#i am incapable of playing any household that doesn’t have a cat

[megumis-lashes]

A Tokyo Revengers Halloween!

Headcanons for Halloween!! 👻🎃

An: happy Halloween!! I personally love Halloween so have some last minute tokyo rev headcannons! I was gonna write these earlier but it’s still Halloween where I am so!

Contains: mentions of fake blood, just like Halloween activities lol, gn reader, currently not edited/proof read cuz I wanna post on time, I’ll add the ‘read more’ thing later since I’m on mobile 👹

Characters: Mikey/Manjiro Sano, Chifuyu Matsuno, Kazutora Hanemiya, Keisuke Baji, Haitani brothers, Imaushi Wakasa

Mikey - Manjiro Sano

A literal menace to society

Gets away with the craziest things purely because it’s Halloween and his costume is cute

Will complain about the amount of candy different houses give out

Even as an adult he’ll still wanna do something for Halloween, like at least get candy for himself lmao

Not against matching costumes but will make you do most of the work for his costume if you do match

Even if you don’t match expect him to ask you for help with his costume or makeup/SFX ☠️

That one kid that counts all their candy at the end of the night and has intense trade offs with other kids

Either easily scared or completely unbothered by jump scares/ horror movies there’s no in between

Loves the classic horror movies, the cheesy/funny ones that are either Halloween comedy or just so badly done that they’re funny

Overall menace/10, very fun person to spend Halloween with but also very chaotic 🎃

Chifuyu Matsuno

When is he not a sweetheart

Will match costumes with you even if you ask extremely last notice, he’ll drop all his plans for you

Not too picky on Halloween activities, down to watch movies, get costumes, go trick or treating

Leans more towards the cute side of Halloween, likes the cats and stuff, not super up for realistic SFX or anything crazy

Will dress up Peke J (as proven by official art)

That one kid who was a cat for Halloween for like 10 years straight (this totally wasn’t me no what are you talking about)

Will share candy with you as long as it’s not one of his favorites

If you’re going out he’ll probably be the most attentive person there, he doesn’t want your night to become a horror movie lmao

The type to ask you to draw cat whiskers on his face last minute and then forget he was wearing makeup and smear it

Overall sweetheart/10, very nice experience, we love cats in this household

Kazutora Hanemiya

Younger Kazutora? Menace to society (maybe even more than Mikey)

Time skip Kazutora? Still a tiny bit of a menace ngl

Will try to casually scare you after watching horror movies or just randomly

The type that would steal your candy as kids, but then he might feel bad and give you some of his in return (only if he liked you tho)

Another that abuses the cat costume except he makes it different by being a tiger or something lol

His costume is his excuse for wearing the tackiest tiger print clothes

Either that or he’s a demon/devil (like in the official art) which is very fitting for how he acts

Not against matching costumes (especially in timeskip, he’d be much more willing then)

In timeskip he would rather stay in for Halloween and watch movies, carve pumpkins something like that instead of going out

If you somehow convince him to go out then simple costumes!

Do his makeup and hair for him and he’s sold, a sucker for having his hair played with/done by other people

Overall chaos/10 or the second sweetheart/10 depending on which Kazutora we’re talking about

Keisuke Baji

Another menace lmao

Will run around the whole time, not actually going to houses really, and then complain about not getting any candy

Goodluck getting him to plan his costume more than half an hour before leaving

Also don’t even try to do his makeup or hair, mans is incapable of sitting still and will severely mess you up

The type that gets insane sugar high but then passes out for 12 straight hours when it wears off

His official art is like a werewolf costume? But he would use whatever he had to make a costume lmao, it’s a bonus if it’s not complicated or he doesn’t have to wear a shirt

If he’s staying home, he’ll insist on buying like 3+ bags of candy for trick or treaters just for him to eat it all and get mad at kids that wanted some of it ☠️

If you go to a party or something like that then put a tracking device on this man. He will somehow manage to end up at entirely different party and just blend in perfectly

Another one that would try to scare you but go all out, faking his own death kinda shit, then he’ll laugh at you for half an hour straight

Overall catastrophe but fun/10, exhilarating experience but you may or may not remember 80% of it the next day

Ran Haitani

The type to take Halloween as an excuse to commit crime cuz ‘no one’s gonna know’

May or may not use real blood instead of fake blood for his costume

Seems like someone that would dress up as ‘himself’ at parties ☠️ and take it as a compliment if someone knew who he was lmfao

Other than that he would somewhat go all out on costumes, use fake blood and SFX

Might match costumes if you ask in advance but would choose the spooky route over the cute route

The type to ruthlessly scare little kids but then give them candy afterwards as payment lmao

Seems the type to put at least some effort into decorations, or will just commit a crime in front of his house and claim it’s fake

Doesn’t care that much for candy but is lowkey territorial over his favorites

Most likely to get tipsy or just all out drunk at a Halloween party and say something along the lines of ‘babe we should totally recreate this horror movie it would be great’

Pls tell him no

If he stays home then he will sort through the candy for his favorites before he hands any of it out

Will prank you and scare you constantly throughout October, you will not get a break until it’s practically Christmas lmao

Overall insane but kinda fun/10, beware the crimes that most likely will occur with this man

Rindou Haitani

Kind of a deadbeat ngl

It would take a bit of convincing to do anything for Halloween, let alone match costumes

If anything I could see him matching with his brother purely so that they both could get away with crimes ☠️

If he did any sort of costume it would have to be simple, something that requires minimal effort and no makeup or anything really

Uninfluenced by what you wear, the type to go to a Halloween party in normal clothes with you wearing a whole ass costume and just say that he’s a waiter or something for Halloween lol

Surprisingly good at carving pumpkins, great at detail work somehow

I feel like he has a huge sweet tooth but hides it shamefully lmao

If you find out about his sweet tooth then this man will steal your candy as punishment

The type to be home, and so obviously so, with lights on and stuff, and not answer the door for trick or treaters.

Might scare them away with a kitchen knife if he’s that bothered

If you manage to drag him to a party when he’s in a good mood, then he’ll play along with your costume a bit and probably tease you

Overall kinda lame but also can be fun/10, you just need to inspire this man ok

Imaushi Wakasa

Ok so mans has a sweet tooth and that’s why he likes Halloween

Will bully you to give him lollipops, if you refuse he will give you silent treatment for like 3 days

Once he’s past the stage of enjoying going out/ trick or treating/partying, his favorite Halloween activity is watching scary movies the whole day

It’s a lazy but wholesome activity, especially if they’re Halloween comedies or those old movies with effects so bad they’re funny

Will still buy candy though, even if you don’t get trick or treaters

Not one to decorate much but will get some pumpkins for ‘fall spirit’, he thinks they’re nice but he won’t be that up to carve them, it’s too much mess

If you convince him to go to a costume party then please do his make up

Has the prettiest lashes and can pull off practically anything he desired Istg

I feel like he secretly likes some of the Halloween tropes? Like the whole vampire, werewolf thing, stereotypical stuff like that

Would be a vampire maybe, it’s an easy costume but it never fails

Overall chill/10, nice to hang out with, even if you aren’t doing much

[han-shinsuke]

🇳 🇦 🇴 🇾 🇦 🇿 🇪 🇳 🇮 🇳 ANGST

•life starts here•

He might have heard of it for him to do such reckless decision of acquiring me under the Zenin household. Mom had brought him with her in our home–I find his behaviour unusual for his age—well, I am not that old to speak this way but, Naoya Zenin IS really odd. How come a boy like him, who has everything that I always dream of, seems unhappy of his possessions and privileges and his eyes—whenever I lay attention on those, I see someone really different from the boy standing before mine. Does the life he has right now suffocates him?

“I can give you a life far better from what you have right now. All you have to do is to marry me.”

I see. He sees his way out through me.

Might as well use him as a path and tool towards security.

Fifteenth of September, I married Naoya Zenin.

•••••

“Ears on me, Nao.” Mom would definitely scold me if she finds out that I, a nobody, is going to lecture the boy who holds so much power and authority in his hands, “what’s so funny ha? Stop smirking.”

“You. I find your tantrums ridiculous.”

Is it possible to feel this kind of bloodlust for a boy? Can I kill him this instant? Uh, no. That would make me a criminal and most certainly, my body will not leave this house intact. Head for every life someone would take.

“May I remind you, I agreed to marry you three years ago but we both promised not to engage ourselves in any bedroom activities, right?” Naoya was only eighteen back then while I was already in my twenties. I don’t prey on children and will never not even if he’s already an adult.

I’m on my last year in college and one more year and we will give each other the freedom we always wanted.

“Can’t I use you according to my terms and needs?” He still has the annoying grin he had two hours ago.

Naoya Zenin, you really made my blood boiled. “You just did, Nao. You kissed me in front of my friends!” How can a man lie about his incapabilities to please a woman? I feel goosebumps all over my body! I can still feel his lips on mine!

“It was just a kiss, Y/N. It does not grow feelings, doesn’t it?” There was something in his eyes that makes me wanna doubt my incoming response.

“Of course. It was just a mere kiss.” I don’t kiss then fall in love.

Liar. The devil in me contradicted.

•••••

Responsibility is what makes a man, a man. And a bloke’s ability to fulfill the onus that have given to him is what makes a man deserving of power bestowed upon him.

But, whaf if, once upon a man’s life, all he had ever dreamt of was to have a normal life like the others?

Would it make him a bad man to desire life according to his preferences?

Would it make a man, not a man at all, if he chooses who he really wanted to be?

To choose. To live. To be accountable for the mistake he would make.

Freedom is all he ever wanted.

