#i am terribly sorry i cannot put my silly words under a read more

[merakiui]

currently thinking about a really silly azul x reader dynamic where the both of you are merfolk but have no idea. you’ve always admired octo-mers and in contrast azul has always admired your mer species. thankfully the surface has plenty of toys to fulfill both of your needs, with you relying on tentacle dildos/octopus onaholes (however unrealistic to the real thing they may be) and azul relies on his hand (mostly) and (more recently) the mer onahole he bought with you in mind because lately he’s been thinking you would look so pretty with a tail and fins. also,,, mer pussy. there’s that, too.

imagine the both of you order a toy online, but you get each other’s packages by some strange mix-up. you have to make the long trek to octavinelle to retrieve your tentacle sex toy (which azul has most definitely opened on account of peer pressure and curiosity from the twins) so that you can return the mer onahole that was meant to go to him.

the exchange is very quiet. not many words are spoken because what else can be said when the both of you have already taken peeks into the other’s sexual preferences (which neither of you are judging; you’re just both awkward hehe)? but now this experience has left azul wondering if you’re both into merfolk or (and this is azul’s favorite theory) if the both of you are merfolk and just never known. also a small, hopeful part of him wonders if you like octo-mers. :)

[thefudge]

Do you have any Romanian (language or just content-wise) media recs? Particularly novels and poetry but really any must-sees/must-reads are welcome!

uuuu! 

my brain is too fried right now to do any kind of exhaustive list so i’m gonna rec a few things that i know you could get your hands on/available in translation:

for two thousand years, by mihail sebastian - really heartbreaking yet also lucid, adventurous and darkly humorous memoir of a Jewish writer in his youth at the height of nazism in romania (there’s even a Penguin classic of it)

diary of a short-sighted adolescent by mircea eliade - a funny and bittersweet bildungsroman about a bookish teenager who wants to read everything now and be the cleverest person alive while also struggling with being super lazy and unmotivated because he’s young and restless, it’s very #relatable. but it’s also fascinating to read this in opposition with “for two thousand years” because eliade entertained legionnaire nazi sympathies at one point. (also, you should check out his novellas too, especially the fantastic ones)

anything you can find in translation by gabriela adamesteanu - just lovely, delicate prose about growing up, being an adult, inhabiting your body and your feelings in an oppressive world 

the hatchet by mihail sadoveanu (apparently, there is a translation) - a lot of people give this novel flak, mostly because we had to read it in high school, but it’s a great and deceptively simple little novel that says a lot more about people than it cares to admit. the action takes you through several villages in the East-Carpathians, where a peasant woman goes in search of her missing husband. it’s a fascinating mixture of crime and folklore and mythology. 

any novella by costache negruzzi, but especially “alexandru lapusneanu”, another classic we had to read in school and which gets a lot of flak. it’s so bonkers and #quality-trash. let’s just say there’s a scene where the power-hungry voievod/prince lapusneanu enacts a red-wedding situation and builds a pyramid of freshly severed heads to impress his lady wife *swoon* 

the forest of the hanged by liviu rebreanu - i know people argue this isn’t his best novel, but it’s got the most heart. it’s the story of a soldier/philosopher in WW1 who falls in love with people again. that’s it. he falls in love with people, and the war and everything in between doesn’t matter anymore. or it matters only as it pertains to people, and people alone. 

gallants of the old court by mateiu caragiale - a bizarre gem of early 20th century Romanian nightlife, a wonderful, orgiastic fugue, feverish and infuriating. it’s mostly about rich men and social-climbers getting into existential trouble, but also into real trouble. normally, because the action takes place right before WW1, this would signify the end of an era. but we don’t really have a beginning or end. we are part-balkan, part-french imitators, part-whatever-sticks. nothing moves us, and everything does. and that’s why it’s a sort of love/hate letter to romanians 

in terms of poetry, some personal faves:  nichita stanescu, ana blandiana, monica pillat, marin sorescu,  a.e. baconsky, lucian blaga, emil brumaru, nora iuga, marta petreu, nina cassian. and yes, mihai eminescu, our national poet, though i’m often in two minds about him.  

poetry in translation is really hit and miss because of the “untranslatable”, so here’s two lines from a poem by nina cassian, because i want to show you what i mean:

            De când m-ai părăsit mă fac tot mai frumoasă             ca hoitul luminând în întuneric. 

this roughly and poetically translates to:

          Since you left me I’ve grown more beautiful

           like the corpse lighting the dark 

and this is sort of lovely on its own, but you’d need to know and hear and taste the word “hoit” in romanian to really feel the abjectness, because “hoit” is a smelly, ugly yet also alluring, already decomposing version of “cadavru” aka cadaver/corpse. also “ mă fac tot mai frumoasă” cannot be accurately summed up in “i’ve grown more beautiful”. a literal translation would be “I make myself more beautiful”. in romanian, this is obviously idiomatic and not literal. and yet, these strange self-reflexive valences make these lines strong and eerie, as if the speaker were authoring her beauty, shaping it out of clay and darkness and “hoit”,  like a butterfly cracking the corpse’s shell to get out, but also retaining some of its mesmerizing stench. why did i pause to do a close-reading of romanian poetry??? anyway, you catch my drift

in terms of movies, a recent one i really loved was sierranevada by cristi puiu, which is a neurotic family drama that drains you but also lifts you up 

and yeah, the hype is real, 4 months, 3 weeks and 2 days by cristi mungiu really is that good (about two young women trying to get an illegal abortion in communist romania. it won the palme d’or for very legit reasons. it breaks you in small ways. the very last shot of the film you’ll carry with you forever). i also liked graduation by cristi mungiu, where a young overachieving girl is about to graduate high school and go on to study abroad, until a terrible event unmoors both her and her family. the movie turns almost hallucinatory at one point, filled with ambiguity and a kind of sleep-walking quality 

tales from the golden age by cristi mungiu (him again!) is also fantastic for anyone who wants to get a taste of communist romania and the sad-funny absurdities of everyday life. this movie is split in 2 parts and the format is that of an anthology, almost like watching several short films at once. and there is one film in the anthology that always turns me inside out, and it’s really silly, it’s this bonnie and clyde type story about this girl and boy who meet at a party and devise an ingenious get-rich scam and just run around a few neighborhoods trying to put it into practice and it’s...the sweetest, most incomplete thing. there is such a strange, lovely connection there that never gets realized, and there is a MOMENT between them where he helps her step down from this ledge and he holds her briefly to him and i remember being in the cinema and thinking THIS, this is THE MOMENT where i felt these people were real. it was such an honest, lovely moment. like the equivalent of this song. ANYWAY, why am i rambling so much??? this ask was supposed to be SHORT. 

aferim! by radu jude is also a really neat movie and provides a look into the historical romanian/rroma relationship and why it’s so messed up, yet also so organic

the death of mr. lazarescu by cristi puiu is also a great little film about a man who gets sick and goes to the hospital. and...dies, as you can tell from the title. on the surface, he dies because of institutional ineptness and a broken healthcare system. at a deeper level, he dies because we no longer know how to help people. various hospital staff in the film do try to help him and fail for various stupid or quietly heartbreaking reasons. it’s a movie about being physically unable to care. there’s indifference, sure, but also this great exhaustion of the human spirit. but the movie is also darkly funny. might not be a great pandemic watch, but then again it might be exactly what you need 

there are soooo many other classics in terms of books (morometii by marin preda, for instance, about a patriarch in a small village in the South who slowly realizes the world he used to live in doesn’t have room for him anymore, and maybe it never had) but i’m gonna end on a quote from ion creanga, one of the most cryptic classics of romanian lit:

“Şi eu eram vesel ca vremea cea mai bună şi şturlubatic şi copilăros ca vântul în tulburea sa”

my translation: “and I was cheerful like the best weather and frolicsome and childish like the wind in its cloudiness” 

and again, the words in romanian and their particular sound and bite (”şturlubatic”, “tulburea”) immediately take me elsewhere. creanga writes about childhood, but it’s never really childhood. he writes as an adult who, in my opinion, was never really a child, but a weird, small god of the land. i mean the word “tulburea” can mean both “turmoil” and “muddiness”. the wind can be anguished, but also just a little cloudy, just a little hazy, shrinking its agony, howling it in the child. it’s eerie and gorgeous. so, that’s what he does: creanga writes about children as if they were wind-like spirits. he writes stories about devils and the peasants who trick them and school books filled with spit and flies, and warm eggs stolen from nests and fairy-tales of a world that is buried somewhere inside us, but not too deep, things hidden under our clothes or nails or even in our hair. and it’s all so physical and convoluted, just like his prose. and i don’t think anyone will ever make sense of him and that’s what makes him so discombobulatingly great.

anyway, this was supposed to be...like, really short! and not gassy! i’m sorry. i love waxing about all this gay stuff. i’m so gay about it. 

realistically tho, the nearest thing you’ll find in your local bookshop is probably books by famous ‘theater of the absurd’ playwright, eugen ionesco, or novels in translation by contemporary author mircea cartarescu. both are pretty good, so go for it! (if you want to start small, i’d recommend REM by mircea cartarescu, because it’s so trippy and meta and captures that summer holiday eeriness so well. it goes well with this romanian song sung in english)

okay byeeeee 

[weasleyslag]

i’m not coming home | p.w

summary: A collection of letters between Percy and his girlfriend Penelope Clearwater following his estrangement from his family.

pairing(s): Percy Weasley/Penelope Clearwater

wc: 6.2k (lol I’m sorry)

warning(s): heavy cursing, hella toxic relationship, no happy ending

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30644294

Dear Percy,

See, I told you I would write! I really am so proud of you and your new job. I hope you’ll allow me to come visit your new apartment soon. I know you’re very busy, but maybe not too busy for me? My dad told me he’d pay for my stay in London if you invited me, but I think it’d be more fun for me to stay with you and go to a show or something. I heard there’s some good muggle performances down there, I’d be interested to see that sort of thing. It’d be an good change, I’m up to my head with wizards that think they’re so talented. 

Please tell me all you can about your job when you write back! I know it must be super under wraps, being the Junior Assistant to Fudge himself, but I would be interested in knowing the most mundane of things you can tell me, it would most certainly be more enthralling than the highlight of any of my days. I was hoping I’d be promoted to something more dignified by now, but they’ve still got me watching over some of the Ministry workers’ children. You know I like kids, but I’d rather not be a glorified babysitter. There’s not even many learning activities I can do with them, I’m pretty much instructed to do puppet shows and other silly tasks for them all day. Hopefully someone recognizes my potential soon. Maybe since you work with Fudge now, you can say something to him??? 

I hate to turn this letter sour but Fred and George have gotten into contact with me this week. They’re really worried about you. They said that they’ve all written to you and the letters are always sent back, unopened. You must know this hurts them, why don’t you at least read the letters? You know they love you and I know that you really are kind at heart; you must still have love for them. I know it must have been hard for you to hear that after all your efforts, your dad doesn’t believe you’re capable of receiving such a prestigious job on your own merits. But of course they are all paranoid, what with all that happened last Spring. I hope you can find it within yourself to be the bigger person and reconcile with your family. Maybe they’ve even apologized in their letters, you’ll never know unless you read them. Don’t read Fred’s though, he’s more mad than the rest of them. I’m sure he’s thrown every name in the book at you.

I hope my next letter will be in better spirits. I hope Hermes is doing well and I hope even more so that you will adjust to life in London well.

With Love, 

Penelope 

Dear Penelope,

I cannot express with words how excited I was to receive your owl. I hope you don’t mind that I kept her for a few days, Hermes adores her and she reminds me of you. However, I also had to keep her back because it took quite some time to give you an adequate response to everything you said in your letter.

Hermes and I are well. He hasn’t adjusted as well as I have, but I understand. The air is polluted and there’s not much room for him to roam. There’s no forests in sight, only a bunch of buildings. If I wasn’t taking your letters, I would send him back to the Burrow. He was happier there and besides, the ministry has provided me a new owl for business letters.

I, on the other hand, am doing the best I ever have been. I am extremely efficient with my work and I appear to be pleasing my superiors. In my off time, I watch live shows and read. I have been getting into some Muggle classics, like War and Peace. Their culture is quite interesting, although ours is clearly superior. I am glad I am nourishing my mind as much as I can, I only wish there wasn’t so much noise outside my apartment. Jackhammers and traffic is all l I hear all day. It gets old fast. I’m not sure if you would like it here, but I would be happy to have you if you wish to visit. Although, I thought about your proposal to stay with me and I must decline. I would love to and I am sure my hormones would have a field day, but your father wants you to stay somewhere else and merely visit me during the day, trying to trick him would be wrong. I am sorry, but rules are rules, even when it comes to you.

I will speak with Fudge about your employment. I am a bit nervous to do so but I think he likes me, so I will certainly try. You’re a very smart girl and I believe if they just took notice of how you applied yourself, they’d move you up the ranks swiftly. It would be a shame to let such an academic be reduced to a daycare worker. That seems like something my mum would do if she worked. And you certainly surpass her when it comes to brains and ambition. 

Dismayed is an understatement for how I feel knowing that my family has taken advantage of our relationship to try to shake me. I do not wish to speak to them now, I will only speak to them when they realize that I am right, which I hope won’t be much longer. You’re right, of course, I do have love for them, even Fred and George, but I can not continue a relationship with people that discount my accomplishments and constantly laugh at my expense. Reading their letters is pointless. I read the first letter I received from Charlie and although he tried to be eloquent, he still wasn’t seeing things my way. He was basically just regurgitating everything my dad had said, just in a kinder way. He and Bill have always been the most sensible so I see no point in attempting to read the other letters, they will only be worse versions of Charlie’s. I will admit that curiosity got the better of me, however. A letter from Fred came in the same day as yours. You were right, it was awful. I shouldn’t have expected anything more, however, that boy is barely literate. Here is a snippet of his abomination of a letter (I have fixed the spelling mistakes, there’s no reason to subject you to that):

“You are a massive cunt, you know that? After all mum and dad have done for you. Seriously?  I can’t even call you a prat anymore, that’s just an insult to prat’s. You’re a slag for Fudge and we all know it. If you wanted to give him a good rimming, you could have just said so instead of causing us all this grief. Well not me, I don’t give one fuck about you. You could be in a ditch tomorrow for all I care. And maybe you will be, Fudge and his friends would just as well see you there as in an office. How could you choose him over your own mother? I hope you’re happy that you make her cry every night. I hear that you get paid three times dad’s salary and you have sent home not one knut. But twats like you don’t care about their family, huh? Enjoy your cushy apartment, I hope when you open the windows, a pigeon flies in and takes a shit on your head.”

Isn’t it just terrible? And it’s all one huge paragraph too, with unbearably non-flowy sentences. He is a right idiot if he thinks I’d ever want to respond to that. And why would I want to send money to people who treat me like that, anyway? I can’t put myself into his pea brain so I guess I will never know. Please make me take your advice next time so that I won’t have to subject myself to that kind of torture.

As for what happened this Spring, I’d rather not talk about it. The Ministry says that you-know-who is not back, so I’m afraid Harry must have been lying. Perhaps he had a fever and hallucinated the whole thing. I don’t hate him, by the way. I know my family must be trying to convince you of that but it is just not true. I think he is foolish and many adults are using him as a pawn. It’s sad, really. My family has gotten so desperate that they made Hermione and Harry write me letters too. I had already been informed by Fudge himself to turn over any correspondence from Harry, so of course I did that. I do wish I had the forethought to read the letter first, I’m very curious about it now, but oh well.

I care for you very much and hope we can arrange a visit soon.

With Even More Love,

 Percy

Dear Percy, 

I was hoping this letter would be more positive than the ones we have exchanged lately and that perhaps we could even arrange my trips to London, but I have gotten some terrible news. And I will not believe it until you confirm it.

There is a nasty rumour going around that you are to be court scribe for the Wizengamot in Harry’s trial. Say it isn’t true, Percy! I know it’s such an honor to work so closely with the Wizengamot, you’d be the youngest person in all of history to work as a scribe for them. But at what cost? Harry is your friend. I’ve been spending more and more time with your family and I consider Harry to be a friend now, too. I know the details of the case, and I’m sure you must since you’re apparently working it. Even if you don’t care for him, you must understand that objectively, Harry is in the right, at least morally. He was saving his cousin. The cousin that he grew up with and besides the kid being an absolute terror, he was basically his brother. Wouldn’t you cast magic to save your brothers or sister? How can you work for a case like that when you know you’d do the same as Harry?

I love you, I really do, and that’s why this breaks my heart so much. You’re turning into something that you aren’t for the sake of ambition. Please don’t do this. Come home and if Fudge truly does value you as much as you think, he will continue working with you even after you are on good terms with your family again. You must be missing them, aren’t you?

I will have to postpone the trip to London until you get all this figured out. I hope you understand. I am always open for you to come back here to visit me. We could all meet for dinner at the Burrow, where you belong.

I don’t have much else to say. I’m scared about what’s happening in the world and I’m nervous for you. I miss you, but I’m not sure if the you I miss is still you.

P.S: Tell Hermes I love him.

xxxx,

Penelope 

Dear Penelope, 

You have heard right, at least about the Wizengamot. I beg of you not to let my family poison your mind. Clearly, they want everyone to think I’m a terrible person. If they had it their way, we wouldn’t even be together right now. It’s not their fault, really, they suffer from cognitive dissonance, but they only think with their heart. That’s not sustainable and most certainly not how the world works. The court specifically wants me to be scribe and like you acknowledged, that is a huge honor. This is really going to help me get ahead even further. You know I have big dreams. I’d like to be the Minister one day and having all this under my belt would be a big help.

I really am not allowed to be discussing the case with the public, but I suppose I will make a tiny exception for you. I can’t help but have a soft spot for you; I musn’t make bending the rules for you a habit. You’re lucky I’m even physically able to say anything. The Ministry is heavily monitoring all the mail that comes in and out from high ranking members, but they haven’t done that with me yet (as far as I know, at least). I guess it must be because I’ve been so loyal and I won’t even receive my family’s letters, so they trust me. Little do they know that I have a weakness for you. 

As of right now, I’m not too worried about Harry (of course, they might change when court is in session and I get all the details). I think his case makes sense. I’ve poured through court cases similar to this one, although the defendants were never as much of a public figurehead as Harry (but that shouldn’t matter, the Wizengamot is totally unbiased and will not take Harry’s fame into account when deciding a verdict), and every court case similar to this ended in a not guilty verdict. I am not sitting as a court scribe to try to lock Harry away, it’s just my job. I don’t approve of him, but let’s not pretend like I never want him to see the light of day again. Anyway, I was surprised that someone that possesses your caliber of intelligence relied so hard on pathos to convince me that being a court scribe is wrong. Everyone knows emotion is a flimsy argument and certainly has no place in the courtroom. The fact that he saved a muggle’s life will definitely be brought up in court, but it won’t be because it’s someone he cares for. It’ll be because we have all sorts of laws about self defense and protecting each other, even a few about protecting muggles. I fear you might not have a place high up in the ministry if you continue preferring pathos to logos. And anyway, you trying to my emotion by bringing up my family makes no sense. My family are wizards, so if it came down to it, I could protect them and it wouldn’t be against the law. It’s not my fault that my family is better than those Dursley’s. 

I really must beg of you to stay away from my family and especially from Harry. That will probably not end well for you. Do not mistake that for a threat, I’d never hurt you, but I’m being realistic. Harry is off the rails and my family blindly believes him. In my opinion, Harry needs to be in a mental hospital, not roaming around as a public figure where everyone hangs on to his every word. He clearly suffers from PTSD after all he went through as a child between his parents being murdered in front him, a very powerful dark wizard trying to to murder him, and the muggle abuse he endured. And that’s not even mentioning all the pressure the world, especially Dumbledore, has put on him. He’s not a bad guy, he’s just insane. If the adults around him cared as much as they say they do, they’d put him away for a while until he can heal. But they won’t, that’s the problem. And now I hear that little Ginny is in love with him. I have never in my life been so in despair. I can’t help but think how bleak her future will be. Maybe I should write a letter to her. I doubt she’ll listen, but I do need to try. 

I really do hope you decide to come visit me. Maybe I can speak with your father and come to an honest agreement about you living with me soon enough. I am really lonely here and I’ve been thinking a lot about the future. It seems my family and I will never get along again and I have no one else besides you. I have all this extra income so I think it might be practical for me to marry you. Then, you wouldn’t have to hear all this rubbish from my family in order to feel close with me. I will speak with him about it soon. It’s not really all that bad here and even if you’re not good enough to have a real job in the Ministry, that’s okay. I make enough money and I do want a lot of kids anyway. It wouldn’t be practical for you to have a demanding long term job.

Love, 

Percy

Percy, 

Maybe I am a sensitive fool but I found much of your letter to be highly offensive. You essentially called me unintelligent throughout the letter, then didn’t ask but rather told me that you would be marrying me (only caring about what my father would say, not me). And to top it all off, you told me I was to be your personal incubator while you get to have an actual job. It’s insulting, really. What if I don’t want to do that, did you even consider that? I care for you and I believe I always will but I am not in a place right now where I fancy marrying you. I think I’d rather tie the knot with one of twins or Charlie. Besides, I felt unsettling how you alluded to muggles being lesser beings. They most certainly are not, they’re just different than us. I don’t know how I can be with someone that sees a whole group of people as lesser than them.

I must not have too much respect for myself. After all, I felt all those things that I wrote in the first paragraph, yet I’m still writing to you. What terrible damage love can have to the brain. I think I know how this whole thing will turn out, yet I still hope against my better judgement that we will end up together. I will try to put this past me if you can promise to not be so cruel.

Things are the same as always in my life. Spending most of the time with Mother and Father and the rest tending to children. I think I might die of boredom. I have been thinking about becoming a Hogwarts teacher, at least it would be less degrading than playing babysitter for a bunch of toddlers. Curiously enough, I received a letter from Snape about receiving a position, not Flitwick. He liked me well enough back in school, but I definitely didn’t think he would ever think about contacting me for a teaching role. I didn’t think he ever thought much about any student that wasn’t a Slytherin. I think maybe he sees himself in me. You know I was treated pretty horribly throughout school and something tells me he might have gone through a similar experience. That aside, however, he wrote me a letter requesting my presence to a meeting in a few weeks. It’s a meeting with all the current teachers, so I’m quite nervous about it. They want to speak with me about a new class, I think, it wasn’t any sort of curriculum I was familiar with. Still, I’m heavily considering it. It would be a big step up. I am a little worried about moving out there, but I think I’ll be alright. 

I know you act like you don’t care about how your family is doing, but that’s all it is, an act. So I will at least tell you the good parts. I’m sure you’ve seen by the addresses of the letters that they’re still sending you (because they care), they have moved. The Order has been restored, we’d all love to have you there, although I don’t have much hope that you would consider joining. Even Charlie and Bill have come back and joined. They miss you and I think they’re more than a little disappointed. Ginny is dating a kid named Michael Corner, not Harry. I’m sure you’re over the moon about that. Ron and Hermione have become prefects. That’s really good news, yeah? I’m not quite sure how Ron snagged it, but he did.

I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about any more conflict with you, so I won’t even bring up what you said at Harry’s trial. Just know I’m disappointed. What, I will say, however, is that it was so cruel that you didn’t even speak with your own father once court ended. I know you knew he was there. Look, I have a really bad feeling about the future and I can’t help but fear that something bad is going to happen and you’re going to regret being such an ass to them. 

This letter was all over the place, I apologize. I just have all these emotions and you don’t seem to understand. Or if you do understand, you don’t care. I don’t know which is worse.

Take care,

Penelope

Dear Penelope, 

I apologize for my behavior in my last letter. You’re right, I was only thinking of myself. I’ve just been by myself so much that I guess I find it hard to think about what other people want. I hope you can forgive me. Truly though, I think we could reconcile easier if you met me out in London. Of course only corresponding through letters has led to a strain. 

