#i cannot believe this song is TWENTY YEARS OLD

[cntarella]

IT WAS YEARS AGO GOD KNOWS WHEN YOU STRAINED TO TELL ME YOUR WHOLE TRUTH THAT YOU WERE NOT MINE TO SAVE THAT YOU COULD NOT CHANGE!!!!!

[lauriemarch]

and at the end of the day, people will still hate women.

because beyonce is a terrible songwriter who has a good body and nothing more and she's really nothing compared to olivia rodrigo, that stuck-up bitch who steals other people's music, but taylor swift is an old, bitter nothing who clearly hates other girls. and sabrina carpenter deserves to die because she followed her heart, not her brain, and that's exactly why zendaya will never be good enough for tom holland. don't forget about kylie jenner, who's stealing precious timothee's innocence away and dating her is like committing arthouse cinema suicide, or how we said the same thing about miley cyrus and her disgusting profanity, think of the children, poor liam hemsworth, trapped in a marriage with such a horrible woman. lana del rey was hot until she was big and she made trailerpark sexy until her ass got a little too fat. and ariana grande, talentless homewrecker, and selena gomez, jealous and unreasonable, and hailey bieber, even more boring than the blood drying on the knives you are so quick to pull. sophie turner is a bad mom and megan thee stallion deserved whatever was coming to her.

and amidst all of this, we still don't know these women. we cannot fathom the pain of having a public divorce, one where people choose sides and hurl insults at you until the battery on their phone dies. we don't watch them chase after sweet-cheeked children in tucked-away backyards or play board games with their best friends while their chests heave in laughter. we don't know their marriages and we don't know their solitudes. we don't watch them unravel themselves, time and time again, preparing for the battle that we have made of their lives. they can never make a mistake. they can never cry. they can never be who they believe themselves to be.

and we take all of this and we go to work, we ride the bus, we go grocery shopping, we walk in dappled sunlight, and we let ourselves shrivel. i compare myself to every body i see and i comfort in the fact that i can still encircle my wrists with my fingers. food turns to dust in my mouth when i think about the fact that taylor swift thinks she's fat and people still hate sabrina carpenter for sticking by joshua bassett's side when he almost died, for God's sake, and now the people on my twitter feed are saying GUTS is the worst album they've ever heard. i liked it, the tiny voice in my head cries out. she wrote songs that made me feel noticed. they're calling the song i relate to the most a total skip.

so i close the app. i try not to think about the endless profiles screaming about how much they hate a nineteen/thirty-two/thirty-eight/twenty-three/twenty-six/forty-two year old. i try not to think about how much they would hate me, if they knew anything at all.

[thewickedspinster]

Of Eternity (Thranduil x Reader)

pairing: Thranduil x F!Reader

synopsis: Thranduil and Y/N know each other from what seems like a past life; one that both would rather forget. Once secret lovers, hidden from the prying eyes of the Elvenking's court, the two elves' disagreements became too much, their opinions too divided. Y/N departed for Rivendell and sought shelter with her friend, Elrond. But when the Elvenking of Mirkwood comes to parlay with the Lord of Rivendell, he once again meets Y/N, and someone else who looks awfully familiar...

warnings: afab!Reader, pregnancy, elf children, war

Tathrenion = son of one willow-made

requested by @starlight5cat

Of Eternity

In Rivendell, the seasons turned as flowers bloomed; with a sudden burst of color against the greys of winter. They came and went quickly for elvenkind, rising and eddying like the tide, and with them came new wonders and sounds, new flavors. Song.

Y/N could hardly remember a time when her life was not dictated by these rhythms, when time was so magnified as to hear her own heartbeat, to watch the sunlight catch upon a dewdrop. Though, it was not so long ago she was in a place where seasons hardly touched, where time stood still and light lingered in honeyed moments. Where her breath raced in her body, and youth stretched into eternity. Where naïveté was all too familiar.

Here, she had more responsibility. Here, she was unequivocally welcome. When she had fled the confines of her life before in Mirkwood, where she had been daughter of a Ñoldor house descended from Fingolfin, and gone westward into the Misty Mountains, she had only hoped her old friend, Elrond, would grant her sanctuary. He welcomed her with open arms. Here, she sat on his council of advisors. Here, life was warm and full of light once more.

For a short time of twenty-odd years, there was peace east of the Misty Mountains. Though her cousin Galadriel could not believe it, it had appeared the dark servant of Morgoth named Sauron had been vanquished. The grey elves lived in peace with the sons of Durin and helped the wayward man, but kept to their forests and their mountains. All had seemed well, and with the protection of the haven of Rivendell, the darkness of old seemed unable to touch her.

Such comforts cannot last. Not so long as Morgoth and his fell creations plagued Arda.

As soon as word reached Rivendell of a darkness fallen upon southern Mirkwood, Elrond sought Y/N's counsel.

"You know the eastern forests well," Elrond said softly, guiding them both down towards the river. Water fell in a gentle curtain of silver ahead, glinting in the moonlight. "What sort of evil could cause these things?"

The pair ducked behind the waterfall, and the sound of rushing water hushed their voices. There hidden was an alcove, large enough for a small group, with cushions surrounding the burnt-out embers of a fire. Elrond had come here often in the early days of ruling Rivendell, and when Y/N had arrived, had brought her here in her most vulnerable moments.

"The Elvenking's Halls are to the north, but in my many wanderings, I went south," she answered, settling on the floor alongside Elrond. "Mirkwood is vast and its creatures untold, but I have never seen anything that would produce this sort of rot."

Elrond hummed, deep in thought. Elven and human messengers alike had been passing along rumors of dark creatures in the southern Mirkwood, things that walked on more than four legs, with slavering maws and the stench of evil surrounding them. Elves who more often ventured south returned with harrowing stories of voices, of song coming from the dark trees. The canopies had grown so thick that sunlight hardly reached the ground. Some had even reported sightings of Orcs.

"You know what this means," Y/N said, interrupting Elrond's reverie. "Galadriel was right. She was always right. We cannot know that Sauron is vanquished. We burned no body. Isildur brought no head. Only the Silmaril."

"There are no credible rumors of Morgoth's creatures, Y/N."

"There are," she insisted. "They have started calling this force 'The Necromancer.' This is no coincidence, Elrond. All evil in these lands comes back to Sauron. To Morgoth. So long as their discord remains, none of the children of Eru are safe."

Beyond his red head, with his noble face, the silvered water fell in sheets, dulling to a gentle sheaving. Waiting. When he raised his gaze, he said, "What would you have me do?"

Galadriel would have them go to war. Though she had grown less brash since the last age, she had grown no less desperate for Sauron's defeat. But Rivendell was a haven, a place of peace for wandering elves. She could not see amassing forces and marching to Mirkwood unaided. Besides, it was not Elrond's territory to march on.

"You know exactly what you must do, my friend," she said at last.

"You do not like him."

"What of it?"

"He is the reason you fled your home."

It was true enough, though it still gave Y/N pause. Mirkwood had been a home for long centuries, it was true. But before that, she had known the lushness of Beleriand, and the glory of Númenor. She would always be a wanderer. But the Elvenking of Mirkwood brought with him memories too fresh to be painless.