Once in his life, Naoya Zenin feels the sense of belongingness under her care.

••••

“You look bad.” What’s new? I always look terrible. Been in a fight—almost a cat fight with Naoya’s ex-fianceé, Shei. I roll my eyes at him when he took a photo of me.

“How can you stomach this face, Nao?” I catch a glimpse of my snap in his phone and it makes me wanna vomit. “I’m an ugly shit.” Messy hair and few scratches on my face. Kill me now.

Shall I apologize to him? I have gone feral on his supposed to be wife. Well, he can’t blame me for fighting back. Shei, had hit a nerve.

“I’m sorry. I slapped her.”

“What were you sorry for?”

His hand ascends in the air. I closed my eyes when I thought he would hit me, too, in exchange of the pain I inflicted in his girl.

“You’re really warm, Y/N.”

That day, the wind blown north.

And there was his captivating smile.

••••

“You would never find a man who will love you.”

“I regret having you as my daughter.”

“You won’t make it. You’re weak. You are a fool for believing in miracles.”

“I just want you gone in my life.”

Dad, do you still believe I will not make it?

Do you still want me gone?

Dad, he’s the miracle dressed in a villain’s coat.

Do you still not believe it?

One day, I will be home to tell you all about it.

•••••

“You’re just a tool for him, bitch! And once he gets his freedom, you’ll be dispensable!”

“He would throw you out just like what your father had done to you!”

Winter is approaching. And guess what?

I just landed a killer slap on someone's face out of fury.

••••

“I married him for his money.” The woman sitting adjacent to me will not believe me if I say that we married each other for love.

Mrs. Zenin slides a blank cheque to me and says, “name your price.”

“I sold my words and my loyalty to your son, Madame. You cannot buy a devil twice.”

On this day and forward, I solemnly swear I will get him out.

“My son has big responsibilities to this family.”

“And so is he to himself.”

Naoya deserves freedom.

•••••

Can I last a day in the Zenin household?

Good news, I have been living with them for almost four years now.

“Do you miss your brother?” Suddenly, he asks. I turn to him and rest my eyes under his bed.

We don’t sleep on the same bed. I’m comfortable lying on the floor.

“No.” I lied.

He’s with me wherever I go.

At this time, he was under his bed. Smiling back at me.

I cannot let go of him.

After all these years, my brother’s ghost is still haunting me.

He died under my bed.

••••

“I saved your fund from the robbers.”

He was young. He was full of life.

He was innocent. He had dreams.

On the day of Christmas Eve, robbers had invaded our home. No one was there aside from my thirteen years old brother.

My parents got into a fight so they left home.

I got tired of their shits so I left home, too.

“I fought for these. Are you proud of me, ate?” I found my brother covered in blood. Hiding under my bed. Protecting my stupid piggy bank.

My brother was a hero.

He protected my dreams.

And that caused him, his life.

•••••

“Had you dated a man before?”

“Never. Men are scared of me.”

I check his tie and it perfectly clings around his neck. We have our graduation pictorial today so I volunteer assisting him in his clothes.

“Am I scared of you?” He holds my chin and moves my head up and down then left and right. I give him a soft blow on his stomach and that makes him laugh.

“Why are we having this conversation, Nao?” The contract is nearing its end. Naoya Zenin will be free in three months.

I get him to stay. I get him to choose. I get him to be accountable for every consequences of his actions and decisions.

“Can we be friends after our divorce?” Can we? Can I be just a friend for the man I want to keep for as long as I could?

“Thank you, Naoya.”

“For what?” He checks himself in the mirror and smiles.

“For saving me from becoming a total mess.”

Fifteenth of September, I almost sold my dignity in exchange of money.

Fifteenth of September, Naoya Zenin came.

•••••

On our graduation day, just when I’m about to receive my diploma alone on the stage, my father came with flowers in his hand. Even though he was struggling to walk using his prosthetic leg, my father march with me.

It was not the diploma that made me cried a river on our way down but the words I longed for him to say,

“I’m sorry for not being a good father to you.”

And oh, I also found out that she’s living with my mom again.

•••••

“I’m returning every penny he has spent on me, Madame.” I did not mean to boast but I save enough to pay back Naoya’s generosity.

“Does he know?” Mrs. Zenin picks up the cheque and plays with it.

“Yes, Madame.” Naoya knows I work part time up until now.

“May I ask you, how do you envision Naoya Zenin without his family?”

“A man who don’t value his roots is nothing. There would be no Naoya Zenin without his family, Madame. Please, do not abandon your son just because he sees life differently from yours.”

••••••

—five years later—

“Y/N, can you assist the new guests?”

I stop checking the inventory report in the computer and immediately come to aid my best friend who is also my co-owner of the small coffee shop we established five years ago. I wear the black apron and pick two menu card from the counter.

“Good day! Welcome to Carri—”

“Y/N...”

“Mrs. Zenin!” I almost dropped the menu card on the floor but the man who has his back against my direction caught them on time.

“Hello, wife!” Naoya flashes his captivating smile and gives back the menu card, “can I take you home after your duty?”

“Wa—wife? I am no longer your wife, Nao.”

Mrs. Zenin clears her throat and put an envelope on the table, “he didn’t signed the papers so technically, you are still his wife, Y/N. And please, just call me ‘mama’, I kinda feel old when you uses formalities on me.”

“I found you again, Y/N.”

First snowfall, Naoya Zenin finds his way back to me.

•life never ends here•

THANK YOU FOR READING 😊😊❤️❤️

icon artist’s profile: https://pin.it/1TnFoH6

[avantegarda]

Wonderful 1000: The Merry Misadventures of Chopin the Pig

@cherepashkadrabbles requested a tale featuring an assortment of Kiraly-von Holstadt family pets and somehow this happened. Enjoy!

--

It was all Anna’s fault, really.

Not Anna Király the elder—that esteemed matriarch had gone to her reward over a decade prior, though Andras insisted that her spirit still kept a watchful eye over the family, particularly around Christmas. The perpetrator this time was Anna Király the younger, aged three, the apple of her mother’s eye: a plump, auburn-haired little elf with strong opinions on absolutely everything. 

The opinions, this time, were regarding the family dachshund.

“Wolfgang is sad,” Anna insisted, with a fervent tug at her mother’s skirts. “Sad sad sad.”

Marta reluctantly put down the letter she was reading—a rare missive from her friend Sophie in New York—and regarded her daughter with surprise. “What on earth do you mean, Anna darling? Wolfgang is the happiest dog in Vienna. He has lots of food and a warm bed and you and Sofia and Zoltan to play with him. He has no reason at all to be sad.”

Anna shook her head firmly. “No, he sad. Lonely. He need ‘nother dog. Or kitty.”

“He’s lo…” Marta paused, her stomach twisting in sudden worry. How exactly did Anna, still practically a baby, know that word? Was Anna lonely? It couldn’t be terribly easy to be the youngest in their family, that much was true. Sofia and Zoltan, while affectionate and kind older siblings, had a tendency to disappear into their own artistic pursuits, just as their father did; Sofia with her singing lessons and Zoltan with his drawing. Leaving little Anna...well, out.

Perhaps it wasn’t Wolfgang who needed another animal around the house. 

“I’ll tell you what, darling,” Marta said slowly. “Your uncle Heini spends most of his time out in the country and he knows all sorts of animals. Perhaps he’ll have a kitten or a puppy who needs a new home.”

Andras might have some objections to another pet being brought in without warning...but at the smile on Anna’s round face Marta really couldn’t bring herself to care.

--

Heini’s reply was swift and enthusiastic.

Dear Marta,

I was wondering when you were going to ask me this very question. Three children and only one old dog around the place to keep them company? It’s obscene.

I have just the beast for you, too. You’re expecting a barn cat or some such, I’m sure, but I have a slightly more unusual suggestion. I’ve convinced Father to let me acquire a new kind of miniature pig from the East (I won’t bore you with all the agricultural details), and one of the sows has just produced an excellent litter of piglets. Would Anna like one? As babies they’re the size of a cat, practically, and they don’t grow to be more than two feet tall. Once he gets older he might have to spend most of his time in the back garden, but I can guarantee the children will love him.

Your affectionate brother,

Heini

“A pig?” Andras said incredulously that night, as he and Marta got into bed. “In the house? I always knew your brother was just as mad as you are but this seems like a bit much.”

“But it’ll be wonderful for the children, darling,” Marta replied. “Think what an educational experience it will be for them to have a new kind of animal to learn to take care of!”

“They’ve already got more animals than I ever had as a child. I had to make do with Erszi the pigeon, while our youngsters have Wolfgang and Nyafi and all the animals at Burg Holstadt…”

“Nyafi is a wonderful cat,” said Marta, “but she spends all her time in Pest and so the children only get to see her about half the year. And Andras, I think that…” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “I think Anna needs this. Yes, she’s still very young, but she needs something that’s hers. Why not a pig?”

Andras sighed, though it was obvious that his resistance was softening. “I still say pigs belong in the barn, not in the house. Is this one of those things that’s so lower-class it’s gone full circle and somehow become fashionable?”

“Undoubtedly.” Marta snuggled closer and planted a kiss on her husband’s cheek. “And we’ll be the most fashionable family on the Wipplingerstrasse.”

“Hmm,” said Andras wryly. “If it’s a matter of fashion, I suppose I can’t possibly refuse. Now come over here and give me a proper kiss.”

Marta grinned triumphantly as her husband pulled her into his arms. If anyone ever asked why she’d given up a title and a fortune to marry a musician—as they still occasionally did—it was moments like this that she pointed to. Every single time.