Please brace yourself, because I know if you do not prepare for what I’m about to tell you, you will be very mad at me. I consulted with Fudge and we have decided that you shouldn’t become a teacher at Hogwarts. It’s not a good look for me and it’s safe for you. Dumbledore is off his rocker, I’m not going to allow you to be put in harm's way. Fudge has sent a letter to Hogwarts, strongly suggesting that they find a new candidate for their position. I agree that the role is important, kids need to learn, and you would have been a great teacher. But it’s not the right time for you. I know you will probably be royally pissed for a while, but you’ll get over it. I did it for your own good. I hope you will be happy to hear that I have talked to Fudge about you having a proper job in the Ministry and he agrees. He will be writing to you with an offer soon enough. All’s well that ends well, you get a safer, higher paying job. And you can be near me!

Yes, I knew that my family had moved. I hope they move back soon, it’s not safe for them there. You’re right, someone is going to get hurt. I can feel it in my bones. And of course I will be utterly inconsolable, but it will not be my fault if something happens. It will be Dumbledore’s and inadvertently, Harry’s. I would love to give my family advice, but I know they will not listen. Therefore, there’s no point in writing letters. Besides, even if I did want to write to them, I think Fudge would catch on and have someone start monitoring my mail. I trust the Ministry completely, but I still find it’s in my family’s best interests if the Ministry doesn’t know their exact going on’s.

I heard Ron became prefect. I’m very proud. I wrote him a letter, which the Ministry read (and unfortunately a few unkind edits to, but I’m sure it was for good reason), congratulating him. Unfortunately, I don’t think he’s received it. He hasn’t written back. Maybe Dumbledore has started screening letters? I’m proud of Hermione too, although I didn’t write her a letter. You seem to speak with the lot of them often, so please send her my congratulations. She’s such a smart and sweet girl, she’s a good match for Ron (I can tell he likes her). I would have preferred a Pureblood but oh well, she’s better than most muggles. Oh and speaking of people dating, yes I am very pleased that Ginny has found a nice guy that’s not Harry. 

Love, 

Percy

Percy, 

Before I write anything else, I must address your hilarious claim that Dumbledore is monitoring letters. Ron got your letter, read it, then proceeded to burn it. He found it very offensive. He’s not happy with you, so maybe don’t send him more letters.

Fred and George are still mad, more than everyone else. George invited me out last week, I think only because he knew it would get a rise out of you. Fred’s the maddest of them all, as you know so well from his letters, but he’s with Angelina Johnson, so he couldn’t take me on the “jealousy date”. I don’t really fancy George, don’t worry, and I don’t think he fancies me. I must admit, however, that it was a nice time. It was a welcome change to listen to someone talk to me about their interests instead of being obsessed with a job. It was even more welcome that he asked me questions back and seemed to actually care about my responses. My favorite thing, though, was going out with someone that cared so much for their family. Someone that not only understood romantic love, but also platonic and familial love. I’d been missing that part of you for a while. But like I said, I don’t fancy him. I didn’t even let him kiss me. I feel guilty about it all, of course, I’d like to come down to London and try to get things in our relationship to run smoothly again. 

Also, yes, I am very upset that you had that letter written to Hogwarts. You totally crossed a line and if I had any balls, I would have broken up with you over it. But alas, I really do want to make it work. This is another thing that I think we need to work on together. In London. Please tell me your thoughts.

With care,

 Penelope

Dear Penelope,

Literally, what the fuck? I saw red when I read your letter. You. Went. Out. On. A. Date. With. My. Brother? And the little traitor tried to kiss you? I had half a mind to challenge him to a duel. But you’re right, he’s just trying to get me to act out and he will not get that out of me. There are so many problems with our relationship right now and I cannot bear to let you go, so we must meet and work things out immediately. And I’m not coming home, so you must come here. I’ve taken a week off at the Ministry, please arrive here as soon as you receive this letter. I will not be bested by the likes of George Weasley and a few other misunderstandings I may have thrown your way. 

No need to write back,

Percy

Dear Percy, 

I am so glad we had that meeting in London! I really do feel like we’ve fixed things. It makes me so happy that you have agreed not to be so unkind with your words in the future. And as promised, I have decreased contact with your family and all the other members of the Order. George has written me about a dozen letters since then, checking up on me and filling me in on what’s going on with your family. But as promised, I have not written back. If I expect you to uphold your part of the agreement, I must hold myself to the same standard.

I think I will take that secretary job Fudge offered me. It’s not all that you made it out to be, but at least I can be near you. I’m still too wary to marry you, after all it hasn’t been too long since we were falling apart, but I think it would be nice to be physically closer to you. I’ll see what I can do in terms of flats, since you’re too prudish to lend me room in yours.

Love you lots,

Penelope

Dear Penelope,

I don’t have much time to write at the moment, I’m very busy, so please excuse the short letter. I, too, am glad we are doing better. It was impacting my efficiency at work and I could not have that. I’m just glad there’s no more Fred and George, they were trying to hijack your mind and make it theirs. Besides, I have heard from more than one female that has come into contact with them, that they are basically a pair of incubi. I know you think I’m dramatic when I say that, but those two boys have turned evil, I know it. I should have seen the clear signs. It was so obvious from the time that they were little boys, chasing poor Ron with spiders.

Thank Godric that you are coming to join me at the Ministry! I can keep a close eye on you there, make sure you’re safe. I know the job isn’t glorious, but not everyone is as fortunate as me. You have to work your way up. I know you’ll have a very important job in no time. And I never said I wouldn’t let you live with me by the way, I said that I didn’t want your father to become cross with me. You really shouldn’t call me a prude, or do you not remember what all went in London when you came to visit? I didn’t think it was quite that forgettable, but I’ll just have to remind you when you move here.

Love, 

Percy

Dear Percy,

I’m sorry for the distance between letters. I meant to write, I really did, but everything went to shit here. I know I said I would distance myself from your family, but George wrote to me and said that your father is in the hospital. So now I’m back to semi-living with them. Did you not read your mother’s letter about it, Percy? She marked it “urgent” on the envelope. Your father was utterly distressed that you didn’t even write, much less visit him. It made his recovery harder and longer. Don’t you still care even a little bit? What if he had passed, wouldn’t you have felt so guilty?

Also, your mother collapsed and fell into a fit of tears when you sent your Christmas jumper back. Why didn’t you just keep it? It would have spared her feelings, even if you think you’re too good for the sweaters now. She made me a sweater, I loved it. But oh well, please think about the repercussions of your actions on others. You’re making it very hard on all of us. Also, Fred wants me to let you know that he wants to bring back drawing and quartering just for you. George is more straight to the point, vowing to castrate you if you two ever cross paths again (by the way, they both thought your incubus comment was very funny, I think it inflated their ego).

I know you are on the Ministry’s side, saying that Voldemort is NOT back, which is horseshit and you know it. But you do know who attacked your father, yes? Surely that should be enough proof for you. You’re very smart, why are you letting an institution think for you?

With peace and love,

Penelope

Dear Penelope, 

I am slightly dismayed that you didn’t keep up with your end of our agreement, going back to speak with my family. I do understand, though, my father’s attack was a shock and could have ended tragically. I know he’s better now, though, so please cease contact again. 

On a similar note, yes, I did read Mum’s letter and know that he was in the hospital. I sent flowers anonymously, if that means anything to you. And I kept tabs on him from the Ministry. If I felt that things were going downhill and he wasn’t going to make it, I would have visited. But he was fine, so it’s not a big deal. Maybe he will learn to not poke his head where it doesn’t need poking from now on.

As for the sweater, it’s not that I didn’t want to keep it. I love her sweaters, I wear some of the old one sometimes. But keeping the sweater would have sent a completely wrong message and given her false hope. So really, sending it back was a selfless act.

I know you want me to say that You-Know-Who is back. But you just don’t understand. I represent the Ministry now. What they say goes. That doesn’t mean I don’t have my own thoughts, it simply means that I stand with them.

Just wanted to remind you that you’re very beautiful and I miss your kind heart. I can’t wait for you to move here.

Love,

Percy

Percy,

I am most certainly NOT moving to be with you in London after the stunt you pulled. Betraying Dumbledore and holding Harry in place whilst being questioned by Fudge? What a dick move. I don’t know what I expected, you provided me all the warning signs. I guess that when it mattered, you’d do the right thing. Now I see how wrong I was. I need some time to myself, and you need to think over in your heart why you thought it was okay to do what you did. You just better be glad that Fudge sent you out before you got smacked the fuck up by Dumbledore.

From the top of my head to the bottom of my toes, fuck you

Penelope

Dear Penelope, 

This is the fifth letter I’ve sent to you in a row with no response, please answer. I know I shouldn’t have done what I did and I’m sorry. I’m embarrassed, really I am, but I’ve dug myself too deep. I miss you, I miss Ginny, I miss Charlie, I miss Bill, I miss Ron, I miss Mum and Dad. I even miss Fred and George. But it’s too late. I wish I had seen it before. They were right, you were right. I can’t let them know that. I feel so ashamed. I want to help them, but I also want to never bother them again. I saw You-Know-Who in the Ministry. I know all along that he was back, but I kept denying it for my job. But now I don’t have my family and I don’t have you, so my job is all I have. Please know that anything you see from me from this moment forward doesn’t represent my heart. You’re right, I don’t remember how many letters ago it was, but you said I wasn’t the person you fell in love with. You couldn’t have hit the nail on the head any better. There’s barely any left of that Percy, just his shell. So really, I shouldn’t be talking to you at all. I’m not the person you committed to. But I still love you. It’s total wishful thinking that I can have you back, but hoping is the only thing that keeps me from going insane. Bill wrote me a letter saying that he was engaged. I don’t want to face my family but I’ll go if I can see you.

Love, Percy

Percy, 

I felt like I should write you one last letter because despite myself, I still care. I want to give you closure. It’s clear to me that you’re never coming home, which is clear symbolism that you are never going to do the right thing. You said it yourself in your letters, you’re digging your heels in and standing by the ministry. You’re a filthy coward. 

Yes, Bill is getting married in a few months. We’re all very busy with preparations, it seems like that’s the only good thing that’s happening around here. You have an invitation, of course, but you shouldn’t come if you just want to see me. If I see you, I will make a scene and there will be more than just mashed parsnips being thrown at you (yes, Fred and George told me about how you visited just for the benefit of the Ministry. It’s pathetic, really). Your mum is convinced you will show up to the wedding and everything will be magically better. I know you better than that. I wish I was in blissful ignorance and thought you still loved us all, but you don’t. You’re not going to be able to get your head out of your ass until it’s one of us that’s laying lifeless somewhere because of the monsters of people that the Ministry have allowed to roam for so long. I know where you stand and you know where I stand. So there’s nothing else to say.

I’m sending back all the things of yours that I have. You should receive them all with this letter. Please write back if I missed anything.

Sincerely, 

Penelope Clearwater

[theonetheycallhannah]

The Treatment of Capt. Syverson- Chapter Three: Therapeutic Activity

Pairing: Captain “Sy” Syverson x OFC (Shane Benton)

Summary: Tensions reach a boiling point during treatment one evening, Shane goes to her own veteran for advice, and takes the first step toward happiness…hoping beyond hope that everything doesn’t blow up in her face.

Masterlist with links to all parts HERE!

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: None, yet… ;) But maybe I should be putting language warnings in here…there are some bad words. And not to spoil but…there might be a bit of kissing in this one…

Author’s Note: Guys, I cannot stress to you enough how much I am enjoying telling this story. My goodness. To sort of combine my passions of writing and Henry with something I know so well like therapy (I’m a secretary like Heather, not a therapist), it really just makes me happy. The next chapter is already done, also, it was initially part of this chapter, but it felt too long, so I’ll be posting it separately later. I know, I’m a tease. Have Henry spank me. Lol.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.

Tags:

@onlyhenrys

@cavillryarchive

@summersong69

@titty-teetee

@bloodyinspiredfuck

"This sounds…kinda dumb…" Sy expressed his thoughts on today's warm up with Shane.

"Oh, trust me, it looks even dumber than it sounds. But it works. And it's easier on your knees than doing it the right way. You ready?" he looked at the treadmill, inclined at 3% grade as if it was Everest itself, and looked back at her. "I'll start slow." she raised her eyebrows at him.

"You know just what to say to a girl." he teased as he stepped up, still gingerly, even after eight weeks of therapy. Crutches mercifully jettisoned two weeks ago. He was on his way to being his fighting fit self. With a foot on either track beside the belt, but facing away from the control panel, he waited for her to press start. He took a breath and nodded.

"Test the belt with your bad foot first, and then when you're ready, step down with it. Remember what I've told you about which foot should lead when ascending and descending stairs or hills?"

"Good go to Heaven, Bad go to Hell. So I go up with the good leg and go down with the bad leg."

"A+ student. Okay, when you're ready…any time…Sy, this is an hour session…I have to kick you out in 55 minutes…chop chop." she cajoled him, but he wasn't budging.

"It feels…weird going this way, Shane." If she had been a less kind person, she would have called it whining…she called it nothing, instead.

"I know. Do you need to walk backwards around the clinic a little more to get you used to that sensation?"

"Hell yeah. If that means you're gonna spot me like you did before…felt kinda like dancin'." it was a perfectly legitimate and above-board treatment strategy. They stood back to back, Shane guiding Sy as he practiced walking backward and pushing off with the extensor muscle group, which had been weak. Sy had suggested holding hands, but Shane had compromised with the idea to link arms. Not that she wasn't dying to hold his hand…she was. But that had not been the time. The time was still weeks away. At least.

"I was thinking I'd have you try it with Jordan. He's got a free hour right now. And I can assess your technique. How does that sound, Twinkle Toed Romeo?" Immediately he placed a tentative foot down onto the slow moving belt trying to adjust to the odd sensation of walking up a hill backward.

"Ah, so I now know that all I have to do to get you to do something silly is threaten you with Jordan. Filing that away for a rainy day."

"Come on, you're breakin' my heart, sunshine."

"Aww, don't be ridiculous. I've seen therapists do way more embarrassing things to their patients in the name of treatment."

"Tell me!"

"Sorry, but it's classified information. Protected under the Health Insurance Privacy and Portability Act. I could literally get fired for telling you, and there are way cooler things to get fired for!" She'd always said it. And she meant it. She didn't fool around when it came to HIPPA, and there was no way she was gonna lose her job over a stupid slip like that.

"Any examples of things you'd rather get fired for?"

She thought for a few minutes. She used to have a list.

"Hmm, telling off my bitch of a boss," he looked shocked at her use of a bad language word, which he'd never heard from her. She nodded. "Telling off an asshole patient," sleeping with a patient…

"What about sleeping with a patient?" It was late in the day, the only person still there was Heather in the office, and a few therapists still documenting. Nobody in the gym to hear him echo the thoughts in her head. As if he could read them as clearly as a page in a book. Large print. She looked at him in shock.

"Sorry. That was over the line."

"It was…but…"

"But?"

"But…it would not be the least cool reason to get fired."

"It wouldn't?" she shook her head, reluctantly.

"Especially if the patient was…amazing, and kind, and…fucking gorgeous…"

"Young lady, that language today, I have never!" he exclaimed clutching at his broad and beautiful chest.

"I know, but, Sy…this is all hypothetical, and theoretical, and IF I was GOING to get fired how would I CHOOSE for it to happen and WHAT policy I would go against. People don't just CHOOSE to be fired, you know?" she was nervous and rambling.

"You know what people also don't choose? Who they care about, and have feelin's for. Who they--"

"Don't finish that sentence, Sy." She couldn't hear him say the word he was going to say. She couldn't let him start that. Not when there was too much complicating their situation.

She walked off to her treatment room, needing some space.  Some time.

She didn't get that space or time. Sy hobbled in behind her, looking like a man on a mission. And she knew from his war stories that his missions tended to be successful…even the one that got him his walking papers wasn't a total loss.

"Sy, you still had like, five minutes on the tr--"

His big hands found the sweet spot where her neck met her skull. He took a big breath and closed the distance between them, his lips landing light as feathers on hers, her soft skin welcoming the roughness of his beard, though everything else about the kiss was terribly gentle. Almost chaste. Even his beard wasn't so rough that she worried about beard burn…she'd be filing that away for later, as well. Against her willpower and better judgement but in full cooperation with her desires and instincts she began kissing him back, daring to deepen it by opening their mouths a bit, and sliding her hands up the back of his red tee that sported a black skull. All of his shirts were entirely too tight, but you'd never catch her complaining. Even after several months away from active duty and really, most activity at all, his body was still so solid and powerful.

"Ain't that a daisy…Fuck, I've wanted to do that since my first appointment." he chuckled, lightly.

"Sy…"

"Don't. Don't try to argue or tell me you don't feel it. This energy between us. I've seen it in your eyes, Shane. I've felt it when you touch me. It ain't nothin, sunshine. It's a whole lotta somethin'."

"I know, but I need this job. And I WANT this job. Being a therapist is the only thing I've ever wanted to do. Helping people. People like you. Getting them better. It's what I was meant to do. And there's no place like this in the area for me to treat such a diverse clientele and build my skill set. It's not without it's problems, but it's where I'm meant to be."

"I get that. And you should do what you were called to do. You're too good at this not to do it. But Shane, isn't it worth pushing back on some policy if it could mean you get to have some personal happiness, too?"

"I'm worried they'll make me choose." Actually, it was more than that. She was worried about which choice she'd make. Giving up a ten-year career with excellent benefits despite its pitfalls, or giving up someone she could hardly stop thinking about, who made her heart pound when he smiled, and who was rapidly shaping up to be someone she could see herself sharing a life with…making either choice terrified her for very different reasons.

"You shouldn't have to choose. Any boss who'd make you deny yourself what we could have just because of some ridiculous policy…well, they ain't worth the gas that brought 'em to work today. Y'understand me?"

She nodded, smirking at his idiom, "You don't know my boss."

"Well, maybe I oughta GET to know her, if it's like that. I have a way of throwin' my weight around, case ya hadn't noticed." he shot her a smug grin.

"Ya don't say?" she retorted, brimming with sarcasm, literally still wrapped in the evidence of said weight in the form of his muscular arms, warm and thick, encircling her. Even though she felt like her life was up in the air, she had never felt more safe. "I'll try to have a chat with her about it this week. Our schedules rarely align, and usually that's how I like it, but I'll try to move some things around if nothing naturally falls into place."

"I'll be happy to lend my voice or even come talk to her, if need be." he offered, ever the gentleman.

"I appreciate that, Sy, truly. But I think it would be best not to involve you unless it becomes absolutely necessary. We have several more treatments to get through today, though. You didn't finish on the tread mill, do you think you're warmed up enough?"

"Oh, darlin', I'm plenty warm." he grinned down at her sliding a hand down her side.

"Shit, am I gonna have to start being extra careful with what I say to you until this gets sorted?"

"I really doubt it'll matter, Shane. Ain't much you can say I can't make dirty." she could tell by the satisfaction on his face that this was a point of pride for him.

"Lay down and shut up."

"Yes, MA'AM!" he complied with a little too much enthusiasm. She didn't know whether to roll her eyes with amusement or grow increasingly feral…apparently there was room for both as long as she didn't act on the latter. Yet.

~~~~~~~~

She dismissed Sy for the day, instructing him to behave himself until she gave him the all clear, and even then, if she got the green light to see him outside of therapy, sessions would still be about getting him stronger, and not flirting. Or at least mostly. They settled on a 90/10 ratio by the end. She was a weak woman.

She went into the office where one of the senior therapists, Anita, was still charting and snacking on some pretzels.

"How was your day, Nita?" she asked affectionately. Anita had been her mentor since she started with the clinic over ten years ago, and was now part time, flexing toward retirement. She'd miss her.

"Oh, long, Miss Shane. As they tend to be more and more these days. What about yours?"

"Ah…just…nothin'." she shouldn't go into it all until she talked to Susan, their boss.

"Mmm, that's no nothing nothin', that's a something nothin'. Come on, kiddo. Spill." she offered Shane one of her pretzels and kicked out the chair next to her. Again, she was a weak woman. She took a pretzel, sat, and chewed it for a moment, collecting her words.

"What do you think about…starting relationships with patients?" she searched her reaction for any snap judgement or emotion, but only a narrowing of her eyes occurred.

"Is this about that Captain Sexypants who just left?"

"I'm going to kill Heather. I'm not the one who came up with that nickname and I'm not the one who started the whole having feelings conversation. I was going to be miserable until he was discharged, at least."

"Why would you need to make yourself miserable, Shane?"

"Because the policy. About dating patients."

"Technically the policy only says you shouldn't treat family/close friends if you feel you wouldn't be able to maintain objectivity or would be uncomfortable yourself. But that you should disclose any relationship to your supervisor for review."

"See, what's Susan gonna say?"

"Who cares? The policy is the law. And the board of directors governs the policy. Not her. Tell her in an email if you can't work out a time to talk to her before you see him next. Hell, I sent my boss a memo back when I started dating Ron. And look at us now! 20 years strong."

"No way!?" Shane was flabbergasted. She had never known that Anita's husband Ron had once been her patient.

"Oh yes. I wasn't long out of PT school, my first husband had passed away and I needed an income, so I got my PT license and about a year into working here, Ron got put on my schedule. I knew from the eval, he was meant for me. So I typed up a memo, sent it to Morton, our boss at the time, and told Ron I was free on Friday after work."

"Sy just…I don't know, we have this…connection…a spark. I've never felt it with anyone else."

"Are you concerned that seeing him socially would affect how you treat him here?"

"I'm more worried keeping my feelings for him bottled up while I treat him will get so distracting I'll become less effective."

"Well, then, if you get any push back, tell Susan that." Anita said. "Just be forthright. Honest. And speak with integrity. She'll have no cause to refute it, then. And send it tonight."

"Okay. Thanks Anita. You're the best."

~~~~~~~~~

Shane spent too long, probably an hour, at least, drafting her email to Susan. It read:

To: Susan DeForrest

From: Shane Benton

Subject: Re: Treatment Policy

Susan,

I wanted to bring to your attention a situation that has presented itself with one of my patients. I have been treating him almost exclusively for several weeks now, apart from my week on PTO, and he has progressed to both of our satisfaction as well as the ordering physician. However, we have come to be quite friendly and he has expressed great interest in seeing me outside of therapy. This is something that I too would like to engage in, and I plan to accept the next time I speak with him.

From my understanding of the policy, the only thing that would prevent me from treating him as a social acquaintance would be my own comfort level and ability to remain objective. I have every confidence that my objectivity regarding his case will remain intact. I am also completely comfortable with it, and if that changes, I will transfer him to another therapist. Furthermore, I have no doubts that I will be able to maintain the highest level of professionalism throughout our treatments.

Thank you, and if you feel we need to discuss any of this further, please let me know.

~Shane Benton, DPT

And send…whew. She needed a big glass of wine tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Up Next: Chapter Four- E-Stim

[he-is-mine-i-am-his-blog]

Wild geese 9/18

Fandom: Painter of the Night

Pairing: Baek Nakyum/Yoon Seungho

Ratings: M

Word count: ~2100 words

Story summary: When Nakyum enters an arranged marriage with Lord Seungho, he does expect to find himself in a situation where he does, fighting for his life. ***An arranged marriage AU, set in the Joseon period like the canon.

Warnings: This story contains graphic depictions of violence. These scenes are not terribly gory, excessive, pointless, and violence is not glorified in anyway. I will not give warnings with specific chapters as not to spoil the plot.

Read below or on AO3.

***

In the days after their ride, Nakyum sees Seungho more. They converse more, even if their discussions are often sparse and stilted.

Nakyum doesn’t quite know how to talk to his husband yet, especially given how his perceptions of the man have changed as of late, how their relationship has changed too. He doesn’t seem to be alone in his feelings though, as Seungho is even more silent than he is.

It isn’t surprising how awkward, how hesitant things between them feel. It is new, different after all, how they are building upon this relationship instead of avoiding it, how they are seeking each other’s company instead of escaping it.