"He is the lord of Mirkwood, and should you wish to do anything at all about this rising evil, you must first confer with him," she said firmly. "Invite him here. Invite his entire court. They will leave Prince Legolas to guard the north, but Thranduil will come."

"I would have you by my side upon his reception."

Y/N caught the glimmer of ancient mischief in Elrond's eyes, and offered him a faint smile in return. "It would be an honor."

~~~

Word came within a fortnight that the Elvenking's party would embark on the Elf-path by the full moon. This gave the people of Rivendell little time to prepare, but showed Elrond and his council how dire circumstances were in Mirkwood.

As Y/N stood at Elrond's side on the dais before the sweeping steps to the city, she knew that in this matter, as all others, that Thranduil would be stubborn, cunning, and seemingly omniscient. It was in his power as king to appear so to his people. But Y/N, he could not fool. She and Elrond would simply need maneuver with tact, to force Thranduil into showing his hand.

In the distance, the royal traveling party rounded a bend and came into view, the Elvenking in his raiment of grey and silver astride his great antlered steed. From here, Y/N could feel his piercing gaze upon them, focusing on her at the Lord of Rivendell's side. Robed in rich, dark green against Elrond's golden raiment, Y/N stood tall. A circlet of gold sat upon her brow, and in it, an opal enshrined. Befitting of her station, she stood to Elrond's left, his wife Celebrían to his right.

Y/N had known true fear in the face of evil, yet facing the Elvenking of Mirkwood after these twenty years turned her chest cold. She could never fear him - she knew him too well, but that was just the problem. They shared a deep past of friendship, of love, forbidden though it may have been. And pain, at the last. Since their parting, she had, for the first time, lived many secrets that she kept from him still.

The party finally arrived at the dais, the great reindeer's feet clapping against the stone as thunder. The Elvenking dismounted, stepped before Elrond, and inclined his head.

"Lord Elrond of Rivendell, you honor me with your great hospitality," he said formally, the Sindarin tongue rolling like quicksilver from his mouth. "And Lady Celebrían, thank you for welcoming my host into your household."

Elrond, Y/N, and the council assembled bowed to the king.

"We are pleased you answered our invitation," Elrond replied, his tone, as ever, one of deliberate lightness, as if he knew something no one else did. "How long shall you stay?"

"A week," Thranduil said shortly. Finally, finally, his silvered eyes shifted to Y/N. She breathed in deeply. "There are matters to attend to in Mirkwood."

"I do hope Prince Legolas is well," she said softly, smoothly.

Thranduil looked momentarily surprised she'd spoken, his eyebrows drawing together at the sound of her voice. "He is taking to his responsibilities well."

A moment of silence passed. The river roared below. Then, Celebrían was taking gesturing towards the king, leading him away into the great wood house of Rivendell.

Formal greetings complete, the rest of the crowd quickly dispersed, and elves moved swiftly in preparation for the feast prepared in the king's honor. Soon, only Elrond and Y/N remained. She watched the sun setting over the vale, eyes fixed on the rushing waters surrounding.

"Will you tell him?" Elrond asked, voice so quiet only she could hear.

"How could I?" Y/N whispered. She felt her fingers tremble.

"It is unfair to -"

"You shall not tell me what is fair or unfair, Elrond," Y/N whirled, suddenly furious. "You know not what it is to have my fears."

Elrond held up his hands. "I only wish to say that truths are better spoken. Deception is the chaos-sower."

"It will put him in danger."

"It will give him power."

"A curse," she hissed. "A bounty upon his head."

"Or a crown."

She stared at her friend, stunned. "You do not mean that."

Elrond only watched her in return.

With no words left between them, Y/N turned and disappeared into the house, bracing herself for the week to come.

~~~

It was the fourth day of the accursed sessions of counsel, and Thranduil had still not admitted there being any disturbance in Mirkwood. He spoke on matters of trade, of agriculture, of relations with Khazad-Dûn, but nothing of the murmurs from the Sutherlands.

Y/N was beginning to lose her patience.

Elrond, blessedly, had more of it to spare. Ever the diplomat, he listened to Thranduil's concerns and complaints of their relations, and constructed plans to fix them. Ever the master of compromise, he kept Rivendell's secrecy and best interests at heard. Ever the more patient of the two, he kept prodding the Elvenking towards revealing his secrets, to no avail.

Y/N sat, posture relaxed, around the dais at the center of Elrond's pubic chambers. The elves around her deliberated, debated, while she kept her mouth closed. As Elrond's chief advisor, her primary duty was to listen. She interjected when Elrond looked to her, and when someone said something entirely ludicrous. Elves tended to take a laboriously long time to come to any sort of agreement in politics, and were reasonable to the point of boredom. Y/N's engagement had thus far been minimal, though she heard all.

They had turned to the topic of weapons, and of Rivendell's protection. They were inching closer to the topic at hand, but she knew Thranduil had a deep well of patience, particularly when it came to dealing with elves. The high noon sun blazed down on the white marble.

"How have you fared in the training of your ranks?" Thranduil inquired, sipping at a goblet of honeywine.

"The archers excel, under the tutelage of Sindarin masters," Elrond said. "The swordsmen, under that of the Ñoldor. Khazad-Dûn has agreed to provide us with weapon designs, and with materials to forge them. Durin is all too happy to help an old friend."

Thranduil scoffed lightly into his cup. "Old friend, indeed."

Y/N sat up straighter at the tone, the scoff. She had heard it many times. "Prince Durin has provided us with an excellent relationship over the years. He is a close friend to Rivendell."

Thranduil looked at her, through her, in her. Before her mind's eye flashed his face, poised over her, abed. Soft candlelight shone from beyond his features, and his face was softened into the loveliest of smiles. Gone in an instant.

Just then, lithe footsteps from just inside, and bursting from behind the curtains came three elven children, small and laughing. A maid reached out, trying to snatch them by their tunics, but too late. They sprinted into the circle, and straight up to Elrond.

"Father, we would like to go the Gates," one boy panted. Elrohir.

"Apologies, Father," the other interjected, suddenly serious. Elladan, his twin. "I told him not to come."

"Our swordmaster is at the Gates, and asked us to join him," the third explained. Y/N sat forward, staring down at the boys.

"Tathrenion," she said severely, hiding the quake to her voice, "you know not to enter this chamber when Lord Elrond is taking counsel."

The third boy, unlike the other two, with (Y/HC) hair and striking grey eyes, paled, bowing to Y/N. Even when he straightened, he kept his eyes averted. "Forgive me, Mother. Elladan and Elrohir wished to go, and I wished to accompany them."

It was only then, as the boys turned to glance around at the present company, that Elrond spoke.

"You are in the presence of Thranduil, Elvenking of Mirkwood."

Shuffling, with a soft gasp from Elrohir, the three boys bowed low to the king. Thranduil said nothing for a moment. Instead of on the children, his eyes were pinned on Y/N, wide with unbridled shock. When he finally did look at the boys, at the one called Tathrenion, he found his own eyes staring back, steady and calm.

Thranduil stood abruptly, setting down his goblet. He opened his mouth, closed it, then said, "We shall eat. Elrond, you shall decide what to do with your sons."