--

The newest member of the family arrived two weeks later, carried in a basket and delivered by a beaming Heini. It was certainly a fetching creature; small and bristly and ivory-colored with dark splotches and shining eyes. And the children, of course, were utterly enchanted by it.

“What should we call him?” six-year-old Zoltan demanded. “Should it be a Hungarian name?”

Sofia rolled her eyes. “No, silly, Nyafi the cat already has a Hungarian name. The pig needs an Austrian one.”

“But Wolfgang already has an Austrian name…”

“Well, Wolfgang is named after a composer,” Marta cut in gently. “So perhaps this little fellow should be too. Andras, what music does he make you think of when you see him?”

“He has rather melancholy eyes, doesn’t he,” said Andras. He scratched his chin thoughtfully and hummed a few bars of something slow and romantic. Both Sofia and Zoltan screwed up their faces, thinking deeply, until finally Sofia clapped her hands in triumph.

“Of course!” she cried. “Chopin! It’s perfect.”

“Well, I certainly like it,” said Marta. “But Anna should have the final say. What do you think, love?”

The entire family looked down at Anna, who was crouched by the basket softly petting the piglet’s bristles. At the sound of her name, the little girl looked up and beamed.

“Chopin,” she said. “My piggie.”

There appeared to be nothing more to say on the subject.

--

“I am going to make that damn creature into kolbasz,” Andras growled. “I mean it, Marta. This is the last straw.”

Marta’s eyebrows went up. “Final straw? What were the first straws?” She had to admit, the last month having Chopin as a pet had been slightly less peaceful than expected, but she hadn’t been aware of anything too terrible. Besides, the children loved him.

“Well, first of all, Anna insists on letting him sleep in her room, and he knocks everything over and chews on all her toys. And then Zoltan put paint on his hooves for some piece of art he wanted to do—is that what art is coming to in this country?—and Chopin tracked it everywhere. And now,” Andras said with bitter triumph, “he has destroyed my work.”

Marta inhaled sharply. “He hasn’t broken Clara, has he?” Though technically an inanimate object, Andras’ beloved violin had been a part of the Király family since 1861, and if something happened to her…

“No, thank God. If Chopin damaged Clara he’d be at the butcher’s shop this very minute. But what he did do isn’t much better. I have a performance in three weeks, at which I am supposed to be debuting my No. 4 in B Minor which I have been working on all week, but that creature,” said Andras grimly, “has gone and defecated on it.”

The snort of laughter that escaped her lips was one Marta immediately regretted, and at Andras’ scowl she quickly apologized. “But how did he get on top of your sheet music, darling? Was it on the floor?”

“I don’t see how it matters where my papers were,” Andras said primly (which translated to “yes, they were on the floor, due to my excessive absentmindedness”). “We need to get that thing properly trained or he’ll be going right back to the country where he belongs.”

“I’ll take care of it. Now get back to work.” Marta wagged a stern finger in her husband’s direction. “If you give a performance that isn’t a success my parents still may find a way to annul our marriage.”

--

It was a generally understood rule in the Király household that when Andras was in his study composing, he was only to be disturbed in the event of an emergency. This was less because it would annoy him and more because when he was focused on music, he was temporarily incapable of thinking about anything else.

All of this was to say that, when Sofia cautiously entered the study shortly before dinner on Saturday, it was clearly a matter of some concern.

“Papa?” she asked. And, when her father neglected to look up, a bit louder: “Pa?”

Andras, whose world for the past two hours had consisted entirely of the concerto he was writing, jolted out of his reverie to find his hands nearly black with ink and a worried-looking eight-year-old staring at him. “What’s the matter, Sofia?”

“Have you seen Zoltan?” Sofia blurted out. 

“Sofia, your brother will be holed up in his bedroom or out in the garden. Is this really…”

“He’s not, though. I’ve looked everywhere, he’s missing.” Sofia sniffled and wiped at her eyes. “And it’s all my fault. The von Braumark twins came for a visit today and Zoltan wanted to play with us but Lottie said he couldn’t because he’s a boy and Liesel and I went along with it and he was so upset, and after the twins left I went to find him to say sorry and he’s gone.”

Having grown up with three temperamental younger sisters, Andras was quite accustomed to children going missing and then reappearing at the oddest of times. Therefore the news of Zoltan’s evident disappearance was no cause to panic.

Not yet, anyway.

--

Two hours later, through concentrated search efforts and several hastily dispatched messages, the Királys had been able to establish a list of places where Zoltan was not.

He wasn’t anywhere in the house or back garden.

He was not at his grandparents’ house (as far as anyone could tell, though the von Holstadt mansion had eighty rooms and it took considerable time to search all of them).

He was not at the homes of any of their family friends, nor was he in the nearby park.

And while all of this information was technically useful, it was not making Marta and Andras any less worried.

“I don’t want to call the police, but I think we might have to,” said Andras, pacing back and forth across the sitting room floor as he had been for the last ten minutes. “How else are we supposed to track the wretched boy down?”

Anna, who was crouched on the floor patting Chopin, looked up eagerly. “Chopin can find him.”

“Anna, darling,” Marta sighed. “Chopin is a very nice pig but I don’t think…”

“No, Mama, she’s right. Pigs have a good sense of smell, even better than dogs,” said Sofia. “And they’re very clever too. If we give him something of Zoltan’s to smell, and then we follow him…” She trailed off, looking up at her parents hopefully. 

Marta and Andras looked at each other for a long moment, until finally Marta sighed and nodded. “I suppose it’s worth a try.”

--

The five (four and a half?) of them made a rather odd sight on the rainy Viennese streets: Andras holding both Anna and a bright red umbrella, Marta clutching Sofia’s hand and Chopin’s lead. A proper traveling circus, that’s what they were. Marta would have found the situation more amusing had she not been scared out of her wits.

Chopin, at least, seemed to have understood his instructions. After getting a good whiff of Zoltan’s nightshirt he appeared to recognize the boy’s scent and was now trotting along briskly, pausing occasionally to snuffle at the ground. If he actually found Zoltan, Marta decided, she would feed him the finest scraps to be found anywhere in the city.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was probably only ten minutes, Chopin halted in his tracks at the imposing gothic facade of St. Maria’s am Gestade. He snuffled at the ground for a moment as though confirming a suspicion, and then grunted with satisfaction.

“Is it sacrilegious to bring a pig into a church?” Marta inquired.

“If we’re looking for a missing child, then I’d say we’ll be forgiven,” Andras replied. “And this door had better be unlocked.”

It was, thank goodness. And when Marta’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom, she detected, in one of the front pews, a small dark-haired figure sitting completely still.

“Zoltan!”

The little boy looked up in surprise as his family all but ambushed him. “Mama? Papa? Chopin? What time is it?”

“Past time for you to be home! I am so glad you’re safe.” Marta pulled her son into a tight hug before pulling back with a frown. “But darling, what on earth are you doing here?”

“I like that painting,” Zoltan replied, pointing up at the glorious gold-hued altarpiece. “It always makes me feel better. So I thought I would come and sit here until I stopped being cross with Sofia.” He looked down at his feet and kicked his legs guiltily. “But it was naughty to run away, wasn’t it.”

“Very naughty,” Marta said, with considerably less sternness than she intended. “You’re lucky that we found you.”

“No, Chopin find him,” Anna insisted from Andras’ arms.

“Chopin was brilliant,” gushed Sofia. “Pa, you like him now, don’t you? You won’t have him made into sausages?”

Andras let out an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose so, but I expect you lot to keep him in line. Train him up. No feral pigs in my house, if you please.”

As the children launched into a debate about what tricks, if any, Chopin could be trained to do, Marta reached down and scratched the piglet gently between the ears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I knew you were worth the trouble.”

While none of the other members of the family would believe her, Marta insisted that Chopin replied to this with a very cheeky wink.

[sunshinexlollipops]

Oh for those sheriff!Arthur headcanons you better believe that if he did marry the whole town shoulder try their best to be supportive but hold a private funeral for their broken hearts. And then when they see what an absolutely beautiful, sweet, kind person Arthur married, they fall in love all over again. People start warning passerbys bit too stay to long or they'll lose their hearts to the infamous couple, WHO ARE COMPLETELY UNAWARE ~💚

oops anon my hand slipped. (FOR THE FOURTH TIME.)

when a peculiar stranger comes to town, little does Tumbleweed or Arthur know how much things are gonna be turned upside down.

NOW THIS IS A STORY ALL ‘BOUT HOW

Arthur, ever the gentleman, makes it a point to greet every newcomer personally.

so when our new face is moving into their home and Arthur pays them a friendly visit, the whole town isn’t too surprised.

they ARE surprised however when Arthur completely makes a fool of himself.

usually the man is so suave, and not exactly on purpose. he just has a natural confidence and swagger about himself that he carries, especially after the growth he’s had with Tumbleweed.

but this stranger? throws it out the window.

defenestration at its finest.

Arthur: “I’m the sheriff. Sheriff Morgan. Arthur Morgan, the sheriff. Sheriff of Tumbleweed.”

Stranger, confused: “Uhm. Yes. It seems so.”

Arthur: “I’m the sheriff, so don’t be gettin’ outta trouble.”

Stranger, still confused: “Don’t you mean into trouble?”

Arthur:

the entire town is beside themselves because whathefuckwasthat????

after several episodes of Arthur just completely fumbling like the only words in English he knows are his name and the word sheriff, the town goes into a state of emergency.

it is very obvious that there is something about this stranger that affects Arthur as they do, and they wanna know why.

so, they begin their investigation.

and something quickly becomes evident.