It isn’t surprising either – or at least it shouldn’t be – how Nakyum then finds himself in the common room enjoying a late breakfast, while Seungho is sitting and smoking his pipe by the opened windows. The man had already eaten earlier, but he still joined Nakyum for the meal.

The weather has been unexpectedly mild these past days, so it’s not too cold in the room, despite the open windows. A warm breeze from the south has blown over the town, and it has melted much of the snow, revealing the muddy ground beneath. It would only be a matter of time though until the weather would take a turn for the colder once again.

Seungho is sitting by the windows, dressed in his deep blue robes that pool around him onto the floor. He is observing the view of the inner courtyard. His head inclined just so that Nakyum can see the sharp angles of his profile. He looks serious, but the few rays of the sun that are cast upon him give his face a warm glow.

Staring at him, Nakyum’s mind shifts to his first impression of Seungho, to how he had privately admired his groom at the wedding. He can’t help but admire him now just as he had then, for he is beautiful.

Only when Nakyum realizes what he is doing, does he avert his eyes. He does not wish to be caught staring, even if he doesn’t think the attention would be rejected.

Even with his gaze turned aside, his cheeks flush at his silliness, secretly stealing glances of his husband. He clears his throat and says, if only to hide the stirrings of embarrassment, “I heard your brother is returning soon.”

“He is. He is expected to arrive in two days if the weather persists.”

Nakyum eats for a moment in silence, considering his words. When he looks up again, Seungho is still there, sitting by the window and staring at the courtyard.

“Are – are you close with your brother?”

“Yes,” Seungho says without hesitation, but a complex expression passes his face before he continues, “but not as close as we were as children.”

Nakyum doesn’t pry more into the topic, although he suspects that Seungho would entertain his questions with answers if he did. He does not ask, because he senses the difficulty. Instead, he wishes to steers the discussion into another direction, one that has wondered since Seungwon left.

The food in his cup sits forgotten, as he looks to Seungho quietly for a long while. He finally asks, “Have you been to Hanyang yourself?”

He is unable to hide the ring of curiosity, of excitement in his voice.

Seungho must’ve heard it too, as there is a fine twitch of lips, the beginnings of something that could bloom into the most beautiful smile. It doesn’t though, as he doesn’t allow it.

“I have, although not for a couple of years,” he replies, his eyes still cast on the view, “I – lived there – for a while.”

Nakyum stares at Seungho, amazed.

He has only ever heard of the great city. He has never visited himself. Neither have Donghyun and Sunjung. He has been told that his birth mother had been to Hanyang before she had him. He could not remember her stories from the city himself though, if she told him any.

From all that Nakyum has heard though, Hanyang seems incredibly fascinating. He can hardly imagine what it would be like to see it, to experience it for himself.

It is far away though, and this town is already the furthest that Nakyum has ever been from his childhood home. Hanyang is at much greater distance, so much so that it feels as if it is in another land entirely.

“I hope to go there even once in my life,” Nakyum sighs wistfully, looking down at his cup.

When he lifts his eyes, he finds Seungho watching him quietly, studying him. Nakyum shares a shy smile with him before he resumes eating.

As he is finishing his meal, his eyes catch up on Mr Kim through the open windows. He is walking across the courtyard, his sure steps leading him towards where Seungho and Nakyum are.

There’s a polite knock on the door, before he steps into the room, his head bowing down.

“I am sorry to disturb you, my Lord,” the servant says, addressing Seungho, “If I could have a word with you.”

Seungho nods, and, after glancing at Nakyum, he asks, “In private?”

“No, this – involves Nakyum, so he may hear it as well,” he says, “We are in a difficult situation, my Lord, as – the servant, Deokjae, has not returned. He has been gone for days now, with no word of where he has gone or when he might reappear. I am not sure we can wait.”

Nakyum flinches hearing the familiar name. A flash before his eyes, of the familiar scarf, of the blood on the show that has now melted, has his heart racing at his chest, but he cannot, he will not speak. He does not need to do so, as neither pay any attention to him.

Looking at Mr Kim, Seungho asks, “What do you suggest?”

“We need to hire a new servant to replace him.”

  ***

Seungwon arrives in the late morning of the second day, with a fresh snowfall. After meeting with his father and brother, he soon comes to greet Nakyum too.

With a polite smile, the man makes his apologies for having been gone for so long, and he suggests they’d go for a walk at the town. It’s an invitation that Nakyum readily accepts.

While Seungwon awaits outside the sleeping quarters, Nakyum promptly dresses himself in his outer clothes. He carefully puts on his bonnet before taking his mittens. It’s colder outside again, he knows, although the ground has no more than a fine layer of snow.

Dressed for outside, he steps into the corridor and closes the door behind him. He then joins Seungwon, so that they may be on their way.

Soon enough, he is walking down the busy main road beside this young man. It feels odd, especially since they had very few conversations before his travels. Seungwon is now more of a stranger to him than Seungho, although Nakyum can’t say he knows his husband well yet.

Seungwon is kind, cordial though, and so very different from his brother, although Nakyum is beginning to see that side of Seungho too. Perhaps they are not so very different after all.

Seungwon looks to Nakyum, “I hear much has happened since I left.”

Nakyum bows his head, his eyes cast down on the road a few steps ahead.

It is no lie. A lot has happened since Seungwon had left not long after the wedding. Nakyum had certainly not expected this eventful start to his marriage. He does not know what to say though, because Seungwon is still a stranger to him, and he is Seungho’s brother too.

Seungwon sighs at the silence and turns to look ahead too, as they walk.

“I expect it has not been easy for you settling into your new life here,” he says at first, before he carefully amends his words, “I expect that it has not been easy being with my brother.”

Nakyum looks at him in surprise. When Seungwon glances at him, there’s a flash of a bowed smile.

“There is no need to be coy. I know my brother is – difficult.”

Nakyum is yet more stunned. He schools himself to hide the reaction under a veil of indifference, before he can find peace again. He is careful when he says, “It is better now.”

His cheeks redden at the admission, although he doesn’t fully fathom why.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Seungwon says, unable to hide the mirth in his tone, but he quickly grows more serious, “Please don’t hold his past actions against him.”

Nakyum can only nod. He remains silent, as he twists and turns the words in his mind, trying to discover their true meanings.

Seungwon doesn’t leave him in the dark for long though.

“He – has a troubled past. I do not wish to betray his confidence, but I fear he wouldn’t tell you himself. You should know to understand him.”

Nakyum turns to look ahead again, his eyes trailing past the merchants selling various goods. He cannot ask, even if he wishes to know. He does not look towards Seungwon until he speaks again.

“Seungho had affections for another man – once,” he winces, glancing at Nakyum, “It was years ago.”

Nakyum nods silently.

He knows Seungho was not as inexperienced as he was going into their marriage. He had never considered that there may have been feelings involved. The thought has something hot and intense blooming at the pit of his stomach. He does like the feel of it.

He can’t examine his feelings further, as Seungwon continues with his retelling.

“It did not end well because of our father,” his face is dark and serious, as he speaks the words, “I don’t believe Seungho has ever forgiven him for what he did.”

Seungwon suddenly stops in the middle of the street, and Nakyum turns to look back. When the man glances around, his eyes restless, Nakyum understands his reluctance to continue. Their surroundings have grown more quiet now that they have ventured off the main road. They are not alone though.

Nakyum steps closer to allow more privacy.

When he continues, Seungwon’s voice is quiet, barely audible, “He was an untouchable.”

Nakyum sucks in a sharp inhale. He cannot hide the look of surprise, as he stares at this man in front of him.

Seungwon had used the word baekjeong.

The nobles did not get involved with them in any way, and they certainly could have no relations with them. To fraternize in such an intimate manner would bring shame to the family.

Nakyum can only imagine how deep and true affection one must’ve felt for another to go against their father in such a manner.

It is then that he is hit by a more heart-breaking realization.

It did not end well because of our father, Seungwon said.

He was an untouchable, he said.

A man born as baekjeong could not escape his status.

A man born as baekjeong would die as such.

Nakyum looks to Seungwon in a wordless alarm. It must’ve been evident in his face, as the man continues, his voice soft, gentle.

“It was years ago, although I suspect he never recovered from – what happened. Of course, the way he acted since did not help either in mending what was broken between him and our father.”

Seungwon gives a sad smile, as he begins to walk again. Nakyum hurries to follow after him, quickly falling into step beside him.

He glances at him, unsure, “Not that I don’t appreciate you sharing this with me, but I’m not sure I understand how this relates to me.”

Seungwon sighs, as he keeps his eyes ahead.

“Seungho – did not wish to marry,” he says, “But, our father gave him no choice. I trust Seungho hates him for that too, even if he was destroying himself with his rebellion, his revenge.”

Nakyum furrows his brows, unable to stop the concern rising within him, as he thinks of Seungho, of what he has heard regards to him, of what he has seen himself.

“He may have – mistakenly – hated you too, as he believed you have sided with our father, forcing this arrangement on him,” Seungwon finally says, “Though, I’m glad to see that he has come to see the light on this matter.”

Nakyum nods quietly, his mind mulling around these recent revelations, around the thoughts and ever-changing perceptions of his husband.

They walk in silence for a little longer, until Seungwon looks to Nakyum and says more boldly now, “So please, be patient with my brother. Be forgiving too. He will not always be as difficult as he has been thus far.”

Nakyum considers it for a moment, until he says in an exhale of a promise, “I will.” 

[aver-no]

Real to Me (A Sanders Sides Princess and the Frog AU)  Prologue

First | Next

Summary: Virgil Bast grew up in a poor neighborhood in New Orleans, learning from his family’s work ethic and never once slowing down from the day he could get a job of his own. He’s always been kept company by his best friend, Patton La Bouff, son of the richest man in New Orleans. 

Prince Roman of Maldonia has always been surrounded by praise, money, and almost anything he could ever want. Prince Remus, on the other hand, has never really been what you might call the pride of Maldonia. 

And the Shadow Man has only ever wanted to punish those who’ve done wrong, helped along by his Friend on the Other Side.

Relationships: Platonic moxiety, eventual prinxiety

Characters: Virgil, Patton (eventual Roman, Remus, Janus, Logan, C!Thomas)

Warnings: None for this chapter! (There will be eventual unsympathetic Janus and Remus, but they get redeemed. There will also eventually be racial prejudice, but no slurs or physical violence.)

Word count: 1644

A/N: Hi, I’d like to preface this fic by saying that I’m not black. Although I am non-white, I also don’t have the same experiences as black people do and therefore cannot do their stories justice the way that they can. 

I really debated on how best to write this au, because I want to give the best representation that I possibly can, and I even considered just scrapping it. However, I was really excited about it, and in the end I wanted to provide what representation I can, because as a racial minority myself, I know that some representation (so long as it’s accurate) is better than none at all. 

There are no internal monologues about being black in this story, because I don’t know how that would go. I also realize that not all black people share the same exact thoughts/opinions and since I can’t use my own personal experience with racism for this, I figured it best to leave out the internal aspects of it altogether, so that I don’t misrepresent the black community. There is, however, some racism aimed at some of the characters by others. This is something I felt like I could accurately write about, having witnessed and experienced racism myself. The racism is there, presented, and condemned, but I don’t offer much more than that. Discrimination on the basis of race and/or color is something that too many people have faced, and I felt that it was too important to leave out of the story altogether (especially considering it’s part of why Tiana struggled to get her restaurant in the movie itself).

If you made it this far, thanks for reading!! This is something I’ve worked hard on, and I really hope you enjoy it! This first chapter is going to be mostly characterization and setting up the rest of the story, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! 

Without further ado, I give you Real to Me!

“Just at that moment, the ugly little frog looked up with his sad, round eyes and pleaded, ‘Oh, please, dear princess, only a kiss from you can break this terrible spell that was inflicted on me by a wicked witch!’”

Virgil felt Patton lean over to him to loudly whisper, “Here comes my favorite part!” Virgil mentally prepared himself for what he knew was coming next.

“And the beautiful princess was so moved by his desperate plea that she stooped down,” Patton was leaning in now, “picked up the slippery creature,” Virgil was leaning away, “and kissed that little frog!”

Pat gave a squeal of delight and grabbed the cat that was walking by, squeezing it so tightly its eyes seemed to pop out. All while Virgil was dramatically sticking his tongue out as far as he could.

That was one thing about his friend that Virgil would never understand. How could Patton possibly think that the story was anything but unrealistic and unsanitary? The princess could’ve contracted some disease! Or maybe the frog was lying and he wasn’t even a prince?! Who came up with those stories?? He needed to have a talk with them.

“...and they lived happily ever after!”

He heard Patton sigh with delight before looking at Virgil’s mama with pleading eyes. “Will you read it again Mrs. Bast?”

“Sorry, honey, we’d better be heading home,” she said with a kind smile. “Say goodbye Virgil.”

“There is no way I’d ever ever EVER kiss a frog. Yuck,” Virgil ranted as he gathered his things from around the room.

“Even if he turned into a prince after?” Patton asked.

Virgil nodded hard. “Especially if he turned into a prince. Princes are just rich boys who do nothing all day but ride on their horses and dance with pretty ladies. I’d have to do all his work for him!”

“Nuh-uh!! Princes are brave, and polite, and after you’re married, they only dance with you!” Pat defended.

“You don’t kn-!”

“Evening Eudora!” Patton’s daddy called as he turned into the room.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Pat jumped up and down excitedly. “Look at my new dress!!” He twirled around to show off the fluffy, sky blue gown Eudora had sewn for him.

“Why, I’d expect nothing less from the finest seamstress in New Orleans!”

“Well thanks, Mr. La Bouff,” Eudora Bast replied. “Sorry to leave so soon after seeing ya, but we’d best be heading out now.”

Virgil vaguely heard Mr. La Bouff give his well-wishes to his mama as Pat was walking over to say, “What if the prince wasn’t lazy and boring? Would you marry him then?”

“I’d only marry him if he wasn’t just some prince in a book,” Virgil stated matter-of-factly. “He has to be a real person that I can talk to.”

“Well duh, silly! You can’t marry a book!” the blond boy laughed.

“Virgil! It’s time to go home baby, your daddy should be home by now,” Eudora called to him.

He ran over to where his mama was standing in the wide, elegant doorway and shouted, “Bye Patton!”

“Bye Virge!!”

~

Virgil always liked the ride home. He could watch the other people on the tram, and wonder what they’re like, and stare out the window at the fuzzy streetlights in the distance. Plus he got to lean his head on his mama’s shoulder and feel the tram rock side to side. It made him feel safe. 

When they got near their neighborhood, Eudora whispered, “Go ahead and pull the cord.”

Virgil waved goodbye to the driver as he hopped off the tram and onto the sidewalk. He looked up at his mama as they walked down the street. “Why does Pat wanna marry a prince so bad? He’s already a prince, pretty much.”

“I don’t know sweetheart.” The lights made his mama’s face look so warm. “Maybe he wants to make it official. You could ask him sometime.”

“No,” Virgil said thoughtfully, “I think I’ll just help him find his prince. Oh! That can be his birthday present this year!!”

Eudora laughed lightly and smiled down at him. “I think that’s a great idea, hon.”

Voices rang out from houses along the streets, and Virgil could see families laughing together through some of the glowing windows. The two of them stepped up to the old, brown house and the door that creaks when you open it. As soon as he stepped inside, Virgil smelled the most amazing gumbo in the world, the kind only his daddy could make. He could almost taste it in the air. That, in combination with the yellow light coming from the kitchen and his daddy’s heavy, brown coat draped over the living room chair made Virgil feel like there was a fire in his chest, the kind that you have at Christmas. 

“Daddy! We’re home!!”

Mr. Bast looked over his shoulder at the two coming inside, and smiled big. “Hey, Virge! I’m almost done chopping veggies, you wanna help me finish?”

“Yeah!! Can I taste it?” the boy asked as he dragged a chair over to the old stove.

“I’d be hurt if you didn’t,” James joked, helping him up. “How ‘bout you put these peppers in?”

After they’d let the ingredients stew in the pot for a while, Virgil put the wooden spoon to his mouth and his daddy asked, “How’s it taste?”

“Hmm…” Virgil tapped his chin a bit before quickly sliding to the floor, running over to the cupboard, and grabbing a bottle of tabasco. He dashed back over to the pot and shook in some of the sauce. “There! Try it!” The curly-haired boy handed the spoon over to his dad. He laughed as his daddy made a big show of tasting it.

“Mmm, now that has to be the best gumbo I ever tasted!” James grabbed Virgil under the arms and swung him to the ground. “Why don’t you go with your mama to call the neighborhood over? I’ll grab the pot.”

Virgil slid out of his daddy’s arms and nodded before running to the door. He flung it open and shouted as loud as he could, “Hey, everybody! I made gumbo!!” His mama reached where he was standing on the porch and stood behind him proudly, while the neighbors greeted him with “Woo! That smells good!” and he replied with “I made it almost all by myself! My daddy helped a little though.” Mr. Bast spooned out some gumbo into everyone’s bowls, and one by one they picked up their spoons.

It was quiet for a little, the kind that happens when your family’s sat around the table and it’s been a long day, but now you get to eat something and it barely even matters what it is because you’re all eating it in the same place at the same time. Then, though, people start saying things like “Mm-mm-mmm!!” and “this is fantastic Virgil, you must’ve gotten your daddy’s talent.” He could barely stop smiling long enough to chew. (His mama didn’t say anything about chewing with his mouth closed.) (This time.)

~

That night, when Virgil snuggled under his covers, he was smiling. He felt his mama sitting down on the bed by his feet. James was standing right next to her.

“You know the thing about good food?” Virgil looked up at his daddy. “It brings folks together from all walks of life. It warms them right up and it puts little smiles on their faces.” He tapped Virgil’s cheeks when he said it. James pulled a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and showed it to Virgil, a drawing of a beautiful golden room with fancy tables and soaring ceilings. There were lots of people in the picture, musicians and waiters and diners with nice clothes and big feathers. “When I open up my restaurant, I tell you, people are going to line up for miles around just to get a taste of my food.”

Virgil sat up at that. “Our food.”

“That’s right, baby. Our food,” his daddy laughed and handed him the picture. The boy held it gently in his hands, like it was the most precious thing in the world.

Suddenly, Virgil got up and said, “Oh, look!” He stared out the window.

“What is it, hon?” Eudora craned her head to see what he was looking at.

“Patton’s fairy tale book said if you wish on a star, it’s sure to come true!”

James smiled at him and said gently, “Well, you wish on that star. You dream with all your heart. But remember, Virge, that star can only take you part of the way.” Virgil looked away from the star and back at his daddy. “You’ve got to help it along with some hard work of your own, and then, yeah, you can do anything you set your mind to. Just promise me one thing.” Virgil held his eyes. “That you’ll never, ever lose sight of what’s really important. Okay?” He nodded hard, twice, just to be sure his daddy knew he was serious. 

His mama reached over to rub the tight black curls on his head. “See you in the morning, baby.”

“Get some sleep,” James told him.

“G’night,” Virgil whispered as he snuggled deeper into bed.

When the door closed, he hopped up again and went to the window. He could still find the star he had been looking at earlier — it was the brightest, and almost in the very middle of the sky. Almost like it was standing on a stage, waiting to be seen. Virgil closed his eyes and held the drawing to his chest. “I wish, I wish, I wish…”

Rrrrrribbit.

Virgil slowly turned to see the frog on the windowsill. 

If he screamed, it was nobody’s business. (His mama and daddy were lucky enough to enjoy his company that night.)

~

A/N: Ok so I realize that it’s a lot of just quoting the movie, but I liked the way they set it up so I figured why fix it if it’s not broken right? But from here on, the characters deviate more from those of the movie, so the dialogue will be a whole lot more of my own :) it’ll be a lot more interesting next chapter, I promise. (And Virgil will be grown next time.)

Taglist: @prinxiety-shipper101 @meowthefluffy

[drreidfics]

Dr. Reid and the Broken Girl pt.2

DR. REID AND THE BROKEN GIRL (Working Title)

Characters : SpencerReid x FemReader

Warnings : Abuse, Hints of Self Harm, Eating Disorders, Scenes of Suicidal Behaviours.

CAUTION // TW // THIS BOOK DEALS WITH MATURE CONTENT SUCH AS PROFESSOR AND STUDENT RELATIONSHIP, SEXUAL ASSULT, SELF HARM, MENTAL ILLNESS AND SUBSTANCE ABUSE. IT ALSO INCLUDES A LOT OF RATED-R MATERIAL. IF THIS IS TRIGGERING OR MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE THEN PLEASE DON’T READ.

I munched on a crunchy chicken taco. It was all I was allowing myself to have today. I'd had a try of Dr. Reid's homemade soup that he had made. He was adorable. It was the sweetest thing. His soup would steam up his reading glasses as he slurped the juice off of his spoon. I wish I was that spoon!

"You have to try this Sweet, It's my momma's recipe" he beamed, pushing the spoon towards me.

"But I'm dieting"

"Stop being silly. There's hardly anything on you". He lifted the spoon to my mouth. I slurped the soup. I will admit, it was yummy.

"I am round under these clothes" I joked.

"Round in the places that count" He retorted before clearing his throat and blushing, realising what he had said might have been inappropriate. It gave me butterflies. He liked my body, but my head was a mess and the only opinion that mattered was the screaming voice within it Feeling fat, I nibbled at the taco in my hand. I'd already eaten way too much. Luna slurped on her drink loudly. I frowned. Here we go.

"I saw Dom around town during study break" Luna stated, staring down at her tray full of food."Study break is for studying, not shopping!" I joked, trying to change the subject. My eyes darted anywhere but her. "It's still happening isn't it" She stated matter of factly. I couldn't reply. I could only stare at the floor. What did she expect me to say? Open up to her and tell her all the gory details? She knew enough as it was. She had seen the parts of me, the marks on me, that nobody else had. She had kissed my bruises once upon a time, made me feel safe, cuddled me to sleep. She knew intimate details nobody else did and she swore blind she would kill him. I had to talk her out of going to the cops. It would only make things worse, I'd protest. It usually ended in an argument. Maybe I would tell her everything that is going on within me one day. But today wasn't that day.

She sensed that she had stepped out of line and the look in her eyes told me that she felt terrible. In reality, she shouldn't have, she was my best friend, once was more, and she cared for me. I was the one out of line. I was making her feel bad for caring. My nails picked at the skin on my opposite hand. She noticed and reached her arm over, her hand cupping mine and her thumb stroking my wrist. She opened her mouth to speak again

"and this has to stop too. This not eating, the self-harm, this bad self-image. It's gotta stop."

I sighed. I knew she was right. But I wasn't going to admit it. A look of anguish crossed her perfectly symmetrical face. I looked down at the tray of food in front of us. It was easy for her to say. She was beautiful. She was everything I was not. I wasn't ready to get help. That was the whole truth. You cannot help a person if they are not willing to get help. I am not willing.

"I have eaten today" I said hoping that it would convince her to drop the subject. "A shitty taco from shitty Taco Bell isn't enough - no offence' She said, turning her head to the nosey cleaning lady stood by our table, earwigging for the last bit. I couldn't help but giggle. "I ate earlier" "Mmh, When?" "Dr. Reid gave me a bit of his lunch". A smirk crossed her perfect features. "Y/N and Reid, sitting in a - ' "-Hi," an all too familiar voice interrupted, from behind me, sounding shy. My heart fluttered at the sound of it. I could recognise it anywhere. My cheeks burned a bright red. Had he heard? How long had he been stood there? I am going to kill her, I thought. Luna is forever dropping me in the shit. I kicked her leg gently from under the table and turned to face him. He looked nervous... adorable. "Oh, hi Dr." Luna said, looking past me, smiling. "Y/N, thanks for the dinner". She turned to Spencer. "I was just leaving for the bathroom. You can have my seat! You kids have fun!" she joked.

She stood up, kissing my cheek and gathering her belongings, before skipping away. What was she doing? I thought. She ran towards the glass exit doors. I am going to murder her, one day, I really am. It was pouring rain, it was dark, it was cold and she was my ride.