He swept off the dais, out of view, and Y/N was left staring at the spot he once occupied.

"Go after him," Elrond murmured to her, leaning close.

"Tathrenion-"

"Leave the child to me." And an unspoken promise to keep her son safe.

Y/N was up in an instant, following in Thranduil's wake as quickly as possible. But he was moving fast, and kept dodging out of sight, around corners that he did not know. Servants moved out of the way as Y/N passed through an adjoining kitchen at a sprint, intercepting Thranduil as he rounded the corner into the next room.

She caught him by his elbow as he tried to pull from her grasp, but she held firm.

"Thranduil," she said. "Stop. Just... Stop. And listen."

His rage made his jaw tight, his brows drawn low. "I will not stand here and listen to you when you have -"

"I had to leave," she interrupted, holding his gaze unflinchingly. "I could not be your concubine, Thranduil. I would not."

He scoffed, that same sound he made when he thought someone foolish. Beneath him. It hadn't started this way, but as they fell deeper into each other, he'd started scoffing at her the same way. It was part of what drove Y/N away from Mirkwood. "You were not a concubine, Y/N."

"Then tell me what I was to you."

Thranduil bent lower, so their faces were inches apart. "You know exactly what you were to me."

"I know that I was not your wife." And that was venom in her tone, sour and deadly.

A shadow passed over his features. "You were everything she was not."

"And that makes me whore to a king."

"You have never been a whore!" He shouted.

The surrounding house went quiet. Y/N trembled, fingertips numb.

"Tathrenion is your son," she said lowly, practically hissing into his mouth. "Your son, Thranduil. Our place in Rivendell is of your doing. You never recognized what it was to be in my place, with no guarantee of my safety in your court."

"I always would have protected the both of you."

Tears gathered in her eyes. "Our love felt increasingly fragile. I doubted that it even existed any longer. Had we been found out, I doubted you would protect me from exile."

Thranduil was quiet. The house had moved on from his sharp outburst, exhaling as his anger passed. Y/N's grip loosened on his tunic, her truth spoken. But her touch lingered.

"Did you know?" He murmured hoarsely.

"Not when I left your halls. Not until I reached the Misty Mountains."

"And all... went well? With the birth?"

Elven births were rare, and dangerous for mother and child. "Blessedly, Elrond's midwives and healers some of the most gifted, and I healed swiftly. He was born squalling."

He loosed a soft breath, and some of the tension left his features. He had always been beautiful, but it was when he was away from prying eyes that he truly became ethereal. Radiant. Himself.

"You should always have been in Mirkwood, with me." She just looked up at him. "I am sorry, my Y/N. I never meant to make you afraid."

"It is safer for both of us away from you and Legolas."

Thranduil snorted. "My son has proven impertinent. And lacking the character to succeed me."

"He will mature," she said softly. "He is young still."

"He will have to fight soon."

"Then this Necromancer..."

"Is a threat. Whatever darkness lurks in the south of my lands, it is dangerous and spreading."

"Tell Elrond," she urged. "He wishes to aid any fight against Morgoth's darkness in these lands."

"My forces are strong."

"They will be stronger with Rivendell's. Don't let your pride cloud your judgement."

At that, a small smile graced his mouth. "That has always been your advice for me."

"It will always stand. Unless you change."

"Would you come home?"

The question surprised her. "You would have us? So soon after the death of your wife?"

"I would have your company," he said. "And I would have my son raised by the both of us."

Y/N did not have an answer, and she was about to say as much when a smaller voice said, "I would like to go to Mirkwood."

Y/N whipped around, and found young Tathrenion standing behind them. She took a large step away from Thranduil, then lowered herself to her son's level, steeling herself.

"What did Lord Elrond tell you and the twins?" She asked.

"He said we may go to the Gates, but I decided to stay behind." Tathrenion peered past Y/N, to the Elvenking. "I wished to speak with you."

Thranduil could hardly stomach looking at his son's face, the very reflection of his own, untouched by age yet full of a strange wisdom. "Speak, child."

"I know little of why my mother left your kingdom, but I know she has done everything since for my sake. Please, do not ply her with false hopes. If you invite us to Mirkwood, you pledge to keep her safe."

"And you," Thranduil answered immediately. "I will protect you both, and welcome you into my household in places of honor."

Y/N was speechless, her throat swollen around pride for her young son.

"I know you not, Your Majesty, but I would like to," said Tathrenion simply.

Thranduil smiled.

Y/N sent him on his way, leaving her alone once again with the Elvenking. This time, he reached out to her, and against logic, she stepped into him, leaning into his fingers upon her cheek. She had longed for his touch, his kiss, his steadfastness ever since she left the forest. Leaving Mirkwood had been one of the hardest decisions of her long life.

"Let us think about this," she whispered. "And let these diplomatic matters be done first. Speak to Elrond in earnest."