Arthur.

he sweet on them.

about half of the town is thrown into chaos—

“I JUST BOUGHT A RING YESTERDAY FUCKING—“

—and the other half is immediately planning out how to get Arthur his happy ending.

*eHarmony music starts playing*

it is glaringly obvious that Arthur is so sweet on their crush their name should be Fanta.

FANTA FANTA, DONT YOU WANTA—

sad thing is: Arthur does, but he is about as capable of speaking as I was capable of finishing my first playthrough.

newsflash: I didn’t.

newsflash to that newsflash: I had to make a second game and still haven’t finished.

that means it’s bad, okay?

but the town LOVES Fanta.

it may take some people some time to come around bc there is definitely jealousy at first, but it turns out it is really, really, really, really, REALLY hard to hate Fanta.

Fanta loves Tumbleweed and is very involved with the town.

they actually help out with the planning of it, and because of their involvement, the town has prospered with its new growth.

they got a nice little park area by the mansion, there’s a new town hall that looks very nice. the school got a renovation, and they fixed some of the older houses in need of restoration.

any problems in town and they’re on it.

also, knows everyone? on a personal level?

and is just? so kind?

Fanta to small boy in town: “Don’t forget! Your mother’s birthday is on Sunday!”

Small boy: “FUCK—“

and Fanta listens to people’s concerns and desires and tries to make things ideal for everyone.

and soon, people talk about Fanta helping the town as much as Arthur does.

because they make Tumbleweed the one city Arthur doesn’t hate.

AND THAT’S UNHEARD OF.

AND JUST YOU WAIT—

Fanta: “I moved here because of the sheriff. I heard he’s an amazing man.”

Arthur, having overheard ⤵️

the older folks of the town, who treat Arthur as a beloved son (and all hang a photo of Arthur in their house like Jesus selfies in churches), immediately begin their assault on making shit happen.

because, bless him, lord knows Arthur can’t even T A L K right at this point.

Old woman: “Oh, Arthur! My cat seems to have gotten out and climbed Fanta’s tree! What ever shall I do?!”

Arthur: “I... I can go over there.”

*proceeds to only greet himself as the sheriff in six variations before CLIMBING into Fanta’s tree and nearly falling out of it before coming back looking like he wants to test his dead eye on himself*

Arthur: “I’m sorry, miss... it’s not your cat up there. It’s just a bird’s nest.”

Old woman: “Oh mercy me! I’m just a frail old lady, you know! My eye sight is going with my years! Just incapable from my age, I am! However will I get this pie to Fanta????? If only I knew someone who could help!”

Arthur: “.........”

Old woman: 🥧 take the damn pie Arthur :)

the townsfolk are trying their hardest, and slowly but surely, with an usual amount of errands or requests involving Fanta, Arthur begins to grow out of his initial awkwardness.

but I say that in the sense that he’s still awkward asf but he is able to say more than “me Sheriff Morgan, yes?”

and, the townsfolk begin to notice that Fanta begins to like Arthur back and OH—

WE AT TUMBLEWEED LISTEN, AND DUE TO POPULAR DEMAND, WE INTRODUCING A BRAND NEW AND IMPROVED FLAVOR OF WHAT YOU LOVE BEST— “RESPECT ARTHUR MORGAN AND FANTA” JUICE. AVAILABLE NOW!

all of Tumbleweed ⤵️

and when Arthur finally grows confident to tell Fanta he’s sweet on them, and Fanta reveals the same?

all of Tumbleweed ⤵️

because say it out loud: the Morgan’s.

• T H E M O R G A N ‘ S.

Fanta meets John and Abigail and Jack and holydeargod these are not tears—

Jack ADORES Fanta and he quickly becomes enraptured with Fanta and the books they own and read to him because as he’s grown, he’s grown into a bookworm.

John also puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder while they are having a heart to heart, watching Fanta read to Jack alongside Abigail, and he whispers, “Ya finally found ‘em, brother.”

F U CK

anyways :,)

call me a paper clip bc they quickly become the staple of the town.

“Hey, seems like you’re writing some headcanons, need any help—“

but this power couple is adored by EVERYONE.

kids have their first day of school? the Morgan’s are there, greeting each one and making sure they have snacks.

someone is sick? the Morgan’s bring soup and good tidings to get them better.

each night they have dinner in a different household and there is a spot at the table for them both in. every. home.

“THE MORGAN’S ARE COMING OVER TONIGHT AND I BURNT THE PIE.”

when they finally get married, the entire town attends.

and they are all STRAPPING.

because someone is gonna pay more than our national deficit if they fuck this up.

but Fanta, they’re perfect.

and more importantly, perfect for Arthur.

and so Fanta Morgan is quickly heralded as the second best part to the town.

“Oh, you headin’ into Tumbleweed? Careful, the Morgan’s will rob ya of your heart and you’ll thank ‘em for it.”

all of Tumbleweed at least once: “Can’t I just marry them both?”

[vfenrirsv]

Dear Husband, Husband, J,

I am exhausted and angry.

I don’t feel like we have a marriage anymore.

I don’t even feel like we have a relationship anymore.

I don’t even feel like I know who you are or what you want anymore.

There are so many little things that set me off now, and I know that the intensity of my anger towards you isn’t fair; but I’ve reached a point where every little thing you do makes me angry in some way. I’ve reached a point where I feel as if nothing I say to you is taken seriously, where nothing I do around the house is appreciated, where I take no joy out of being in our house or living with our dogs and our cat or even find peace in being married to someone that I never interact with. I have become silently resentful. I have become silently hateful. We’ve become strangers, and it’s our own faults.

We’ve been over these topics before, but I feel the need to reiterate, in the event that I have been lax in communicating my feelings or have caused a misunderstanding for not being specific enough or clear enough about why I am angry…so I am going to do my best to explain why I am so angry about so many things.

I’ve typed this out because the last time I tried to talk to you about all of this in person you made a joke of what I was saying so that you could “see me laugh,” in an attempt to make me “feel better;” and I don’t feel like I got everything out that I needed to. Hopefully this can help us figure out how to save what we have, or help us make a tough decision if we can’t figure it out at all. I don’t know. I don’t even know anymore, J.

The House Doesn’t Clean Itself.

I know you know this. So when I bust my behind to ensure that the house is orderly and clean and smells good, I expect it to stay that way for as long as humanly possible. And in order for it to stay that way requires work on both of our parts. Every day.

When you leave food and trash and your stuff on the bedside table, or the side table in the living room, or on the counters in the kitchen for more than just a day; I get angry. You’re undoing all of my hard work!! By leaving your stuff behind you are communicating that you don’t respect all of the hard work that I’ve done. It doesn’t take more than a few moments to throw your trash away, or put your food in the fridge, or put your stuff away so that no one else has to be bothered by it. And yet, you don’t do this. You leave stuff everywhere you go – and then it falls on me to come in behind you and clean up your messes.

I’m not talking about little things like mail or packages or general day-to-day things that are transient. So don’t huff and roll your eyes. How can I be your wife when I’m too busy being your maid?

And I’m not a maid! I expect you to clean up after yourself after you make a mess, and then I won’t have to work so hard to both re-trace your steps and keep the house clean and tidy out of daily necessity. I’m tired of having to clean up after you. You’re not a child or a bachelor. Stop acting like one.

I shouldn’t have to enact a Bill of Congress to get you to do dishes or laundry. We both live here. If the dishwasher is full, empty it. If the laundry is done, swap it out. You’ll notice that I have largely stopped doing both of these things every single day because I am tired of being the only one who does. I know that doesn’t help solve the problem, but I am. Just. So. Done. J, I’m rebelling. Someone else can clean for hours-on-end on their days off and I can be the one to come home to a nice, neat, tidy home and not do anything. At all. Ever.

If you tell me that you are going to do something, I scratch it off my to-do list with the expectation that it will be done. But when you only do half of the job or don’t do it at all (which is virtually the same thing), then you’ve created more work for me to do instead, because – again – I have to come in behind you and do what you said you would.

….. Taking out the trash – to me – means that you go throughout the house and make sure that all of the trash-bins are empty – and then you take all of it out to the garbage can, and then take the garbage can to the curb for the weekly pick-up. You don’t just take out the kitchen trash and call it a day.

Heaven forbid you pile the trash up in the kitchen corner; and then wonder why I want to rip the cabinets off the walls.

….. Doing the laundry – to me – means that you set a timer and rotate the laundry each time that the alarm goes off. You don’t stop until all of the laundry is clean or we run out of laundry detergent. You don’t do a load and then leave it there to sour for me to come in behind you and re-wash and re-do. That’s gross.

….. Doing the dishes – to me – means that you load up the dishwasher, several times if needed, and then unload it and put all of the dishes away. If there are still dishes in the sink, either hand-wash them or set a timer to re-fill the dishwasher. You keep going until the dishes are done or the dishwasher is almost full to be run again later. Don’t just let dishes pile up and up and up over the course of a week and leave all of it for me to clean up when I have a day off.

Do you know how many times I’ve gone in to do the dishes in the sink and they have sat there so long that there is mold and mildew growing in the water? Do you know how bad that smells? That’s why I bought dish gloves, so that I wouldn’t have to touch any of that with my bare hands. Do you know how many times I have nearly thrown up while emptying out the sink?? Too many.