"I'm - I'm thirty-" Dr. Reid called after her, looking like a lost pup, his social awkwardness coming out. He stood around awkwardly and licked his bottom lip. I loved it when he did that. I had noticed he had done it a few times around me and he had confessed to me that that was what he did when he was nervous. Do I make him nervous? ... Stop this thought process! He was probably nervous because he had just bumped into his college student un-arranged outside of class. It had nothing at all to do with me. Still, what I wouldn't give for him to bend me over and fuck me right now. I bit my lip as thoughts of him bending me over the table and taking me entered my mind.

"I haven't interrupted your date have I?" he asked grimacing, interrupting my dirty thoughts and swaying side to side.

A small smile spread across my face. Yes, he was interrupting, butnot for the reason he thinks. He swayed a little, unsure of what to do with himself, and straightened out his coat.

"No. We're friends. You know this" I replied warmly. "Well, we were, then we were kind of dating, now we're not. I'm not gay. Well I kind of am. I'm not sure what I am. Oh, you know this all - I do like men too - Sorry, I'm oversharing. I do that when I'm nervous" I stuttered, anxious. He looked amused now, his dark eyes twinkling. He looked amazing.

I noticed his top button was undone and I just wanted to rip off the rest of his shirt. His hair was slightly messier than usual. I wanted to run my fingers through it. He must have had a stressful day. Don't worry Dr. Reid, my mouth could make it all better, I thought.

His black trench coat fitted him perfectly. He had it unbuttoned slightly and he had on a purple scarf with a brown saddle bag. I loved the vintage element that he somehow managed to incorporate into anything he wore. He always looked smart. And hot. He had a hand full of brown paper shopping bags and a coffee in his spare hand.

"Hey, none of my business what you like to do in the bedroom. You can like whoever you want to like, I was just worried I'd interrupted." he held up his hands defensively, a cheeky smirk on his face. "Excuse me if I'm wrong but I think your friend has left you. I mean, that's definitely not the bathroom door... unless I've been doing it wrong my whole life." he joked with a smile as he slipped into the booth seat across from me.

I giggled at his joke. It wasn't a forced giggle. It was a genuine one. He always made me giggle when I was around him. Maybe it was the excitement that he filled me with. The light hit his eyes perfectly. Beautiful, shiny, and captivating. I could have stared into them all night. He smiled and, looking down shyly, took a sip of his steaming coffee. "Who comes to Taco Bell for coffee?" I questioned, my tone a teasing one. He smiled up at me. "Who comes to Taco Bell for a date?" he retorted. I put up my middle finger. He mocked heartbreak. "No I got this overpriced beauty at Starbucks. I was walking by and I saw you in here and couldn't resist not seeing you"

I blushed violently. He shuffled awkwardly in his seat and cleared his throat. An awkward silence filled the air. This was the first time I had felt at a loss for words around him. I don't think he meant it like I wished he did. He doesn't like me. He's just friendly. His eyes darted anywhere but mine. He most certainly didn't mean it in the way that I was hoping he'd mean it and that was why he couldn't look me in the eye. He probably came to ask me how my school work was going or something. We had flirted quite a bit but it was all fun and games... that or his awkward social interaction.

"I like our conversations Spence, so... I'm glad." I smiled trying to fill the awkward silence and taking a slurp of my diet soda. He smiled before looking behind him. "Is your friend coming back?" he asked, his beautiful eyes darting from me to the door. I looked around. She'd taken her coat, her bag and her car keys with her when she left. I had presumed she'd wait in her car for me... I turned to look out the window and noticed her car was no longer there. I guess she's not...

"No. I don't think so. Sorry about her. She's a little..."                                            "-Erratic?'" he asked, interrupting me and brushing his, slightly curled at the end, chestnut coloured hair out of his eyes.                                                                                                                                           

  "Yes. And she was my ride." I sighed.

"Huh -”

“- don't worry, I can give you a ride" he smiled, as he shoved a handful of Luna's leftover fries into his mouth, making me smile. He looked so cute. I've never wanted to hold someone more than what I did in that moment. Damn it, stop this, I scolded. It was no use having feelings for someone, who'd never love you back, right? All I was doing was teasing myself. A man like him would never fall for a girl like me regardless of whether he was my professor or not. I knew this, he knew this and I needed to stop being so silly.

"Thank-you" I smiled. He smiled back. "I am a true gentleman. So, how was your day?" He asked, still shoving cold fries into his mouth. "It was pretty shitty, to be honest. My lunch break was fun though" I smiled. He winked at me making my heart flutter. "I have that charm" he joked. "You'll have to keep me around to save your day". "Oh for sure I do" I smiled.

He slipped his legs further towards me, wrapping them around mine, from underneath the table. Normally I would flinch and jolt back at any sort of unsuspected human touch. But, I didn't move. It just felt so...natural. So... right. Being so close to him always made me feel safe.

If his legs were giving me so many sparks then I can't imagine what his dick would feel like. I felt heat radiating from down there. I find it very hard to get turned on due to what I am dealing with but he just does wonders to me. I am a hot mess around him. I felt wrong thinking this. Not only was he my professor, my best friend, but I felt guilt for thinking that way given my situation. I shouldn't want a man to touch me. Should I? I usually don't. The only person I could ever stand the thought of touching me intimately was Luna... Until this man entered my life. Dr. Reid... What are you doing to me.

After an hour of talking and laughing we had decided it was time to call it a night. The manager of the restaurant, looked at us throughout, pretty annoyed. The poor woman just wanted to close up for the night but was too polite to ask us to leave.

He skipped in front of me in the empty car park, laughing joyously before spinning around to look at me. "So, home?" he asked. I nodded. Yeah, home... "Oh. Here you go". He slipped his coat off of his shoulders and wrapped it around me. The fall air had dropped cold. Extreme opposite to the warm weather we had throughout the day. I didn't think I could fall more in love. Was I really in love though? I mean, can you really be in love with someone that you have never been intimate with? Of course, you can, right? Intimacy doesn't have to be sex, I reminded myself.

I'd known him for over a year now. We had been close since the first day he walked into the classroom, on that cold depressing day in September, and announced that he was taking over Professor Baldwin. I still remember his face, how he looked as I peaked up from the book that I was reading, his eyes softening as they met mine. I'd always felt this connection with him. I can't explain it nor can I act on it. I just feel like, whenever we're near, he made me complete.

He has helped me through so much knowingly and unknowingly. He was there for me when Luna and I hit a rough spot in - whatever we had that was going on - we didn't name it and I'm glad of that. He along with Luna is the only person who knows I find both genders attractive. I would never dare tell Sharon. She was very old school. I was worried of how she might react. He also knew about my constant dieting - though not to the extent in which I did it - and I'd confide in him many a times when I just wanted it all to end. He had stayed up all night talking me down many times. I would never dare tell him that a lot of times I acted upon those thoughts though. He didn't get to know that part. Nor did he get to know what was going on at home. It was embarrassing. I would class him as one of my best friends. Was that weird? To be so close to your professor? I suppose it would be even weirder if I tired to act upon the dirty thoughts in my mind...

He interrupted my thoughts, pulling a set of car keys from his back pocket, unlocking his car. It was a very nice, expensive car. Sometimes I wondered if he was a part-time stripper with the car and the apartment (he had shown me pictures of it before he had moved in last fall.). He had an expensive taste that a teachers salary probably couldn't buy. There was something hiding behind those dark, mysterious eyes. My guess is a stripper. Heck, I'd pay to watch that.

I opened the passenger side door as he threw his bags into the boot. I wish I didn't have to go home. Back to him... "I'll direct you if you want?" I asked knowing the answer would be no. "No, it's ok, I don't live far from there so I can alway's remember where you live. I actually viewed a house to rent around that area." he smiled as he slipped into the driving seat and placed his keys in the ignition. "plus, eidetic memory?" he winked. I nodded my head as he shifted into drive pulled out of the parking lot. "Bet your alone time is always fun" I joked, biting my lip. "That it is" he smiled mysteriously.

It was a quiet drive. The rain pattered heavily against the windscreen and the wind blew violently. It was nice to listen to. It wasn't like we didn't have anything to talk about. It was just that we enjoyed being in each others company regardless of the silence. I felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket and I scrambled trying to find it. Spencer glanced over. Curious as to what I was doing.

"Text" I informed him. He smiled warmly and nodded before focusing back on the road. The phone screen lit up the car brightly hurting my eyes slightly. I was expecting a text from Luna asking how it was going or begging me to come round for some 'girl time' but it wasn't her. Instead, it was from Dom.

'Mom on business again. Means I get to do whatever I want 2 u for a week. U'll be sorry Luna got involved again. .' it read.

No, this can't be happening. I'm going to have a panic attack, I thought. No matter how often this happens it still hurts the same. The fear is still the same. How could she do this to me? I thought angrily. A tear fell from my eye and my breathing became heavy. I wiped it away frantically, hoping Spence hadn't seen it, my mind filled with thoughts of dread. What was he going to do? I always think that he had done his worst but he always seems to beat it every time his mother went away. Maybe this time he'll kill me. As sick as it was, that thought was the kindest thing he could do. Maybe I would have the guts end my own life tonight and get it over with.

"What is that?" a sharp voice interrupted my thoughts. I jumped in shock before fumbling for the lock screen button. "What? Oh, nothing. Sorry. Was the light distracting you?" I asked before realising that we had arrived at my house. Just my house, not my home. "No. In case you haven't noticed we are outside of your house. Now, what was that?" he asked, a little more harshly this time. What gave him the right to ask these questions? I thought, the anger inside me brewing.

"I said it was nothing" I said monotonously.

"Why are you lying to me Y/N?" he asked. Annoyance drenched his voice. A tear broke free again only this time I didn't care if he saw it. "Who was that and what did they mean?". I was so angry. How fucking dare he look over my shoulder. How dare he read my texts and how dare he demand me answer him when it had nothing to do with him at all.

"I can't believe this"

"What?"

"You. How fucking dare you" I spat out as I frantically gathered my things, unbuckling my seatbelt and opening the car door. "My texts have nothing to do with you. Who I text has nothing to do with you. My life has nothing do do with you. How dare you demand answers over something that has nothing to do with you. In case you haven't noticed, you are my teacher, I am your student. I am none of your concern" I got out of the car. "Thanks for the ride Dr". Venom laced my tongue. His face broke my heart but I was too angry at the time to care. I don't think I was angry at him. I think my anger just came out around him because I felt I was safe to show emotion. I slammed the car door and turned my back on him, running towards my front porch, knowing he was watching, making sure I was safe. But I was not looking back at him once. I knew it could have been the last time I'd ever see him. I should have stared at him longer.

Broken bone after broken bone. It started when I was 9 and had continued ever since. He was two years older and a lot stronger. I should be used to this pain, I should be used to the rape, I should be used to the bruises and I should be used to the names. I tell everyone I'm fine but when I am alone I cry. I cut myself within an inch of my life. I overdose on pills and lay in the bath hoping to pass out and drown. I tie a noose round my neck and dare myself to jump. It never works. Then I bandage it up, plaster on a smile and act like I'm okay.

I closed the door behind me entering quietly, willing him to be in his bedroom on a game or something, Hoping he'd be unable to hear me whilst I ran up the stairs and lock my door. I almost made it. Almost. But he stood tall in front of me, blocking me from my safety.

He left me alone at 2am, leaving to go on some drug fuelled party bender. The black fuzzes invaded my eyes, my ears screeching. Everywhere I looked they clouded my vision. I was too weak to do anything. It was a mix of not eating, my emotions building up, and the abuse I had suffered. Maybe it was time to give up? Was this supposed to be the end? Was this all that my life was to be? Blood dripped from my nose. I crawled towards my en-suite.

Sitting inside the walk in shower not even bothering to take off my long sweatshirt, I reached up, turning it on. The hot water stung my skin. It burned but it felt good. Maybe I could burn away his touch... My shaky hand reached for the Stanley knife I kept in there. I didn't have to hide it. I had no one checking up on me - no one that would notice. The sharp blade indented my wrist as I held it in place. I didn't feel fearful. I've tumbled down this hole many times before.

I pushed down hard, the blade cutting in deep, blood trickled down my arm. I watched as the thing that reminded me I was still living washed down the drain. I closed my eyes leaning my head against the shower wall. My phone sat, smashed up, on the floor near me. I really needed to apologise for what I've done, I thought. Maybe it was just my brain clinging onto life. A small, subconscious, part of me that still had hope.I don't know. Opening up my texts I typed,

'I'm sorry Spence. I shouldn't have had a go at you like that. It wasn't your fault. I'm having a hard time... I'm sorry, love you. Don't worry, I won't be around soon'

I typed. I didn't dare press send. The small voice in my brain comforted me. 'What would it matter. It's 4am, You'll be gone by the time he sees it anyway, it said. I gulped, hitting send, I placed my phone back on the floor. I felt dizzy and sick. I suppose it was due to the low blood sugars. My vision darkened and clouded again. I was tired. I pressed my head against the wall and closed my eyes allowing the darkness to consume me as my phone vibrated frantically on the floor. 

[thronesofshadows]

No Light, No Light || Alain & Evelyn

TIMING: Today LOCATION: Evelyn’s home PARTIES: @carbrakes-and-stakes​ and @thronesofshadows​ SUMMARY: This song, but also: and they all lived happily ever after. Possibly. (Mentions of grief present throughout this.)

Evelyn’s house was much closer than his house and the road that led to it was a lot safer as well. What should I do? Alain wondered, as he waited for the road to be completely empty before he crossed it. He watched at every window, scrutinized everyone who walked past him and took a step to the side each time he crossed a person’s path. Who knew how long he had left. At least, if he managed to get safely to Evelyn’s, maybe he would avoid trouble at least for a little while. If only he had had any idea of how this worked. It was not as if he could count on Regan to explain anything to him, anything at all, as she was probably more clueless than he was about all of this. Talk about disillusionment. He did not have much time to think about what had just happened on the way to Harris Island, as he was too busy being careful about his surroundings. He did not hear much, and while he figured that it would probably slowly come back, the tinnitus went on and on. Maybe he would not stick long enough to get his hearing back. His attention lowered as he saw her house in the distance, although a person jogging his way was enough to startle him. He paid no attention to the way they looked at him : he had not changed, and he probably clashed a lot with the environment, but right now, he could not exactly worry about it. The door was unlocked when he arrived on the threshold, although he knocked on it before he pushed it open, and called out her name as he entered. Sitting down on the floor, he started taking off his shoes, and finally thinking of what he was going to tell her. How were you supposed to tell someone that you were going to die?

She wondered if she’d done something wrong. Evelyn played parts of their last conversation over and over again in her head - even though she knew she could have just gone back and reread something. Had he decided after all that they had to break up? Even if this was this case, she would be fine with it. That was what she told herself, at least. She was sat curled up on her couch, fingertips pressed against her thighs. She hadn’t worn anything fancy. Just jeans, a loose shirt, and a wrapped sweater. She heard the door open and heard his voice and she sighed for a moment. “In the sitting room. You can - you can come over.” She heard his footsteps make their way over and glanced up when they stopped. He was in his work clothes. He always changed before coming over. He hadn’t changed. She bit down on her tongue for a moment as she looked over and up at him. “Look, I am shorter than you are, right now.” A vague attempt at humour. “Sorry. You can - would you like to sit with me?”

The first thing he had done as he saw her was rubbed his hands against his ears. He had made sure to get rid of the blood before he stepped out in the street but felt as if there was still something wrong about his ears, aside from his hearing, which was still difficult. Alain stood still in the doorway for a moment, looking at her with a soft look in his eyes. Soft, and at the same time, sad and desperate. He had never been one to panic, but this was not something he had ever imagined doing. No one was supposed to know when they would go, leave forever. Nothing was ever so definitive. He read on her lips, figured that she was making a joke and smiled, just because she looked almost cheerful for a second. Even if they had not been together for a long time, her smile was something that was anchored in his memories, and that he had thought about lately. It was an odd thing to feel melancholy for something that was still there. “I’m going to get oil all over your couch,” he replied. Grimacing, he realized that he had no idea how loud he had spoken. Still, he was fully dressed under his work clothes, and so he got rid of them before he joined her on the couch. He put those outside, by the window doors. “I can’t hear well,” he finally explained. “But, that’s not…” He breathed out, heavily. “I… can you be open minded about what I’m about to say?” He glanced up from his hands. He had been fidgeting with his own fingers so far. Looking her in the eyes, Alain sighed. “Have you ever heard about banshees?”

She looked up at him and she could not help but feel something heavy sink in her heart. She could not place the feeling - any form of nervousness was incredibly foreign to her, this included. Evelyn continued to watch him carefully, not wanting to speak before he did. Not wanting to make him angry - if he already was. His responses online had all of a sudden become so short - and she wondered if something had happened. If she’d ruined everything. Not that she thought of him as consistently verbose, but it had been nice - talking about nearly everything. Unless it had been too much. She cared for him an incredible amount - more than she’d cared for anyone in a long while, which made all of this more nerve-wracking. “I-” she began, her mouth dry. “Of course.” She watched him take off of his work clothes and she took in another deep breath as he came over to sit down. “No, it is fine.” She looked down at his hands and followed his gaze as he looked back over to her. “Of course.” Was this it? “Banshees?” Her eyes grew wide for a moment. “I have - I have heard of them.” A pause. “Stories. Or - well, yes. I have. I am not too knowledgeable. Why do you ask?” She fiddled with the edges of her sweater, pulling it more tightly around her body.

He crossed his arms over his chest. He could hear his own heart beating, although it was neither this nor the ringing in his ears that bothered him the most, but rather the bubble of anxiety that had formed in his throat. He bit on his own lip and started nervously chewing on it. God damn it. “I am…” going to die ? sorry? How was he supposed to tell her this? “One of those screamed in my shop earlier, and… I was the only one there,” he rubbed his face and pinched at the bridge of his nose. His eyes tearing up, he looked away from her and remained silent for a moment. What was he supposed to say ? “Those stories aren’t just stories, and this only means one thing: imminent death,” you would have thought that this would have helped with the anxiety, but it only made it worse. Alain kept looking away from her, apprehending her reaction, what she would say about this.

“What?” She said, briefly stunned. Evelyn watched as he turned away, though she reached out to grab his hand, wrapping both of her hands around his one. Death. The word raced through her head and for a moment. No, no this was not happening. Not again. She felt sick. “No.” She said. “No, no.” Evelyn stood up and began pacing around her sitting room, hitting her hands against her thighs lightly. Repeated motions were supposed to calm you down, right? She wasn’t the sort to cry. Evelyn had only cried properly a handful of times in her entire life but her cheeks felt wet, all of a sudden. The salty taste on her tongue. She turned back to face him, steadying her breath as well as she could as she made her way back over to the couch, sitting down so that their faces were facing one another and she pulled him into a kiss for a moment, before breaking apart. “You cannot die.” It was all she could say, her voice unsteady. “I - I do not permit it. Strictly forbidden.” She wiped a few tears off of her cheeks. “I do not accept this.”

There was no way whose tears it was he was feeling against his lips as she kissed him. Alain knew how terrible this was for her, how cruel too. They might have not been together for long, but he was the second person she was losing this way, and even if this time, she would have time to prepare for this, who could claim to be ready. He clearly couldn’t. He always had figured that he’d die alone in a cemetery, but now, he was not so sure about it. Reaching out for her cheek, he held her hand as she wiped tears from her face. “I don’t think there’s anything…” Dropping her hand, he reached for her waist and pulled her closer to him, into a hug. “I don’t know if…” he couldn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he caressed her hair carefully first, then idly. What was he supposed to do, or say? He never meant for any of this to happen. He never wanted to hurt her.

Friday would be three years. Three years since she had gone for a run and come back to find her girlfriend dead in her entryway. Evelyn couldn’t focus. This week would also mark a month of being together - not that she had ever thought of herself as someone to count those sorts of things. Except, apparently, now. “There has to be.” There wasn’t, probably. What little she did know was that there was something involving fate. Not that she believed in that. She relished the feeling of his hand on her waist as she tried to steady her breath. Then a hand was in her hair and she looked over to him, kissing him again before she could think again, moving her body so that she wrapped both of her legs around his waist, resting her arms around his shoulders. “I cannot lose you, please.” She said, her voice strained. “I -”, she sighed, her lips quivering. “Please. Do not leave me.”

“You know,” he leaned his head back to look her in the eyes, “maybe if I stay here forever,” his eyes were still wet as he scoffed at his own words. This was silly. There was no way to avoid this, was there? Even if he felt okay, more than okay actually, safe, warm and cared for, he had a sword of Damocles hanging over his head, and whatever he did, or she did, it would fall, eventually. “I don’t want to lose you either,” his voice dropped into a whisper, and his chin resting on her shoulder, he remained silent, once again, for a little while. Alain repeated those words again, kissed her hair and sighed. The familiar smell of lavender which he had associated with her already was not too comforting this time. Still, he remained this way, his arms wrapped around her, keeping her close to him. Even if he was the first to say that nothing would keep this from happening, he feared that if he let go, this might be the last hug they ever share.

“You can stay here forever.” Evelyn whispered. “Whatever you want.” She didn’t dare move from where she was sitting. She hadn’t known that Melanie was going to die. She hated herself for it, still didn’t know how to forgive herself for going for that run that day. She could not realistically force Alain to not be out of her sight now, could she? Would he even listen? She ran her fingertips along his back as he leaned against her. “Good. We are in agreement on that. That is good.” She could feel his breath against her neck and she kissed his neck, gently. Broke away again after a moment, though still kept her body close to his. The tears were back again and she couldn’t help but let them fall this time, dotting her sweater and Alain’s shirt. “I just - you mean too much to me.” She bit her lip, removing one arm from his shoulder to bring his face up so that she could look at him. “I,” she began again. Love you. Did she? It was sudden, but she’d known that with Melanie a week into their dating. “I love you.” She said, before burying her face into his shoulder, a small sob escaping her throat.

“That sounds nice,” he agreed, speaking quietly. She spoke low enough for him to understand, and while he was not sure whether she meant to, he appreciated this, that they could at least speak about all of that. However, as nice as her offer was, he would never agree to it. Spending the rest of your life stuck in a house was no way for him to live, and if this thing worked the way he thought it did, he would die falling down the stairs or slipping in the shower. Not exactly a proper way to go for anyone. He looked at her as she spoke. To see her like this, because of him, felt too awful for words. Even if there was nothing he could do to fix it, Alain couldn’t help but feel responsible for this. And just when he thought that things couldn’t get more difficult, she had to say those words, words that he had thought of writing lately, as he texted her goodnight, or wished her to have a good day. Still, now that he was right in front of her, they remained stuck in his throat and he was thankful that she could not see the look on his face. “I… I know, I…” He sighed, this was not exactly how he planned for this to go. Kissing the side of her head, her hair, he fell silent and just held her close. “You know, you know,” if he couldn’t say it right now, in those circumstances, he was not willing to let go of her anyway.

Her heart felt tight in her chest. “I - I am sorry. I - I look quite terrible right now, do I not?” A poor attempt at humor, as her voice caught in her throat again. God, nothing had ever been quite like this before. Evelyn had never felt so shaken at the unknown. Usually she was incredibly keen on taking advantage of that. Though, she supposed, if what he said was true, it was not so very much the unknown. She ran her hands carefully across his face, over his jawline and then through his hair. She didn’t want to let go, because what would happen then? “I know. I know and you know much the same. Balance, remember?” She let out a small laugh, for a moment. Shrugged off her sweater, even though she felt colder than normal. Grabbed his hands and placed them on her waist, on her skin. “I need to remember what your hands feel like. I mean - I know what they do, but please.” She’d never been good at dealing with emotions, especially not significant ones. She wanted a firm confirmation that he was here, that this was not some sort of grand hallucination. “Please.” She said, words spoken against his lips.