"I will wait for your return to my side, Y/N," he murmured. "I have been waiting since the moment you left."

~~~

Dappled sunlight shone down upon the glade, lighting the page Y/N read. It was a letter, signed in Elrond's familiar hand, detailing the phalanxes marching towards Mirkwood. They would join Thranduil's army in patrolling for evil in the south, just as they had hoped.

Amongst the trees, a young boy laughed, and an older one hollered. Legolas was nearly fully mature, but had taken to playing with his younger half-brother in earnest. Together, they romped through the forest, and Tathrenion adored having someone elder to look up to and learn from. He excelled in archery, now, thanks to Legolas's tutelage.

A hand wrapped around her arm, pulling her backwards, and she fell upon Thranduil's chest. He was stretched upon the grass, feline at ease. She luxuriated in the feel of his body against hers, in his fingers in her unbound hair. In his mouth, pressed to her shoulder.

She had refused to take him to bed since her return, but she had begun to let him back into her heart. He had honored his word, and the loss of his wife had left him in need of comfort, in need of counsel and a tender hand.

Besides that, over honeywine in the candlelight one night in Rivendell, he had finally told her he loved her. Words were the playthings of elves, and though they meant little to some, they meant everything to Y/N. She opened up visions of the future that had ere been clouded.

"Of what do you think, my love?" Thranduil breathed against her skin.

She came back to the dampness of the grass beneath them, the golden green of the canopy above, the laughter of her son in the distance. The warmth of her king at her back.

She smiled. "Eternity."

[holyhead-hufflepuff]

fred weasley x reader: unspoken words

fred weasley x reader

summary: "who knows what's in the future, but now I need you to know that I love you" - unspoken words, mxmtoon

words: 1900

warnings: none

author's note: i was going through my old works, and i honestly really proud of this. so REPOST. this is based off of mxmtoon's "unspoken words" and i hope i did this amazing song justice - gracie ♡♡

"Fred, stop it, I mean it," you cried, your hair tied back in two tight plaits. Your hand was wrapped around Fred's thin wrists as he pulled you through Diagon Alley, ignoring your cries and his mum's.

"Come on, y/n, it's not my fault you're just slow. George is keeping up just fine," Fred huffed, continuing to rush through the streets until they landed in front of Ollivander's. "I can't believe we get to go to Hogwarts. It's it, well-"

"Wicked," Fred and George said together, smirking at each other before pushing through the shop's front door.

"Fred. George. You can't just go running off," Mrs. Weasley screamed, slightly out of breath from trying to keep with the three eleven-year-olds. "Hello, Garrick, I'm afraid we'll be shopping second-hand again. We just don't have the galleons right now for two new wands."

"But, mum," Fred whined, crossing his hands over his chest as George just started at the small section of wands with worn boxes.

"I can pay for your guys' wands," you piped up, pulling out twenty-one galleons. Your mum had insisted you bring enough money to pay for the Weasley's wands as payment for housing you for the summer while she was off in Tasmania.

"Nevermind, we'll just take the used wands," Fred stated, pushing you aside to look at the second-hand wands.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you grumbled, tossing the galleons on the countertop. "You would rather have a second-hand wand then have one bought by me?"

"Good job, y/n. You got it on the first guess," Fred mocked, slowly clapping his hands.

"I hate you, Fred Weasley," you yelled, grabbing the galleons and storming out of the store.

You wrung your hands, nervous for the Order's newest mission, moving Harry Potter. It was bad enough that the wizard war was looming over your heads like a storm cloud, but now, you couldn't help but feel like something was going to go wrong.

"Okay, time to leave," you mumbled, slipping your favorite sneakers on and apparating to The Burrow.

"Y/N," you heard a familiar voice shout.

"Ginny," you shouted back, wrapping your arms around the petite girl. "Are you going on the mission tonight?"

"Are you kidding me? Mum will hardly let me out of the house," Ginny chuckled, wrapping an arm around you and leading you into the Burrow. "I can't believe Fred and George are letting you go on the mission, especially Fred."

You rolled your eyes at the redhead's wiggling eyebrows. "Sod off, Ginny. We all know that I am a strong, independent person that doesn't need to ginger twins deciding what I can and cannot do," you replied, the words almost verbatim to what you had told Fred when he told you to stay with Molly at the Burrow.

"Hey! I'm a ginger, too," Ginny exclaimed, placing a hand over her chest. "You wound me, did you know that?"

"Yeah, whatever, miss melodramatic. I'm going to put my jacket up in Fred and George's room," you announced, hurrying up the stairs and into the familiar room that smelled still smelled like smoke and candy.

You shrugged off your overcoat, tossing it on Fred's bed, and looked around the room. Everything was exactly the same as it was when you two were kids, bringing back memories of growing up with him.

"Y/N, you can't tell me you're actually thought Bulargia would win," Fred shouted from his side of the tent as you pulled your Bulgaria jersey off. "I thought you had better taste than that, but then again, you're dating Roger Davies."

"Screw you, Fred," you bit back, unsure whether or not to tell him that Roger had dumped you over the summer to try and get with Alicia Spinnet. "And, just so you know, Roger and I are, well, no longer together."

"Finally got tired of sloppy seconds, Cedric's to be precise?" Fred teased, grabbing your wrist and pulling you onto his bunk bed.

"You're a pig, Fred," you growled, leaning against the flat pillows. "Hurry up, now, I want to go out and see how the Irish are celebrating. Maybe we can even convince them to give up some firewhiskey."

"Tsk tsk, illegal underage drinking? Not perfect y/n," Fred chuckled, moving out of the way of your attempt to kick him. "Too slow- I guess that's what happens when you shag a loser like Roger Davies."

"Go to hell," you hissed, your red turning bright red. "I'll just go without you, and not that's it's your business, but I never slept with him."

You stormed out of the tent, pushing past George, who attempted to grab your wrist.

"Y/N, The Order is here," Ginny shouted, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You hurried down the wooden steps, your eyes immediately meeting with Fred's. "Hey," you breathed, running up to the redhead. "Merlin, I've hardly seen you two, and you, Fred Weasley, didn't write back after that mission. I really ought to smack you, but I'm honestly just glad you're okay."

"Wow, George, it's great to see you, too! How were you after the mission? Good? Oh, I'm so glad," George mocked in a high pitched voice.

"I'm sorry, George, the drama queen, how are you?" you asked, turning away from Fred to look at George.

"Oh, you know, disgust by your outward display of kindness to the lesser twin," George replied, but your eyes were already back on Fred.

"What happened to your cheek?" You asked, running your fingers over a faint scar. "It looks like it hurt."

"I'm fine, y/n, especially knowing that you aren't going tonight," Fred grinned. "They only need twelve 'Potters', and they want you back here, in case someone needs healing."

"But-"

"Nope, they aren't budging on the idea, and neither am I. Anyway, we're going to be off once Bill and Fleur arrive," Fred stated, brushing off your concerned look. "Oh, there they are now. I guess I better get outside with the rest of The Order, and before mum fusses over me."

You bit the bottom of your lip, the taste of blood filling your mouth. "Be safe, Freddie. I swear that I'll kill you if you don't come back to me."

"I'll be safe," Fred whispered, brushing a piece of your hair back. "I swear that I'll come back to you."

You watched Fred walk out of the door, a crushing feeling washing over you. "Please have them all return safely," you said to no one in particular, hoping that some force of nature or faith heard you. You walked into the kitchen, where Arthur was talking to Molly, and George was promising to return to Ginny. You sat down in your chair, letting memories sweep you away from the world of worries.

"How was I supposed to know that you needed a personalized goodbye," Fred argued, using his wand to paint another layer of coat on the store's walls.

"Because we're best friends, Fred. You didn't even say goodbye. You left- you just left me alone," You shouted back, flicking your wand to paint your side of the room. "You just flew away on your stupid broom and left me alone. I would've come in a heartbeat."

