to piece together what’s happening. “What? What’s up, sweetie?”

The dog replies with a heartwrenching whimper, angling his snout forward as if asking for you.

You pad closer and sit on the backs of your legs. “Will you let me touch you?” you ask him softly, raising a hand for him to sniff.

Oddly, he straight up disregards your hand and leans forward to lick your chin.

“Awww,” you gush at his sudden affection. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” You stroke the top of his tan head, and again, the poor thing whimpers while leaning into your touch.

You scratch at the bases of his ears before cupping his jowls in your hands. “You’re such a sweet boy, you know that?”

The dog blinks rapidly, pushing forward again to gently lick at your unsuspecting lips this time.

Giggling and stroking his front shoulder areas, you say, “Ohh, thank you, thank you. I haven’t been kissed in a year, so I appreciate that, sweet boy.”

A moment passes, but you have to do a double-take when you notice the thick stream of fluid cascading from his shiny eyes.

You gasp. “Oh nooo, are you crying?” With your thumbs, you carefully wipe away his tears. “Don’t cry, sweetie. I did enough of that for nine months straight, and I can’t have you making me sad too,” you confide with the animal, stroking his head again.

He responds by standing on all fours and pressing the top of his head to your own forehead, and you go breathless again.

He’s so human-like... so emotional... you think, raising your arms over his body and hugging him. You stay there for a solid minute before he finally pulls back and sits again.

You sigh quietly, evaluating his expression. “I don’t know about you, but it’s been a long day.” You nudge your chin up to the bed. “Wanna rest for a while?”

The dog ever so quietly barks with its snout closed, as if in acknowledgement, and he waits for you to move first. So you rise and position the pillows on Chan’s side against the wall for you to sit upright. You spread your legs in a butterfly position, and without you having to beckon or give permission, the dog hops to the corner of the bed and situates himself between your legs. You notice then that he’s eyeing something on the wall above the bed.

The professional landscape shot of Chan with his arms tightly curled around you under a peony-adorned gazebo near a lake, the day of your wedding. You were looking into each other’s eyes with the sincerest of smiles.

You turn to glance at the framed photo. “Yeah,” you sigh deeply, turning back to the dog. “That’s Channie, my husband.”

The dog picks up on your change of tone and scoots forward as close as he can get, resting his paws on your upper thighs and his snout on your stomach. His gleaming eyes practically compel you to go on.

Placing your hands on his soft back, you continue in a strained voice: “He was taken from me last year, on this day actually, November 25th. He was so badly hurt in the accident that he went into a coma and had a stroke a couple days later.”

You pause, and the dog whimpers on your stomach, his sad gaze making your throat constrict and your eyes water. 

How can a dog be so in tune with me...?

You push that question away with a sigh and bring a hand to rest on his head. “I never left the hospital. The nurses had to kick me out of his room when he passed. And I cried my eyes out for almost a year.” 

Your eyes drift off, glancing at the ceiling and the walls while remembering your grieving process. “So now I sleep on his side of the bed... I wear only his clothes at home... and I shower with the same things he always did. He’s always with me, even when I’m not wearing my ring.”

Tears have started falling onto your cheeks, and you look back down at the quiet dog to find him crying again as well, his glassy eyes still intently watching you.

An uncontrolled sob escapes your lips before you mash them together, trying to keep it together.

“I love him so much,” you throw your head back against the wall. “I love him so, so fucking much,” you whisper, the hot tears falling faster now.

You hear the dog whine rather loudly, so you focus on him again as he raises his head. “He was my person, and now I have no one,” you blubber, using your hands to angrily wipe away the tears.

The dog replies with a seemingly uncharacteristic growl, its eyes still very soft in contrast.

“Okay, okay, now I have you,” you concede, catching your breath. “I don’t know where your parents are, and I’ve been alone for too long.” You pause, almost unwilling to continue. “Will you stay with me, sweet boy?”

He barks out a high-pitched yelp, spastically moving his paws against you so they’re digging into your abdomen now.

Cheered up by the dog’s responsive expressions of emotion, you burst into a brief laugh and scratch the underside of his snout. “You remind me of him, you know. Soft hair, gorgeous brown eyes, super caring.”

Again, he whimpers, very quietly this time. You tenderly kiss his moist nose. “I’ll call you Chris... because only I was allowed to call him that.”

Chris responds by licking your lips again.

Your random gasp makes him jump a little. “Oh my gosh, I bet you’re hungry or thirsty!” You try shifting on the bed, but Chris’s weight holds you firmly. “Do you want food?”

Chris lowers his snout, resting it on your chest now. He doesn’t make any noises, but you can guess what he means by this.

“Okay, Chris, I gotcha. We’ll stay here and eat when you’re ready,” you promise as you smooth his pointed ears backward.

...

I found them... if only they knew it’s me... I’m Channie, and I’m still yours, honey. 

[halfwaythereroyalwrites]

Go To Sleep (The Mandalorian x Reader) - Kilig

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader 

Warning: This can be read alone or as part of The Mandalorian’s Kilig series. Cursing. Soft moments with The Child and The Mandalorian. 

Word count: 1,485 words 

A/N: I am going to be posting my writing on this side blog rather than my main blog from now on. Mostly because I want it helps my mind keep organized. I’m very excited to keep expanding on the Kilig series. Let me know if you would like to be added to a taglist or have any requests.

****Here is a link to several organizations you can donate to in order to support the protests and the Black Lives Matter movement. 

Kilig is a Tagalog word to describe the feeling of excitement and exhilaration and possibly embarrassment from anything remotely romantic.

Part 2 + Masterlist 

_______________________________________________

The Child refused to sleep.

High-pitched wailing traveled throughout the Razor Crest. The crying reverberated off the metal walls, significantly amplifying both the sound and my deep desperation to calm The Child down. I had him in my arms, bouncing up and down rhythmically while trying to shush him to sleep. A combination of his tears, snot, and drool were seeping through my shirt whilst his green, little fists softly beat against my shoulder in protest.

“Please, please, please,” I pleaded. “Go to sleep.” Hot tears of frustration were pricking the back of my eyes. The Child has had trouble sleeping since Mando left to hunt a quarry down days ago. This behavior of leaving with little to no communication in between his departure and his arrival was not out of the ordinary. He would only ever briefly call in to check on The Child and me during his bounty hunting. Then he would go about his business in order to provide for all three of you. However, The Child grew increasingly aware of Din’s absence, leaving me to deal with the repercussions. I stopped rocking the child, setting him down on the floor. I unceremoniously laid down on my back next to him, in defeat, arms and legs flayed out. I closed my eyes and took a big breath before looking up to meet his wide, black eyes still shining and rimmed with tears. “What do you want me to do? He’s not gonna be back for a while.” I questioned exasperatedly. His large ears slowly flopped down — lips quivering — before his tiny head tilted upwards and let out a cry that increased in volume until it left my ears vibrating. I groaned and closed my eyes. I decided to take a moment to recollect myself before battling with The Child to get him to sleep. Breathe. Relax. I got this. Take in this quiet moment.  Let the peace and silence take over…

Peace….silence…my eyes shot open in panic. I pushed myself up in alarm and looked all around me.

Shit. The Child was gone.

…Mando was going to kill me.

“Sweetie, I’m sorry! Please come out.” I hurriedly searched behind every crevice, panel, and under any surface of the Razor Crest’s lower level. I attempted to coax him out with promises of treats and games to no avail. My chest felt crushed under the panic of possibly losing The Child. My only job was to take care of him! The thought of Mando coming home to find that I lost The Child forced bile into my throat — worsening the panic running through my veins. I climbed the ladder to the upper level and entered the cockpit to my left. “Mini Mando? Please be in here.”

I received silence in return. I turned around to search the room opposite the cockpit until the sounds of soft cooing reached my ears. I turned back around and padded over to the control panel to find a small, green figure standing on it, playing with one of the control sticks. I plopped down into the pilot’s seat, leaning back to let the weight of panic leave my body. After a few minutes, The Child turned around to face me. His eyes were no longer rimmed with tears, but his features were still fraught with sadness. He slowly plopped down on the panel and let his head drop, sniffling. My heart broke for The Child who simply missed his father. I leaned forward and held out my finger for him to hold onto.

“He’s gonna be back before you know it, little one. You and I gotta be strong in the meantime.” He looked at me, ears moving up and down as if in understanding. He and I stayed like this for a while. The Child played with my fingers while my mind wandered to thoughts of Mando. The Mandalorian was not sociable by any means when we had met on Tatooine. I had been helping Peli Motto with repairing the highly damaged Razor Crest. I wasn’t as handy as Peli, but she called me and insisted she needed all the help she can get since Mando insisted on no droids. The Child and I had bonded while Peli worked tirelessly on correcting the damage accrued on the ship. Even Mando took notice when he returned to the hangar looking for Toro. Toro held The Child and I hostage when he attempted to double-cross Mando. This attempt didn’t end well for the aspiring bounty hunter who was quickly subdued by Mando with the help of Peli. As soon as the sparks died down, The Child waddled over to me for comfort.

Bearing in mind Peli Motto’s criticism of his childcare — or lack thereof — he invited me to be a part of his crew as The Child’s caretaker. That fateful day that was supposed to set me off on many adventures across the galaxy. Instead, most of my days were confined to the ship, making sure The Child is safe and fed, giving Mando some peace of mind while focusing on his job.

The Mandalorian. Mando. What can I say about the infuriating, beskar-clad Mandalorian who drove me insane? His imposing nature made me feel safe whenever we landed in sketchier planets, surrounded by outlaws and people who were more-than-curious why a Mandalorian was hanging around these parts. His armored figure often acted as a protective shield between me, The Child, and the rest of the world. What he gave me in protection and income should have made up for the lack of company. Should have. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to know The Mandalorian on a deeper level — past the small talk. Past the comfortable silences. Past the safety he provides despite the constant danger of the lives you lead.

It had only been a short time since I agreed to be part of his crew, but the comfort and ease I felt whenever I was with Mando was immediate. I needed to know why. Why did it feel right being here?