"As beautiful as the day I met you," far from true. Her eyes were red, and cheeks wet from the crying, still, he looked at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Alain shook his head, raising his hand to push a strand of hair off her face. "If you want, a friend suggested staying on the couch to make sure nothing happens to me," he meant this to be a facetious comment, although he truly had appreciated Nic's kind gesture. Another sigh. He leaned toward her hand as she touched his face, his hair. This all felt unfair. Unfair to him, unfair to her, unfair to them. "Balance, of course," he nodded and fell quiet. He just wanted to stay there and look at her, and her red eyes and her red cheeks and tell her how sorry he was for making her cry, hurt like this. Still her laughter felt like a warming ray of sunshine in winter. Her hands were cold as she took his own hands, but he did not make any comments, as he usually would have. "Okay… okay." Pressing his forehead against hers, he held her close, hands firmly placed on her back, on her waist. "I'll stay here, okay?"

“Shut up,” she said, “that is a blatant lie. I was not tear stained and miserable then.” Evelyn startled for a moment. “I mean - you know what I mean. But thank you.” She bit down on her lip, once again steadying herself. “You know, I think I like this idea. Staying, I mean.” She couldn’t focus, but still she could - just looking at him, breathing in his scent. Focused on him and him only, not anything else around them. She was grateful that he didn’t remark on her hands, and that he accepted her moving his own to touch her skin. Then his forehead was pressed against hers and she felt them breath in sync, for a moment. “Stay with me.” She whispered, a breath across his lips. “I am not going anywhere.”

[nck-nck]

I need to write some things down because I feel like it would make me feel .01% better today. My memory has been really bad lately and the thoughts come and go so fast these days, I can't keep anything organized. I have had a stressful day, so this will probably be plenty dramatic and silly sounding.

But this will include some talk about suicidal feelings, self critique and harsh words about these subjects since I have felt so sad/mad/confused.

I have been depressed with worsening anxiety for more than a year and it came to a head one day when I was running hot, stressed and upset, fresh out of a stupid argument with my GF. The argument was senseless and small, but it was like the hair that broke the camel's back. I was thinking a lot because that's all I have been able to do about stuff since I am breaking myself of bad anger habits, and I was trying to think about it all. To try to see the whole picture, the current state of the world, my body, my life and it's effects on the world, weather being alive means anything to anyone except me, what I could possibly do about the future, and if any of this is real, to begin with. This didn't go well. Maybe people aren't supposed to think about all of that all at once, especially if you're already in a state, but we just cannot figure out every single why. This lead to me crying a lot and eventually yelling to myself "I never wanted to kill myself before"

I don't know what exactly I meant by this, "before" but I think I was trying to say "before" I grew up and got so dependent on this terrible world, while feeling, after so long, that the world really was terrible. I was doing all this by myself, and I didn't know it, but my GF had heard me saying/yelling these things from right outside. I felt pinned and embarrassed that my "crazy" thoughts had become audible but it was the first time I was able to tell someone I wanted to die. It came from a deep wanting for escape or for another chance and reset. I still feel like I am completely free falling in time and where I end up is by the random chaos I believe in. Perhaps because I feel so out of control, that's the only rational thing I can come up with to ground myself, "it's all crazy, you're not crazy"

It helped me a lot to finally express these feelings to someone else and I told my therapist that week too. I never told my GF because, well I was confused, but it was also in an effort to not put that pressure on someone else, especially a loved one. Death is not to be taken lightly so I wanted to be sure about how I felt and what I was talking about.

There was a pointent and beautiful episode of Watchmen where a character said "You cannot heal under a mask, wounds need air" and it made a lot of sense to me, especially after feeling some relief. I am taking my meds, seeing the doc, and trying to take of myself. Or thinking about taking care of myself more. And I do attribute some of this progress from finally telling someone. Its hard every day and I have more bad days than good days, still. It has made me physically ill too, stomach issues, heart palpitations, food dependency, headaches, crying, mood swings.. just a grab bag of stupid symptoms.

I started a new job in March and it has added a lot of stress and fear to my life. Its a good job and they seem decent, but it is a lot to learn right now. It's the opposite from my last job and I am work from home now. I'm trying like heck, but I'm not doing great with it. They have been nice and understanding and of my situation but clients and customer are not! Lol. I don't know what the answer is for anyone in this predicament. There is just no pause button for anyone. People will continue to want and need, money will continue to be need for everything, and time will March relentlessly onwards. We don't have a break built in for anyone at all. I hope others in worse situations can find some peace or understanding...

American health care sucks, mental health care sucks even more, and men's mental health care? Lmao.

No point to this other than for me write it down. I'm only speaking from my own perspective and I am being selfish. No point to make, no argument, just want to write it down in the void. So I am sorry if you have read this for any payoff. I have nothing to give! Just nobody get mad at me, it might make me lay down for a long time. I'm not as social or as nice or funny or excited about most things anymore. I'm trying to get better.

Just try to be nice to people when you can and tell your friends that you love them.

[izaswritings]

Title: you are a memory

Synopsis: “Let’s go home, Earl. You’ll feel better after a little nap.” In the wake of that disastrous meeting with Neah, the Earl dreams of a life he never led.

Or: What if Mana remembered his son?

Notes: The title comes from this song, which is sad and pretty and works very well for Mana and Allen. It’s got a key sad/nostalgic feel to it. I recommend listening on repeat while reading this fic for the full dream-like experience.

AO3 Link is here.

-

   Sometimes the Earl dreams.

   .

   Go to sleep, Earl dear, you’re just tired. The Fourteenth was really mean to you, wasn’t he? I’m sorry. Get some rest, all right? Things will be better once you wake up.

Go to sleep, Earl. Please, just sleep. We’re back in the Ark, Earl. We’re home. You’ll feel better after a little nap, okay?

Good night, Earl. Good night.

  .

  The London air is crisp and cold and burns in his lungs with every breath. The sky is clouded and gray with oncoming rain, and the gloom seems to seep into the city, sinking into the dirty streets and cobbled stone buildings, settling into the hearts of the people that roam through the sludge and ice. Specks of snow float down with dainty grace, resting light on his gloves and his hat and his shoulders, a white blanket that lasts only a second before the heat of his breath melts it away.

The man walks through the snow, black cane tucked under one arm, humming a melody under his breath. Fresh snowfall crunches under his threadbare boots. Cold wind blows through every layer and leaves him aching and numb.

The shops that line the street are cluttered close, pressed against each other like sheep in a herd. The old stone sags, held up by the next lopsided building, a street of leaning towers with all their treasures encased in frosted glass. Away from the crowd, a young boy stands before one of these shops, peering inside. His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. Even from afar, the man can see the boy’s curled lips, his pale scowl.

The man walks up to the boy, ignoring the crowd. His lips pull into an easy smile. He speaks to the boy without knowing why.

“What are you doing?”

The boy is rags, tatters, the grime of the street personified. His hair is a reddish-brown and falls in matted clumps around his dirty face, his clothes too big and starched so thoroughly that any and all color has been bled away. His skinny arms are clothed from shoulder to fingertip, hands shoved into gaping pockets. He looks up at the man, and his eyes are as gray as the London sky above them.

“Nothin’ at all,” says the boy, with a sneer. “It’s not like you told me to stand here or anything. No, that’d be stupid.”

The man thinks he should be angry at this, but all he does is smile. His heart feels light, full of clouds. “I made you wait,” he says, softly. “I’m sorry.”

The boy sniffs, but his shoulders relax. “Whatever, you stupid clown. Not like I cared.”

The man smiles. He does not know the boy. He does not recognize him. And yet he feels as if he should.

“I know,” he tells the boy, filled to the brim with an unfamiliar fondness. The boy mutters under his breath and looks away, but his cheeks burning red. He shuffles his feet in the snow.

He doesn’t know the boy, but the Earl laughs anyway.

.

  …not anything wrong, it’s just—this hasn't happened in a long time. Yes, but Tyki, it doesn't make any—

Oh, Earl! You’re awake! That’s wonderful.

Ahh, Tyki? It’s nothing. He’s just worried, is all. You fell asleep so fast! For a moment, it was almost as if we couldn’t wake you… well, no matter. Are you feeling better? You must be; you were smiling.

...How was your sleep, anyway?

Know? Well of course I know. I may not be Road, but my Demon Eye can see that much. Still, it's always best to ask these things.

...Dreams, hmm?

How interesting.

  .

  “Wake up, silly clown!”

The man opens his eyes. The London street from the last dream is gone, vanished away into the gloom. Now he sits on a rickety old cart, lurching down a dirt road, his shoulder pressed against splintering wood and the boy’s muddy face peering down from above him.

The man blinks, smiles. “Ah,” he says. “Did you get taller?”

The boy’s small nose wrinkles at him, and the man bites back a very childish snicker. “Stupid clown, you’re sitting down,” says the boy, almost primly.

“Ah,” says the man. “So I am.”

The boy rolls his eyes, straightening up and turning away. His right hand rises to rub at his shoulder; his left stays stubbornly in his pocket. The man’s long black coat is draped over his skinny shoulders, trailing at his feet like a cloak. “You're so weird,” he scoffs, but it’s almost fond.

“It is,” the man says sagely, gamely shifting over when the boy makes to sit beside him, “what makes me such a good clown.” The cold bites through the thin layers of his vest, and the man smiles past the cold. He does not ask for his coat back.

The boy sighs, settling beside the man, muddy boots two sizes too big kicking out over the lip of the cart. His gray London-sky eyes are downcast and solemn. His shoulders are slumped, his fire dimmed. “Whatever.”

The man watches the boy carefully. He does not ask how he knows the boy, does not wonder who he is. The boy is a stranger but he does not feel like one, and the Earl has had dreams like this before, though never as vivid as this.

“Don’t worry,” he tells the boy, and keeps any questions he has to himself. “You'll be a good clown too! Very cute!”

He expects the boy to sneer, to deny this, to claim he’s gonna be a cool clown, damn it, stop it with this cute nonsense—

But all the boy does is huff and turn away, a tiny smile curling at his lips.

“Ugh,” he says. “Like hell.”

The man does not reply, but when the boy leans back against him—tentatively, fearfully, as if expecting the man to pull away—he leans right back, shoulder to shoulder, and smiles into the collar of his shirt.

Together they watch the snow fall, side by side on the wagon, the city behind them lost to the distant gloom.

  .

  Well, Earl? Any better?

Oh, I see. Dreams again…

Hm? Oh! No, no, it’s okay; I’m not upset or anything! Geeze, you’re such a worrywart!

—Ah. …You’re smiling awful wide there.

Was it something I said?

  .

  The inn is a small, cramped little place, with stuffy rooms and rotted oak walls and lone windows caked in grimy frost. The man opens the door to a tiny corner room, and has to ram the wood with his shoulder to get it closed again. The room itself is bare, blank—a tiny table in the center, two rickety beds. On the threadbare bed shoved against the farthest corner, the boy lies still, his skin flushed, his breaths wheezing. A blanket is pulled up to his chin, and his long ratty hair is damp with sweat.

The man goes to his side at once, his steps long, almost hurried. There is a twist to his heart at the sight of the boy so still and sullen. He sits on the foot of the bed, careful so the springs won’t creak, and reaches over to place a hand on the boy’s head. As the man had feared: the boy feels feverishly hot, burning from the inside out.

“Oh, dear,” says the man. “You aren’t looking better at all.”

The boy’s eyes open at that, a sliver of liquid silver. “Shut up,” he says, but in his sickness he slurs the words, stumbles, and it comes out sounding more like “Shhhhhhut up” rather than the bite he probably means it to be. “S-stupid clown. I told you, I’m fine, I’m just…”

“Completing your transformation into the world’s smallest, most temperamental oven?” the man says gravely, with terrible certainty, and laughs aloud when the boy kicks him. “Sorry, sorry! I know. You’re fine. But, ah… I’m feeling a bit tired myself, y’see, so I’m afraid we’ll be spending the night here rather than traveling like I promised.”

“Liar,” the boy mumbles. He sinks into the sheets, his eyelashes fluttering. His mouth twists like he’s tasted something sour. “‘M sorry.”

The words are so quiet he barely catches them. The man leans in. “Hm?”

“Sorry. I—I shoulda listened, when you said—when you said to get out of the rain. And to put on my coat. And dry off. I didn’t do any of that, and now—so, um. Yeah.”

The man does not remember saying that. He does not remember a day in the rain, the boy snubbing his instruction. He does not know what the boy is talking about. And yet, inexplicably, he smiles soft and fond, aching gentle, and says: “I know. It’s all right, my boy.”

“I’ll listen, next time.”

His smile grows wide, almost mischievous. “Oh?”

The boy immediately scowls. His tiny foot kicks the man from under the covers. “I will! Stupid clown. Just you watch. I can listen, sometimes.”

“Okay,” the man says, humoring him. He cannot stop smiling. He pats the boy’s knee and then pushes up from the bed, cracking his shoulders. “Are you hungry? I think we’ve got just enough coin for a big dinner, if you’d like. Get some rest, I’ll—”

“Wait!” the boy cries, and the man freezes, stone still, when a small hand snatches at his coat sleeve. “Wait, wait, I—I, I’m not hungry. Not yet. Um.”

The man looks down at the boy. His little face red with fever, those London-gray eyes wide and afraid. That careful grip on the man’s sleeve, loose enough to shake.

He sits down on the bed and watches as the boy slowly relaxes, settling back under the covers. He takes the boy’s hand from his sleeve and holds it, careful, in his own. Watches hope and understanding bloom on this wary boy’s strangely familiar face.

“Then,” says the man. He squeezes the boy’s hand and feels a similar grip wrap tight around his heart. “I suppose I’ll stay here with you.”

The boy smiles. Small and quick and shuttered. Bright.

It’s only a dream, the Earl thinks. And yet. He feels so warm.

  .

  —must be from meeting the Fourteenth. Tyki, did you hear what they were talking about? It’s never been this bad. Road is still too weak to help… and Tyki, I can’t see his dreams at all. They aren’t there. They shouldn’t be there. I don’t understand. I don’t—

O-oh, Earl! You woke up again. That’s good. That’s wonderful! Stay like that, okay?

Hm? Oh, Earl, everything’s okay. It’s fine. Just. Try to stay awake? I’ll make it better. I’ll make you better. I promise.

Just stay awake.

  .

  He blinks his eyes open into midday sun, bright and blinding in his face, past even the shade of his favorite top-hat. He is sitting on the steps of an old stone building, scissors in his hand. The boy is sitting in front of him, kicking bare feet over the worn stone steps, both hands tucked into his middle and hidden from view. 

“Don’t make it uneven, stupid clown,” the boy is saying. “And—and not too short! I don’t wanna look like you. And—”

The man clears his throat and pats the boy’s shoulder with his free hand. The boy is wearing new clothes, a pastel purple and pink plaid clown costume. It’s adorable. The look on the boy’s face when he twists around to glare at the man is less so. His expression is sullen and his eyes are afraid. “I promise,” the man says, and his heart aches. “You will have the cutest hair in all of England.”

The boy’s face screws up in a pout. The fear fades from his eyes in favor of offense. “No!”

“You will be adorable,” the man vows. Thinks it over. “Even more adorable!”

The boy turns away, unimpressed. “I’m leaving.”

The man smiles. He takes a breath and says—

“A̶̛̝̭̞̽́͋l̸͍̘̀ļ̶̜͂̅͝ē̶̢̠̰̓̈́͐n̷̟͔̾̒̋”

—and the boy looks up, reluctant.

“I’ll be careful,” the man says, gentle again. His teasing tone fading into that softer warmth that comes so easily when speaking to this boy. “I won’t ruin your hair. Trust me?”

The boy stares at him. His eyes are very wide. “You said my name,” he says.

The man blinks. He brings a hand up to his head. Had he? He can’t—he can't quite remember. What had he said, exactly?

And yet, all he says is: “Yes, of course.” He is confused, despite himself. What else would he call the boy, if not his name? Not that the man knows his name, of course.

(But then, what had he…?)

The boy is still staring. Slowly, he sits back down on the steps, turns to his back to the man. His voice is quiet. “Okay,” says the boy. “Okay. Cut my hair. I—I trust you.”

“Please cut my hair,” the man corrects, because manners are important, and the boy heaves a loud sigh and suddenly the air is clear again, bright and warm as the midday sun, as if that terrible vulnerability had never been.

“Please cut my hair, stupid clown,” says the boy, with all the unimpressed scorn his small frame can muster, and the Earl grins ear to ear as he gently picks up one of the boy’s trailing locks and snips it short.

He is so warm, so content, so quietly touched by the trust this boy has in him. He is so happy to have this moment.

(And yet—in the back of his mind—he thinks—

What was it that he said, before? That name he cannot remember. He cannot recall. And yet—

It feels important. It feels as if he should know.)

  .

  Tyki, what do you mean, the Fourteenth called him—?

—Earl! You woke up!

Wait, wait! Don’t go to sleep. Earl, don’t go to sleep! Stay with me. Stay with us. Earl. Earl—

  .

  He is kneeling in a dark alley, his back to the busy streets, his footsteps sunk deep in winter snow. He is carving symbols into the earth. His symbols. The Fourteenth’s melody. The Ark song. His special symbol. He says, “Remember this, A̶̛̝̭̞̽́͋l̸͍̘̀ļ̶̜͂̅͝ē̶̢̠̰̓̈́͐n̷̟͔̾̒̋.”

“Okay,” says the boy. He is crouching too, watching the man draw with sharp eyes. His hair is short, now. Short and flat and fine. The cut of it makes something deep within the Earl quail in memory, strikes him with a flash of recognition. The snow that dusts the boy’s head like fine feathers, white and soft, blending with his eyes—it makes his heart go cold. 

The Ark is special. The Ark is the Fourteenth’s, it is the Earl’s, it is theirs—it is not for anyone else, let alone this foul-mouthed human child. But he carves those symbols in the snow regardless, says, “Promise me you will remember this, promise me you won’t forget,” and marvels at the love he must feel for this strange little boy, to give him something so infinitely precious.

The boy looks up and smiles at him. It is a strangely sweet smile. Strangely mysterious. With the snow in his hair and his cheeks red from cold, the boy almost looks like someone else.

“I promise,” says the boy, and for a moment the Earl forgets this is a dream—forgets the boy is not real, that the boy reminds him of something else, forgets the name he cannot hear and forgets the Ark song should not be shared.

He forgets. He feels, for a moment, like someone else. And he says: “I know you will.”

Around them, the snow falls.

  .

  Don’t worry, Earl.

I’m going to fix this.

  .

   “Is your dog… dead?”

He is standing on ground gone cold with the first snows of winter, digging deep into the frozen dirt. The wind bites at his limbs and the shovel handle rubs raw at his skin with every strike. There is the weight of a wig on his head and make-up caked on his face; it feels as natural as if he’d been born in it.

The boy stands beside him, hands in his pockets, his eyes flat and dead. His hair is long again, pulled back into a loose tail; his clothes are threadbare and smudged with dirt.

Before them, beside the grave, a small dog lies in the snow. Eyes closed, chest still, as peaceful as a dream.

The man looks back at the boy, calm despite it all. “Well,” he says. “He was quite old, so…”

“Oh,” says the boy. He is staring at the grave, gray eyes shadowed and shoulders stiff. He doesn’t say anything else.

The man jabs his shovel into the snow. “By the way,” he says, light as the sun above them, “who are you, again?”

  —rl.

  The boy glances at him, a pale cut of his eyes. “I work as a chore boy here.”

The man smiles. “I see,” he murmurs. He looks the boy up and down, trying to place him—Who are you?—and his eyes go wide with sudden realization. “Oh! You’re covered in bruises!” He licks at his thumb and goes to smudge the stain away, a gesture borne of instinct and memory, but the boy hisses and jolts back—

  —arl!

  “Ugh! That’s gross—!”

  Earl! Wake up!

  The world wavers, rippling, fragile as a reflection in water. The whisper of snow, a small hand in his, a quiet voice, saying—

He blinks and the boy is sitting down, now, they are sitting side by side and the man says, “Do you have friends?”

The boy’s little face curls into a sneer, and he says—

  Earl, it’s not real.

  The grave is complete, dug and filled, the dog buried. He places a small ball on the top to mark the resting ground of his beloved friend. Beside him, the boy asks, “Why aren’t you crying?”

“Well,” the man starts—

  Come back to us, Earl! Wake up!

  “—his name?” the boy asks. His voice is so quiet, soft and unsure. “When I pet him yesterday, he—he licked my hand.” The man looks at the boy. At the edge of his vision, the boy’s hand rests in the snow, paralyzed and unmoving. His hand is—his hand is—

“So,” says the boy, and his voice is starting to hitch, starting to catch, breaking on the words, and the man watches him fight with understanding eyes, “I—I thought I’d—”

The world is shaking, curling in at the edges. Breaking like glass, cracking into tiny pieces. Blurry and light like the dream it’s supposed to be—

  Earl. Earl! Millennium Earl, you are the Millennium Earl, wake up, come back, come back—!

  —the boy is crying, deep sobs like he’s forgotten how to do it properly. Curled into and curled over himself, one hand twisted in the fabric of his shirt, right over his heart. He is shaking, shivering, his small face warped from the effort of his tears. The man looks at him then, understanding, feeling a strange and overwhelming fondness for this is boy that is crying when the man cannot, and he thinks:

Ah, I see.

  EARL!

  So you were Allen’s friend too.

               The dream shatters.

         .

      .

      .

      The boy is crying. The boy is crying like his heart is breaking, his hands shaking at the man’s shoulders. Everything hurts, but most painful of all: the boy, his boy, is crying.

“Please,” the boy says. London-sky gray turned to liquid, streaming down his cheeks. His little face is red and ruddy. His hair, shorter now, combed neat and flat, is sticky and dark with blood.

“Please,” the boy sobs. “Please, please don’t go. I love you. I love you. I’ll be good, I’ll behave, I’ll be the best and you’ll never have to get mad at me ever again please, please—”

He reaches up to touch the boy’s hair. He says the name he cannot remember.

“Please—”

“I love you,” he tells his boy. “Don’t stop. Keep walking. No matter—no matter what. Keep walking.”

“Don’t go,” says the boy. “Please, don’t leave me alone.”

He tries to answer. Tries to speak, tries to assure him. But the world is growing darker, his hand heavier, and his words are running out. “I love you,” Mana says. His boy’s heart is breaking and he is breaking with it. “I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.”

       .

        “Allen, I love you.”

          .

      The Earl wakes up, and it feels like clawing his way out of a deep, dark pit. His head throbs, pounding like a drum behind his eyes. His mouth is dry, his throat sore. He gasps for air as if he has forgotten how to breathe.

“Earl!” Wisely cries, and he leans in close to the Earl’s face, his voice fearful. The three-fold eye on his head is stark against his gray skin and cracked right down in the middle. There are still tears tracking down the corners of his eyes. “Are you all right?”

Behind him, pacing by the Earl’s bedside, Tyki stops mid-step, whirling around with wide eyes. “Earl,” he says. “Earl, are you back?” 

The Earl blinks, rubbing hard at his head. He feels oddly breathless, strangely gutted; his heart aches like an old bruise. “Y-yes,” he says, uncertain, but even as he says it, the pain eases, fading with every breath. Whatever fog clouded his mind has lifted, his thoughts clear once more. “Yes, I don’t feel tired anymore.” He brightens, eager to put their minds at ease. “Actually, I feel wonderfully well-rested! I can’t remember why I felt so strange—”

“The Fourteenth—” Tyki starts, and then Wisely says, “Ah!” very loudly, cutting him off.

It’s too late, though; the Earl’s smile has died. “…Oh,” he says. “That’s right. In that town, I—I saw Neah… and he said—”

He frowns at the memory of it, distraught despite himself. Something has gone wrong with the Fourteenth’s return… perhaps it is that blasted Walker’s fault. Why else would Neah say all those inane things? Nothing he said back then made any sense. It still doesn’t make sense. Perhaps the Walker boy did something to stall Neah’s return, something to hurt Neah, and that’s why…

And yet. Even this explanation doesn’t sit well with him. The things Neah had been saying—

His dear family is watching him now, dark behind the eyes, afraid. The Earl blinks blankly back and finally remembers to smile. “It’s all right!” he assures them. “I really do feel much better.”