"I know that- do you not think I don't know anything about you? You are the most brilliant person I know, and I couldn't just take you away. You had to take your N.E.W.Ts. I didn't want you to give up your education for a shop that wasn't your dream," Fred snapped. "I wanted to ask you, and so did George. But, I told him we couldn't sweep you away just because we didn't want to miss you."

You paused, his words sinking in. "I-I didn't- I'm sorry," you relented, setting down your wand and wrapping the redhead into a hug. Then, as if it were magic, Fred returned the hug and elicited butterflies in your stomach.

You didn't need to question the feeling- you knew you were in love.

"Y/N, it's George," a voice screamed, causing you to jump off your kitchen chair and run into the living room where George was lying limply on the couch.

"Shh, George. It'll be okay," you mumbled over and over again, pulling out your wand and murmuring incantations over his body. "Shhh, George, don't cry. I'll stop the pain, I promise."

You worked on his ear and mumbled all of the spells you knew that would act as a nerve block. Finally, what felt like eternities later, George was sleeping peacefully.

"Thank you," Fred spoke up, sitting next to you. "I don't know what would've happened without you here."

"I couldn't save the skin around his ear- it was ridden with dark magic. I had to cut it off, and now, he won't be able to properly hear out of that ear. Oh, God, Fred, why is this happening to us? We're kids," you sniffled, feeling Fred wrap his arms around you and pull you into his chest. "Time is just fading away, and we don't even know anything about the future."

"You were brilliant," Fred mumbled into your ear, hugging you tighter as if you were going to disappear if he didn't. "Y/N, and I need to tell you something-"

"I love you," you blurted, pulling away from his chest. "I should've said it sooner, but now, I need you to know that I love you. You don't need to say it back, but I need you to know."

"I love you, too," Fred breathed, not entirely sure if he heard what he wanted to or if you actually said you loved him. "God, y/n, I've loved you since you offered to buy my wand in Ollivanders- Since you nearly fell over the balcony because you were so swept away with the Quidditch World Cup. I've been in love with you since the moment I met you."

"Freddie, we met when we were like four years old," You laughed, tears starting to run down your face.

"I know- why do you think that I shoved your face into a mud pie," Fred chuckled, wiping your tears off with his palm. "I didn't know how else to say I loved you."

"I love you, Fred Weasley. I don't know what the hell will happen to us, but I'm just glad we'll do it together," you admitted, pulling Fred in for a kiss.

"Ah, my plan worked," a voice weakly said, causing the two of you to break apart and look at George. "Get my ear blown off? Check. Lose a bunch of blood? Check. Cause my best friend and my twin have an existential crisis? Check. Have them finally admit they're in love? Check."

You could help but laugh, filling the room with a sound that almost seemed unfamiliar. "Thanks, George, we couldn't have admitted it without you," you joked, playing along with the redhead.

"I know- although, I wish it hadn't taken years of sexual tension between you two and my ear to come off," George grinned, laying his head back down.

"Eh, I kind of enjoyed the sexual tension," Fred joked, "it really built-up this moment."

"Shut up, and kiss me," you smiled, grabbing the front of his shirt and bringing his lips against yours. 

[nanomooselet]

Episode Five: Child of Blessing

Roberto telling Meryl a spooky story is the most dad moment he gets, I think. It's both funny and endearing. He sounds so much fonder than he did in the first episode and it echoes Wolfwood trying to make Meryl eat dinner in the previous episode. He obviously finds it amusing to see her irritated, but if she's telling him off she's no longer focused on the heat.

It's good the episode starts with that, because up until [redacted] this is the possibly the roughest watch in the series.

From what I can tell, Stampede is broken roughly into four sections - three episodes for Vash meeting Meryl, four to give us the essence of Wolfwood, two about Knives (though arguably Bright Light counts as his, or maybe you could say he hijacked it) and the finale. But these categories aren't absolute. I believe all four sections reflect the conflict at the show's heart - what I think the producer called "the song of the brothers". This is an episode about the past, and it begins in the past, but it's also about the present, and about Wolfwood, and about Knives.

I love the soft, very faintly sepia-toned filter for the flashbacks. They feel warm and a little faded, like an old blanket that's still comfortable. So of course the story they tell is horrible. Rollo's mother didn't want to sacrifice her son, but in the world as her belief system had conceptualised it, it's his blessing upon the town, a wonderful thing. The other women all went through the same. And all of them have been lied to, manipulated, exploited - they are no more than expendable resources. Their god never appeared to them and gave nothing back to them. Every one of the children before Rollo died in pain, and despite the ostensible "success" Rollo represented, the first thing he does (it's implied) is attack and kill his mother. Twenty years later the town is deserted. And though Roberto's explanation of the sand's colour cannot possibly be true - it was already red when Rollo was still a normal boy - the picture painted with every other detail isn't one I really want think about.

This is a Wolfwood episode - the first time, I think, he has to act of his own volition for the sake of his goal. The first time Vash sees him assume the mantle of the Punisher. And Vash hates it. It hurts to see Rollo dead, to know that he can do nothing to save him now. But even more, it hurts to know that Wolfwood has no faith that Rollo could have returned when Vash is so eager to have that faith in Wolfwood. It's fairly clear that Wolfwood saw himself in Rollo - Wolfwood sees the drugs, we see his vials, they're the same colour and they do the same thing. The shot of Wolfwood coming to the realisation of what's been done to this poor kid is haunting. And the only solution he has is to put him down - the only solution he himself sees to what’s been done to him.

But… I feel like Vash's reaction, along with the tone of how the episode concludes, isn't just about losing Rollo and seeing his ideals torn down. It isn't just about Wolfwood showing Vash what he's had to become. Yes, this is in part an episode revealing the depths of Knives's cruelty, and they sure as hell aren't done yet. But it's not just that.

Rollo took on a different name. Rollo became a living weapon. Rollo was consumed by hate. Rollo murdered his mother, ruined his home. And Vash promises Rollo that he'll stay, that he won't abandon him to be all alone again, only for Wolfwood to dispense his “mercy” and put him beyond helping forever.

I think if there's anything Vash fears more than he fears what Knives will do, it's that his brother is beyond receiving any other mercy.

[calisources]

𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐁𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍, 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄.

All these quotes are taken from many materials from George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire, from members of House Targaryen. You can change location, names and pronouns as you see fit. Some of these are little spicy as well might mention the typical topics of the book like inc*st.

I mounted him and took him for a ride, and I mean to do the same tonight. I love to ride.

Red maidens, the two of us, but now we've both been mounted.

You were made for battles, and I was made for this.

As soon as I am well, let's make another. I want to give you twenty sons. An army of your own!

But you are far braver than me. I would sooner fight a dozen battles than do what you've just done.

He's either brave or mad, that one.

You will be a great king, even greater than your father.

A ruler needs a good head and a true heart. A cock is not essential.

If your Grace truly believes that women lack the wit to rule, plainly you have no further need of me.

My uncle Maegor was cruel, but age is crueler.

No mother should ever have to burn her child.

I am old as well, but I am still younger than you.

She was his most trusted counselor and his right hand.

Dark Sister was made for nobler tasks than slaughtering sheep. She has a thirst for blood.

The war will end when the heads of the traitors are mounted on spikes above the King's Gate, and not before

Prince Daemon had been the wonder and the terror of his age.

The archmaesters call you the Conciliator, I have heard. It is time that you conciliated.

I have my own kingdom here.