….. Cleaning up after the dogs – to me – means that you pick up their toys after they have strewn them all over the house, you pick up the kibble that they leave on the floor and put it back in their bowls, you wipe out the kennels with disinfectant wipes, vacuum up all of the dog hair, spot treat the carpets where they have made messes (then wet-vac over those same spots after the treatment has set), organize the treat cabinets to make sure that nothing will spill out of them, check the kibble bucket for food levels, bathe them, dry them, brush them out, clean up the shed, clean their ears, clip their nails… You do parts of that, and only then with my help. I do most of it on my own.

I know that you know how to use a vacuum and the wet-vac. Why am I the only one who uses them? Are you incapable of showing any initiative towards cleaning the floors? You’re happy to tell me that the dogs have made a mess, or that you’ve tracked dirt in, or that something has spilled; and you just leave it for me to clean up at my leisure – as if cleaning the house is somehow my favorite thing to do. And if by some miracle you do decide to put in some effort, you don’t empty the vacuum bucket, nor do you clean out the flutes of the wet vac. So that leaves more work for me to do before I can even begin cleaning up something else…

Listen, J, it isn’t the 1920’s. I am not interested in being a house-wife. You’re not a Butter and Egg Man with a fist full of Cabbage. I have a job outside of the home. I have responsibilities outside of “playing house.”

Have you ever even cleaned the stairs before? Or the tubs? Or the kitchen floor? Or the windows? Or the baseboards? Have you dusted? Or swept? There are so many things beyond just vacuuming that have to get done on a weekly basis to prevent the house from being a disaster. Do you think to do any of these things on your own without me asking?

Until you get down on your hands and knees and wipe up all of the dip that “you don’t leave everywhere,” you won’t fully understand how much dip is all over the bathroom. All the time. You don’t clean it up when it spills. I don’t even think you notice when you leave it all over the floor. Why should I have to clean that up? That’s not something I partake of. That is an exclusively You-Mess. A mess you make and never clean up. A mess that you “put a towel down to prevent,” but then hang that same towel on the back of the bathroom door so that your dip falls all over the floor. Oh, but you “shake the towel out in the shower so that there isn’t any on the towel before you hang it up,” you say: but you don’t wash the dip flakes down the drain. And there is always dip behind the bathroom door. Go look. Right now. I’ll bet you $20 there is gross brown powder on the shower baseboard behind the bathroom door.

Now you owe me $20.

I’ve seen my life flash before my eyes several times in the past few weeks: Over the years I constantly ask for you to help me do things…taking out the trash, helping with the dogs, folding your laundry, putting things away… until I can no longer stand to look at you and I die a resentful old hag who doesn’t even know the last time that she spoke to her husband in kindness.

Here’s the thing: You’re not “helping me out.” You’re an adult. My partner. When you do things around the house, you are simply doing your part. That’s why I’ve stopped asking you to “help me,” and now probably sound like a bitch to you when I tell you to do something or ask you why something is left on the floor…or in the sink…or isn’t put away…or isn’t cleaned up…

Asking you to “help me,” diminishes your value.

You are a fully functioning human being. You should not be viewed as my helper or assistant or someone who needs to take direction from me to be useful. You are useful all on your own. If there is something I need you to do that you’re not noticing, I should be able to say it, and you should be able to do it. But it’s Not for Me. It’s because it’s what needs to be done in our busy household. When you asks me to take the dogs out, or cook dinner, or whatever - you don’t mention it being for you, you don’t mention me “helping you”… Because it’s Not for You. I’m not your assistant, and you’re not mine.

Asking you to “help me,” diminishes our partnership.

You are my man. My equal. We might not always do things the same way, but that’s okay because we are not the same person. What’s important is that we work together to accomplish our main goal, which is to have a happy, healthy family (and a house that isn’t covered in dog fur, kitty litter, and old pizza boxes). I don’t want to boss you around. I certainly don’t want you to think that your purpose in this relationship is to “help me out,” because it’s not. Your purpose is to be a husband and a cat and dog-dad. And to kill spiders. And to reach things on the top shelf that I can’t. And to open jars that are screwed too tight.

Asking you to “help me,” puts undue responsibility on me.

I don’t own the responsibility of keeping our house organized and our fur-babies fed or clean or happy. It’s not solely my job. By framing our dynamic in that way, using phrases like “help me out” instead of simply asking you to do something, I’m taking on that ownership. There are lots of things I’d like to own in this life: a fancy house boat in Alaska, an expensive motorcycle with all the bells and whistles, a washing machine and drier that actually work… But 100 percent responsibility for our household and our pets is not one of those things. I only want 50 percent of that.

Sometimes I get so angry with your lack of personal responsibility for the duties within our home that I consider crafting a summoning circle and trading you to the Devil for a party sized bag of classic wavy lays potato chips. Seriously. Salty, golden-fried, crispy, carbohydrates have never let me down.

You Proposed With A Ring You Gave To Me Because I Was “Going Through A ‘Rough Time,’” and Proposed After A Time When I Was So Upset With You That I Had Stopped Wearing The Ring All Together.

I think about this a great deal, lately. Maybe that was a sign. Being so angry with you to the point that I didn’t even want to wear a reminder of how much you cared for me wasn’t so much of a good start to our particular engagement love story. Don’t get me wrong, my promise/wedding/whatever-you-want-to-call-it/ring is great. I’m not complaining, but when you have to joke with your family that you “had to make sure that she had left the ring in the bathroom (because she blatantly refused to wear it anymore since she was so angry at me)…” sours the beginning of that tale. Not very romantic.

Should we have gotten married so soon after? “Our wedding was exactly/mostly/almost/just what we wanted, though it would have been nice if more of our family and friends could have been there with us; and yes, we tend to ignore the blatantly rude and uncomfortable comments from some family members about how quickly it happened or how small the venue was, or who allegedly wasn’t invited…” not a very romantic wedding story either. Would any of this be different if we have waited longer? If I had saved up more money? If we had somehow managed to get each and every one of our family members together for the wedding day? Would anything have changed? Would our relationship be sweeter? More cherished? Easier?

Your step-mother doesn’t even like me anymore, anyways. I know that your opinion is the only one that should matter, but I have craved having a large family for so long that I am truly, deeply, hurt that now I won’t get the opportunity to build a relationship with one set of my in-laws, or my brother-in-laws, sister-in-laws, nieces, and nephews on that side of the family. I’m upset about that. I’m. Fucking. Upset. About. That. Because I love them, and I have fallen out of familial favor simply because I couldn’t afford a bigger venue to accommodate everyone’s demands. I am blamed for that. Not you. You’re still the “favorite son.”

You saw all of your step-mother’s text messages. You know. I bet she doesn’t talk to you that way.

You Have No Follow-Through When You Tell Me You’re Going to Do Something.

You make me all of these promises about yard work or garage work or house work or taking care of yourself or “being better,” and yet you don’t follow through on any of the things that you say you’re going to. You let things go until the “promise” that you made holds no weight. Maybe you forgot? Maybe you don’t care? Maybe you think I’ll forget that you made the promise? Ha! Whatever the reason, you do this so often as to become the norm and then wonder why I don’t believe you when you tell me you’re going to do something.

I get that you’re tired at night. I understand that your job takes a lot out of you. I know that you want to relax on the weekends – me too! Me. Fucking. Too. But if you’re not going to do what you say you’re going to then don’t even bother making me a promise. Because now, as it stands, I believe very little – if anything – of what you say.

You’re going to clean up all of the leaves in the yard before the snow comes? You’re going to tear down the rebar and brush “next weekend?” You’re going to work with me to clean out the garage? You’re going to take the tree you cut down to the curb so that it can be taken away? You’re going to work with your step-father to get the kitchen cabinet fixed? You’re going to fold your laundry? You’re going to clean up the dirt from when you knocked my cactus off the windowsill? You’re going to fix the front door? You’re going to switch out the litter in the litter-box? You’re going to find the dog’s tracker in the yard? You think I’m beautiful? You love me? I’m amazing? I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you? If I can’t believe you when you say one thing, how can I believe you when you say another?

When you say “I love you,” lately, I don’t know that I can believe you. It sounds false. It sounds like you say it only because you feel like it’s the right thing to do. A husband is supposed to tell his wife that he loves her as she leaves for work, right? It seems forced, like it’s the only thing you can say that doesn’t make me angry.

It mostly just makes me sad.

We Aren’t Intimate Anymore.

You’re aware. You told me before our first Christmas living together that you would look into addressing this. You told me since before we even moved out of the apartment that you would look into addressing this. You told me before we got married that you would look into addressing this. You haven’t.

You say that you don’t like going to the doctor and hearing “bad things” about yourself. You need to understand that, as an adult, you have a responsibility to be healthy for yourself and for the people who love you. If you refuse to take care of yourself, then you are telling the people that you love that you aren’t willing to take care of them either. When you continue to refuse to go to the doctor or “address the issue,” you deprive me, as your wife, of a fundamental necessity and pillar of our marriage. I need to be intimate with you. I turn to you for all of my intimate needs and they haven’t been met since July of last year. We are quickly coming up on a year of not being intimate together, and that is unacceptable to me. It makes me so angry, that I don’t even have accurate words at this point.

To you this might just be something that “you don’t have time for,” or that “you’re just too tired to deal with.” Or maybe you think “it’s not that big of a deal,” or “it hasn’t been that long.” Possibly you think “I don’t crave it anymore,” or “My wife doesn’t initiate anymore so she must not want it either.”

So let me shed some light on that subject:

I don’t initiate anymore because I deserve to be wanted and craved and desired by my husband, and I am tired of being the only one who makes any passes. When a person is continually denied, over and over; why would they continue to make a pass at someone who they already know will turn them down?