Glances are exchanged, and then Wisely steps closer, strangely uncertain. “Earl, if I can ask…”

“Hm?”

“What—what did you see? Those dreams, I couldn’t peer into them at all, and even Road… I had to—to fight to even attempt to break it.”

The Earl stares at him, aghast. “Truly?” he asks. Wisely and Tyki both nod, their faces solemn. As they should be—something so invisible and resilient to Wisely’s Demon Eye should be impossible. “Well, that’s strange. It wasn’t really anything all that serious, I—I just dreamed of a boy, really.”

“Another Noah?” Tyki asks immediately, and the Earl—frowns.

“No,” he says slowly. The dream is… harder, now, to recall. Faint and distant like a memory. “No, I… I don’t think so. Human. Just human. He was—little and angry, and he swore a lot, and—”

The Earl stops mid-word, blinking fast, staring at the corner. “Oh!” he says. “Oh, there he is.”

His family goes cold and still. They whip around. The boy, long-haired and bruised and dressed in his tattered clothes, smiles sharply back. What, he says, and oh, he is just as the Earl remembers him. Are you telling lies about me, stupid clown?

“Of course not,” the Earl starts—and stops again, when his family turns around to stare. “Ah, what is it? Why do you all look like that?”

The boy, in the corner, is smiling. His hands in his pockets. His gray eyes quiet as the snow. Oh, Mana, he says, with terrible fondness, and the Earl goes still as the stone.

“Earl,” Tyki says. “Earl—”

Don’t you remember me?

“Earl,” Tyki says, and he sounds afraid, now, quiet and horrified and little uncertain: “Earl, there’s nobody there.”

I meant something, once, the boy says. He’s in front of him now. The Earl hadn’t even seen him move. No one else reacts. Didn’t I? You found me in the snow, you took care of me. You loved me. You named me, Mana. Do you remember yet? His smile is so sad. His red hair is cut short and fine, and snow dusts his small shoulders. Mana, Mana, you named me—

“Allen,” the Earl breathes, and the boy smiles, he smiles so wide, so bright, and around them the world breaks, shatters like glass and scatters into pieces, falling like snow, because—because—

Because the Earl has seen that smile before.

“Allen,” he says, “Allen—Allen Walker—my Allen, my Allen, no, no, you can’t—you can’t be—” 

Hello, Mana, Allen says. His voice is so clear. His eyes are as bright as the sky. His smile is breathless and even now, even here, the Earl cannot help but love his smile. I came back, silly clown. I never forgot. Never ever.

“No—”

His family is speaking. Yelling, arguing, trying to call him back. But Allen is all the Earl can see. Little Allen, red-haired and sharp-tongued, who smiles wide with tears in his eyes.

Don’t cry, Mana, he says. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here.

Around them the snow falls, as quiet as a dream. Is he dreaming, still? But perhaps the Earl was never dreaming at all. Perhaps those misty visions have always been something else, something so much worse. The echoes of a memory, of a life erased, called back with a vengeance. Awakened at last by the whisper of knowing in the Fourteenth’s words, when he opened his arms and said, in Allen Walker’s voice: Mana. 

Mana, Allen says. Mana, I’m right here. I’m still here. I kept my promise. I kept walking.

The Earl falls. But no matter how hard he tries, no matter how he fights—

Mana, I love you.

—this time, he cannot wake up.

[j0ebay]

Kiss Me Goodbye... Chapter 6

Warning(s): swearing,  this is probably trash tbh

Word Count: 3094

A/N: At long long last this chapter is hecking done!!! I’m really super duper sorry this took 5ever to come out. BUT I’m really stoked this chapter is finally out so enjoy and feedback is deeply appreciated!! 💙

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chapter 5     chapter 7

an extra thank you to @starksmile for the amazing moodboard!!

“Now he’s gone. I don’t know why and to this day sometimes I cry. He didn’t even say goodbye. He didn’t take the time to lie.” -Nancy Sinatra

“EEEEEEEEEEEP” The boys all hear Lindsey squeal as they run to the kitchen.

“What? What’s going on?” Tom asks, clearly frazzled.

All she can do is smile and hold onto her phone. Harry quickly snatches the phone from her hands. His eyes went wide.

“He finally grew a pair?” Lindsey smiles even wider and nods.

Harry claps her on the shoulder as Harrison scoffs.

“He did it over text?” And Lindsey nods.

Tom’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to figure out what exactly is going on.

“Chad asked her out, dumbass” Harry chuckles. Tom’s face lights up.

“Ohhhhhhhhhh. Took him long enough,” Haz snaps his eyebrows together and looks at his friend.

“All I’m gonna say, love, is don’t expect everything to be nice and happy and dilly dilly, that type of thing. Shit goes down sometimes, Y’know?” Tom advises her.

She nods.

“Who knows?” Harry adds, “There might be someone better just right in front of you” raising his eyebrows, playfully.

Lindsey giggles.

“Yeah yeah, grass is always greener, I know. I’m gonna go do makeup inventory!” She squeals again.

Throughout the day, Lindsey was buzzing with excitement, searching up various makeup tutorials on youtube and planning everything out appearance-wise. She and Harry did their nails while Tom was there to help her decide what hair to do.

“Haaaaaaaaaz” She groans at her close friend, sitting on her temporary bed.

“What, darling?” He asks with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“I’m not gonna just show up naked, you div! I’m being serious! What should I wear?” She asks him holding up two dresses.

Harrison clenches his jaw, muttering “You look absolutely perfect in everything, love”.

Lindsey looks at the floor and smiles, softly.

He sighs. He adores Lindsey, he always had. He just wasn’t happy about the choices she was making at the moment.

“Hello? Earth to Harrison?” Lindsey asks snapping her fingers, pulling Haz out of his trance.

He looks up at her with his bright blue eyes and smiles. “Hmm?” He hums at her quietly.

Lindsey lets out a heavy sigh and sits next to him, laying her potential outfits on the bed, behind him.

“What’s going on with you?” She asks softly, grabbing his hand and lightly running her thumb across it.

He groans. “I hate how good you are at reading people” She laughs, squeezing his hand.

“Yes, I am. Now spill. What’s going on in that head of yours?” Harrison chuckles at his friends interrogation methods. “Do you really need to go out with this guy?” He whispers.

Lindsey’s eyebrows snap together in confusion.

“What do you mean, Haz?” He drops her hand to scratch the back of his neck.

“It’s just-nevermind” He mutters, looking down.

“Harrison look at me,” Lindsey puts her hand on his cheek, tilting his head to meet her gaze.

“You know you can talk to me right?” He diverts his eyes to his lap.

Lindsey squishes his cheeks and nods his head up and down.

“Yes, Lindsey. I understand” She says in a voice imitating his.

Harrison smiles.

“Is that what you think I sound like, love?” He asks with a quirked eyebrow, making her laugh.

As the laughter from the two die down, she lets out a heavy sigh.

“But seriously, I’m not forcing you to talk now cause I gotta get ready, but eventually, talk to me, yeah?”

“Yeah” he mumbles.

Lindsey taps his cheek with her fingers before sitting up and walking off to the bathroom, and all Harrison can do is watch

As the sun sets, Harrison finds himself more and more agitated at the lack of his friend. Clad in a

loose pair of black shorts and a gray tank top, he takes out his anger on the punching bag in front of him. All he can see if her laughing, her smiling, her flirting with someone she barely knows.

Left hook, undercut, blow after blow to the bag of sand in front of him.

He doesn’t know who or what to picture the bag as, but right now, he just needed to get his emotions out. He didn’t even know what to call those emotions.

Jealousy? Love? Lust? You can’t be in love with your best friend, though.

‘That’s rule number one’ Harrison tells himself.

‘You cannot, under any circumstances, fall in love with your best friend’

His swings at the bag grow harder and more sloppy as the thought of the two of them being friends. One final hit to the black cylinder in front of him and he turns around, putting his head in his hands.

The bass of the music resonates in the center of his chest as he gets a sip of water and wipes the sweat from his forehead.

“Hollands are just getting in your head” He mumbles to himself, trying to assure himself to an extent.

“The just keep implying the two of you should date and it’s messing you up” He sighs, shaking his hands.

“You’re Harrison motherfucking Osterfield. You can figure this shit out”

“Well you are looking lovely as ever” Is the phrase that snaps Lindsey out of her thoughts as she sits in the middle of a dimly lit restaurant.

Not super fancy but not terribly cheap either.

“Chad! Hi!” She exclaims, standing up to wrap him in a hug.

Pulling away, Chad furrows his eyebrows. “You haven’t been waiting long, have you?”

Lindsey’s eyes widen.

“Oh my gosh! No, not at all! I just got here, actually”

He smiles.

“Good, good! You wanna sit?”

He gestures to her chair and she reciprocates his smile. The waitress comes over with a small grin.

“What can I get started for you two?”

Lindsey looks at Chad, signaling for him to start.

“Yeah um I’ll take a Jack and Coke and whatever the lady wants”

The waitress turns to Lindsey.

“Just a water with lemon would be great, thanks” She smiles.

The waitress nods and walks away.

“Whiskey?” Lindsey quirks an eyebrow “Fancy”

The two laugh and he brushes his brunette hair out of his face. The waitress comes back with the drinks.

“Have you decided on your main course yet?” Lindsey looks at Chad and they both nod.

“I’ll have the breaded chicken and asparagus for the side please” she starts.

The two ladies look over at Chad, texting away on his phone.

“...And for you, sir?” The waitress prompts him.

Chad looks up with a puzzled look on his face, before studying the expressions around him.

“Oh! I’ll have a hamburger, everything on it and another round of whiskey” He says, flashing a charming smile and handing the waitress the menu.

Lindsey does the same and subtly winces at the man’s pronunciation of ‘whiskey’ knowing the Hollands would grill him for saying it like ‘hwhiskey’.

“So you’re one of those people huh?” Lindsey asks as soon as the waitress leaves.

Chad raises his eyebrows, signaling for her to go on.

“You’re one of those people constantly on your phone?” She continues, rolling her eyes for emphasis.

“What?” Chad asks, clearly shocked.

“No! I mean, yeah I’m on my phone sometimes but not constantly” He defends.

Lindsey nods with her eyebrows raised.

“So how are you?” He asks, setting his phone face up on the table.

Lindsey smiles, takes a sip of her water and nods.

“I’ve been alright. How about you?”

Chad picks up his phone again before putting it back down.

“Sorry this is embarrassing. It’s just my friends want updates every half hour. Y’know when I tell them I have a date with a pretty girl from the coffee shop, their mind instantly goes to ‘she’s a psycho, she’s gonna kidnap you’ when, I don’t think you will. Will you?”

Lindsey smiles and shakes her head.

“I definitely will not kidnap you”

Chad flashes the smile that makes every woman in the room weak in the knees.

“And I, you”

Harrison leans back in his office chair and opens up his laptop in search for another job from Tom. After seeing nothing from his colleague, Harrison is about to close his laptop until he sees an encrypted file.

H+L <3

His mind flashed back to when he made that file to keep all the silly pictures the two of them when they were young, dumb teenagers. He smiles, making sure the door is closed, typing in the password and then scrolling through the pictures of the two of them. He lands on one set looks at the time stamp in the lower right hand corner.

25/7/2013

They were seventeen at the time. The two were at the local pool with the Hollands. Harrison was shirtless and she was in that black bikini he loved to see on her. There was one picture of the two of them just smiling at the camera. Another one showed the two of them still smiling, only he’s looking at her with what Harry eventually called “heart eyes”. The final picture was her kissing him on the cheek. Harrison replicates the big smile depicted in the picture.

He clicks back even more to find a video of him. He clicks on it and instantly smiles at her laughter.

“Alright go, doofus” The young girl giggles behind the camera at her friend.

“Hi” He starts, gesturing with the knife in his hands.

“I’m Harrison Osterfield. And I’m gonna teach you how to cut hot bread”

Lindsey smiles and mutters a soft “You’re gonna poke someone’s eye out with that thing”

Harrison continues.

“As you can see, this is very hot”

He puts his finger on the bread in front of him.

“Ow”

Lindsey tried to muffle her laughter. Harrison playfully glares at her and continues.

“So instead of going with the conventional holding and… that, you’re gonna go… slight, keep tapping, holding”

He taps the bread frequently and then suddenly slams the knife down.

“JESUS CHRIST! HARRISON!” Lindsey screams after being pushed back into reality.

The two teenagers laugh as Lindsey goes to turn off the camera.

Harrison chuckles at the two kids on his computer screen, wishing he could go back to that day. Although the video showed nothing of her face, he pictured her with her infectious laugh and dazzling smile. He slams his laptop down, sighs and rakes his hands through his golden brown curls.

“Well, thank you for tonight, Chad” Lindsey says, standing in front of the mansion’s front door.

Lindsey could’ve sworn she felt like a teenager. Chad has driven her home and even walked her to the mansion doorstep.

“Of course” He says, pushing a stand of her hair before her ear.

The two gaze into each other’s eyes as the nearly magnetic pull brings them closer and closer together. Lindsey cracks a small smile as he leans in even more until their faces were mere millimeters apart and then

“You two done?”

The couple jumps apart from each other to see the one and only Harry Holland leaning against the raised doorway with raised eyebrows. Lindsey turns to glare at the younger man.

“Harry, you know it’s not polite to watch” She playfully mutters.

“Yeah yeah get inside, young lady. Or I’ll get Harrison down here”

Her eyes widen and she chuckles a bit. She gets on her tiptoes and kisses Chad on the cheek.

“Night, Chad” She says, quietly.

She walks into the mansion and punches Harry in the arm, muttering a slight

“Dickhead”.

As Lindsey walks up the stairs to Harrison’s room, Harry and Chad enter a staredown with each other.

“You Lindsey’s brother?” Chad asks matching Harry’s raised eyebrows.

Harry looks the older man up and down before grumbling

“In a sense”

Chad gulps, fearing the confrontation in front of him.

“I-I’m uh, Chad” he stutters, holding his hand out.

All Harry does is scoff and slam the door in his face.

As Lindsey walks up the stairs of the mansion, she passes someone in the bathroom, door ajar and everything. She stops and backs up.

“Harrison?” She asks, softly.

He looks up from what he was doing, meeting her worried gaze. Lindsey looks down to see his ripped up knuckles. She invites herself into the small space with him and closes the door.

“What the hell happened to you, Haz?” She asks, voice laced with anger and worry.

Holding his bruised and bloody hands in hers, she bent down to meet his eyes.

“Harrison?”

“What?” He grumbled back.

“I’m not gonna force you to tell me anything, you know this. But your hands…” She trails off before walking to the cupboard with the first aid kit.

As Lindsey removes the red box, Harrison takes it as a sign to use the toilet as a seat so she can do her work.

“This takes me back” She lightly smiles while bringing the kit over to him.

“May I?” she asks softly, gesturing to his legs.

Harrison nods and slowly she straddles him.

“As always, if my fat ass is smushing you, let me know alright?”

“Hey” he rests his bruised hand on her cheek.

“You know my usual answer to that, don’t you?”

Lindsey sighs, nods and grabs the gauze. She carefully removes Harrison’s hand from her cheek and starts to wrap the thin layers of gauze around it.

“What does it take you back to?” Harrison asks, softly breaking the comfortable silence between the two.

“Hmm?” Lindsey asks, looking up from her work to meet his bright blue eyes.

Harrison chuckles as she grabs his other hand, subconsciously setting the wrapped one down on her thigh.

“You said doing this brought you back. What’d it bring you back to?”

Lindsey laughs and shakes her head.

“Remember Quentin Harroway?” She asks, not even looking up from his hands.

Harrison scoffs.

“Of course I fucking remember Quentin Harroway. Son of a bitch made you come over to my place in fucking tears. Douchebag got what he deserved.”

“Easy, Osterfield he only stood me up and then ghosted me”

“And anyone with a brain would’ve treated you better”

Lindsey laughs.

“Is that your justification for beating the shit outta him?”

“Yep, and I like to think I did a pretty good job at doing so” Harrison smiles back at her.

Lindsey drops his other hand and places her hand on his cheek.

“Never change, Harrison” She whispers, her thumb rubbing against his cheekbone.

Slowly, Lindsey gets off Harrison’s lap. As she starts to walk away, Harrison grabs her wrist and gently pulls her back towards him earning him a gasp.

“Harrison” she whispers, gently pulling her wrist away from him.

“I just want you to know that all this,” He gestures to his hands.

“All of it was just a punching bag. There was no one else on the other side. No one got hurt”

“Besides you” She adds with a cocked eyebrow, causing him to laugh.

“Seriously, Linds. We are being safe. I’m being safe and it’s mainly because I know you’ll chew my ass out like there’s no tomorrow if I’m not”

Lindsey giggles at the last bit and brings Harrison into a big hug.

“Thank you” is all she whispers into his broad chest as he gently rubs his fingers through her hair.

The unidentified man sits in the budget motel room in nothing but dress pants and socks. The curtains are drawn shielding him from the rest of the world. The TV is on, providing a soft ambiance for his running thoughts. Open on his bed are various files, one of a curly, chocolate haired boy with matching eyes and a small birthmark on his upper lip.

Harry R. Holland

The second file had a slightly older man, similar hair and eye color, however there’s a scar on his forehead and he has a sharper jawline. More muscular than Harry but not completely bulky either.

Thomas S. “Tom” Holland

The third of four files is a man, the same age as Tom but that’s all they have in common. This man had caramel brown curls with blonde peeking through to the surface. His eyes were as blue as the sky. If not, they were bluer. His picture is the only one of the four with a smile.

Harrison J. “Haz” Osterfield

The fourth man was much older than the other three. He was taller than the others with less hair than them as well. He was on the chubbier side with the most bone-chilling scowl any man had ever seen. One look from that man and someone could instantly tell him what they deeply desired, what their future plans are and nearly collapse in a puddle all at once.

Gideon N. Fuller - DECEASED

The man’s train of thought is brutally interrupted by the loud sound of his phone ringing. He lets out an agitated groan as he checks the time. Seeing it’s way too late, or technically, early in the morning, he picks up his phone and looks at the caller ID.

Blocked Number

Letting out a heavy sigh, the man answers the call.

“What?” He asks, voice laced with annoyance.

His legs flex attempting to stretch them on the rock-hard mattress.

“Yeah, everything’s going according to plan”

The man sighs, swinging his legs over the floral patterned bed and standing up slowly.

“Yeah we have a location on the Hollands”

He runs a hand through his stringy hair and pours himself another cup of stale, watered down coffee.

“Yeah and the Osterfield boy as well. I’m not a complete moron you know”

The man pulls back the curtain and looks out at the rest of the motel in front of him.

“Yeah it looks like they all live in the same fucking house. That’s pretty stereotypical if you ask me” He laughs and leans against the frame of the window.

“Um yeah actually there was a bit of a problem I needed to run by you” The man pauses, looking back at his files and then back out the window.

“There seems to be a girl who’s been staying with them”

Another pause happens as the man quickly paces back to the bed, flipping through the files until he finds yet another connection between the four men.

“Yes I know, I’ll take care of them all” and then the man laughs.

“What’s so funny?” He repeats the question into his phone speaker.

“You’ll just have to see for yourself when you get here” He chuckles as he circles the phrase at the bottom of the files in red sharpie

Known Associate(s): Lindsey M. Fuller

TAGLIST

strikethrough means it’s not letting me tag you (shoot me a message!!)

Everything

@og-baby-ob14 @were-all-gay-down-here @girlreaderr

@saturn-aka-six @theasexualbunny @random-stuff-18 @marvelismylifffe @Spiderdudeparker @summertime-acoustic

Haz

@brighterhollands @upsidedownparker @the-queen-procrastinator @desir-ae

@mischiefmanaged49

Kiss Me Goodbye

@tomshufflepuff

Groupchat

@grace-wheeze @lamptracker @girl-in-the-chair @casualprincess77  @musiclover1263 @sendspidermanpics

[purpleoffbeat]

Cyberella

This is the old story of an unfortunate girl, who was treated like a slave by her step-family.

This is also a new story, one that cannot happen yet, a future fairytale for those who believe in the power of science.

This is the story of Cyberella.

Names matter not, for in the future everyone is catalogued by a terrifying string of numbers and letters. You are not the name given to you, you are yet another citizen in this incredible metropolis, filled with several dozen story-high apartment complexes, only reasonably reached by vehicles that defy gravity, an old technology of flying transportation, now several decades old.

Most still live that old-fashioned way of life, being born to two doting parents, living their whole life in an apartment fit for a small family. An unfortunate few are destined to live forever in the outskirts of town, where technology doesn't seem to ever catch up, where things are just a bit more difficult, but it's the kind of living the city-dwellers pity for a minute, and then never do a thing about.

Then there's those rare few who happen to be lucky enough to live in those regular houses, an ancient way of life nearly obsolete, now something only the most wealthy can afford.

It doesn't really matter how it came to be; what truly matters is the present. How a poor girl was unfortunate to lose both her parents and become the resident housekeeper (and metaphorical doormat) was nothing but another passing thought; the more pressing matter was the arduous chore at hand.

"How many times have I told you to update the house software! None of us have personalized A.R.T. Display management yet and it's all your fault!"

One of her step-sisters was once again complaining. Nevermind the fact that the last update had only come out that very morning, the Artistic Room Transmission Display had to be updated yet again and immediately.

"Cindy", as her step-family had named her, was just about to finish repairing the robot cook, but now a very different kind of task had just been imposed on her. Updating software was something even a 4-year-old could do. Tinkering with robots was so much more fun, even if they were part of the horrible daily routine. In fact, when given the very rare opportunity to take a break, Cindy would always read e-books about robotics, smart-house programming and occasionally networking. She swore there had to be a way to automatize all the robots in order to do her work instead, but it would be difficult making it seem she was working as always under the watchful eyes of her family.

Ah yes, family. A word that had lost all meaning since childhood. The ancient saying "you can't choose family" still held true today.

Yet again, someone was yelling at her. Thankfully, Cindy had learned how to tune out her family's demands while still knowing what she was told to do.

Throughout the house, you could easily hear the televisions, all tuned into one of the government-sanctioned news channels, and the newsman announcing:

"...has alerted through social media his upcoming birthday party, to be held in the Nightlife Nightclub, open to all young women who receive an invitation. It seems the event will not allow entrance to anyone else, and will last all night long, until sunrise. It seems the main purpose will be to find a suitable girlfriend and possible future wife for the "Prince". And now for the weather..."

Everyone had already expected this. The internet catches up on the gossip pretty easily, after all.

The "Prince" was none other than the oldest son of the current President. His real name, Christopher, was generally disregarded for the nickname he had received since young, "Prince".

The step-sisters had been talking about the event for far longer the news had bothered to. By now, Cindy was sick and tired of hearing about it. It's probably just another one of those irritating parties for shallow people to show off how shallow and superficial they are. Nothing of value to be gained from it.

All Cindy was looking forward to was having a quieter night, without her terrible sisters, but still with her mother. Maybe even go to sleep a little earlier, that would really be nice.

The day of the party eventually came, and with it the constant nagging by her family. She was ordered to help them with dressing up, putting on makeup and doing their hair, the usual every time they went out to some sort of event.

None of them looked particularly beautiful, but it was best to lie and pretend they've never looked so good, lest they decide they should give Cindy yet another sermon about respecting her family. How unfair, it seems they don't need to respect their housekeeper!

And they were off. Hopefully they would take a long time there. Their mother had already made it clear she would insist she belongs in the party, but it was obvious she would get thrown out quickly.

Cindy couldn't care less. Being home alone was a wonderful rare occasion, wasting this opportunity would be silly.

Just as she was ready to sit back and relax with a nice e-book, the doorbell rang.