I was startled out of my train of thought by The Child leaning the weight of his upper body against my hand. He was quickly falling asleep where he sat on the control panel. His eyes were fluttering open and shut, fighting against the temptation of sleep. Watching his heavy-lidded eyes reminded my own body that I have been awake just as long as he has. I yawned and scooped up his small, pudgy body into my lap where he quickly fell asleep. I leaned back into the pilot’s seat and let the sleep wash over me.

I don’t know how long it was since The Child and I fell asleep, but it was long enough for me to miss the sound of the ship being boarded. I woke up to the hiss of the cockpit doors opening. My body immediately went rigid, adrenaline spiking through my veins at the thought of a possible intruder. I made a move to rise from the pilot’s seat to face the intruder when a gloved hand fell on my shoulder.

“It’s just me.” The sound of Mando’s firm, modulated voice flooded relief into my once-rigid body.

“Hi, Mando,” I yawned in greeting, closing my eyes once more and cuddling The Child closer to me. “So how was the hunting?”

“Good.”

“That’s good.” I was quickly falling asleep again, the fatigue of caring for a crying baby for endless hours anchoring me to the pilot’s seat. I felt his eyes gazing at the two of us: The Child softly snoring in my lap and me sleeping with my head leaning on my shoulder. There was a silence before I heard his heavy footsteps leave the cockpit, the doors hissing behind him. A few short moments later, I heard the doors open again and his heavy footsteps pad over to the pilot’s seat. I kept my eyes closed, wondering what he was going to do to eject us from his seat. Instead, I felt the weight of a blanket settle in my lap, covering The Child and my legs in the process. His blanket carried his familiar scent, and it took much of my willpower not to smile at the sweet gesture. He stared at us for a short time before leaving the cockpit, probably to work on the ship or buy supplies at the nearest marketplace. When the sounds of his footsteps softly faded away, my eyes fluttered open. I looked down at The Child who clutched onto my forearm, his body covered by the blanket Mando draped over the two of you. I rearranged the blanket to cover as much of my body as possible without covering The Child entirely. A tiny smile made its way to my face as I drifted off to sleep once more.

_______________________________________________

Part 2 + Masterlist

[deralpi]

It seems as though we have to make our own content for a while. Here is my contribution to easing the pain of the hiatus: A Beaujester conversation, but the angst is turned up to eleven.

Hold me close, then let me go [1570 words]

The early dawn sun slanted through the single window. In its rays, dust particles floated in the air, puffed up by life slowly stirring awake. Because of the room’s angular layout, the light illuminated barely half of it; the other half depicted a still dark corner, in which stood an ordinary bed. And on its overused mattress, tucked under layers of blankets, lay one blue tiefling, still deep in slumber.

One would think that the wealth of the Might Nein would ensure them only upper-class lodging for the rest of their days, but once in awhile stakes were too high and discretion was judicious. 

And discretion you paid for with dignity, not coin. 

Three ramshackle rooms for two people each, while one had the pleasure of sleeping alone. In and of itself no unpleasant circumstances, if anything it prompted Beau to reminisce about their earlier beginnings. The debasing part was the creepy innkeeper, whose leer Beau would’ve already wiped off his face if they weren’t trying to stay low. She still almost did it just to quench her mounting agitation.

Beau would call herself a fundamentally angry person. With it came the responsibility to control herself, so innocent bystanders didn’t become first-hand witnesses to her wraith. Beau would wager — though she wasn’t too sure — that that anger had been her primal incentive which had pushed her into martial arts. The excruciating pain of a harsh work-out was an outlet, a way to inflict pain on herself so it wouldn’t be directed at others. Such daily exercises had proven sufficient in containing herself.

At least usually, that was.

For days now Beau has felt frustration churning inside her, putting her on edge. And with each consecutive dream filled with loss, she awoke angrier. 

With her legs folded under her, Beau desperately sought the comfort of deep meditation. All with no success. The harder she tried to calm herself the angrier she became. Suddenly, without her control — as she had feared — her fist crashed into the wall beside her, the wood crackling as it gave way. Beau held the pose, shock suddenly settling in. What is wrong with me? Her body began to shiver despite herself.

“Is everything alright?”

Beau didn’t look at her. Carefully, she withdrew her hand and let it drop into her lap; with the other she began to rub her eyes as if she had just woken up as well, cloaking her unshed tears. “Yes. Go back to sleep. It is still early.” Even to herself, her voice sounded mechanical.

A pregnant pause settled between them. Then, Beau heard the shuffling of the bedding and the tapping of soft footfalls until a pair of blue feet entered her peripheral. Beau didn’t have to see her to know that she was studying the impact beside her, a large dent of shattered wood and tiny splinters with red tips where they had bitten her skin. 

Jester plopped down on her knees in front of her, took Beau’s wounded hand in hers and uttered a few indistinct words. Soothing energy like a soft caress flowed through her skin and expunged her pain. 

Only then did Beau allow herself to look at her for the first time. Jester was a surprisingly restless sleeper, the result of which was a persistent mop of hair after waking that could only be tamed by a long bath. Beau had gone out of her way to poke fun at it, to fashion a plausible reason that would explain her uncontrollable, affectionate grin at the sight of it.

“What is going on, Beau?” Beau hated how much softness she put into her name.

“I don’t know. Nothing and everything, I guess.” It was the truth, though Jester would undoubtedly interpret it as another deflection.

Jester folded her legs, situating herself in front of Beau like a prettier mirror. Her eyes were devoid of any residual drowsiness. Intensity and focus shining within them. It meant that she wouldn’t let this one fly. Jester was naive in many regards, but she was also clever; frustratingly so. Though she had blatantly no clue as to why Beau behaved awkwardly around her, she noticed it and knew how to use it to her advantage. She knew that she only had to sit there and say nothing; the arising uneasiness would tickle a response out of Beau.

It worked like a charm.

“I can’t lose any of you.” Especially not you, Beau was about to add, but she couldn’t. Because it was neither true nor wrong. Every single one of them had accepted her and helped her become the woman she was today and she loved them dearly for it; but losing Jester would be the thing that would truly break her. “I simply can’t.”

“You won’t.”

“But that is a lie, isn’t it?” Beau zoned in on her. “Do you remember what you have said to me? On the boat? That I can become a pirate captain when this is all over?” She paused. “When. Not if.”

Jester’s face convulsed as if recognition had slapped her across the face.

“It’s fine. Don’t beat yourself up over it. I’m not dumb. I’m not deluding myself into believing that this-” Beau swung her arms wide, indicating the space around her “will last forever. One day we will scatter in all directions, visiting each other only occasionally. Time runs its course and that’s how it ought to be. I just—” Beau fell silent.

“You what?” Jester asked, stretching to lay a hand on her knee. 

Beau lifted herself to her feet abruptly and began to pace the room, kicking up dust. She heard Jester harrumph behind her.

“Listen, Beau,” she said. “Eventually we are going to part ways, yes. I’m also not kidding myself. But neither you nor I know when this separation will knock on our door. For all we know we could be hitting the road together five years from now. Please, don’t allow your fear of the moment where we part to ruin the time we are still together.”

Beau stopped in her tracks. It was self-evident that Jester meant the entire group, but Beau suddenly realized what her issue was; at least part of it. Why does there have to be a timer on our relationship? Why do I have to end up alone, if all I want is to be by her side forever?

“A part of me can not let you go.” Beau looked over at Jester. The rising sun touched her frame. She looked lovely. “The other part thinks I have to.”

A brief quizzical look passed over Jester’s face before anger began to mold it. She jumped to her feet and stamped on the ground for emphasis. “Don’t you dare act dramatic right now. Not ever again. I will not have it!” Beau knew immediately what she was referring to. The Hag’s deal.

Somebody behind Beau knocked on their door. A second later, Fjord’s muffled voice filtered through the wood. “Everything alright?”

Beau flinched. She hated that question. “Everything’s fine. Order breakfast without us; we’re following suit once we’re ready. If I find no bacon on my plate I have to kick somebody’s face in.”

The sound of shuffling boots clanged down the corridor until there was complete silence. With her face half turned towards the door, Beau let her head drop. “We’ll talk later, okay?” She waited a moment for a response, but when no came, she loosened the door latch. 

“What is wrong, Bea—?” Jester cried, a sob choking her out before she could finish saying her name.

Beau was stopped in her tracks once more. Admit it and she will break your heart. Walk away and you will break hers. 

Suddenly, the choice became very easy.

Beau stayed faced towards the door, unable to look at her teary-eyed face while she said it. “I love you, Jester.”

“I love you, to—”

“No, Jester,” Beau interrupted, her heart hammering against her ribcage. “I love you.” 

 A gasp escaped Jester’s mouth. Then, the room went quiet. Beau stood still, wringing her hands nervously. I should’ve had something prepared. The accrued anger and frustration suddenly turned on her. The three most powerful words a person can utter, and out of my mouth, they sound pathetically weak. I should’ve confessed with a heartfelt speech after a grandiose dinner in our most stunning attire with a bouquet of disgustingly beautiful flowers in my hand under the golden sunlight at twilight. 

Not here. Not ever.

Beau glimpsed over her shoulder. Jester’s eyes were wide open, her mouth aghast, her posture stiff. An exemplary image of unbridled shock. Beau never would’ve thought that she would be the one who would manage to strike Jester speechless. In any other situation, she would’ve grinned. In this one, she opened the door. 

“I’m sorry,” she said on her way out.

Did Beau really want to hear what Jester would say? Wasn’t it better to keep up the illusion that nothing had happened, that she didn’t just ruin their friendship? Just a few more hours where her heart would stay intact; was that too much to ask for? 

Twice you have saved me from going down a dark path. What will happen now when such a situation occurs for the third time? Will you still be there to keep me in check?

Or has separation just knocked on our door?

[beinscorpio]

Hope

summary: Grayson needs help to save his brother and he’s stopping at nothing luckily someone is willing to help him.