This lack of intimacy has affected how I feel about myself. I am tired of not feeling sexy around you, even when I buy and wear new lingerie and purposefully make an effort to be sexy. Do I need to lose weight? Do I need to start waxing? Do I need to grow my hair out? Do I need to start getting my nails done, or buy cuter clothes? How do I become prettier? Should I wear make-up more often? How do I become more of the type of woman that my husband actually desires?

You should see the degradation of my Google history. It has become more shallow and desperate over the past few months.

I am a healthy, virile, sex-deprived woman and I need to have sex. With you. The longer you go without addressing the issue, the closer I get to exploding and demanding that we see other people in a blatant fit of anger. What else am I supposed to do, J?! Have an affair? Find a pool-boy to visit with your dubious permission? I won’t settle for that.

I don’t want anyone else. I want you. And I want to build a fucking family of my own one day.

We Don’t Communicate Anymore.

You laugh things off. You make light of topics that I try to talk to you about. Maybe this is your way of diffusing my distress when I bring up uncomfortable topics. Other times you will go quiet and say that you simply “have nothing to say.” Maybe you go quiet because you get defensive and angry in your own right when I demand answers of you. I have tried over and over again to express to you how I am feeling about all of this, and it isn’t working. Maybe we’re past words. Maybe it’s all down to actions at this point.

I told you that if things didn’t get better by July that we would need to have a serious discussion about where our relationship is headed. I don’t think you took me seriously. I meant what I said. We’ve reached terminal velocity, and I don’t know if we can pull up. I’m afraid that we can’t pull up.

I have asked your best friend for advice. I have asked my mother for advice. I have asked my brother for advice. I have Googled and scoured the internet for answers. I have looked up books and gone on counseling websites for direction. I haven’t found any answers that seem to have helped. At all. I’m running out of ideas on how to make things easier for you while taking care of my own responsibilities and emotional needs.

Maybe I shouldn’t make things easy for you? Maybe if you begin to feel the pressure or see the struggle, you will realize that we’ve begun to fall apart?

I don’t vent to you every day because I don’t want to overburden you. I clean every chance I get so that all you have to do is come home and put your feet up. I have work extra overtime with minimal complaints so that I can contribute more financially. It’s running me down and I am running out of energy and desire to continue existing this way. What’s the point of doing all this extra work if we won’t even have a relationship that benefits from it?

The way I see it, you mostly stop loving a person the same way you stop respecting them. It can happen all at once if something enormous and terrible happens, but for the most part, it happens in inches. In a thousand tiny moments of contempt that unravel the image you had of the person you thought you knew. Until, there is just nothing left to love about the other person. That’s when you begin to love the idea of not loving them more. I feel like we’re on that road, and I don’t want to keep going down it.

You ask me what I want you to do: I want you to be true to your word. I want you to see what we had (have?) and work with me to prevent losing it.

We Don’t Spend Any Time Together Anymore.

This is a problem that we both contribute to. We work different shifts on different days. We text each other more than we speak. When we have days off together we don’t actually spend any time together. We sit at home and ignore one another. We play on our phones. We dive into videogames. We live separate lives in separate rooms. We eat separate meals and pass each other by, day in and day out. This is not a marriage. This is less than a friendship. We are barely even roommates at this point. Roommates would see each other more than we do.

I want to fall in love with you again. I want to learn what your new dreams and desires are. I want us to actively seek to spend time with one another. I want us to have a honeymoon. I want us to explore the state we live in together. I want us to travel. I want to spend time with you when you aren’t trying to impress your friends at the expense of my wants, needs, and feelings. I want you to act as if you are still dating me, still vying for my affection and attention, still hoping that I will chose you above anyone else to spend my time with, as if you don’t know if I will say “yes” to your proposal. I want you to seek me and pine for me and vie for me and wish that I could be yours.

Because it feels like now that you’ve got me, you don’t even want me.

But I Love You.

I am so unhappy right now, but I cling to this marriage and I cling to the idea that I can fix all of the problems that we have between us and bring us back to the excited newly-weds that we used to be even before we were married. We were happier before we started seeing each other all the time. Before we moved in together. Before we got married. Before we switched jobs. Before we got another dog. Before moving to Baldwin. Before this house.

But I love you, even to the detriment of myself. I love your eyes when you laugh, they go all warm and chocolate-y and golden. I love how you smile when you know that you’ve pissed me off – but know that you’ll get away with whatever it is because you know I think you’re cute. I love how you give me hugs and let me nuzzle into your chest and how you hold me until I stop crying and shaking from stress. I love how you can make me laugh even when I don’t want to. I do, truly, love you.

But now I’m afraid that love just isn’t enough.

Sometimes it just Isn’t. Fucking. Enough.

I know that marriages take work from both people, and that nothing is ever 50/50. I know that there will be days when I am 30 and you are 70, or you are 20 and I am 80. I know this. I am not asking for you to be perfect, but I am asking that you be present in this relationship enough to recognize that there is a real set of issues here and that we have reached a point where these compounding issues are a threat to what we are trying to build together.

We used to actually enjoy being in each other’s company. Now everything seems strained and awkward and exhausting. I don’t want to get a divorce. As much as I knew it was the right thing to do in my last failed marriage, I hated it. And now – God, now I don’t want a second divorce but I don’t know any other way that this failing marriage will go since we don’t even seem to be on the same page anymore.

I cannot fix all of our issues on my own. I cannot force you to adopt new habits or a new perspective. I cannot force you to go to a doctor. I cannot force you to want me the same way that I want you. All I can do is keep trying to communicate with you, keep trying to explain to you what is going on in my heart and in my head.

All I can do it keep my word, keep cleaning, and keep “scheduling” fights with you so that we can get all of this bullshit out into the open. I want us to succeed. I want us to pull up out of this nose-dive. I want to be your wife.

But God, I am tired, J. I am so fucking tired, and I don’t know what else to do.

So, just read this. And talk to me. Tell me everything in your heart and your brain that pisses you off or makes you angry or drives you crazy, tell me anything and everything so that I can find you again. I’ve lost you. I’ve lost this marriage. I’ve lost myself. And I don’t know where to go from here.

If you won’t work with me to navigate all of this, then I don’t know what else I can do other than Nothing At All.

_________________________

"Dear Husband," by Vann Fenrirs Volchitsa

[sending-the-message]

The Price of My Morning Coffee by TimelessMeow

When I was 25 and finishing up my Master’s degree, I moved in with a boy for the first time. We’d been together for over a year and got along well. He’d seen my apartment enough to know that I was obsessive about my coffee and incapable of cleaning; I’d spent the night enough to know that he talked to himself while getting ready in the morning, and generally we just liked each other.

There were bumps to learning to live together, of course. I was an only child and had always picked studios over living with a roommate in the past, so having someone always one step behind me, always touching my things, took some adjustment. I stepped on more shoes, bumped into more chairs and glasses, and sat on more ice-cold toilet bowls in those first few months than I ever had, or probably ever will again in my life. I was a hoarder who had suddenly found herself in possession of twice the amount of belongings, so our guest room became more like a small bed next to storage filled with giant boxes of random crap that I knew I didn’t need but was not allowed to be touched. He was a fidgeter and couldn’t keep his leg still as we watched moves on the couch, and the number of ways I imagined killing him with his own damn dirty socks that he always, always, always took off and left in our bed should probably give me a disturbing insight into the dark recesses of my psyche.

Eventually, despite all of these, we found something of a rhythm that worked. I am… whatever the opposite of a morning person would be, so he would get up first in the morning and shower. Then, he would make my coffee for me, since I’d never figured out how to set the timer on the pot, and have his breakfast. Pour my coffee, and then bring me the cat as an adorable meat shield. I would grumble and get up, look before I peed, and drink the coffee. Then we’d go about our days and reconvene in the evenings to watch movies or play video games. It worked so well that after six months, he asked me to marry him and I said yes . Of course, as soon as we’d planned everything, he got the fellowship offer.

As an artist hoping to live off of his paintings, the art scene in our small college town couldn’t exactly be considered booming. He’d looked around for a long time for an opportunity to move elsewhere, but then he’d met me and we’d hit it off. But now, here was an amazing chance to go to Chicago and work with establish painters and make all kinds of connections he couldn’t even dream of here. So now, with two months to go till the wedding, and a year left in my program keeping me tied here, we started considering spending our first year of marriage separated by hundreds and hundreds of miles.

I wanted to say no. I really did. But I didn’t have the heart to ask him to give up his dream, the same way he didn’t ask me to come with him. Instead, he asked the program head for permission to miss the first week for our honeymoon, and moved away two weeks after the wedding.

That first night was soul-crushing. He sent me snapchats of the cute little brownstone he had a room in, video chatted to show me view from his window and how tiny the shower in his bathroom was. But deep down, there was hollowness to the interactions, something to indicate that for the next year, neither his little brownstone nor my beat-up two bedroom apartment on the edge of campus would really be home.

The cat probably had the hardest time adjusting. Apparently, I played with her wrong and so any time I’d try to dangle her favorite toy, a bird attached to a long stick by a string, in front of her, she’d stare at me until I gave up and set it down. Immediately after, she’d snatch it up into her mouth by the bird and drag it around the apartment, meowing at every door to coax my husband out to play. That night, I sat next to the door of the spare room with her and cried while she stared at the white wooden frame expectantly.

The next morning, I woke up to the blaring of my new alarm, feeling drained. I got out of bed with eyes swollen from both tears and sleep, put down the seat and peed while brushing my teeth at the same time because I was just out of fucks to give. The process of washing my face seemed a little more like slapping water onto it, but I felt marginally more human by the time I emerged from the bathroom, only to hear the sound of the coffee pot from the kitchen.