Cindy grunted. It was probably one of her sisters, who must've forgotten something.

She reached for the door and carefully opened it, asking,

"Who is it?"

"A generous wonderer."

A cloaked stranger, just a couple steps away from the entrance. It couldn't be another one of those vendors, at this time of night?!

But then, the stranger removed the hood of their cloak, and Cindy couldn't help but gasp.

This stranger seemed to be an old lady, but most of her face was covered in visible circuitry, her cheeks glowing with the LEDs just under the outer surface of the skin. One eye was clearly an implant, but her smile was sweet and genuine.

"Good evening, my dear. I have come to change your life. I have all that you need for a magical night out. I have the clothes, the car and I have an invitation to that party for tonight. Will you let me in?"

Cindy couldn't believe it. What the heck was this stranger babbling about?

"Um, I'm sorry, but I don't have the time to listen to-"

The stranger put her foot in the doorway. A trick all vendors used, too.

"Ah, it seems you misunderstand."

With a sigh, Cindy opened the door just a bit more, but not so much the stranger could get it. Now, Cindy's whole body was visible, the old, ragged clothes, the messy bun her hair was tied in, the awfully dirty shoes. She looked like she came from the past. The 2020's, perhaps?

"Oh, my! Honey, the absolute state you're in! I will take care of you, I promise, please just let me in for a minute."

"Wait, hold on a second; who are you?! I am not allowed to let strangers in, but here you are, basically demanding I let you in?? I apologize, but I really cannot."

"Aha... Apparently, you still don't get it. Ever heard those kinds of fairytales where the poor girl dresses up all beautiful and has a happy ending? I am here to make that come true."

Cindy still couldn't really believe it. Surely, this was just another crazy old lady who doesn't even realize what she's saying, and-

The old lady then pulled a strange machine out of the pocket of her cloak. It almost looked like a phone, or tablet, but bigger and bulkier. It had a glowing hole at the top of it, clearly a modern scanner.

"With this I will give you the most beautiful clothes you have ever seen. Please, just give me a chance."

Almost like a reflex, Cindy opened the door further, watching the old lady tap on buttons on the screen of her gadget. Soon after, she pointed it at Cindy, who then started to glow as her clothes began modifying themselves. This was a very new invention, only reserved for the most wealthy. Clearly, this old lady was either a very important person in disguise, or she had somehow stolen the device from someone.

Either way, the transformation didn't take very long. Cindy was now wearing a beautiful blue crop top and a matching skirt. They were dazzling clothes, but also very easy to move in, which was perfect for a dance party.

She couldn't believe what she was seeing. The old lady hadn't lied!

"What is this?! How did you do that?!" Cindy was already more interested in how it worked than how she looked.

"It is all thanks to this, my darling. And I can make it so much better!"

The old lady was again tapping on the screen. Then, with the press of a button, Cindy's hair turned wavy and curly at the ends. As the mysterious lady handed her a small mirror, Cindy's hair also gained a few blue highlights, which matched her new clothes. Makeup suddenly appeared on her face. It looked just like it had been done by a professional. Beautiful dazzling accessories materialized on her arms and a necklace on her neck.

"Wow...! I've never looked this amazing in my entire life!"

"Oh, you poor girl. All young women your age deserve to feel this beautiful at least one in their life! But hold on a second, there's just one thing left..."

The last thing, her shoes, morphed and transformed into beautiful, glittering stilettos, which appeared to be made of glass.

"Now you're perfect. Your outer appearance finally matches your beautiful personality! Hahaha..."

"Wait, how do you know about me? Only mother and my sisters know about my existence... I have never met you! I need to know who you are!"

"Ah, you are just as curious as ever, my dear. You see, I used to know your parents. In fact, I was your godmother, before your step-mother took you from me. After your parents tragically died many years ago, I knew the right thing to do was to find you and help you. I work with the government, so I have access to the list of citizens of this area. They do not list your name, of course, but I knew how and where to find you due to the data logs with your citizen I.D. code. Does that answer all your questions?"

Cindy was flabbergasted. No wonder this strange woman knew so much about her! But more importantly, if she knew her parents, then she would know what happened to them!

"Oh, please, my parents, tell me what hap-"

"I know. I know... But today is not the right day to talk about that. We can discuss that some other time. Right now..."

She turned to let Cindy take a look at her car. It was clearly a flying car. Cindy couldn't remember the last time she rode on one of those!

"...We need to get you to the Prince's birthday party."

Cindy didn't even think twice. This was the best day of her life! She only took a moment to lock the door and follow the old lady to her car.

"Oh, by the way, honey, I refuse to call you "Cindy" like they do. What a terrible name to mock someone with!"

"Well, what is my real name?"

"Your parents named you Ella. And that is what I'm going to call you. And you can call me granny!" She laughed.

Ella! What a beautiful name. She had no idea she deserved such a wonderful name to go by.

"Granny" took off her cloak and got in the car along with Ella. Now, it was much easier to see the circuitry under her skin. Her left arm also looked like a prosthetic arm... It seemed she had cheated disease and death many times. Almost like a true fairy...

They reached the nightclub where the party was being held at. Granny handed her an invitation, and Ella was dropped off.

Ella had never been to a nightclub, and it was much more grandiose than she had expected. Lights and lasers of all colors filled the air, heavy with human heat and the loud music. Somehow, everyone seemed to be able to talk to one another anyway.

Ella expected to feel uncomfortable, but she had never felt so excited on her whole life. She immediately began moving to the beat on the dancefloor. All the girls were stunning, but none compared to Ella's natural beauty. She didn't even notice all the gasps and murmurs, and the girls gossiping about the girl they had never seen in their whole lives before. Ella was just focused on having the time of her life, the opportunity she had never had, truly feeling like she was living life to the fullest at that very moment.

She couldn't even remember how much time had passed, nor how her current situation came to be, but when she noticed, there was a handsome young man dancing by her side. So they began dancing together, with loads of people focused more on looking at them, rather than their dance moves.

At some point, the boy tried to talk to Ella. Unfortunately she couldn't really understand what he was saying, repeating "what?" several times.

"What... name?"

"Name...?"

"... your name!"

"My name is Ci- I mean, Ella!"

And right at that moment she noticed two girls, right next to her, just staring. It took her only a moment to realize: her step-sisters had figured out her disguise.

Shocked, she bolted to the entrance of the nightclub, her sisters following suit. The parking lot for flying cars was right next to the door, and Ella began immediately looking for Granny's car.

"Granny! Granny! I need to go home, now!"

"What's the matter?"

"My sisters, they saw me. Quick I need to be there and get changed before they notice!"

After coming back home, Ella asked Granny to turn her back to normal, and she did. Granny then disappeared to not be seen.

Not long after, the door opened and her sisters ran around the house to find Ella; she simply sat in her bedroom pretending like nothing had happened.

Ella hoped that at least they would go back, as it was only midnight, but much to her frustration, they stayed home. So much for a quiet night, or for a night out.

The very next day, the news began reporting about the Price wanting to find a certain girl he had met the previous night.

"... have a picture of the shoes worn by the mysterious girl. It seems she left the shoes by the entrance of the Nightlife Nightclub. How..."

Wait, what? The shoes? When did she drop them? Ella couldn't even remember.

"...has ordered for footprints and DNA to be gathered from the shoes to match with the mystery girl. Unfortunately, the footprint does not match any class A or B girls around the Prince's age, so a search is now being conducted as per orders of the President. In other..."

Oh no, this was bad! If they actually found out Ella was the mystery girl, she would be in trouble for her whole life! Mother would punish her severely, she can't even imagine...

And as she predicted, a group of investigators came to search for the girl. Ella's step-mother didn't allow for the group to investigate the house freely, lest the shoe match Ella's foot! Ella herself didn't want to be found out either way.

"Excuse me, but I would like to ask once more that you allow us to search the house-" the Prince himself had come with the investigators.

"Oh! Oh, my!" Mother was very surprised. "If you insist..."

And surely enough they found Ella, cowering on her bed, hoping she wasn't found out.

They tried seeing if the evidence matched either of her step-sisters. It did not, despite all their claims that they were, in fact, the one the Prince is looking for. They even tried to match with the step-mother, despite the fact that she had never been allowed once within the nightclub. A negative, much to no one's surprise.

But then came Ella's turn.

"I'm sorry but I was home the entire night... there is no way-"

"Please. I'm getting desperate." the prince was now talking to her directly. "I need to find my Cyberella."

"...Excuse me?!?"

Cyberella. As it turned out, that's what the Prince could've sworn he heard the mystery girl say, when he asked for her name.

Ella tried her hardest not to laugh. She had been about to say "Cindy" when she remembered her true name. It hadn't been her intention to give herself such a silly nickname.

"Um, well, okay. If you insist..."

The instigators gathered her footprints. It was a clear match. Everyone was surprised, except for Ella, who was pretending to be shocked.

"It is you...!"

"It has to be a mistake! I locked her- I mean- she decided to stay home! She didn't come with me and my other, beautiful daughters." the step-mother moaned.

But the Prince couldn't care less. His eyes were only for Ella.

And her eyes were only for him.

Despite Ella's terrible step-family, the Prince arranged for her to move to a nice small apartment. He convinced her to sue her step-mother for the horrible treatment she had given her, and helped her with all that she needed to live by herself, while the two started a beautiful relationship.

Granny had once come to visit. Promising to explain all that had happened, and help too.

And like all good fairytales, the good guys win, and they lived happily ever after.

[plagued-yakuza]

To Have You Back

So apparently I can’t read, or if I did I forgot, because I totally missed the deadline for posting the OP x BNHA hub event! ;A; Honestly, I almost cried when the mods of @onepiecerphub​ contacted me. I’m terribly, TERRIBLY sorry!! @askblackleg-sanji​ please have my apologies alongside your gift! I loved your content and I think you’re a great artist and such a chill person. I’m willing to write you another one to make up for the delay if you want ;w;

This piece has been half-finished in my drafts since the beginning of September, and since my class today was canceled, I took the time for some tweeking and updating to make it more manga-compliant. Once again, I’m really sorry for the delay! No content warning for this that except for innuendo and manga spoilers - but it’s kinda big, so it goes under a read more.

Summary: They finally meet again in Wano. While things may have changed, others are exactly as they should be. (ZoSan | One Piece)

Moonlight paints the ruined castle in shades of silver and black, glossing over the remains of destruction, less of a tragedy and more like a dream. The existent warmth comes from the embers of their bonfire, already dulled by Wano’s insistent winds, only strong enough to create a smaller circle of golden light and heat. They’re scattered around it, wrapped around themselves to keep precious body heat, the only sounds those of a peaceful night after the stress of the afternoon and the emotional tales of the evening.  

Still, one of the pirates has not fallen asleep. Despite the tiredness weighing down his bones, Sanji is wide awake, the light smoke of the cigarette and the pleasant twirl of his thoughts to his company. He has never been to Wano before, and yet it feels like home, like belonging. During the dreadful time in Whole Cake island, he has longed for this - for the sight of his asleep nakama nearby, for the safety and comfort of their presence. Luffy’s light snoring to disturb the occasional song of the cicadas, Chopper bundling up with Nami and Carrot to share a cover, Momonosuke laying against Kin’emon, even Torao asleep with that silly hat over his face. After almost giving up on it all, even if for reasons he thought for the best at the time, he treasures it even further, and the quiet joy keeps him awake for longer than he thought that night.

There is the light shuffling of cloth nearby, along with the tinkling of metal as it shifts in its leather band with the owner’s movements. Sanji makes no comment as the green-haired man takes a place beside him next to the dying fire, seemingly too caught up in his own thoughts to care. Zoro lets a long sigh escape his throat as he stretches his tired muscles, knowingly calling to himself an attention that he already had.

“So…. The girl?” The swordsman asks casually, fingers drumming against his hurting neck. His good eye is closed, his silhouette drawn in yellow and black against the fire, a sight that Sanji is pleased to be the only one awake to see.

“Didn’t really work out.” The chef shrugs lightly, taking in a deep puff from his cigarette rather than expanding more on what happened in Tottoland. He needs the calming numbness of nicotine to push it away from his mind, a sign he knows the other will understand.

Zoro snorts, a tiny smile playing on the edge of his lips - the mere sight makes Sanji frown, the edge between his brows deepening with the following comment. “I bet it didn’t.”

“What are you implying, eh?”

“That not even Big Mom’s ugly kid wanted you.”

“Fuck off! She was really pretty!” The blonde huffs, smoke puffing out from his nostrils as he glances beside him in annoyance.

“Oh, was she then? Then why all that trouble of sending Bege and shit to get you there? Like you wouldn’t do a thing for a skirt.”

“You’re wearing one.” The reply is smooth and self-assured both, a playful jab with a not at all subtle hint. He can see Zoro grim with the edge of his eyes, and he knows this means a small victory in their rather particular way of flirting.

“Last time you met a nice lady you got all beaten up. Or did you?”

“I’ll beat you up myself if you keep up with this bullshit, Marimo.”

"Would you?” Zoro’s reply is as sharp as his swordsmanship, an eyebrow lifted slightly in provocation, and in between his words is a promise that paints the tips of Sanji’s ears red.

“I will.” The chef is quick to assure, breathing in smoke to hide his embarrassment as his gaze shifts away, back to the fire, to recollect himself and change the subject. “What were you up to, during that?”

“Was accused of killing some dudes. Had to leave the capitol for that - Torao was pretty pissed.”

“And did you cut them?”

“Of course not. He only wanted Shusui.” He makes a mention to the swords held close to his hip, his index finger laying on the flowery handguard of the dark-bladed treasure. The touch is soft, as caring as he is when they’re alone like this. “They thought I stole this from an old samurai, but it was that creepy shadow dude that got his body and brought him back. He gave it to me after we fought.”

“That was back in Thriller Bark, right?” At the time, it had been terrifying; two years later, Sanji is surprised on how nostalgic it feels to remember the decaying boat and its inhabitants. “Such a long time ago.”

“You’d figure they’d have found out earlier I wasn’t here all that time back. But the attacker himself was the judge, and tried to accuse me of using it against some others, so I cut him down.”

“You cut down the judge?”

“And the building.” Zoro adds solemnly, with a light nod of his head.

Sanji cannot hold it anymore - he laughs aloud, almost wheezing in between breaths. The fingers that hold his cigarette are trembling slightly as they bring it back to his mouth, an effort to keep himself quiet and not awake their companions. It is their moment, and he does not wish to interrupt it. “That’s such a Marimo thing to do. Bet you didn’t even think of the consequences, did ya?”

“What for? I’ll just cut whoever comes my way.”

It takes more willpower this time to hold back the laughs, and he fails to control the smile that insists to come out when he hears such things from dumb Marimo. It feels so easy, so liberating - he envies it, and the feeling comes out the smoke as the cook sighs. “I wish I could be as straight-minded as you and the captain. Sometimes I think about things too much.”

“That’s your fault.” The swordsman replies in the same beat, an accusatory finger poking against Sanji’s temples as he glares at his companion with a narrowed eye. “You and this swirly eyebrow, it catches your thoughts and prevents them from leaving your brain.”

“It what?”

“You’re a dumbass.”

“Says who?? Nothing you just said makes sense!”

“Makes more sense than your face.”

“I’ll put sense in you so hard you’ll remember my shoe size forever!”

“That’s if I don’t cut you up and serve you for dinner first!”

They’re up to each other now, hands on collars, faces close enough for their noses to touch, and it is a miracle the altercation has not awaken any of their companions. Sanji’s long-forgotten cigarette is turning to ash on the floor, a different kind of drug in his veins as he leans closer, the grip on his clothes softening as his lover does the same. The hidden touch of their lips is what he missed the most - the way their tongues seem to meld against each other, to be close enough to feel his body heat and his scent, to dig his fingers into that stupidly soft green hair. He missed those stolen moments in the Sunny, away from the well-intentioned but nosy eyes of their crewmates, and the dance of competition, playful insults and teasing provocations they share in their own pace.

He missed Zoro, most of all, and he has no heart to put in words how he dreaded never seeing him again.

They back off slowly from each other, in between heavy breaths and burning cheeks, fingers intertwined and foreheads touching in the feeling of longing and the thrill of danger. They could very well have been caught, kissing right there where any of their nakama could see, and it makes Sanji’s heart drum faster in his ears with the need of doing it again.  

Yet the swordsman backs off, green hair brushing against the cook’s cheek as he moves to lay his head on his shoulder. Almost instinctively, the prince’s hand rises to caress his lover’s hair, long, skilled fingers combing through in a calming gesture. It is only due to the quiet environment that he can hear Zoro whispering against his shoulder, the grip in his other hand tightening. “I missed you. Dumbass. I thought you’d stay with that girl forever.”

“I would never leave the crew. Or Luffy. Or you.”

“Nice to see your level of priorities.” The green haired grumbles, shifting his position to glare annoyedly at Sanji in between long eyelashes. “I come last, eh?”

“Suits you well for how annoying you are.” The blonde teases back, a smirk playing in his reddened lips. His gaze softens despite that, the proximity and softness under his fingertips mellowing his teasing lightly. “You know I’d never truly leave, right?”

“Fucking no.” Zoro buries his head on the chef’s shoulder again, half-hiding from his own embarrassment, half-eager for the closeness. “You’d leave us and marry the girl just so we could all be safe or some bullshit. Stop putting yourself on the line, Swirly Eyebrow. How am I supposed to deal with that?”

“I’m sorry.” Sanji mumbles back in quiet remorse, the echo of Luffy’s words fresh in his mind. I just wanted to keep you all safe, is all he wants to say, but Zoro knows it; he can feel it in the way the swordmaster pulls him closer, in the light huff of anger he lets out. He knows and he hates it, and they will butt heads for this and for so many other things in the days and years to come. For once, Sanji does not want to think of sacrifice. He just wants to stay there for a while longer, to kiss the top of Zoro’s head and whisper: “But I’m here. I’m right here, and here to stay.”

It won’t last forever, they’re both aware of that. As morning comes, their nakama will awake to find Sanji making breakfast and Zoro napping, and think no else of it. But for now, they have this moment - a place to belong, even in the dreadful Wano country, and a memory written in moonlight amidst those ruins.

“......At least I’m glad to have you back.”

[heroismdreams-moved]

Explanation : Cynthia's Personal Brand of Heroics

Cynthia is loud, and very active about her desire to become an epic heroine, the kind bards sing about and whom people look up to in the future. However, we know that this isn’t always the kind of person that she was thanks to the following Harvest Scramble conversation with Severa :

Severa: I remember now. I remember it ALL! Back before you started playing with the boys, you were the girliest of ALL of us! Cynthia: Um... Yeah. I guess I was. Heh heh, I didn't think you'd remember that... Severa: Then all of a sudden you transformed overnight! It's like something... Oh. Oh no. Cynthia, wasn't that... That was right around when... Your mother... Cynthia: ...Yeah. After the Risen killed her. Being such a mama's girl, losing her was... It just...hurt so much. I was so angry. After that, doing girly stuff... It all felt so pointless. I didn't care about being pretty. I just wanted to be strong enough to avenge her. I suppose I looked at the boys and thought they seemed stronger... It's silly, huh? When you spell it all out. But you know how kids are. Severa: That's why you decided to be a hero? Cynthia: Heh, yeah...

This conversation perfectly highlights that becoming a hero wasn’t something that she’s wanted to be for a long time, it was the result of a deep trauma of losing someone she cared deeply about. However, I do not believe that this trauma led to the heroic personality we now know and see in her, as this dialogue implies she would be today an ‘Avenger’ type hero. There must be more.

Allow me to submit this line of dialogue from Cynthia and Yarne’s B-Support:

Yarne: But I WANT to fight! I'm tired of feeling so pathetic. Everyone else is fighting with everything they've got, and I'm still turning tail. Cynthia: Well then, if you want it that bad, maybe you can work through the fear. […] Cynthia: You should become a hero! Yarne: A...hero? Cynthia: Yeah! A hero just like me! I mean, I'm still in training myself, but you could join me! It'll be totally great!

To me this dialogue implies that Cynthia’s descision to be a hero wasn’t just born out of a desire for revenge, but of pure fear as well. She offers the solution of becoming a hero after he confides that he doesn’t want to be afraid anymore. This likely was her own thought process as well.

Let’s quickly examine two of Cynthia’s Event Tiles responses to what she does in her freetime, and what she dreams about :

"I make sure everyone is safe! Seeing another crisis averted makes me happy."

"I dream of becoming someone's hero! I want to protect the people who matter."

The first quote implies that at the start of her path to become a hero she sought to be the Avenger-Type hero, not unlike Owain himself. This would make sense if she saw Owain and the other boys her age and thought to be ‘strong like them.’ But the above quotes from her Event Tiles do not sound like an Avenger, but a Protector instead.

I will not submit my next bit of evidence - the C-Support and the B-Support between the two ‘Heroic’ Future Kids, Owain and Cynthia.

Cynthia: Okay, fine. But this is just between us! So I'm trying to plan a dramatic entrance for our next battle. Something...heroic. Owain: Well, if you're going to be a hero, there's only one real option... Wait until your friends are on the brink of defeat, then show up and smite the enemy! There's nothing more heroic than a big comeback. Cynthia: That's terrible! I can't do that! Owain: Why not? A hero always shows up at the last minute. It's in the job description. Cynthia: No, it's not! A real hero is there the whole time, tirelessly defending her allies! [...] Cynthia: Well, I've been thinking about what you said, and it still feels wrong. You want me to wait and appear at the end, but what if someone needs me? What if they get hurt? Or...worse? Owain: That's the whole point! You come swooping in just before anyone gets hurt! Cynthia: But what if you're too late? Owain: Just don't let it happen. Situational analysis is a basic part of heroism. Cynthia: Mmm, it's still a risk. I think I'd rather just be there from the beginning.

Cynthia’s idea of a hero, as outlined above, is someone who fights there from the beginning, someone on the front lines, someone who doesn’t want to risk the lives of those she cares about.

I believe that in the process from being the Avenger-Type Hero and to the Protector-Type Hero, Cynthia likely lost more than just her parents, that due to her own inaction and hesitance, someone lost their life right in front of her eyes. After that, avenging the death of her parents was no longer as important to her, but rather keeping everyone else alive was. 

But, this still doesn’t make up her entire Hero persona; She acts brave, she acts hero-like, but most importantly, she’s cheerful. Allow me to now present my next bits of dialogue, lifted from Cynthia’s C-Support with a Female Avatar, her C and B support with Yarne, and her C and Support with Lucina.

Cynthia: Hey, stop worrying already! I can take care of myself. I'm a hero, remember? It's my job to rally and inspire our comrades.

Yarne: H-hey! That's not... Oh, who am I kidding. Yes I am. Mostly, I'm just surprised to hear you say I'm all right the way I am. You're the only one who thinks so. So, yeah. Thanks. Cynthia: Aw, come on, buddy. Smile! As a hero, I'm not allowed to leave the scene until you're wearing a grin. Yarne: R-right. I'll try. […] Cynthia: Pffft! All you have to do is stand up to evil and help anyone who needs helping. If you follow those two rules, anyone can become a hero!

Lucina: I'm afraid such techniques aren't my style. I try not to attract undue attention on the battlefield, as a rule. Cynthia: But nailing a really flamboyant move would be a guaranteed morale booster! Lucina: You really think morale would be boosted if I "nailed a flamboyant move"? Cynthia: I'm shocked you even have to ask! You're like a shining ray of hope for us. Both as Chrom's kid AND a fighter! And with such a heroic role comes a responsibility to inspire your allies. A single word or action from you could turn the tide of an entire battle! […] […] Lucina: Er... C-Come forth...light of justice? Cynthia: You're not selling it! What happened to the bold warrior-goddess Lucina I know? You're fearless in combat—how can you be afraid of a few lines of dialogue?! Lucina: I'm sorry. It's just... It IS rather embarrassing. Cynthia: Only because you're not putting your heart into it!If you really belt it out, you'll be surprised how convincing it sounds! It's called "method acting", and it's all the rage among theater folk nowadays. Lucina: If you say so... Cynthia: Trust me, I've been doing this all my life. […] Cynthia: Listen to you! I don't know about the others, but MY morale is through the roof! This is so hero-y!