A\N: I didn’t really edit this so please ignore the mistakes, and I hope you like my shitty writing :)

@atlas-of-a-human-soul : I finally finished something 😂

In this world witches and werewolves didn’t always exist peacefully together, but that seemed to be the only way to stay alive after the war against the supernatural that just ended,  of course, the decrease in their numbers made it a lot easier for everyone too, if you ask me that could’ve been avoided I mean it’s not like the mind readers didn’t warn anyone. why haven’t I mentioned them at the beginning you ask? well, it’s because there is now only one mind reader left and her father is set   about hiding her after everyone discovered that her mother is a witch and that makes her more powerful than any witch and mind reader, difficult  to find too but Grayson Dolan is stopping at nothing until he finds her, otherwise he wouldn’t be standing in front of her dad’s house being so sure that if he went to his house and asked about his daughter again he would be dead.

He was trying so hard to control his emotions on the way to the library, curtain that if anyone spoke a word to him, he would start crying, and even though he was really doubting it, he was hoping it would be the last time he would have to go there, he entered the library and went straight to the advanced and dark magic books to find a spell that helps him locate the girl, because after trying his hardest to wake his brother and failing every single time, he doesn’t think he can take another fail so this girl is his last chance if he could only  find her.

“ Any luck? “someone spoke behind him. He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was, ever since the accident, he knew this voice very well. After Grayson  started going there a lot and doing some intense search for anything that can help him, the girl who works as the librarian was about to make fun of him for being in the library too often,  maybe hint that he’s the one who’s keeping her from leaving early until she saw him cry, she was glad she approached him that day because they became friend since then and he for sure needed one, but he regretted telling her his middle name because from that day on she refused to call him anything but Bailey, he liked that she is the only one who calls him that though he won't admit it.

“ you would be seeing him next to me if I had any “ he answered her still reading the book in his hand, but he knew that she raised her eyebrows without even looking at her.

“ Wow, someone is in a bad mood, “ she told him, crossing her arms, then he finally closed the book in his hand and faced her.

“ why can’t I just ugh “ he screamed, covering his face for a bit “ I can’t undo simple mirroring spell, my brother is frozen because I froze some idiot trying to keep us safe and now he’s basically dead unless I find this girl “

In any other circumstances, she would be waiting for an apology, but at that moment she realized just how hopeless and helpless he was after assuming that he would find a way to free Ethan given the proper motivation, she still felt nervous about the news she wanted to give Grayson and he saw that, so she got an apology from him which she was very happy about. She then looked around her to make sure that no one was watching or listing, then said “ come with me I think I found something“

They walked together to a small room at the end of the library, Grayson has been to the library many times before, but he never went inside that room, he always assumed it was locked for some reason. The room was full of empty bookshelves and boxes that were filled with books that were on these shelves before.

“ why is everything in boxes? “ asked Grayson but he never got an answer from her because she was busy looking for something in these boxes, she took out a book from the third box she looked in, a very small and old book.

“ we’re relocating, and I found this while I was packing the books in this room, “ she explained “ look at the spell written in the very last page “

He opened the book to the last page and in it was a spell that he didn’t know existed in the first place, he might have to tweak it a little bit, but that spell will allow him to get into people’s head and communicate with them, and he knew just the person to talk to.

“ do you “ he paused, still staring at the book in his hand, it looked like he was having a million thoughts at the same time, but for the first time, some of them were good “ do you think it’ll work? “

“ You never know until you try it, but good luck, I heard she’s worse than her father, “  she told him with a smile. She knew from his facial expression and the sudden change in voice tone just how nervous he was, so she didn’t want him to leave while he was in that state, but she knew how important this is for him, so she let him leave then started to pack the first shelve outside of that room.

Grayson lived by himself for a while now and to say he hated it would be a huge understatement, but sitting in his room with the book in his hand, ready to cast the spell he never felt more alone and it suddenly hit him that this is his last chance, so he became anxious but he had to relax and focus for his brother. He took a breath, opened to book to the last page, closed his eyes, and cast the spell. He didn’t open his eyes even after finishing the spell, and he had no idea if it worked or if anything happened.

Then he heard “ What the fuck are you doing inside my head “  which not only did make Grayson open his eyes, but his eyes widened, it worked, it freaking worked he thought, then he started to feel the spell getting weaker and weaker and realized he still hasn’t said anything to her yet.

“ Wait ! “ the spell came back to its full strength, but she still hasn’t said anything, so he took the opportunity to explain “ I need your help “

“ I’ll need a super blue blood moon to do that “  that sentence from her caught him off guard ,now he heard about her being the last mind reader and a witch, he heard about her power as well, but he never thought it’s to that extent, her knowing exactly what he wanted that quick without him being in the same room as her just blew his mind, that quickly went away when he registered what she just told him.

“ you’re joking, right? that won’t happen for years “, and he was about to argue more but what she said later made him stop.

“ consider it a piece of information from a trusted source, but it’s going to happen next week,“  he was relieved to hear that then it accrued to him that she for sure won’t do this for free she must want something in return.

“ so you’ll help me? Surely you must want something in return“

“ only that no one knows about this, and you probably know this by now, but if you tell anyone I will know “ she was right, he knew it before he even started to talk to her actually maybe when he met her dad for the first time or when he heard about her for the first time. He never knew why he thought she was in her father’s mercy because talking to her changed the image of the girl who knows nothing about the world and is struggling with her overprotective dad that he had of her. She must’ve been in the middle of something because the next thing she said to him was.

“ I have to go do something, just return the book, don’t tell anyone, and by next week your brother will be ok" then the spell broke. It scares him every time she does read his mind and acts like it's normal and she didn't do anything he'll never get used to it.

That week leading up to him finally getting his brother back was the longest week of Grayson’s life, but he was excited and all he was thinking about what will he say to Ethan, how it’ll be to finally have his twin brother back, and all the things they will do together. On the day that the moon was supposed to turn red, he was acting like a kid waiting for his charismas present, but in his case, he was waiting for his brother by the window staring at the moon instead of waiting for a gift by the charismas tree.

Moments later and the moon started changing color, and it slowly started to become red, he stopped looking at the moon and was now staring at Ethan’s door, any moment now he thought to himself and shortly Ethan came out of the room, alive and breathing Grayson couldn't believe it he had to blink more than once to make sure that he wasn’t seeing things.

“ Hey, what happened? “ Ethan asked, Grayson never realized he missed Ethan’s voice this much, and he couldn’t hold it any longer, so he ran to hug Ethan with eyes full of tears, it took the brothers a while to collect themselves Grayson had to explain everything that happened to Ethan next, and how an attempt to save them both resulted in Ethan being frozen for a while, but that’s in the past now, Grayson was sure that day thanks to seeing Ethan again and hearing his voice again was the happiest day of his life, then he heard something that not only surprised him but shook him to the core.

“ You’re welcome Bailey “

[for-bucks-sake]

Low Hundreds.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes. Word count: 3.5K. Warnings: Fluff! All the fluff! And also smut. Summary: This year, Captain America will not be celebrating his birthday with America, or in America. But with his boyfriend. Far, far away. A/N: I am beyond fashionably late, but that idea started to form solidly literally two days ago. I’m so soft for vacation!Stucky. And Greece is really cool. I think the boys would appreciate its old fashioned vibe, (although I haven’t been there a good couple of tears, so I might get something wrong.) HAPPY BIRTHDAY CAP! Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoy! Btw, requests are open! 

Gif’s not mine.

They flew out of the states yesterday. Leaving New York behind for the sake of a place that was the embodiment of peace and quiet, providing them with complete anonymity.

Waves of sand collided with real waves, cerulean blue met gold as they reached the shore, looking at the beautiful act of nature.

Bucky glanced at Steve, smiling, putting his bag down conspiratorially, “last one to get to the water is a little bitch!” He shouted, speeding up a little too fast for it to look natural, hands all but tearing his navy t-shirt off.

No one could see them there, and Bucky didn’t know if it was for the fact they were completely alone, or just the reassuring presence of Steve next to him, but for the first time in a long time, he felt safe.

“Guess you can call yourself a bitch now.” Steve had a shit eating grin on his face, making Bucky literally eat sand as he ran past him so swiftly on the soft, grainy ground, it came flying backwards. Right into Bucky’s face.

“Fuckin-“

The loud splash of a body hitting water told him the competition was over. Bucky found he didn’t care much as he watched Steve’s perfect form swimming quickly, receding from the shore on to the bottomless blue.

He too entered the welcoming ocean, skin shivering at the new sensation of cool wetness and warm breeze, chasing deeper right into the arms of a welcoming lover.

“Punk.” Bucky muttered as Steve pulled him closer, easily finding his waist through the clear waters.

“And what about it?” Steve smirked, leaning in for a kiss. He brushed Bucky’s full lips with his. Bucky tried to nudge his head closer, but before he could, Steve pushed his full weight on top of him, forcing them both to sink back into the sea.

Steve could see Bucky’s wide eyes when he realized what had happened, a determined look replaced the tenderness in them as he moved hastily, using his metal arm to work through every law of physics as he forced the water out of his way, chasing Steve yet again while the latter tried to get away as fast as possible. This time he was short handed;

Bucky caught one of Steve’s legs, jerking him back forcibly so he could grab his waist. Air didn’t seem to run out even then; calloused palms met rock hard stomach, legs working overtime to keep them afloat, bubbles that could be hot breaths surrounded them, nothing was heard but that muted silence you could only find underwater.

Steve buried his hands in Bucky’s floating hair, closing the left distance between them and connecting their mouths. He could taste the salt on his lips, water infiltrating their kiss when Steve adjusted his palm and brought it to cup the stubbled jaw. Bucky squeezed his waist softly, tongue slowly licking its way deeper into Steve’s mouth, meeting his in a stinging briny mix.

They left early, successfully avoiding any troubles that may be caused by the Forth of July rush. Steve was reluctant to agree, anxious as always for the fate of the world, only backing down after weeks of creative persuasion; if it wasn’t for the years Bucky spent perfecting a stubbornness that only matched Steve’s - they would still be in Brooklyn right now. A break was well deserved, and they accrued enough vacation days for nine lifetimes, anyway.

Bucky pushed them up in a single swift motion, lips still connected as they moved above waters like a single body instead of two, the change in scenario embracing them with a hit of a fresh breeze, sounds that only echoed through under, were now ringing pleasantly in their ears.

The subtle shift of the waves on top of each other created an impossibly calming rhythm, their strong bodies giving in to the ripples and letting the ocean guide their movements, happily complying as they drifted closer to each other.