I smiled. He’d figured out how to set the timer for me. I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to say I love you and poured myself a steaming mug.

Even still, I fell into a depression for the first few weeks until slowly coming around to my new reality. Despite the distance, or maybe because of it, my husband was as affectionate and attentive as I could have asked for, and I fell asleep most nights while he chatted about his day on the phone. It was nice not to feel alone, and the intimacy kept the marriage from wilting. We made sure to carve out time daily, texting on breaks and having at least a quick call before bed every night.

Since suddenly we were a two-household marriage, I’d taken on extra hours on top of my schooling and began coming home less and less that fall. Unfortunately for kitty, what time I was home was generally spent studying or attempting to tidy up, and she seemed totally disgusted with me. Despite being a needy cat, I rarely ever woke up to find her at my feet anymore, and she almost never demanded pets like she used to. But she’d still carry around that stupid bird, meowing at every door she saw before falling asleep in front of the guest room door. I tried letting them skype to pull her out of it, and even considered getting another cat, but decided that really she seemed content enough, just distant, and let it be.

By the time my husband had been gone for three months, I think life was as good as could be considering the circumstances. I’d been making sure to see my friends often, he had gotten close with his roommates, and even though we couldn’t see each other we stayed involved as much as possible. So when we missed our first nightly call, I brushed it off. I’d stayed out later than I’d meant to, so I couldn’t be angry that I’d gotten his voicemail. Besides, he called me as soon as he got up the next morning, and we chatted while I put bruise cream on the stupid mark on my hip from the kitchen stool that never seemed to be where I expected it to. Like every other morning, I poured my coffee, told him I loved him, and went on my way.

A week later, he didn’t answer again. This time I was a bit more annoyed, I’d made sure to come home on time. I scratched at a new spot on the sofa while I took calming breaths through his voicemail message and managed to have my tone sound light and pleasant as I let him know I was going to bed but could be reached in the morning, and I loved him.

Despite what I’d said, I spent the night seething. A storm outside my window kept me awake, and the chill leaking in made me acutely aware of how large and cold the bed really was. As I flopped around restlessly, I could hear the cat scratching at the guest room door and it frustrated me until I threw a pillow in her direction and the sound of little claws skittering against hard wood replaced it. After a giant clap of thunder startled me and cut the power, I finally resigned myself to knocking back a sleeping pill and burying my face under the blankets until I drifted into a fitful sleep.

Instead of calming me, the slumber seemed to have energized my anger, so when I woke up the next morning to an unsatisfying apology text and a cold coffee pot, I gave up on hiding my irritation. Pressing the power button on the coffee pot, I dialed his number and lifted the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” His voice was groggy, I hadn’t considered the time difference.

“How do I set the coffee pot?” I snapped, bypassing the small talk.

“W-what?” The confusion bled through, grating on my nerves even more.

“The timer on the coffee. My power went out last night so I need to reset it.”

“We never figured it out,” he mumbled quietly. “There wasn’t a way to set anything but the clock.”

“Okay yes, but it’s been working fine for the last three months, so what the hell happened?” We both knew I was talking about more than the coffee pot, and the silence hung awkwardly over the line.

“Hun,” he started, but I decided I didn’t want to do this right now and cut him off.

“It’s fine. I’ll figure it out myself. Go back to sleep.” I hung up and turned my phone off, poured myself a cup of coffee and watched shit shows on cable for a few hours instead of doing the homework I’d sworn to myself would get done on my only day off this week.

I stayed there most of the day, only letting myself turn on my phone every few hours to check to see if he’d said anything. A few more apologies, some terse requests to stop ignoring him, a missed call. Finally, around six pm, I checked again and found one a little over an hour old.

It’s the TX600, right? That model doesn’t even have a timer

I scoffed and stood up, walking over to the coffee pot. Of course it had a timer, I’d bought it specifically because of the timer. The whole point was having coffee waiting for me, just like it had been every day.

Yeah, I sent back after checking TX600. I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve had coffee every morning since you left. You must have looked up the wrong one.

Some old, black and white movie was on, and when he hadn’t gotten back to me by the time the credits were rolling, I grabbed my computer and pulled up the manual myself. Sure enough, no timer. The clock was just that, a random clock on the side of the coffee pot. Several reviews noted the redundancy of yet another clock in the digital age, but that it worked just fine otherwise.

So how had the coffee been ready for me every morning?

Deciding I must just be going crazy, I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth for an early bedtime tonight. I’d slept poorly the night before and it was clearly messing with my head. After rinsing and spitting, I turned around to use the toilet and it wasn’t until my hand met the lid instead of the seat that I noticed that the seat was down.

The seat was down.

Wait. Why was that weird? I lived alone and had no reason to change the toilet from a sitting position. It had taken me months to get used to the seat ever not being down.

And then once I’d gotten used to it, I didn’t notice when it never stopped.

There had to be a logical explanation for it though. Maybe without thinking, I’d gotten into the habit of lifting it? What else was it, a toilet ghost? And clearly, I just wasn’t as much of a coffee connoisseur as I’d thought, and not noticing that the pot had been brewing it the night before when I put the water and beans in, rather than just before I woke up.

It made sense. At least, more sense than anything else, so I held to it and took another pill and went to bed.

I didn’t wake up the next morning until the cat nudged my face for food at nearly eleven. I must have been exhausted to sleep that long, but I still felt groggy and weighted down. I rolled my eyes at my lack of texts and scooped her some food. I drank some water as she ate happily, then grabbed her toy again and walked over to the guest room door to meow at it.

“There’s no one in there!” I cried, walking over and grabbing the stick. “I’ll play with you, jeez!”

She meowed again and scratched at the door.

“Holy shit!” I snapped, grabbing the handle roughly and shoving the door open. “He’s not there! Look—” I trailed off once I looked in the room myself, seeing the boxes neatly stacked in a way I had never bothered to do. Maybe he’d… but no, the guest bed was slept in, too. I wandered over toward it cautiously as kitty happily sniffed around the boxes and immediately hopped into one as if she did it daily.

A tablet sat, charging, at the foot of the bed. It had no lock, and as soon as I hit the power button, the screen filled with the image of my bedroom. The outfit I’d taken off the night before lay crumpled at the foot of the bed. I reached out in horror and touched the screen, and the image changed to inside my car. I swiped again, my office. Finally, a brownstone I’d only ever seen in pictures. But this, this was clearly not a picture. Red and blue lights flashed against the face of it and people crowded outside craning their necks for a view of what was going on. I couldn’t hear the gasps or cries, but the fear and shock was plain on some faces, while morbid curiosity shined on others. An officer stood out front, keeping the crowd out front.

And then, at that moment, my phone rang.

[ylliasterphoenix]

Bit of a rant.

I currently live in South Hatfield, which to most is pretty much the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. This is primarily because of the fact that between my last place and here, there really weren’t any other options. Most people would assume living in Hatfield is not such an awful thing to happen to a person, and for the most part, I would agree with those who think that. The rent is good, and the size of the room is far greater than anywhere I’ve lived before.But that’s where the benefits end. This place, outside of my room, is a fucking shithole. I’ll now explain why:

The landlady is a 60+ with Rheumatoid Arthritis, which, fair enough is a moderately debilitating physical deformity, but she uses it as an attention seeking tool, using it to bother me all hours of the day and night with “can you go over the shops” or generic household duties, which is moderately fine, given that i’m not actually the most evil person you’ll ever meet, (or I might be, not sure yet) but here’s the issue. More often than not, likely due to the insane amount of codeine she ingests (whether or not this still has anything to do with the pain is beyond me, I’ll get back to this in a bit), she’s fully capable of using her big fucking hoover (a Dyson Animal, if you need a reference point) to do a shit job of cleaning, and any other tasks. Still on the subject of this abhorrent woman, she has 5 (maybe more) cats, that she definably, objectively is incapable of looking after, which is something that I feel I should contact the RSPCA about. There is one cat litter tray downstairs, by what was the actual front door, and one in her bedroom. That’s right people, she keeps a fucking cat litter tray, where she sleeps, and then wonders why she’s always ill. The cats are always fighting each other, which I have to assume is a territorial thing (fair play), but they also drag dead animals into the house into the myriad areas that cannot be readily noticed by the naked eye. The latest example of this was a dead squirrel, which I genuinely have no clue how long was there, but had begun to maggotize, (or whatever the correct word for that is) meaning I have to assume it was there for at least 4 days, given the state of it when I had to remove it (because no one else in the house was clearly willing to) the cats had obviously been chowing down on it, which likely allows me to assume the cats are all underfed. Okay, so that’s that out of the way, but is that all? Oh, no, not by a long fucking shot. Every now and again, when I get so fucked off at the fact that I’ve literally slept on park benches cleaner than the majority of this house, I’ll take the hoover around the downstairs area, and clean the surfaces in the kitchen, and when I have to do this, I do a good fucking job, literally spending many hours at a time just cleaning while these fuckers sleep. To this point, the next morning, the regular response is that I did a shit job of cleaning (taking into consideration that there is no fucking way the carpet had been cleaned in at least a decade before I moved in, and the carpet is most likely being held together by malted cat hair at this point), this, I ignore. But the job is significant enough that keeping it clean after the point should be a 5 minute job, assuming of course (which I have to) that she should just pick up after herself as she goes along. Before I continue, back to the aforementioned squirrel incident, I had a long argument with this woman about the shit state of her house, and she pretty much told me that “if some “yobbo” wants to complain about the state of her house, he can just fuck off”. The “yobbo” she was referring to was me in this case. Here’s the thing, I genuinely believe, from a psychological standpoint that either one of two things has happened here. Either she’s gotten so used to such a shit state of living that it’s now the norm for her and anything cleaner makes her ill (I’ve heard it can happen), or that she was one of those spoilt fucking kids who because she had a disability, no one ever said no to her, and tiptoed around her disabilities rather than being honest with her. This is the more likely. I don’t give a fuck about her deformity. She IS still capable of functioning, and she proves it on a regular basis. This has such a big section simply because for the last couple days, because she hasn’t had tobacco in her life, she’s been twitching, and vomiting, which has made the house fucking stink of not just the regular musty cat shit and human piss scent, as apparently, it’s considered rude to flush the toilet after you use it here (or some shit like that) but also the smell of vomit as well. Early on in the month, because she wouldn’t stop knocking on my door at 4 a.m., I gave her the remainder of a bag of Amber Leaf I had and wasn’t likely to use, she didn’t say thank you at all, which I didn’t care about, but now she seems to assume I’m some kind of tobacco vendor, and even if I had it, I wouldn’t be giving it to her at this point, because I still don’t believe addiction is a real thing (possibly because I don’t have any, it makes it harder to believe in them), but also, because the woman has likely never given a sincere gratuity in her pitiful existence.