Inspiration, smiles, morale - Cynthia equates all of this with her hero persona as well. We know that her future was dark, bleak, to the point where nothing there would grow anymore. They lost a lot of lives, and were fighting against a literal deity with an army of death at it’s side. 

I believe depression was a large problem around the army. I believe fear was a problem as well. I believe it’s likely that some people just... gave up entirely.

This, I feel, is the last piece of the puzzle that explains Cynthia’s personal brand of heroics - people were dying because they didn’t have hope anymore. Cynthia had already decided that as a hero she couldn’t let anyone else die, so what is a hero to do than put on a smile, give out inspiring speeches, help everyone that she can, and do whatever she can to rally the people already under her protection.

Cynthia’s solo ending is thus :

Cynthia never gave up on becoming a hero and traveled the land in the name of justice. While she impacted the world of comedy more than the world of legend, people still loved her for trying.

And I feel like the fact that she impacted ‘comedy’ more than anything else would’ve been alright with her, as the lack of joy in her world was among the last enemies she had to fight.

Tldr : Cynthia’s heroics emerged as a defense mechanism to deal with her mother’s death, and over time it evolved to her trying to keep people alive from both physical and mental threats.

Oh, and one more thing - check out Sumia and Robin’s A-support!

Sumia: Hold, Avatar! Do you think me insane?! Avatar: Well, I didn't... Sumia: For I see that which others cannot! Demons and devils lurk in shadows dark! Avatar: A-are you feeling all right, Sumia? Perhaps I should summon a healer... Sumia: ...What? Hee hee! Oh, no, I'm fine! See, I'm reading a new book. I was just pretending to be the heroine. Her name is Madame Shambles, and she sees what others cannot in shadows dark! Anyway, I've been saying her lines to try and get inside her head and be more like her. ...Do you think that's weird? Avatar: Yes, it's actually very weird. Sumia: Oh, pegasus dung! I was worried it might be. But see, I thought if I could act like her, I'd maybe become less of a clod.

Like mother like daughter...

Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

[moonlit-nightingale]

.:RP-Void Crystal Arc:. A Friendly Visit

Characters:

Saranqerel Qalli (male Xaela), Dain Kotodama (male Xaela)

Rating: Nothing scary, general. 

Origin Date: 10 May 2018

Tired, sore, and immersed in something he’d always wanted to avoid, Sari is paid a visit by a trusted friend and brother.

-------------

Shigiyama Dataqkahkol had meandered through the camp, blade at his side, in search of the smaller Qalli. It was almost entirely awash before he spotted the man in the corner of a war map. Masked head canting to the side as he approached. <Such a big map. The Alliance is silly.>

Saranqerel Qalli was taking a break from the stuffy tent, looking over the table. It was quiet, especially in wake of the latest attacks. Rest was needed. <D-dain! What are you doing out here?> He slowly stands, hands on the table for support.

<I was making my way to the kitchen. I have become very, very, lost.> It's said so simply. As though he were serious, the mask cutting off facial expressions didn't help one bit. <You look ragged. You aren't sleeping. Are you eating at least?>

Saranqerel Qalli tilts his head to the side, tired state making him miss the joke. <The mess hall is that way...> He points to his right near a bunch of tents. <The local innkeep helps quite a bit, we're blessed to have him.>

<Sari. You know I live in Hingashi now, yes?>

Saranqerel Qalli is quiet, mind slowly putting things together. <Oh.> Is all that is said. Slow, computing. <A...anyway, you shouldn't be here. The combat is a bit too close to this place as of late.>

Shigiyama Dataqkahkol stared at Sari. Though his right hand, as the left was still actively missing, reached up to slip the plate of the mask away. Clipping it to his side. <I won't be long don't worry. Family is visiting the dojo soon... but family is out here as well and I was concerned, reading your notice.>

<Family at the dojo? And I’m fine, just a few bruises and bumps.> He'd honestly forgotten about his own mask, it had been such a habit to wear it as such.

Shigiyama Dataqkahkol nodded once. Fingertips tapping against the porcelain seeming plate. <The seven - my masters other students. I haven't seen them since the war ended.> Though with a shake of his head, he didn't tarry there. <I'm more concerned about you, especially after seeing you like this.>

Saranqerel Qalli smiles a bit at that. <It seems you have your hands, um, hand, busy. Too busy to worry about me. Zen and the knight fellow...Roi, I think? They've both lent a hand.>

<I've heard, and truthfully... If it weren't for my arm and my mind, I would offer my blade as well. Currently I'm being kept as Botan's body guard, far away from actual fighting.> A deep sigh left him at that. Though his hand reached to a satchel, tossing it to Sari, landing atop the map and certainly scattering any little pieces it hit! <Dried meat and a preserved fruit bread. Traveling food... as close to home as I could do. Really, I had help in the kitchen.>

Saranqerel Qalli gives a small yelp at the scattering of pieces. He spent so long making sure they were perfect! He reached over the long table, nearly laying on it to try and put them back. <T-thank you. I wouldn't want you here anyway. Nothing personal but it /is/ best for you to recover. Thank you for the food though.> A brighter smile under messy bangs as he was still splayed over the table, tail giving a weak swish. <How is everyone back at Quill?>

Shigiyama Dataqkahkol was probably proud the pieces went everywhere. Destruction, making a mess of tables, he could appreciate these things. <Safer now. The mission against Monsutra was called off, from my understanding no survivors had been found. Botan has her voice back as well! Though people have entered a state of silence in home and hearth.>

 <Oh!> A blink behind that Wailer mask as he rights a piece near a depiction of the river. <I'm glad to hear she's doing well!> Though the news of that terrifying fight in the Ruby Sea was not fondly remembered. <I wonder what she sounds like...>

<It is adorable, but I wouldn't tell her that. I'm in enough trouble with the whole arm being destroyed bit.>

<Maybe I'll make sure to tell her that when I next write as payback for messing up my map!> The pieces were finally finished being set and Sari slid off the the table, both feet flat on the ground once more. <You still haven't gotten that fixed...? That had to make things difficult.>

<We are busy with things, so I haven't pestered her actively about it no.> The man sheepishly reached up to rub the back of his head. <I can wait... I am not a valuable pawn right now anyways.>

<Value isn't something that should be attached to people in a priority fashion, brother. If I had the knowledge, I'd do so myself. It would be a welcome distraction.> The bag was pulled over the be browsed through, familiar scents making him smile.

Shigiyama Dataqkahkol waved the thought off. <If a pawn cannot help it's master achieve their goals it is bereft of value. Though I am somewhat harsh, as I am not a useless piece. Just... not as useful as other concerns.>

<Your presence here this evening is most valuable if you want to put weight on such things. Seeing a familiar friendly face that /isn't/ in the Alliance is more than welcome.> The sack is sealed again as he looks over with a happy but tired tail swish.

<So if I joined the Alliance it would then ruin your evening.> A thoughtful hum follows this; but only for a moment as even he laughs. <When this is over you must come visit us in the East. You have family worried about you there.>

<I'd like that. It feels like it's been some time.> The pack is held close to his chest, the gear worn and dirty. <And I want you to take care of yourself and get that hand fixed!>

<It has been... Though, if I may say, you seem somehow less heartbroken now?> A small sound leaving the man as his fingertips brushed along the mask again. Like his attire something carefully put together to better represent his master. <Purpose has done good things for you.>

<Ah...well.> The masked gaze looks to the table. <I've come to terms that perhaps I'll never find someone in a way I want. But I have friends and family I hold dear and I need to stop forgetting how much they care.>

<It is best to build first into the love of family, everything else will follow as Nhaama ordains it.> A small nod is given, a brief smile. <You know... I find it hard to determine the moment you became a man. I had known a growing boy, but look at you now. For whatever it may be worth I am proud.>

Saranqerel Qalli tilts his head to the side, looking back up. There may be the slightest of a blush visible under the half-mask. <...I wasn't aware I came off as anything less when we met.> A curl of the long scaly limb in embarrassment, scraping the stone gently.

<You were a bright eyed son of the Steppe, like a much more mature version of myself when I left!> As though he was all that much older. <In any case. You've grown well. I can't wait to see whom you yet become.>

One hand left cradling the gift of food to scratch near the edge of the mask. <...t...thank you, brother. It's appreciated. You as well. The new gear suits you.>

Shigiyama Dataqkahkol smiles a bit broader to this. <I think so too. Though not fitting for my duties as teacher I felt it more... 'doll like?' And that fits the one whom I serve.>

<I wouldn't say like a doll.> The description can't help but make him smile. <It's very distinguished.>

Shigiyama Dataqkahkol hums a moment. <I suppose back to my tailors? But...> The man shifted, bowing deeply to Sari. <A matter I may have you help in when you come visit. A reason to pressure you into following through and doing so.>

<I'm afraid I know nothing of clothes, that's why they issue me this.> The Qalli chuckles with a shrug, the golden of the cloth muted with sandy dust. <Though there is no need to pressure me. As soon as I do my duty here, my first stop will be to see everyone.> He returns the bow slightly, not wanting to accidentally klutz and spill the contents of the bag, even if tied.

Shigiyama Dataqkahkol was only disappointed he didn't get Sari to bow and knock over his figures. <I see. Then I have nothing to worry about. Ah! Perhaps you will even be in time to meet my family? But I digress. I should be returning soon.>

Saranqerel Qalli's smile is a bit more saddened at that. <With the way of things here, likely not. We have to clean up the mess in this region and /still/ have to make it to Ala Mhigo.>

<It's likely this will go on for awhile... If nothing else I'll ask Kiraa to be around longer. Much of  my fighting style is an imitation of his. Likely the one of them I'm closest to next to Narisada...> A small shake of his head given. <But. Whatever Nhaama wills.>

 <Aye.> A hug of the pack, glad for simple comforts here. The parting wasn't welcome at all, a reprieve of all this...war. <Thank you, very much so for stopping by and just talking, let alone for this.>

Shigiyama Dataqkahkol blinked at this. Head canting to the side. <You're my little brother whom I love very much. A man that is new to greater war. I intend to check on you as much as I can, at least when an aetheryte I'm attuned to is near. While I know you will be fine... I worry the same.>

<As taxing as worrying can be, knowing someone cares enough to do so makes them worthwhile. ...that was a terrible mix of words, sorry.> A slight blush.

<Don't apologize, it makes your face red. Drink plenty of liquids, heatstroke should be avoided.>

<I-I am! You're starting to sound like Seething Rock now,> he mumbles.

<I promise, I am not an angry stone... If you're talking to rocks perhaps I /should/ stay!>

Saranqerel Qalli sulks more at that before perking up. One hand goes to the pearl in his horn as he listens. "Aye. ...what, how did they... Aye, I'll wake them up. We'll be on our way shortly. Stay safe." Straightening up, a frown is instantly on the younger male's face. "There was another attack. I need to go."

Shigiyama Dataqkahkol closed his eyes, a hand had started for his weapon, but veered away. He wouldn't be able to aid in a fight. <We'll talk again later. Go with Nhamaa's protection, Sari.>

Saranqerel Qalli nods, stepping around the table. <Travel safely back. Stick to the aetherytes. There's been no attacks in settlements yet but their boldness of late has me worried.>

<Aye aye, Saranqerel. May your soul grow brighter.>

[ellana-ravenwood]

Anonymous Hate - Bruce Wayne x Reader

So, lately, a lot of writing blogs I LOVE (though I probably don’t say it enough) received anonymous hate...It inspired me to write this piece. I hope you’ll like it, and if I receive anonymous hate for it, oh man, I’m so ready for this...Anyway, hope you’ll enjoy (forgive me if it’s not great, I slept only 4 hours in those last three days, and drunk too much coffee) : 

You can find my masterlist here : @ella-ravenwood-archives

_________________________________________________

Bruce Wayne’s heart is threatening to beat out of his chest, and he isn’t sure of what he’s feeling right now. 

Anger ? Worries ? Confusion ? 

Does he feel stun ? Or Furious ? 

Sad or scared ? 

Anxious or enraged ? 

He doesn’t know. 

And if there’s one thing Bruce Wayne hates, is to lose control over his own emotions. But he just couldn’t help it. 

He was used to it with you, and only with you did he not mind. 

When it was about you, he just couldn’t have any control of what he felt, and that was alright...Though it was always positive feelings. 

Love. Awe. Adoration. A strong friendship. Passion. Devotion. Respect. Affection. Tenderness. Yearning. Fondness. Adulation...

He was of course always worried about you because 1. since you became a Wayne you also became a target for people who’d want something from him or his company, or for those who wanted a huge ransom and 2. because he’s as much the Batman than Bruce, and if one day his secret identity was to be discovered by any of his enemies, your life would be in a life threatening danger...Well, more that it was already. 

This thought was already almost too much to bear (he broke it off with you in the first few months of your relationship, scared to lose you...until he realized that he would lose you anyway if he left you, and since you accepted him back with wide arms...). 

So now, faced with...All this. It was too real. It was too close from home. 

Both literally and figuratively. 

Because those “things” (he refused to give it the name he knew it actually had) arrived in your house. At Wayne’s Manor. 

He felt like a pregnant woman, as if his hormones were playing tricks on him, because it wasn’t possible that a single human being could feel all those feelings at once, naturally...Right ? 

And yet. And yet here, in front of your desk, reading all those terrible things...

-Bruce ? Are you there ?

Your voice makes him jump, and, startled, he whips around and is faced with you and all your Glory...Oh because you’re nothing but glorious, as the light of the sun going down hits you just right and makes you look like a goddess. 

His Goddess. And oh Bruce is glad that you cannot read minds, because if you could, you would mock him and his cheesiness right now. 

-Oh hey, here you are my heart. Say, for tonight, I was thinking...What is that ? Hey are you alright my Broosh ? 

You approach him, worried because he’s just so pale and he seems almost lost, as his eyes follow you as if it was just an automatic reaction. It’s only when you reach for his face, and stroke his cheek with soft fingers that he finally snap out of his strange haze. He leans in your touch, and, without saying anything, shows you what’s in his hand. 

You look down and...

-Oh. That. I knew I should have burn everything...But I always forget. I receive them with the rest of the fan mail and I just shove it in there promising myself to destroy it, in case you’d find them, and then...I forget, or get too busy with something and then forget. 

Bruce doesn’t answer, and just stares at you. His gaze makes you uncomfortable (which is so rare, only when you feel guilty about something in fact)...And so you add :

-I’m sorry Bruce.

He narrows his eyes at you, and shakes his head. Oh dear, did you anger him ? 

-You’re sorry (Y/N) ? No. No my love, don’t be. I should be the one that’s sorry. I’m so, so, SO sorry I never noticed...those things. I should’ve paid more attention. I knew you were receiving those fan mail from readers who loved your book...I should have made sure that there weren’t anything bad in them. 

You chuckle lowly and get closer to him, you go on your tip toes as he bent down, and give him a small but oh, sweet, so sweet kiss. 

-You can’t protect me from everything honey. 

-Non sense, of course I can. 

-It’s not even that important. 

-Not even that important ? (Y/N), there’s death threat in those ! 

He’s showing you specific letters he seemed to have put on a side

-Yeah and ? It’s not like they would ever act on it, they’re just a bunch of low life trash who got nothing better to do than send hate mail to people they don’t even know. It happens when you start to get known, especially if it’s something artistic. There’s always gonna be people to put you down, and honestly, someone being so cowardly that he sends anonymous hate letters to total strangers ? That someone, if he was in front of me, would probably act as if I was the best thing ever, and when I’d look away, just like, stick his tongue out to me or something. They’re cowards those people. They’re pieces of shit that get a kick out of bullying people. They do this for fun, they feel powerful when they send this kind of letters. But really, they’re just extremely stupid and ignorant people, because I refuse to think anyone with even one brain cell would be this hateful, and there’s that. Again, probably, if I ever see them in real life, they’ll cower under false niceness and then give me the finger when I turn my back.

-Or stab you when you turn your back ! 

-Bruce, you’re being overdramatic babe. 

-I am not (Y/N). This letter says you’re just a stain on this planet, a waste of space, and it would just be better if you’d kill yourself ! This one actually says they’d kill you if they ever see you ! They...

-Oh for God’s sake Bruce it’s just hate mail ! 

Bruce winces at those two words he’d been avoiding for a while. 

Hate mail. 

He couldn’t associate anything with you with the word “hate” in it, and yet...You were receiving hate mail. Anonymous hate mail to be exact. 

And giving it the name it deserved, “hate mail”, made it a reality, but also a potential danger (hate always lead to violence in his book), and that angered him again, but also worried him. 

You can see all the thought process he’s going through and you laugh lightly. The sound of your laughter, that he loves so much, seems to soothe him, if only just a bit. With a smile that makes him melt, you say : 

-It doesn’t mean anything Bruce. It doesn’t even hurt my feelings. And believe me, if I felt that any of those were life threatening, I would have told you ok ? But they’re not. They’re just meant to put me down, to make me sad, to make me want to actually commit suicide ! Those people who writes hate mails, they’re terrible people, and if I wasn’t that merciful, I would say they’re useless but that’s implying they’re a waste of space too and I’m not willing to put myself down on their level. But hear me out my heart...it. Doesn’t. Mean. Anything. I’ve been bullied enough in my life that I’m impermeable to this shit ! And to be honest, it’s even kind of flattering...After all, if people send me hate mail it means I became popular enough as a writer that I make some people jealous haha. And that was my pretentious moment of the year...Besides, don’t worry Bruce... I receive way more compliments or love in letters than hate. And again, it means nothing, I don’t feel a thing when reading those, my days of being hurt because of bullies are over. 

Your husband listened to you, without saying a word, waiting for you to finish and...you just break his heart. Because for you to be able to ignore those awful things people told you, you must have gone through a lot...and he knows you did. He knows your childhood wasn’t the easiest. 

You lost your parents young too, but you didn’t have an Alfred. You weren’t rich. You ended up in a terrible place where you got abused both physically and mentally and...He couldn’t think about it for too long. It made him angry and sad again, and those feeling mixed together were the worst. 

You caress his cheek once more, and wrap your arms around his torso, laying your head on his chest. You take the letters from his hands, you take all those : “you should kill yourself” and “you’re the worst writer ever” or “erase yourself off the face of the Earth” away from him. 

And, you throw everything out in the room, papers flying all around. 

-It’s just ashes in the wind Bruce. I don’t care. I really don't. 

With a deep sigh that makes his chest rumble, he says :

-I know my love, and that’s the problem. You might not see those threats as an actual danger because you’re too used to them, but I do see how it could become dangerous. And I can’t loose you. 

-Bruce you...

-Please let me finish. I know you say you don’t mind, that it doesn’t hurt but...what if one day, in a moment of weakness, you fall on those letters ? What if you decide to commit the irreparable and take your own life ? Neither me nor the kids could ever come back from it. And Alfred either. 

You pull away from him a bit, a can’t help but notice the way his fingers grip the sleeve of your shirt, as if afraid you’d suddenly disappear. It distresses you a bit, to see him in such a state over such a silly thing...

-What if one day, you start to believe all those awful things ? What if I don’t see that you’re depressed and decide to...to end your life ? 

There’s an unnatural crack in his voice, and you realize that...maybe it’s not just a silly thing. Silly things couldn’t put your Bruce in such a state. 

-What if one day you stop listening to the good and loving mail, and starts only to listen to the hate ? What if their words become your truth ? 

His arms are now crushing you against him, with so much force that you have some trouble breathing. He realizes though, and lets go a bit. Just enough for you to breathe properly, that’s all. He keeps you close. 

-I hate the fact that you think this is ok. That it doesn’t hurt or touch you anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want you to be hurt or anything the like but...For you to be used to be bullying so much that it doesn’t even faze you...It makes my heart bleed. You don’t deserve the hate (Y/N), love of my life. You’re the most passionate, nicest, sweetest, and any positive superlatives I could think of, and you don’t deserve this hate. You deserve all the best. 

You want to say something, but he pulls away from you, takes your face in his hands, and gives you one of the most passionate kiss he ever gave you. Finally, as you catch your breath as best you can, he continues : 

-I...I can’t stand the thought of you ever feeling like you’re worthless. Like you’re less than nothing. Like you’re a waste of space. Because you’re nothing short of perfect. And if you don’t believe me, ask our sons. Ask Alfred. Ask Clark, Diana, J’onn, Hal, Barry, Hell, even ask Bizarro, even him, with his simple mind, can see you’re the most amazing being on this Earth. It will never stop to break my heart to think that anyone ever made you feel like you were nothing, that anyone underestimated you and...

-Bruce, stops...I can’t handle that many compliments at once...

-Which is exactly why I must say them ! I love you (Y/N), from my very core. I love you so much that even thinking for an instant that people sends you hate mail enrages me, as well as saddened me beyond any measure. I cannot think of you as sad. I...You’re my light. I can’t see you tainted in any way...

-Bruce...

-I love you. Please believe me when I say that all this hate, on you and your writing, all this mindless cowardice...it truly means nothing. 

-I know, I told you saw, I don’t feel b...

-No (Y/N). Look at me. 

His hands are still holding your face, and he forces you to look at him, though you need a few minutes before stopping avoiding his gaze. 

-Look at me (Y/N). Look at me. 

And you do. And he doesn’t let your gaze get lost. His eyes are locked on yours, and he tells you everything once again. 

That you mean something. That you’re not worthless. That you’re not a waste of space, not a terrible writer, not a stain on the World or a mistake. That if you kill yourself you will be missed horribly, you’ll tear their hearts apart, him and the boys, and Alfred and...everyone. You’re perfect. You really are. And sure sometimes you’re a bit too sarcastic and sassy, a bit too careless and your glare is too scary but...You’re their damn World. The central pillar of this family. 

-You stole that like from Clark...

-But I mean it even more than he does. You’re our World. And those hate letters...

-I told you Bruce, it doesn’t faze me one bit. I had no intention of ki...

-I am just making sure. 

He can see that you’re trying to hold your tears. But he wouldn’t take it. He knew better than anyone else that sometimes, you needed to let things go and...So he continues. To praise you. To love you. He will continue for eternity if he had too. But he doesn’t. 

You collapse in his arms. You promised yourself you would never cry again for a bully, and you never did...but crying because you’re overwhelmed by love ? That would do. And so you cry. For a long time. And when finally you regain some composure, you only say : 

-I love you Bruce. 

He smiles, and bends down to kiss you when...

-You gotta promise though, never show those damn letters to the boys ! 

He chuckles, and as he kisses you, making a mental note to burn every “hate mail” you ever received once and for all. To make sure you’ll never have to read them again, to make sure you’ll never feel belittle ever in your life again (he would settle a “pre-reading” team the day after, to make sure you’d never actually get hate ever again, to filter anything too negative, not the constructed criticism, no, but the brainless hate that was meant only to hurt you, to get you down and make you feel terrible about yourself). But also to make sure his sons would never discover all that, because they didn’t have the self control their father had (and even him almost lost it to anger and vengeance) and would hunt whoever were those “anonymous” and make them regret their words...Even Tim  and Dick, who were a bit more responsible and had lots of self-control (Damian and Jason would jump right in and hunt them down restlessly), because all of them...Well...

They just loved you too much to let anyone hate you like so. 

Especially not a coward like that. 

...Eh, who was Bruce kidding ? He would eventually find who were those anonymous sender, and would make sure, personally, that they would never write such a letter to anyone ever again. 

Fin.

_________________________

This didn’t turn out like I wanted it to. At all. I was planning something at a gala, with medias being bullies and lots of stuffs showing her sassy side more, showing the boys and...instead I wrote that thing. So bad. I feel I wrote Bruce out of character though we all know he can be sensitive and...Yeah this is bad. I need sleep. Might erase come down morning.