Steve moved away and gasped for oxygen, inhaling a lungful of clear air only to sink down again, emerging a moment later a few meters away from Bucky, almost as if he couldn’t leave him alone for too long. He shook his head, letting the new acquired droplets fall from his bright hair down to his angled face, the small drops parting from his skin when they met his clean shaven chin, falling back to their source.

It was as if some divine entity decided to interfere, making Steve stop at the exact spot and the Sun to appear just behind him, lengthening its rays far enough to reach and shower his body with a yellow, afternoon light, illuminating him golden.

He looked overwhelmingly beautiful, untouchable, even.

Wet strands of his hair desperately tried to hung off his forehead, only few succeeding, lips scarlet from kissing and salt, so aesthetically pleasing over the background of his perfect skin, resembling blood stained white silk.

His cerulean eyes stared back, actively stealing all the color from the water, soaking it in to make his eyes even bluer, as if he needed that.

Bucky forgot how to breathe. And not as a cliche everybody says. He genuinely forgot how. Maybe everyone thinks they can’t breathe anymore, but he was the only one to actually witness Steve Rogers looking like that.

Steve’s lips were slightly parted, staring at him in awe, the left corner of his mouth curved into half a smile.

Bucky licked his lips and exhaled as he rediscovered the ability to breathe, flashing a toothy grin when Steve swam his way to him, closing the distance one last time and not looking away from his eyes.

His hair reached his shoulders, less dark somehow as he grew it longer. Steve couldn’t tear his gaze from the couple of skies that settled inside Bucky’s orbs, looking stunningly alike the origin above them.

And water drops on metal, he soon found out, looked exactly like stars when the sun hit them.

Steve approached the sky full of stars in front of him, getting painfully close without touching. There will be a lot of touching, later. For now, he was content with just watching.

As Bucky inhaled, Steve exhaled. They worked like a well oiled machine, doing nothing but drinking in each other’s appearance, absorbing where they were and what they did, living the proximity they were so comfortable staying in, forever.

-

Summer days were longer, but still so short. Whether they were spent by the beach, on the local market, or just in bed - everyday, the colors outside seemed to soften before they could notice;  Neon yellow surrendering its place for the sake of low oranges and pinks that in time, were slowly fading away as well, replaced by midnight blue.

In those moments Bucky didn’t miss home. He didn’t miss seeing the national flag everywhere, he didn’t miss tensing every time a loud noise would go off, he didn’t miss the stares that followed him wherever he went, he didn’t miss America.

All he wanted was to stay here, in that little piece of heaven they somehow managed to find, keep it close to their chests and never let go.

Maybe never was a big word, but so was love. -

Greece was kind to them, for sure. Peaceful as always, even on the night of the Third.

After a long day inside their private ocean they decide to walk around for a while, showing off their impressive tan lines and sun kissed cheeks.

“Let’s enjoy the last night before you turn a hundred and…something years old!” Bucky announced with honest to god enthusiasm.

They missed more birthdays than they could count, so they simply stopped counting. Age was meaningless to them and time could never catch up. They were beyond time.

Always have been, when you think about it.

They strolled around the local businesses spread around a nice area, also near a beach; there was a beautiful stand of homemade jewelry, mostly colorful beads made of wood that decorated thin threads. Near that there was an actual store full of shabby manakin torsos, dressed in all kinds of graphic t-shirts.

In a fluent Greek and a perfect accent that both surprised and didn’t surprise Steve, Bucky purchased him a cheap looking tank top with a cheerful logo on it that ironically said, “Captain Greece.”

“You are…” Steve began, nostrils flared as he smiled and shook his head,

“Spoiling my boyfriend for his birthday? You’re damn right.” Bucky nudged his shoulder and continued walking, pulling at Steve’s hand that was intertwined with his.

They walked past a boutique that was filled with fake designer bags, and about three sunglasses stands covered with SALE signs written in English before Bucky decided it’s a sophisticated scheme to make him want to buy shades he didn’t need.

He ended up buying three pairs. Immediately pairing up Steve with ones that had a plastic frame covered with the American flag.

“You realize that joke is getting old, right?” Steve snarked, adjusting his new glasses on the top of his head.

“Not nearly as old as you, pal.”

“Are you hungry? I’m starving, that thing over there smells delicious!”

“Don’t ignore my awesome bur - that actually does smell good, c’mon.”

-

Ethnic street food is amazing and cheeseburgers suck, they decided then (well, maybe they don’t suck, but they’re nothing compared to the festival of flavors their tastebuds experienced). As they were snacking on what was left of their greek dessert filled with rich cheese and sweet syrup, Bucky glanced at his watch only to realized it was nearly midnight. They had to return to the small cabin they rented before the clock hit twelve. Deep inside he knew, that hour had no real meaning, but it was a principle. He will celebrate Steve the birthday he deserves, even if it’s just the two of them. Especially when it’s just the two of them.

“C’mon old man, hurry up now, we need to get to our place as soon as possible.” Bucky hurried him, half jokingly but mostly not.

Steve licked his fingers from the sugar and butter that coated the tips, muttering a tired “yeah, yeah’, but moving faster nevertheless, matching his pace to Bucky’s.

They approach the place they grew more and more comfortable with everyday, Bucky reached for his pocket and drew out a single key, shoving it into its place and opening the door with a creak.

“Stay here, baby. I’ve got somethin’ for you.” Bucky ordered Steve to stay in the small living room space, disappearing inside the single bedroom they shared.

“Oh, so I’m baby now?” Steve cocked an eyebrow just before Bucky turned around, “seriously though, Buck, we said no presents, please! This vacation is more than enough, I swear t-“

“Hey Stevie? Shut up.” Bucky shouted from the room, the amusement evident in his voice, “you’re gonna like it. Promise.”

After low rustles and a soft thud, Bucky was near him again, hands behind his back and a face decorated with an undeniable giddiness.

They waited in silence for the hands behind the glass to collide, Bucky refusing to do anything but glare murderously at the clock, urging it to move just a bit more to the right. The enthusiasm of a child took over when it happened, it was finally midnight and the date subsequently changed. Bucky shifted his arms, bringing the neatly wrapped present from behind his back, placing it in front of Steve, who was sporting a small pout and shiny eyes when he saw its size -

Never really getting over the complex of hating to be given anything but being too excited to refuse it. It reminded Bucky of old times, when neither of them could even dream about what they had now. Birthday gifts were a luxury, something they could rarely afford, even once a year. He wanted to give Steve the world he deserved ever since he met him. Now he actually could. Out of all the things about the future, that - he will never forget.

Steve sat cross legged on the sofa, stance as straight as always, almost like he waited for permission to open the thing.

Bucky was flustered just the slightest, still standing up, now stepping near Steve and looking at him expectedly.

“Happy birthday, Stevie.” He said hoarsely, a sign of upcoming tears he tried his hardest to fight.

Steve looked up to the towering frame above him, after so many years he could recognize every single crack and hitch in Bucky’s voice.

“C’mere.” Steve grabbed the back of his thigh, pulling him over to his lap.

Bucky gladly complied, once adjusted on the comfiest sit in the world, he grabbed Steve’s face, attaching their lips.

“It’s so much.” Steve whispered, unwrapping with that neat politeness his mother thought him.

“Nothin’ is too much for you.” Bucky whispered back, squeezing Steve’s bicep reassuringly.

Steve placed the large box on Bucky’s lap, caressing his thighs with every movement he made, lingering his touch when he removed the wrapping paper from the bottom of it.

Bucky huffed but didn’t say anything, the knots inside his stomach stretching out and restraining him from speaking. Anticipation overcoming his primal instinct to tease Steve back.

Steve’s breath hitched when he opened the simple box. He could feel that lump of air stuck in the middle of his throat, unable to move up or down, shocked just as he was because he knew exactly what these were.

He stared at the leather journals for so long Bucky thought he did something wrong. And when Bucky got nervous, he started talking.

“I thought…well, I thought I should try and get them back.” He scratched the back of his head, “didn’t even read ‘em again. Didn’t want to because I was afraid I’d read something there that would make me regret givin’ them to you.”

The pain in Bucky’s voice must’ve woken up Steve from his trance. He picked the first notebook from the top of the stash. Opening a random marked page slowly, only to meet his own face looking at him back. Just like all those years ago.

“You’re probably not gonna like most of what you read in there. But there are some good memories, too. It’s mostly a mess and there are too many and I’m pretty sure there are solid three pages of me rambling about your eyes but, it’s me.” He took a deep breath, “it’s another part of me whether I like it or not. And I want you to know it.”

“Is it double sided?” Steve spoke after a long moment.

“What?”

“The pages about my eyes. Are they double sided?”

Bucky begrudgingly lost the battle against his tears. Barking in relief as his whole body started to shake. 

Steve laid down the journal to his right and wrapped his arms around the man on his lap.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I love it. It’s the most beautiful gift I was ever given. Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you.” He held him firmly, not quite knowing what to do but to stay like they were.

“It’s not everything.” Bucky snuffled and raised his head from Steve’s neck. It wasn’t stained with tears, and somehow, it was worse, “there’s more.”

“Oh god, Buck. You really shouldn’t ha-“

“It’s at the bottom of the box.” Bucky shuffled closer, as to watch even closely Steve does open it.

He looked under the three additional journals that were inside, all completely identical, and found a cardboard box. Way smaller, and long. Like one you’d put jewelry in it.

“Buck…”

“Go ahead.”

Steve opened the cover gently, looking at another fragment from his past. Their past.

“I thought they were at the museum! How did you get them?”

“Turn it over.” Bucky smiled sadly.

“Holy shit.”

“The museum had a replica, I think. A fake. These are our real tags. And they’re yours. Oh and, open them.”

Somehow, Bucky had their dog tags connected together and the edges, what ultimately had turned them into a locket.

Steve unlocked it carefully, revealing a picture of the two of them. It was taken recently, for sure. Bucky’s hair was long like it was now, and he was smiling wide. His own face was beardless, also twisted with a smile. The breathtaking landscape of Wakanda was in display behind them, arms wrapped around each other’s waists.