Now for the other real problem, and that is the state of the house, I’ve uploaded a video of what it looked like at  some point of recording, trust me, it’s worse now, and it speaks for itself. Since she’s been “ill” for the last couple days, the kitchen has been full of baskets of washing, which DO include her bedding, and DO smell like piss, and when I accidentally stepped in some liquid on the floor in my path to the microwave literally just now, I moved one of these baskets over that, and then, in my second path the microwave, I stepped in another puddle of liquid. I have no doubt this was piss. BUT! Is this the worst thing about this house? No no no no no... No. When I first moved in, the bath tub was full of those little rubber things that I assume disabled people use to grip to the ceramic, which were coated with mold. How long had they been there? Fuck only knows. Within the first day I had removed them using medical grade protective gloves and thrown them away. Recently, she purchased a bath mat, which I regularly remove, as the underside is beginning to accrue the same black disgusting shit all over it. I sanitize the bath with serious shit before I even consider using it. The toilet, for my efforts is actually relatively clean. As with virtually every toilet I’ve ever used, I clean it before and after using it, and occasionally just when I’m on a cleaning binge anyway. More recently, there was what I have to assume as cat shit tracked into the toilet on the base of some bastards shoe (so either the landlady herself or the other tenant), which I did my best to clean out, and then sanitize, but it’s happened again and again, which I have to assume to mean someone is doing it on purpose, most recently, it has been covered with the toilet mat, which is also one of the most unsanitary toilet mats I’ve ever seen, and if it wasn’t currently covering the latest bout of cat shit being tracked in, I would throw it away completely.

Selclene agents have come on a semi-regular basis since I moved here to “clean” the property, and for... about the rest of the day after they’ve come along, the house looks... a bit more like a house. However, none have been more than once. The landlady “claims” that it’s because they’ve become ill and not returned, and then complains about that for about an hour, but through my investigation, it’s because even the people she pays to be here find her to be an intolerable old cunt who doesn’t have any manners, and is literally (and I quote here) a disgusting old hag.

Why  am I whinging to you malicious, schadenfreudic bastards on here? Because sometimes, I’m in a really fucking bad mood, and occasionally that will come out in conversation, or will result in some of the situations where I literally just don’t want to see people (which will be covered in another note), this is why. This is what I put up with. It’s not he-died-for-your-sins level of sacrifice, but please understand, that if I’m in a bad mood, or don’t want to go anywhere, it’s because this house is almost literally so unbearable that I’ve genuinely considered returning to being homeless as an alternative. And therefore spend a lot of time... For want of a better term... trying very hard to not inflict how pissed off I am on people who really, really don’t deserve it, but again, we’ll get to that in a later post.

[house-of-crows]

Tonight I just had one of the worst panic/ptsd-induced flashback sequences I’ve experienced in just over a year. Tagged for Haven Being Haven, and bog standard triggers.

When I walked into this relationship with Sir, I knew what I was getting into. I understood that I was agreeing to hold up my side of our dynamic so He would uphold His. That in this particular give and take, it is much more common to give than it is for me to take. That is, after all, the pivot upon which D/s rests. Negotiated, consensual inequality. 

But I have been utterly failing to keep up with my side of things. I’m over ten pounds heavier than my worst day at the gym in the past eight months, I am physically incapable of standing, bending, etc, to complete household chores, I am forbidden to live anything over ten pounds, I am forbidden to go to the gym for anything other than walking/elliptical, I’m not supposed to ride my bike at any pace other than a slow crawl, I am not allowed any sort of stimulation for another two weeks, and no penetrative ANYTHING AT ALL for another FOUR.  

It took me over half an hour to do dishes tonight; and at the end of it my back was SCREAMING. It still sort of is. Because I am not meant to be doing that right now, because I just had a ridiculously deep biopsy to determine whether or not I have CANCER. In particular, one of three types I am, apparently, genetically predisposed towards. {Luckily, for me, I do not in fact have cancerous tissues in my body. What I HAVE is pre-cancerous tissues that will BECOME cancerous if I don’t like, get on that shit. NOW.} 

So not only have I been incapable of keeping my end of the bargain for almost a month now, but in February I am most likely going to be out of commission. And for far, far, FAR longer. Completely. Did I mention I’m not allowed to take a bath; my singular and best form of self-care; because it can fuck up my scabs and cause an infection bad enough to lad me in the ER to fix the damage, AND attempt to re-heal my 5+ biopsy sites? {I can still feel individual stitches if I tense the wrong way.}

Add to this that Sir’s grandmother just passed and He had to go to New York for three-ish days and got home ridiculously late due to plane delays. He just got back two nights ago, and I’m somehow utterly incapable of falling back into our dynamic. Why you might ask? I have no FUCKING CLUE~ and it’s killing me inside. Because if I can’t hold up my end of the bargain, and be the sort of submissive He deserves and actually DO what the fuck I PROMISED TO, why the hell should I expect Him to keep His end of it...? I don’t feel like I can or I should... but even that, that distant sort of “yes I deserve the bad, please give it to me,” is making me break down every fucking time. 

So I’m finally productive and I FINALLY feel like I’m getting somewhere even though that Dr’s appt was the most DEPRESSING THING that’s happened to me IN A FUCKING WHILE.... and we get home. And I’m thanked for making dinner.... which was frozen fuckin nuggets in an Asian-inspired sauce and reheated rice. Which... I don’t honestly feel like anyone should be thanking me for. Not when I used to actually COOK. Not when what I want more than anything is to be preparing the same two and three course dinners I WAS making- not when I want to be still waiting at the door with a cocktail, holding up my end of the bargain....

And then the cats peed on the bed. So I had to strip the bed, help Sir blot it up, put the bedding and the towel in the wash, put down a new towel, remake the bed and give up my “safety comforter” for Him to go to bed because He’s fucking EXHAUSTED and needs it more than me....

And the washer overflowed. So I had to go wake Him up to check if it was broken or just overflowed.....

And then I had to fold the laundry that had been in the dryer because I can’t lift things and I’m not supposed to be bending, kneeling, and up-and-down. And put the bedding in for ANOTHER cycle with a fuck ton of baking soda because I FORGOT the first time because I’m so upset....

And in the midst of this my boyfriend lets me call him so I can try to make sense of it all, and I have a massive breakdown all because he told me “it’s not your fault.” 

EXCEPT THAT IT FUCKING IS. 

It’s my fault that I’ve got crap genetics. It’s my fault I forgot to close the bedroom door. It’s my fault the cats aren’t 100% satisfied with their environment. It’s my fault we’ve got cats in the first place, it’s my fault I can’t keep up with everything because of my crap genetics.... Because it is my fault. It is ALWAYS my fault. Because that is what was literally beaten into me on more than one occasion by not just R, but the Clan. 

And no, you’re NOT allowed to talk about it, because that’s Telling Family Secrets, and because my pedophilic RAPIST needed to make sure I was physically incapable of speaking the fuck up. 

So not ONLY did I have a panic attack where I couldn’t look my boyfriend, not even my Dominant, my boyfriend, in the eyes... but I had to run to the bathroom to vomit. Because I was violating a Rule. Because I Told. Only to walk back shakily onto cam after trying to brush my teeth... to have the same issue over again that only didn’t lead to further vomit because “You’re my boyfriend. You’re not my dominant, and I’m not a girl.” Because HOLY FUCK FUCK THE GOREANS I SWEAR TO GODS..... 

Only to lead into a nice long rambly monologue about all this shit, and how “sometime, you need to hear this. Not the details if you dont want, but you need the basics, because if I’m still this BAD; if being a little emotionally compromised and hearing you say that makes it THIS BAD.... informed consent means you need to know.” Because telling someone you lived through guantanomo bay type bullshit doesn’t make for good dreams, but my brain has been taken out and played with so often before I even met Sir that... I don’t honestly know what my personality was life before it happened. 

My younger brother started shit before I was ten. R happened around the end of the year I was 15 and got hired at Hallmark... I know I liked dancing, and I was obsessed with Old World history. That’s all I know. 

But that little phrase.... and it all came running back. And Ry was awesome, he’s always awesome.... and like always, I’m terrified to wake Sir. And I’m just as pissed off at myself for keeping Ry awake because holidays and family, and fuck me... 

I am not ok. 

I’m really, really not ok.... and I have no idea how to fix this.