Such a fierce little thing she is, they say, she has no need of comfort. They are wrong in that, I fear. All men need comfort.

She has no interest in kissing games, nor boys. She plays with them as she used to play with her puppies.

I have seen the way she preens and prances around Baelon. That is the husband she desires, and not for love of him.

She wants to be the queen.

How can he rule the Seven Kingdoms when he cannot rule his brother?

Your guards are slow and lazy.

If any man questions my son's right to the Iron Throne, let him prove his claim with his body.

When the sun sets, your line shall end.

A king should never sit easy.

Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to Westeros, but afterward he gave them peace, prosperity, and justice.

Do you think we would name him Aegon the Conqueror today if he had not had dragons?

But we will come again, Princess, and the next time we shall come with fire and blood.

I fed my last husband to my dragon. If you make me take another, I may eat him myself.

We can go back to the ends of the earth together. But I'll get there first, as I'll be flying.

Brother, if it please you, we have brought your new queen.

The sound of the queen's laughter was like music to this fool, so sweet that even the king was known to smile.

The whole realm knew that the girl loved Daeron's bastard brother Daemon Blackfyre, and was loved by him in turn.

Daemon Blackfyre loved the first Daenerys, and rose in rebellion when denied her.

A hundred years ago, Daenerys Targaryen came to Dorne to make a peace. Now another comes to make a war.

Too many dragons are as dangerous as too few.

I have done my duty by you, and given you an heir.

When Viserys sold their mother's crown, the last joy had gone from him, leaving only rage.

Whenever Aerys gave a man to the flames, Queen Rhaella would have a visitor in the night.

The queen your mother was always mindful of her duty.

I want to be with you, I want to sail the seas and have adventures.

Every knight needs a squire. You look as though you need one more than most.

omeday the dragons will return. My brother Daeron's dreamed of it, and King Aerys read it in a prophecy.

If you cannot manage a horse, fetch me some wine and a pretty wench.

Why did you throw your life away? For this whore? She's scarcely worth it. A traitor. The dragon ought never lose.

She bathes in blood to keep her beauty.

You've known queens and princesses. Did they dance with demons and practice the black arts?

Duels were fought over the right to sit beside her.

She gave him her bed, but never her hand. It amused her more to make him jealous.

I want him dead, the traitor. I want his head, you'll bring me his head, or you'll burn with all the rest. All the traitors.

But a man does not marry his heir to his servant's daughter.

Aerys was mad, the whole realm knew it.

There have always been Targaryens who dreamed of things to come, since long before the Conquest.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 2/6/2024

some weeks it's really hard to come up with a snappy little bon mot to put here

listening

Barbarella, by a fuck of a lot of people. yes i DID watch this movie this week! this is the single catchiest theme song i have ever heard. i cannot link the actual opening credits scene bc tumblr will censor that shit SO fast. spotify

-

reading

Rebecca Roanhorse's Tread of Angels novella. this is an urban magic old west religious fantasy novella. VERY sangfielle friendsatthetable vibes, there's an old west mining town centered around the body of the demon Abbadon, which is being mined for its powerful properties. demons and angels have sort of interbred throughout the human population. there is some deeply nerdy catholic bullshit and i say that as someone who was in catholic school for fifteen years. actually let's just take Roanhorse's explanation

the setting and premise are not where the novella bites off way more than it can chew. the main character, a cardsharp, has a chanteuse sister being held accused of a murder and she's got 48hrs to prove her innocence. the time limit and general structure is good, and it uses its side characters wisely, there's just a fuck of a lot of them.

in general, this novella does not have the emotional room to make its emotional beats really count. for example, there was a second breakup with an ex after a night of passion that mostly just left me confused. more broadly, the main character has an oldest sister's selfsacrificing nature that has twisted into utter ruthlessness with regards to her sister, and i'm both impressed Roanhorse managed to convey that in so few pages and annoyed bc i really wanted to see more of that in way more detail. due to the nature of it being a novella, the series of escalating decisions she takes feel very jagged in their escalation. i hope that makes sense.

it's got really interesting ideas! i want to know more about the ideas! i wish this was a full book instead of a novella, so the ending hits a little better instead of a Well That Just Happened way. from this interview it seems Roanhorse also wanted it to be a full book, but it was sort of a "i need something short and sweet so i don't go insane while adapting my other book for TV" (which is very exciting!!!)

-

watching

really a bizarre set of films. extremely unemployed energy in this watchlist this week. largely composed of "what's on my letterboxed watchlist and also available for free on tubi, with brief forays into hulu"

Journey to the West: Conquering the Demons (2013, dir. Chow). loved the overall visual design of the antagonists and the monsters, did not overall love this movie. it is a solid martial arts showcase and the first twenty minutes with freshwater JAWS are the most tightly plotted. it kind of flounders (lol) after that. can't find a gif i like.

INU-OH (2021, dir. Yuasa) genuinely healed my heart a little i think. queer (complimentary, not queer in the western massachusetts housing coop way) feudal anime glam rock opera. i am sooooooo picky about bad dads in movies as a driving force but this really soothed my daddy issues. stuck the landing on both storytelling and visuals.

Barbarella (1968, dir. Vadim) WOW Jane Fonda was hot. this was both sillier and less porny than i was led to believe (if we ignore the softcore porn opening credits). however horny this movie was it was not brave enough to have some girl-on-girl action with barbarella and the evil empress, even though the evil empress never seems to actually learn her name and just calls her “pretty” or “pretty-pretty”. shoutout to the one fic on ao3 that rectifies this situation. certainly a piece of scifi history, i wish modern scifi was as brave with its theatrical set dressing, i think one viewing is good enough for me bc i cannot stop thinking about how all the women on set might have been treated.

john philip law popped up and i said out loud to my cat “hey i know him from cowboys”

Flower Drum Song (1961, dir. Koster) got conned into watching this by the hotvintagemen poll bc i wanted to see what james shigeta’s deal was, and if he did have a sort of ratpack sensibility as the propaganda described. he does! however this movie is unrelentingly awful. it is so so so slow. all of its comedy is racism-based. it feels like a three and a half hour two-VHS set instead of two hours. i like to think i have a stronger stomach for older media and am able to consider things as products of their times but this is my upper limit i think. one brief fleeting moment of cool production with this triple mirror effect

Dirty Dancing (1987, dir. Ardolino). we were trying to find something to watch on either peacock or hbo max, and when i said "oh i've never seen that" out loud my my best friend said "that's insane we're watching it". i did not hate this movie, but i feel like i missed some critical window of development in which i would have had to see this movie to really love it. i had sort of an abnormal high school experience and i am a smidge too old to relate to bildungsroman any more. but it was cute! it was fine! i think patrick swayze’s jawline could cut glass. this film was made after Roe v Wade (1973) and i feel like the backstreet abortion b-plot has done this interesting 180 from sort of a historical novelty to a real threat and terror again. fun!

that’s it for the watching section i promise

-

playing

im doing the thing where i play a game for ten minutes, put it down, and then pick it back up again, which is probably not terrific for the health of my elderly switch. but whatever. what have i been up to in breath of the wild?

not a ton of progress map-wise, but did make it up to zora’s domain.

i was planning on the camel being the first divine beast, to get that over with bc i had such a devil of a time in my last playthrough, but the thing about the desert is it’s really far away.

dicked around the dueling peaks stables for a while without managing to defeat that guardian and unlock that shrine. so it goes. i think i really need an actual guardian shield from one of the minor tests of strength shrines instead of a normie shield. this line and sidequest made me laugh— it wasn’t terribly hard to find this little cache but it was a tricky bit of gliding.