“I thought, with all the things from the past, you could use something from now.”

“Does that make me your girl now, serge?” Steve smirked and closed the necklace, putting it on, the hint of tears in his eyes as well.

“I sure hope not,” Bucky grinned mischievously, hoisting himself up from Steve’s lap and kneeling between his legs, “‘cause then I wouldn’t be able to suck your dick.”

Steve swallowed, intensely watching Bucky unzipping his pants and pulling them down along with his boxers, revealing his already hardening cock. He wrapped his left hand around the base, and Steve, responsive as always, twitched at the new sensation, breath rugged as he was stroked, slowly. 

Steve eyes shot open when he felt Bucky’s tongue on his tip, joining his hand on working him wet and filthy. He groaned and leaned back, trying to get more of himself into Bucky’s mouth.

“Relax, baby. I’m gonna make you feel good.”

Steve didn’t question it for a second, relaxing his shoulders but then tensing up again as Bucky licked the side of his cock, down from his balls and up to his tip again - tracing strips of spit all over Steve’s impressive length.

“Shit, Bucky.” He moaned, hands trailing down to the brunet’s hair and weaving through it, slightly pushing him forward.

Bucky was always a tease, even today he couldn’t help it. But he got the hint, lovingly kissing Steve’s underside and fitting half of him inside his mouth.

He started to work on Steve’s cock, up and down, swirling his tongue around the sensitive skin. The wet sounds his mouth created in sync with his movements made everything feel even dirtier.

“Just like that Buck, yeah, just like that.” Steve sighed with pleasure, pushing Bucky’s head a little bit farther up. His cock hitting the back of Bucky’s throat.

Bucky hollowed his cheeks, staying completely still beside swallowing, creating the vacuum sensation he knew Steve loved, drawing salty precum from him.

Steve let a delicious, desperate sound as Bucky released the cock from his mouth with a loud pop, grazing his teeth on a particular thick, visible vain on the way out.

“Fuck, Bucky.” His moans went straight to Bucky’s own hardening cock, getting rather uncomfortable trapped inside his jeans. He gripped at Steve’s strong thigh with his right palm and massaged the inner part, composing himself.

Steve grunts were getting louder. He clutched the couch and inhaled sharply; Bucky’s mouth never seizing to work wonders on him, and he was close, he was so close.

He moved his bare foot to caress Bucky through his trousers, giving him at least some of the relief he knew he needed.

Bucky hummed on his cock, exhaling a rugged hot breath from deep inside his throat, and Steve was done for.

He came with a string of curses, a mouth as dirty as a soldier’s, shooting load after load of warm cum into Bucky’s willing mouth.

Even then he didn’t stop sucking. Still working on milking the birthday boy out of every drop and every whine he had. Only to ruin him all the same minutes later.

“My ears,” Steve breathed heavily, chuckling at Bucky’s stained beard, “are fucking ringing.”

At least it’s not from fireworks. Bucky thought.

“Oh, you think we’re done yet?” He cocked an eyebrow, shoving that thought far away and taking off his clothes quicker than Steve could blink. His shirt was off by the next second as well - leaving them both completely naked, raw.

-

“Mornin’ birthday boy.” Bucky hummed, covering every inch of his face with kisses, gradually leaving a trail of sloppy pecks down his neck, and collarbone. He was about to get even farther under the blanket before Steve stopped him.

His eyes blindingly bright, one long finger tilted his chin up.

“Am I going to get another one of your famous blowjobs?”

Bucky smirked, “oh, so they’re famous now. Why? Who told you about them?”

“I dunno. About ten, twenty guys.”

“Now that’s a relief!” Bucky let out a loud phew, “‘cause I stopped counting at the low hundreds.”

Steve shoved his shoulder, then guided him back up to capture his lips in a kiss, “you’re a jerk, you know that?”

Bucky nodded in agreement, laughing into Steve’s mouth.

[silviasutton1989]

T.T.K Chapter 10 “Resolved”

A/N: Hey guys...so this was supposed to be posted Thursday but life happened. I hope you guys are enjoying the story so far. Also I am posting some          mood music to go with this chapter feel free to play it at the beginning or end. I love you guys!

Rating: NSFW  (not  that bad but jut to be sure sexual content and course language)

Word Count: 2200~

Summary: Someone sets Apple wood Manor ablaze...who?

 Catch up: Chapter 1  1.2  2  3  4  5  6  7 8  9  9.2  9.25

A figure walks through the field of the apple orchard. He takes his time carefully dousing each tree with gasoline. He has been working on this for hours determined that his plan is fool proof. And it will be. Before spraying the final tree he plucks the biggest apple.

The camera is steady, and so is he as he sits in the designated spot, a lighter in one hand and what will be the very last Cordonian Ruby in the other. He has chosen each word to say. Making sure they are clear over his mask.

"I do this in initiation of The True Kings. Cordonia, my people King Liam will fail us just as his father has. We must turn to our true refuge. This fruit use to be a symbol of our pride; of the bonds that we hold together. Somewhere that changed and now this is only a rouse. So I employ you citizens join us or..." He flicks the lighter and drops it onto the dampened ground. In seconds the fire spreads, building its own carpet of flames, reaching up to the branches, and then very first tree is engulfed in flames.

He walks behind the camera making sure to focus in on the bright red fruit shriveling like flesh against the fire . He stops the recording walking into the darkness. The scent of the burning apples reminded him of how his mother baked her famous apple pie. He takes a bite of the only apple left. The bitter taste causing him to look at the fruit only to see a worm slithering out of it's core.

Liam had been laying in his bed for at least 20 minutes. He focused on the swirls in the marble ceiling above him. Opting to think on that than whatever in the hell happened last night. 

Eyes.

That's all he could remember from last night. The look in Drake's eyes last night were not of anger they were hurt. He hurt his best friend...his brother. Why?

Because you are just like your father!

Isaac... those were eyes of anger. In all honesty it never even occurred to him to give him the duchy back. Riley needed to be a noble...she NEEDED to be just in case...

Liam's cell phone rings on the nightstand. He turns over hoping the matter on the other end of that line could wait 5 more minutes. He needed to wrap his head around the night.

 Olivia....that look in her eyes when he kissed her....god why did he do that? Was it to compete with Isaac or... No the only explanation for that kiss was too much alcohol....Right?

The tap on the door springs Liam to life. Bastien enters without waiting for permission.

"Your Highness we have an important matter you must get dressed immediately"

"Is everything ok? What happened? Is it my father?"

The look in Bastian's eyes were grim giving Liam chills.

"It's Apple wood Manor, Sire. Everything...is gone"

Olivia had heard the news the same as all the other nobles on the unity tour. She sat in the dining hall--alone as usual--flicking at her fruit plate. Her phone buzzed simultaneously to everyone else's.

"Oh my god!!!" she heard someone say.

"They are going to kill us all!"

"I'm going back home."

The noble's all made a rush out the dining room as Olivia checks her phone. It was the Cordonian Times News Alert. A video pops up. A man in a mask...that mask, stands before the camera. She watches as he drops the lighter and the flames run through the field. She saw the beautiful apples crumble like paper and the fall to the depths of fire below. 

She could feel nothing but her heartbeat. Tears well up into her eyes, Olivia lets them fall since the room is now empty, giving herself exactly 1 minute and 35 seconds to wallow in her emotions, then she wipes them all away. Her heels click against the marble floor in haste, she can fix this, for Cordonia ...for Liam.

The hallway of the noble's sleeping quarters was in utter chaos. Men and women pulling out their half packed luggage calling for their limos to pick them up immediately. 

"Cowards! All of you are a bunch of cowards!" She yells hardly noticing that they all stop at her alarming tone. "You would leave Li-- your king knowing that he would never leave you all. You are pitiful...and you don't deserve him" She scoffs at the guilt stricken crowd, entering her room  letting the sound of her door slam be her final remarks.

Olivia rushes to her closet in search for the best suit determined to look strong when she stands behind her king even if she is the only one behind him. Her thoughts cloud her judgment and doesn't notice the figure in the dark corner of her room.

"You look beautiful, you don't need to change, Cherry."

Olivia turns to see Isaac his hands in his hair. He has drawn the blinds making it difficult to see him but his shadow still reveals his tired body splayed over her chair.

"Rough night?" Not give him time to answer as she searches through her clothes."The True Kings burned down the apple orchards... it's all over the news. Liam's going to have a press conference you need to get dressed. God you smell like you slept on the floor of a bar." And something else even from a distance she can clearly smell something else.

Isaac stands and walks over to her. He takes the hanger out of her hands tossing the suit onto the floor. 

"Do you remeber your 21st birthday? We went to every bar in a 20 mile radius of the university." He chuckles just thinking about that night.

"Yeah we spent the night watching the stars."

"That's not all we did." His hands snake around her waist, like instinct she wraps hers around his neck. His eyes are bloodshot, she wanted to mention the blonde he was with last night but, as his lips meet hers his scent is even stronger and the thought faded. His hands grip her tightly, slowly bunching up the skirt of her dress. He always knew how to make her shiver with just a touch...just a kiss.

"Isaac...we have to go...I have to help...AHH!" He bites down on her neck lifting her by her thighs holding her up against the nearest wall. She melts in his arms. Her fingers tangle through his hair, her mouth permanently agape as he grinds his hips into hers his length, even through their clothes, becomes more and more evident with each thrust.

He was wasting no time, his blazer from the night before lays on top of her pants suit on the floor. His hands runs to the back of her dress quickly unzipping it. She wants him , always has but...That smell. What was that smell? She knew way before she allowed herself to form the words.

Gasoline.

With every bit of strength she has she pushes her first love off of her.

"You did it. Didn't you?"

At first he tries to play it off. To laugh at her accusation. But couldn't form the words to lie and begins to pace the floor, hands tangled in his hair, rage growing with every step he takes.

"He thought it was resolved Liv...RESOLVED! He doesn't deserve that crown. And he doesn't deserve you!"

Like a blow to her chest the words send her to the floor.

He did this. Issac did this. How do I fix this? Why can't I EVER fix him?

But before he could help her she is back on her feet. "Don't you touch me. All this time? All this time! I thought you were going to help me find Boss.. and you just joined ---"

"We've been looking for that damn estate almost 2 months now. Has it even accrued to you that maybe Boss isn't one of the nobles that fled after the attacks...Boss could be one of the ones that is on this tour. Meaning.."

"Meaning we would have no reason to go to their estate." Isaac nods as she finishes his sentence. She needed to sit down, she needed a second to think, to make a plan to figure out what the hell should she do next. But Isaac grabs her hand pulling her from her thoughts.

"Come with me."

"W..what?"

"Come with me. we can find Boss make the bastard pay for taking you then..." He trails off his mouth opens but no sound.

"But what Isaac? Runaway with you... live with you? You are a True King now right? Liam's going to find out you did this and you want me to run off with you leave my country my duchy? For what? For you?"

"Liv."

"Get out of here before I call the gaurds."

He backs away from her, her eyes filed with disgust  as she holds her unzipped dress up to cover her chest. Picking up his jacket from the floor he walks to the door. But before he opens it he has to say it. To say the words that he has never said to her ever, the words he should have told her years ago.

"Olivia, I lov--"

"I hate you Isaac with ever fiber of my being get the hell out!"

The door closes behind him. She wants to cry to scream into a pillow, but she can't. No she gave herself 1 minute and 35 seconds to cry in the dining hall. Now she has to fix this, to support Liam, to forget about Isaac.

(Link)

The ride to Apple wood Manor was the grimiest 20 minute drive of Olivia's life. As if on their way to a funeral no on spoke, even Maxwell sat in stunned silence his mouth covered by his hands. Many of the nobles had already fled back to their homes, only a few remained to help and support their king.

"Come on guys, it's going to be ok. We are almost there and everything looks fine. the damage cant be that bad." Riley holds Drake's hand. Her friends look to her with hopeful eyes. But that hope is dashed only seconds later, when the smell of smoke and burnt wood fills the limo. The beautiful green leaves sway in the wind, soon turns to gray barren branches charred from the fire. 

"Oh my god!"

She believes the words came from Madeline but she can't be sure. Olivia keeps her head tillted toward the window, hoping that no one could see the tears falling from her checks.

The limo stops and everyone climbs out, all but Olivia, she can't move she cant see what Isaac had done...not yet.

Riley extends her hand out to her friend. "come on Olivia. We can do this together." 

"I just...I just need a moment. Go. The press are here to see you. Give them hell!" 

Olivia listens from the car. Liam and Riley give an inspiring speech one that the crowd and press rally around. Leaving the car, she makes her way to the front of the crowd and watches the two plant the first sapling.

With the last bit of dirt placed over the roots Riley looks into the crowd. Cameras flashing in her face her friends and the citizens all looking to her for encouragement..for happiness. All but two. There were two people focused on each other as they conversed: Drake and Kiara

"This first tree symbolizes.... Cordonia's commitment to keeping the doctor away!" Riley can see Maxwell snicker at the joke but no one else makes a sound.

"What did she just say?" a citizen asks

"She just made a joke on the worst day of our lives!" another cries.

"Do you think this is a joke? Our children starving amuses you?" another yells

"No I um...I was just trying to lighten the mood a little."

"Lighten the...who the hell do you think you are lady? This is our lively hood!"

"I'm sure Duchess Riley only meant to..." Liam tries to intercede but the crowd was restless. 

She didn't know what spured her to move. But there she was snatching the shovel out of Riley's hand taking the microphone from Liam confronting the agitated crowd.

"I know you are angry, we are too. I stand here before you vowing that we will have vengeance to the vermin who dared to destroy our rubies!"

"Yeah!" the crowd shouts, their cheers strengthen her nerves. She plants her feet firmly into the ground her voice grows more clear and resilient.

"People of Cordonia I promise you that this failed attempt to hurt us will only strengthen our unity. Lythikos has food and supplies currently in route and able bodies to help replant every sapling. You will not grow hungry, your family and lively hood will not suffer. Not today, not with your king here to defend you from those terrorists. This matter will be resolved...with interest!"

"All Hail King Liam! God save the King!" The crowd cheers. Olivia finally exhales. Liam thinking that her speech is over reaches for the microphone but she pulls back from him

"And one more thing, to the man---men that did this. You think you can fear my people into joining with you? Well know this you are dead wrong. Emphasis on dead! You can run You can hide but you messed with the wrong country. And we ARE coming for you! And may God have mercy on your souls"

The crowd erupts in cheers.

The press take photos of the two: Liam and Olivia. Olivia lifts the shovel into the air as Liam takes her other hand, looking at the woman beside him in a whole new light.

Let me know what you guys think in the comments below!!

Tag List: Ok so I do not want to upset anyone so I’m going to put this with the tags every time. If you want to be on the tag list permanently (this one is randomly selected with some permanent in as well)  let me know. If you DO NOT want to be tagged ever just send me a message I will not be upset.

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[thefortyeightlawsofpower-blog]

LAW # 4 : ALWAYS SAY LESS THAN NECESSARY

JUDGEMENT

When you are trying to impress people with words, the more you say, the more common you appear, and the less in control. Even if you are saying something banal, it will seem original if you make it vague, open-ended, and sphinx-like. Powerful people impress and intimidate by saying less. The more you say, the more likely you are to say something foolish.

TRANSGRESSION OF THE LAW

Gnaeus Marcius, also known as Coriolanus, was a great military hero of ancient Rome. In the first half of the fifth century B.C. he won many important battles, saving the city from calamity time and time again. Because he spent most of his time on the battlefield, few Romans knew him personally, making him something of a legendary figure.

In 454 B.C., Coriolanus decided it was time to exploit his reputation and enter politics. He stood for election to the high rank of consul. Candidates for this position traditionally made a public address early in the race, and when Coriolanus came before the people, he began by displaying the dozens of scars he had accumulated over seventeen years of fighting for Rome. Few in the crowd really heard the lengthy speech that followed; those scars, proof of his valor and patriotism, moved the people to tears. Coriolanus’s election seemed certain.

When the polling day arrived, however, Coriolanus made an entry into the forum escorted by the entire senate and by the city’s patricians, the aristocracy. The common people who saw this were disturbed by such a blustering show of confidence on election day.

And then Coriolanus spoke again, mostly addressing the wealthy citizens who had accompanied him. His words were arrogant and insolent. Claiming certain victory in the vote, he boasted of his battlefield exploits, made sour jokes that appealed only to the patricians, voiced angry accusations against his opponents, and speculated on the riches he would bring to Rome. This time the people listened: They had not realized that this legendary soldier was also a common braggart.

Down on his luck, [the screenwriter] Michael Arlen went to New York in 1944. To drown his sorrows he paid a visit to the famous restaurant “21.” In the lobby, he ran into Sam Goldwyn, who offered the somewhat impractical advice that he should buy racehorses. At the bar Arlen met Louis B. Mayer, an old acquaintance, who asked him what were his plans for the future. “I was just talking to Sam Goldwyn ...” began Arlen. “How much did he offer you? ”interrupted Mayer. “Not enough,” he replied evasively. “Would you take fifteen thousand for thirty weeks?” asked Mayer. No hesitation this time. “Yes,” said Arlen.

THE LITTLE, BROWN BOOK OF ANECDOTES, CLIFTON FADIMAN, ED., 1985

News of Coriolanus’s second speech spread quickly through Rome, and the people turned out in great numbers to make sure he was not elected. Defeated, Coriolanus returned to the battlefield, bitter and vowing revenge on the common folk who had voted against him. Some weeks later a large shipment of grain arrived in Rome. The senate was ready to distribute this food to the people, for free, but just as they were preparing to vote on the question Coriolanus appeared on the scene and took the senate floor. The distribution, he argued, would have a harmful effect on the city as a whole. Several senators appeared won over, and the vote on the distribution fell into doubt. Coriolanus did not stop there: He went on to condemn the concept of democracy itself. He advocated getting rid of the people’s representatives—the tribunes—and turning over the governing of the city to the patricians.

One oft-told tale about Kissinger... involved a report that Winston Lord had worked on for days. After giving it to Kissinger, he got it back with the notation, “Is this the best you can do?” Lord rewrote and polished and finally resubmitted it; back it came with the same curt question. After redrafting it one more time—and once again getting the same question from Kissinger-Lord snapped, “Damn it, yes, it’s the best I can do. ” To which Kissinger replied: “Fine, then I guess I’ll read it this time. ”

KISSINGER. WALTER ISAACSON, 1992

When word of Coriolanus’s latest speech reached the people, their anger knew no bounds. The tribunes were sent to the senate to demand that Coriolanus appear before them. He refused. Riots broke out all over the city. The senate, fearing the people’s wrath, finally voted in favor of the grain distribution. The tribunes were appeased, but the people still demanded that Coriolanus speak to them and apologize. If he repented, and agreed to keep his opinions to himself, he would be allowed to return to the battlefield.

Coriolanus did appear one last time before the people, who listened to him in rapt silence. He started slowly and softly, but as the speech went on, he became more and more blunt. Yet again he hurled insults! His tone was arrogant, his expression disdainful. The more he spoke, the angrier the people became. Finally they shouted him down and silenced him.

The tribunes conferred, condemned Coriolanus to death, and ordered the magistrates to take him at once to the top of the Tarpeian rock and throw him over. The delighted crowd seconded the decision. The patricians, however, managed to intervene, and the sentence was commuted to a lifelong banishment. When the people found out that Rome’s great military hero would never return to the city, they celebrated in the streets. In fact no one had ever seen such a celebration, not even after the defeat of a foreign enemy.

Interpretation

Before his entrance into politics, the name of Coriolanus evoked awe.

His battlefield accomplishments showed him as a man of great bravery. Since the citizens knew little about him, all kinds of legends became attached to his name. The moment he appeared before the Roman citizens, however, and spoke his mind, all that grandeur and mystery vanished. He bragged and blustered like a common soldier. He insulted and slandered people, as if he felt threatened and insecure. Suddenly he was not at all what the people had imagined. The discrepancy between the legend and the reality proved immensely disappointing to those who wanted to believe in their hero. The more Coriolanus said, the less powerful he appeared—a person who cannot control his words shows that he cannot control himself, and is unworthy of respect.