didn’t realize the horses don’t have that much vertical threat perception, just like real horses. this little band walked right under me and i failed to glide down and land perfectly on someone’s back, which did freak them all out.

i think my new favorite place in a game is this little grove clinging to the side of the dueling peaks. it felt very peaceful and cozy. nothing can get me up there and there’s more than enough room to make a little campfire and cook dinner and not roll off the mountain in a sleeping bag the middle of the night.

also fully kitted out my house bc i had a very successful mining expedition along dueling peaks. EXTREMELY forgiving and generous secondary opening area imo, thanks game

-

making

i started this glitch sampler pattern by tumblr's own mathysphere (not @'d bc this is a fuck of a long post) at the beginning of the pandemic, june 2020, while thinking "eh let's give this friends at the table counterweight thing a shot" got most of the way through both counterweight and this piece, put it down bc i was so annoyed with all the confetti stitches (random one-off stitches of colors that aren't anywhere near other stitches of the same color. i think i resorted to fraychek at several points in the rover square) and then put it down so long i had to throw it out during the great moth debacle, bc it was partly eaten.

here's what it will look like finished, and a link to buy the pattern

i think this time around i am a much better technical stitcher (the first crack at this i didn't know the loop method of starting, or pin stitches, or really any alternate endings except running the tail under the last few stitches). i usually stitch with three strands bc i like the look, but i think the loop method with three strands is overly fiddly. i have not picked up cross stitch since mmmm 2021, but any mistakes or unevenness in this will simply contribute to the glitch effect. i'm going to go back and backstitch the four "frames" and key portions of the sampler to highlight portions of the glitches (eg the yellow and blue centers of the spiral galaxy, the interior of the eclipse, perhaps add an antenna to the rover).

still not my tidiest back, but hey. it's going to sit in a frame and not have any sort of friction or extra force applied to it ever

i am really looking forward to framing this in a deep shadowbox, i have an idea about how to mat it with little melty cutouts for the drips at the bottom.

[screechingkingdomhottub]

DEFENDING NPMD

Time to defend nerdy prudes must die to some of you for not appreciating the utter masterpiece it is as my current hyperfixation.

"These teens aren't realistic they're caricatures" - Sure that could easily be true, and say it is true then it's a high school piece based on cliques/stereotypes that people don't necessarily fit into in reality? That doesn't make it bad, heathers and mean girls are classics at this point. But also I was 3 of these people in secondary. I had an anime phase and I was friends with weebs, they act exactly like richie, like...I told so many people "Believe It!" with a thumbs up. I even played a naruto song to classmates and talked about how he was my idol as a 13 year old...I cringe about that to this day but it's a REAL PHASE. Then we have Ruth who is so horny and desperate for love...literally my teenage life are you kidding? Especially with the theatre reenactments thinking I could do things if I didn't get anxious like...poor girl. I'd like to think I was Peter at one point, I have low blood sugar and like pokemon cards and got decent grades and had a bit of a need to prove myself? But I was probably closer to Grace like ya boi has religious suppressions but I'm catholic so clearly not a person of faith in Grace's eyes haha.

"There's too many rhymes - class of twenty twenty worn"

I think this was intentional? Well not really but also like it makes sense, Jeff said the reason for the snapping being wrong in bully the bully is because they're nerds and that's uncool in jazz which kinda leads me to believe this theory. Also the original lyric was "There's no way to fix the class of 2026" but had to change cause year. One of the songs that doesn't rhyme obsessively is "The Summoning" which is sang primarily by the lords in black as opposed to the high school kids. Now, I don't want to offend anyone but high schoolers are idiots. Everyone is an idiot but high schoolers tend to be egotistical idiots. My theory is the rhyming is sort of a meta commentary of the ages of these characters, believing that things should be rhyming because that's what they've been taught. It keeps the norm of the school also, it shows it fits the standard representation of schools in media and then symbolises this through the representation of a standard song. Whereas the lords in black have some off lyrics, off rhymes, especially here: "Nibbly wants a sacrifice And Wiggly wants his wrath We dancе around the pentagram And take all our kingdoms back" It doesn't fit the other rhymes that happen earlier on sang by the high schoolers. This could represent the lords in black are interfering with the norm, they're older and wiser and follow their own rules. "But screech what about hatchet town" they don't have the same power as the lords in black, the chaos and paranoia is getting to them but there is still more off rhymes than in others. "What are off rhymes what are you doing" A rhyme is like fart and smart. An off-rhyme is like fart "monster" and "Gone sir" it doesn't entirely rhyme but it has that feeling. There's probably a lot more fascinating things that you can get into with this "BUUUT Heathers did it without them sounding so cheesy and unaware" my answer to that is, heathers is fILLED WITH EMOS. Have you spoken to an emo? They'll go like "Even the roaring waves of the sea cannot mimic the immense drowning I feel by my emotions" like dude chill. NPMD doesn't have emos in it really...Everyone is really happy considering the situation.

"Who says cool beans anymore?" - This is the funniest criticism to me like, do you think Grace Chasity is supposed to represent a modern day view? She's the one who says it first! "Shoot and shinola", "tickle on my mommy spot" all that is fine by you but cool beans is outdated??? "But why do the others join herrr" ok well the obvious reason there is they're INSIDE A HAUNTED HOUSE WITH SOMEONE WHO IS VERY SUS AND THEIR WORST BULLY IS COMING AND ALSO GRACE IS THE ONLY ONE WITH THE KEY LIKE I WOULD JUST GO WITH THAT. But if not, nerds quote outdated memes all the time. "Excellent" reminded me of naruto the abridged series, like that's from 2008 but im still there. Or like the phandom are still simping for glabellas and onomatopoeic microwaves. The starkid fandom would never reference an old musical, the medallion said that was dumb so we're not doing that...wait Most valid stuff I've seen is about steph's characterisation which I can do a whole post about like mariah is phenomenal as always but there's a lot of telling not showing.

Also I'm back into starkid

[cambria-writes]

welcome to the very final chapter of honey and the hatchet! 🎉 it quite literally took eight whole entire years to get here, but i finally made it!

big thank you to everyone who's stuck around, read and flooded my notes with likes and shares this story around. i cannot express in any language i know how significant and meaningful that is.

for those who might be wondering, i used these photos of a suite at the macarthur to kind of situate myself.

...also sorry for kind of maybe edging you at the end there lol anyways enjoy!

pairing: patrick jane x named reader/ofc word count: 4,883 rating: A for adult content, MDNI warnings: smut, wearing, i know nothing about opera, PiV, unprotected sex, mild dom/sub, sir kink, neck grabbing but no choking, hair pulling if you squint, mentions of planned murders, relatively minor injuries (jane might have a cracked rib it's probably find), confession, the L word, this was not proofread and i'm almost sorry, please let me know if I should take anything else!

previousmasterlist

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕹𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖙𝖊𝖊𝖓: ℭ𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔷𝔞

Several Months Later

An opera house. A fucking opera house is where you end up spending Christmas Eve. It’s not something that a lot of people would get upset about, normally, and you know this. That’s why you’ve schooled your face into an expression that’s more rich, entitled boredom than resentful impatience.

But you’re in a box for a fancy show, wearing a dress that definitely costs more just to look at than your apartment likely does in a whole calendar year, and there’s free alcohol. Not that you’ve been indulging up until now, but it’s nice to know that there’s expensive, free booze for when you will be able to pay attention to literally anything else. 