The King [Louis XIV] maintains the most impenetrable secrecy about affairs of State. The ministers attend council meetings, but he confides his plans to them only when he has reflected at length upon them and has come to a definite decision. I wish you might see the King. His expression is inscrutable; his eyes like those of a fox. He never discusses State affairs except with his ministers in Council. When he speaks to courtiers he refers only to their respective prerogatives or duties. Even the most frivolous of his utterances has the air of being the pronouncement of an oracle.

PRIMI VISCONTI, QUOTED IN LOUIS XIV, LOUIS BERTRAND, 1928

Had Coriolanus said less, the people would never have had cause to be offended by him, would never have known his true feelings. He would have maintained his powerful aura, would certainly have been elected consul, and would have been able to accomplish his antidemocratic goals. But the human tongue is a beast that few can master. It strains constantly to break out of its cage, and if it is not tamed, it will run wild and cause you grief. Power cannot accrue to those who squander their treasure of words.

Oysters open completely when the moon is full; and when the crab sees one it throws a piece of stone or seaweed into it and the oyster cannot close again so that it serves the crab for meat. Such is the fate of him who opens his mouth too much and thereby puts himself at the mercy of the listener.

Leonardo da Vinci, 1452-1519

OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW

In the court of Louis XIV, nobles and ministers would spend days and nights debating issues of state. They would confer, argue, make and break alliances, and argue again, until finally the critical moment arrived: Two of them would be chosen to represent the different sides to Louis himself, who would decide what should be done. After these persons were chosen, everyone would argue some more: How should the issues be phrased? What would appeal to Louis, what would annoy him? At what time of day should the representatives approach him, and in what part of the Versailles palace? What expression should they have on their faces?

Finally, after all this was settled, the fateful moment would finally arrive. The two men would approach Louis—always a delicate matter—and when they finally had his ear, they would talk about the issue at hand, spelling out the options in detail.

Louis would listen in silence, a most enigmatic look on his face. Finally, when each had finished his presentation and had asked for the king’s opinion, he would look at them both and say, “I shall see.” Then he would walk away.

The ministers and courtiers would never hear another word on this subject from the king—they would simply see the result, weeks later, when he would come to a decision and act. He would never bother to consult them on the matter again.

Undutiful words of a subject do often take deeper root than the memory of ill deeds.... The late Earl of Essex told Queen Elizabeth that her conditions were as crooked as her carcass; but it cost him his head, which his insurrection had not cost him but for that speech.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 1554-1618

Interpretation

Louis XIV was a man of very few words. His most famous remark is “L‘état, c’est moi” (“I am the state”); nothing could be more pithy yet more eloquent. His infamous “I shall see” was one of several extremely short phrases that he would apply to all manner of requests.

Louis was not always this way; as a young man he was known for talking at length, delighting in his own eloquence. His later taciturnity was self-imposed, an act, a mask he used to keep everybody below him off-balance. No one knew exactly where he stood, or could predict his reactions. No one could try to deceive him by saying what they thought he wanted to hear, because no one knew what he wanted to hear. As they talked on and on to the silent Louis, they revealed more and more about themselves, information he would later use against them to great effect.

In the end, Louis’s silence kept those around him terrified and under his thumb. It was one of the foundations of his power. As Saint-Simon wrote, “No one knew as well as he how to sell his words, his smile, even his glances. Everything in him was valuable because he created differences, and his majesty was enhanced by the sparseness of his words.”

It is even more damaging for a minister to say foolish things than to do them. Cardinal de Retz, 1613-1679

KEYS TO POWER

Power is in many ways a game of appearances, and when you say less than necessary, you inevitably appear greater and more powerful than you are. Your silence will make other people uncomfortable. Humans are machines of interpretation and explanation; they have to know what you are thinking. When you carefully control what you reveal, they cannot pierce your intentions or your meaning.

Your short answers and silences will put them on the defensive, and they will jump in, nervously filling the silence with all kinds of comments that will reveal valuable information about them and their weaknesses. They will leave a meeting with you feeling as if they had been robbed, and they will go home and ponder your every word. This extra attention to your brief comments will only add to your power.

Saying less than necessary is not for kings and statesmen only. In most areas of life, the less you say, the more profound and mysterious you appear. As a young man, the artist Andy Warhol had the revelation that it was generally impossible to get people to do what you wanted them to do by talking to them. They would turn against you, subvert your wishes, disobey you out of sheer perversity. He once told a friend, “I learned that you actually have more power when you shut up.”

In his later life Warhol employed this strategy with great success. His interviews were exercises in oracular speech: He would say something vague and ambiguous, and the interviewer would twist in circles trying to figure it out, imagining there was something profound behind his often meaningless phrases. Warhol rarely talked about his work; he let others do the interpreting. He claimed to have learned this technique from that master of enigma Marcel Duchamp, another twentieth-century artist who realized early on that the less he said about his work, the more people talked about it. And the more they talked, the more valuable his work became.

By saying less than necessary you create the appearance of meaning and power. Also, the less you say, the less risk you run of saying something foolish, even dangerous. In 1825 a new czar, Nicholas I, ascended the throne of Russia. A rebellion immediately broke out, led by liberals demanding that the country modernize—that its industries and civil structures catch up with the rest of Europe. Brutally crushing this rebellion (the Decembrist Uprising), Nicholas I sentenced one of its leaders, Kondraty Ryleyev, to death. On the day of the execution Ryleyev stood on the gallows, the noose around his neck. The trapdoor opened—but as Ryleyev dangled, the rope broke, dashing him to the ground. At the time, events like this were considered signs of providence or heavenly will, and a man saved from execution this way was usually pardoned. As Ryleyev got to his feet, bruised and dirtied but believing his neck had been saved, he called out to the crowd, “You see, in Russia they don’t know how to do anything properly, not even how to make rope!”

A messenger immediately went to the Winter Palace with news of the failed hanging. Vexed by this disappointing turnabout, Nicholas I nevertheless began to sign the pardon. But then: “Did Ryleyev say anything after this miracle?” the czar asked the messenger. “Sire,” the messenger replied, “he said that in Russia they don’t even know how to make rope.”

“In that case,” said the Czar, “let us prove the contrary,” and he tore up the pardon. The next day Ryleyev was hanged again. This time the rope did not break.

Learn the lesson: Once the words are out, you cannot take them back. Keep them under control. Be particularly careful with sarcasm: The momentary satisfaction you gain with your biting words will be outweighed by the price you pay.

Image: The Oracle at Delphi. When visitors consulted the Oracle, the priestess would utter a few enigmatic words that seemed full of meaning and import. No one disobeyed the words of the Oracle— they held power over life and death.

Authority: Never start moving your own lips and teeth before the subordinates do. The longer I keep quiet, the sooner others move their lips and teeth. As they move their lips and teeth, I can thereby understand their real intentions.... If the sovereign is not mysterious, the ministers will find opportunity to take and take. (Han-fei-tzu, Chinese philosopher, third century B.C.)

REVERSAL

There are times when it is unwise to be silent. Silence can arouse suspicion and even insecurity, especially in your superiors; a vague or ambiguous comment can open you up to interpretations you had not bargained for. Silence and saying less than necessary must be practised with caution, then, and in the right situations. It is occasionally wiser to imitate the court jester, who plays the fool but knows he is smarter than the king. He talks and talks and entertains, and no one suspects that he is more than just a fool.

Also, words can sometimes act as a kind of smoke screen for any deception you might practice. By bending your listener’s ear with talk, you can distract and mesmerize them; the more you talk, in fact, the less suspicious of you they become. The verbose are not perceived as sly and manipulative but as helpless and unsophisticated. This is the reverse of the silent policy employed by the powerful: By talking more, and making yourself appear weaker and less intelligent than your mark, you can practice deception with greater ease.

[junker-town]

Earl Thomas and Le’Veon Bell are leading the way in how NFL players fight for their salaries

Forget holdouts, top NFL players make ‘business decisions’ every time they take the field.

“There’s the business side and the ball side,” Seahawks coach Pete Carroll said when asked about Earl Thomas’ “hold in” — his decision to skip practice because he wants a new contract — during his weekly interview with the local ESPN affiliate. “We’re trying to figure out what’s best.”

For Carroll, and members of the Seahawks front office, that binary view of roster construction might be accurate. There’s the “business side” — the question of budgeting (someone else’s) money — and there’s the “ball side”: wins, and eventually higher profits as a result. From behind their ledger, “business decisions” about which players to sign and cut look relatively black and white. The cost is money, and the benefit is a skilled body.

But with their holdouts and hold-ins, players like Earl Thomas and running back Le’Veon Bell are drawing attention to a gray area. Specifically, the space where the game’s inevitable damage to that body — from standard wear-and-tear to life-altering injuries — has long-term financial and personal consequences.

Bell hasn’t reported to the Steelers facility since the team applied the franchise tag to him earlier this year for the second consecutive season in lieu of solidifying a long-term deal. He’s foregoing nearly a million dollars per game, but avoiding a situation in which the Steelers might try to “get their money’s worth” by giving him a heavy workload at one of the game’s most vulnerable positions, during what would appear to be his last season with the team.

Thomas ended his holdout for a new contract before Week 1, but has been reluctant to participate in practice and team activities any more than is absolutely necessary.

“I need to make sure my body is 100,” he told reporters after last Sunday’s game, presumably alluding to his impending free agency as well as the trade market. “If they were invested in me, I would be out there practicing.”

Even as the financial stakes grow, the physical stakes of football remain almost the same at every level. The X-factor is how much leverage each player feels they have to turn that wear into profit. As top-tier players, Bell and Thomas are showing fans the mental math behind every carry and tackle — the game-to-game reality of how NFL players calculate risk versus reward. At a time when the power imbalance in tackle football has never been more obvious, it’s a pragmatic approach to acknowledging the game’s dangers without quitting it altogether or fatalistically accepting its brutality as an inevitable part of being a “team player.”

The way the football pipeline is set up now, players assume the vast majority of the risk. They are required to bet on themselves through college, finding the situation where they can accrue eye-popping stats and highlight tape while avoiding career-ending injury — while making no money. Then they have to bet on themselves entering the draft: leave early and get paid something sooner without having their college degree, or leave later and maybe get drafted higher and make more (or, in either scenario, maybe not get drafted at all). Once in the league, they can be cut at almost any time.

Succeeding on this path is presented as a question of toughness and grit and loyalty and other, similarly character-defining adjectives. On a team of 53 men, there’s an assumption that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. That players need to sacrifice to win, to give the game everything they have or get off the field.

Some players, when confronted with the risk of concussion or other long-term injury, choose to do the latter. Niners linebacker Chris Borland quit the game in 2015 after playing for one season. “From what I’ve researched and what I’ve experienced, I don’t think it’s worth the risk,” he told ESPN at the time. Linebacker Joshua Perry retired after two seasons this summer: “I think a lot of guys tend to understand the risks, but not necessarily talk about it because you can’t go into football having reservations,” he said on the Today show.

That latter attitude is more common, even among high school players. “I know that CTE can be a risk, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take,” freshman Florida State offensive guard Christian Meadows told USA Today last year. The paper had asked 40 top high school players how concussion risk factored into their decision to play. “I mean I could take care of my family and make lots of money doing what I love,” Meadows continued. “That’s worth it to me.”

Buccaneers safety Chris Conte, who went viral after being on the receiving end of a vicious stiff arm while playing through a torn PCL last week, long ago made his perspective on these kinds of decisions clear. “I’d rather have the experience of playing and, who knows, die 10, 15 years earlier than not be able to play in the NFL and live a long life,” he told the Denver Post in 2014. He currently has to sit out six weeks because his injury was exacerbated during Monday night’s game.

Jets safety Jamal Adams put it more succinctly in a press conference during training camp last year when asked about a then-just-released study on football and CTE. “We live and breathe it and this is what we’re so passionate about,” he said. “Literally, I would—if I had a perfect place to die, I would die on the field. Like, it’s so much sacrifice that we go through as a team and just connecting as one and winning ball games. There’s nothing like the playing the game of football.”

But what place does self-sacrifice at that level have in a business? That’s the question Thomas and Bell pose as they allow fans to watch not just their negotiations with teams, but with themselves. Both have already accepted the game’s inherent risks, and—especially for Bell—sacrificed some of their long-term football viability in service of team success.

“I don’t think it affected the way that I played because I wasn’t necessarily thinking, ‘I don’t want to get hurt, I don’t want to get hurt,’” Bell said earlier this year of playing under his first franchise tag. “I was just kind of playing physical. I knew after this year that they had to put me up front. I felt that kind of inspired me.”

But now, their cost-benefit equation has a hefty intangible attached: the cost of potential damage to not just their future earnings, but their future well-being. How much money is it worth for Bell to be at the bottom of one more goal-line pile? He’s decided it’s more than $850,000. How much money is it worth for Thomas not to put his pads on in practice? To him, it’s clearly worth more than whatever he’ll be fined by the team.

Other players are weighing in, shedding light on the kinds of discussions that typically stay in the locker room. “For me, I’d give you everything in practice, you would see—the cameras would see that I am fine, I am healthy,” James Harrison said of Bell during a recent appearance on FS1’s Undisputed. “But come Saturday, ‘something ain’t right, I can’t play on Sunday.’ Because if I go out here and I mess something up I’m losing a lot of money.” To Adrian Peterson, Bell’s productivity on the franchise tag should be retroactively compensated. “He’s like, ‘I have played off the franchise tag that you guys have given me, and you guys still won’t pay me what’s due, what I feel like I am valued,’” he told SI. “I’d be sitting out too.”

Thomas and Bell’s public battles are making NFL players’ constant struggle to get the money they believe they’re worth more granular by putting the actual risks they face every time they play front and center. Rather than simply claiming that they want to earn more money (which clearly, they do), they are — intentionally or not — tapping into increasing public awareness of just how dangerous this game is by being more precise about how and when they are willing to extend themselves, favoring a transactional view of how to cope with football’s brutality in lieu of a romanticized one. It’s a direct challenge of the assumption that grit is enough to make all the other side effects of playing football disappear, and to the notion that playing through pain and putting the team first are intrinsically worthwhile.

Bell and Thomas know that a quarterback will always be perceived as more valuable than a safety or running back because his “mileage,” as it’s so cynically termed, accrues that much more slowly. But these are people, not cars. When they get “dinged-up” or “run out of gas,” it hurts. How much is that worth? As is becoming increasingly obvious, the only people who can answer that question are the players themselves.

[mobmotherscitah]

You were told of the Sating Sick Cup as a child. You believed it existed and drank slowly to savor your drink and make sure what you were drinking wouldn't be your last cup. It was a nifty trick to help you take things slow and careful. Such are old tales like that. Always meant to teach you a thing or two. About life. About people. About death. Your grandmother and grandfather always told you strange tales. Tales that, as you grew older and accrued a fascination with such things and the affects they have on people, sought out the origins of. Though you found numerous connections to many cultures, none ever matched as perfectly as you had hoped. It wasn't hard to discern why you were told these family myths, as they did have a very easy way of making you behave, it was still disappointing to realize no one else had the same stories to keep them in line. There was the tale of the Wooded Cat who would sleep under the stairs, and if you stomped or ran up and down the stairs you would awaken it. And. It. Would. Be. Grumpy. And murderously ravenous. It would eat the noisy feet of a child before returning to sleep. Such is why you never dared touch a cat until you were 17. Turns out you're allergic and the Grands' bedroom was below the stairs and they were frequent nappers. Or the Garbage Goblin. He lives in the trash cans (considered very rich amongst his kind, what with having so many homes) and he watches for garbage. If there is garbage in a home, not thrown away in the trash where it belongs, then he comes out of the trash and beats every living thing with a smelly old sock that is both wet and crusty until those living creatures flee or die. You can't stand a dirty home because of that, you discovered. The Grands' cleaned up after five children, they weren't going to clean up as much after you! There was the Mirror Fairy who pretended to be your reflection. She would look in your soul, your past, and your future. If she found you cruel about beauty, to yourself or others, she made you seem ugly. If she found to value beauty of the flesh over the soul within, she switched places with you until your soul and/or body died, wherein she would return to the Mirror World. Obviously; don't be vain and don't feel bad if someone says you're ugly. Fair enough. You once told this to a co-worker of yours who liked to put everyone down for supposedly not caring about their image as much as she did. She either believed you in some way... Or thought you were too damn weird to talk to anymore. Suited you just fine either way. Then there were things like the Cursed Mop and Broom, where if they weren't used once a week, they make a shishkabob out of their neglectful keeper. Or the dreaded Brain Rot one might contract if they didn't learn or read something new every day. The Court of Pets who would lock up negligent pet owners and treat them like they treated their pet. That one gave you some serious trouble when your pet lizard lost its tail and later died. You had packed your things and said a profoundly tearful goodbye to your parents and baby brother. Then you sat on the stoop for five hours, waiting for the Pet Police, crying the whole time. But the one that seemed to echo in your head the most frequently and loudly was the Sating Sick Cup. The tale went that someone once was very poor and very hungry and very thirsty. With not a penny to their name, they walked long and far until their shoes began to wear out. Every rock cut through and every puddle moved in. This wanting person came across a sitting man who called out to them. "Ah, excuse me!" the man was haggard and old, dusty from dirt. The wanter, being curious, approached. "Yes? What is it? Why do you sit here?" "I sit here because I must." the dirty man said before pointing to his shoeless feet. "I've got no shoes and the ground here is awful sharp to the skin." "Yes." agreed the wanter. "I know what you mean." The wanter lifted their foot to reveal several holes going right through the shoe. "Been walking for ages and got holes in my soles." "Well, where you're going, the ground is soft and kind. The hard bit ends in five mere steps. But I'm on my way to where you were. Say... Would be kind and give me your shoes? Holes and all, even a little relief is welcome relief." The wanter thought a moment. "Five steps?" "Yes. Five." nodded the worn man. "Barely a problem compared to the journey I must make." Hemming a hawing to himself, the wanter had decided, "No. I made the journey and can't part with my things." The old man sighed. "Then how about a trade?" The wanter eyed the old man and saw nothing they would want. "Trade what?" The old man pulled out a small worn sack from behind him and opened it up. Within was one thing. A simple dark wooden cup. "This." "A cup!" blurted the wanter, seeing nothing within it. "What value does that have for me?" "There is a river another three miles in the direction you've been going. Fill it and it shall never empty. Drink from it, though, and you will never stop." says the old man. His warning went unheard. "A river? Oh, I've been so thirsty!" the wanter exclaimed excitedly. "And where there is water, there is food!" Just the thought of eating and drinking had them casting their shoes off before the old man. "Take them and give me your cup." The old man held up the cup and the wanter took it. With cup in hand, the wanter ran all the way to the river, their feet cut and bleeding. Reaching the river, the wanter fell to their knees and filled the cup. In the water, it seemed to be more beautiful than the simple cup it had been. The wanter drank deeply from the cup. It emptied and refilled and emptied and refilled and emptied and refilled. When the wanter lowered the cup from their lips, they sighed happily before looking at the river. To the wanter's horror, it was sewage instead of clean water. And they watched in horror as their hand raised the cup. Swigging down more sewage, the wanter drank and drank until they died. Now, the story seems to have several lessons in it. Obviously... Like kindness and gluttony. But something about it felt odd. Probably because your grandmother always ended it with "And then your man great grandmother found the swollen body of the wanter and the old man sat beside them. The old man asked for her shoes to cross the muck, which she gave him. So, he gave her a cup and told her to guard it. And she did, eventually passing it down with the story the old man told her. And now I tell it to you." Now you're sitting there with a letter and a wooden latched box given to you on the day of your grandparents' funeral. The letter was a simple "It's your burden now. Don't look at it. If you must, don't touch it. If you do... We love you." It was a simple dark wood cup in the box. A little worn and a little dirty. Looked so softened by the years of ware it had clearly had. And it was. Almost felt like the smooth parts of cork. The inside was polished to a mirror shine. Something was hypnotic about it. Was it just a story? Were you brave enough to put a little water in it? There was only one way to find out.