Right now, your eyes are half-heartedly trailing around the stage, eventually halting at the Sopranist singing her heart out. You can’t make out the lyrics at all—never could, with how broad and loud the voices are in operatic compositions, nevermind the insane acoustics of this place—but the sound of the song feels appropriate. A slow build that keeps on building despite several fake-outs that make you believe you’re finally out of this eternal musical waiting.

Conveniently, it’s when the Sopranist pauses for a quick breath that you hear it. The drag of a foot against an old velvet rug. You whip your fan open and feign interest in the elaborate emotional display the singer is putting on. You’re not worried; you know you look like every other bored twenty-something in this place.

Patrick had personally made sure of that. 

“Enjoying yourself?” A woman asks, her deep, airy voice drifting around you as she moves to sit down to your left, French accent heavy in her words. She flips open a small hand fan with a short “thwap” before turning her attention to you.

Madame Jonquière is someone whose gaze feels heavy. Patrick hadn’t told you much about her. Just that she was at Stonewall and that he owed her a favour. Didn’t mention what the favour was for, and you didn’t bother prying any further. Madame Joncquière’s eyes go down to your hands for a second before meeting yours again. She smiles politely and inclines her head expectantly. You realize you haven’t answered yet.

“Sorry, yes,” you reply quickly. Clear your throat before looking back at the stage. “I can’t understand most of it but it sounds lovely. Thank you for letting me accompany you tonight.”

Madame Joncquière swings open a hand fan with a muted ‘fwap’ before fanning herself. “Oh no, thank you for your presence tonight!” she exclaims quietly, leaning forward closer to you.  You grin and leave over. “No one ever wants to come to the opera house with me anymore. They all think it’s boring!”

You laugh quietly along with her. Madame Joncquière leans back into her chair and fixes her gaze to the stage. You appreciate the space she’s leaving you. Despite the fact that she knows damn well that you’re here to make sure she doesn’t get assassinated, she seems to be taking everything in good stride.

You watch his back as he carefully pours a drink out of a shaker. You have no idea what prompted him to pick you up at 11:30AM for cocktail hour. On a Wednesday. In the empty, closed bar of some man who happened to also owe him a favour. You hadn’t expected an explanation. But Patrick had kept silent the whole car ride. It hadn’t been uncomfortable, but the whole time you can’t help but feel like you’re being psychologically edged. You can only refrain from asking the slew of questions floating in your head for so long.

A highball glass filled with some strange red-purple liquid swirling enticingly inside it. The colours almost make the ice look like it’s sparkling. You’re dazzled for a second before looking up at Patrick.

“One Purple Haze for our esteemed guest,” he says, dramatically, with a flourish and a bow. You laugh quietly before picking up the highball. Hold the glass up to the light to watch the colours mingle.

“It’s definitely nice to look at.” Distracted, you don’t notice Patrick walking out from behind the island to stand behind you. You don’t flinch when his cold hands part your hair to slide down your neck and rest on your shoulders. “Am I really expected to drink this before lunch? I haven’t even had breakfast.” 

“I did tell you to get up early last night,” Patrick says, voice low, by your ear. “Sounds like someone snoozed their alarm four too many times.”

You don’t answer. You instead try to see how quickly you can down the purple haze that was handed to you. Hoping to maybe inherit some of its own haze. You only stop when you’ve gulped down half.

“It’s a bad one, by the way,” Patrick adds, pressing a soft kiss at your temple before moving away. He sits on the stool next to you, slotting his knees between yours. “You’re supposed to pour the liqueur last to let it settle at the bottom. It isn’t supposed to swirl like that.”

You hum in understanding a look at the glass in the light again. “Shame, it looks nice this way.” Bring the glass back to your mouth for another sip. “Why am I getting a lesson in mixology today?”

“You’re going to the opera,” he starts, and you chug the rest of the drink before bracing yourself for another briefing. “And I’m going to need you to remember to order this, and how it’s supposed to be made.”

You frown. “Okay, so if I get it and it’s well made that means… what?”

Patrick smirks. Your stomach flips, entirely unaided by his hands running up your thighs. “It means I might have gotten… held up.”

“And this is… bad?”

Patrick hums and leans in, brushes his nose against your jaw. “If you consider first degree murder ‘bad’ then yes, it would be quite bad.”

You scoff at the blazé tone he takes, but it’s half-hearted. His fingers are working their way up your loose shorts toward your hips. 

“It might be a bad idea to sip at something that might have been poisoned.”

Ah, so this was it. 

Patrick hadn’t kept you in the loop for the entirety of this particular… situation. Not only because Madame J had gone to see him directly rather than the CBI, for reasons that hadn’t been obvious at the time, but because this seemed to be a personal slight. You’d kindly asked to be kept at an arm’s length for it all; solving murders had been one thing, but actively trying to prevent one felt beyond you.

You put your hands over his to halt their movement. Patrick immediately pulled back, brows furrowed in concern.

“I feel like too much hinges on me here,” you say quietly, pointedly staring at your knees. You can see the veins starting to honeycomb on your hands. Your fingertips feel cold and stiff.

“You don’t have to,” Patrick answers, just as quietly, pulling one of his hands back to run down your face, brushing your cheekbone with his thumb. “I can bully Rigsby into it.”

You can’t help but laugh a little. He’d probably love the chance to go out at the opera with someone who also wants to be there.

“How long do I have to think about it?” 

“Only until Saturday,” Patrick answers, and you can hear the apology in his voice. The last-minute nature of this annoys you–it only gives you three days, including today, to decide whether or not you want to be the final hurdle.

“I’ll sleep on it and let you know tomorrow.”

The evening goes well enough. You still can’t understand much of what’s being sung, but you enjoy the performance. The drama and emotion in the acting, while singing, is something that’s at least legitimately interesting to watch. 

You occasionally look over the audience as well. Your perch from the box gives you a fantastic vantage point to see most everyone in the hall. The hairs at the back of your neck have been raising every now and then. Same feeling as you get being observed in the dark. But every time you try to scan the crowd, everyone’s either facing the stage or canted forward in somnolence.

You hear a knock at the door of your box before the door opens. This is it, you think. You’d ordered drinks just as you were coming back from the intermission. You take a quick look at the dainty gold watch Patrick had wrapped around your wrist earlier in the evening. It’s been… fifteen minutes. Which seems like an awful long time to prepare a purple haze and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

You don’t bother turning at all until you hear the serving tray being gently placed on the table between you and Madame J. You note, with no small amount of relief, that your purple haze muddled to absolute fuck and back. Perfectly safe to drink then.

Your server speaks up just as you notice, reaching for your glass, that there’s quite a spill on the tray.

“Au plaisir, mesdames.”

A thrill runs up your spine. Madame Joncquière looks up while you slowly wrap your fingers around the cool glass. She almost makes a joyful exclamation, but seems to stop halfway through taking in a breath for you. Keep your eyes on your drink while you listen to retreating footsteps, muted on carpet, until you hear the door open and close again.

Madame J’s hand lands softly on your shoulder to give it a squeeze. 

“How wonderful of Monsieur Jane to come look in on us himself!” she says to you, barely above a whisper. “Shall we cheers to that then, chérie?” 

Your heart still thrums in your chest from the thrill of it all. You raise your glass along with her, but just before knocking it against Madame J’s, you draw your hands back.

“Would you mind indulging me?” you ask quietly, trying to control the smirk threatening to take over your expression. 

Madame Joncquière clearly sees the scheming glint in your eyes and doesn’t hide her grin. It’s toothy, like a fox. And you feel like a peer, having caught a rabbit dead to rights. 

“Absolument! What would you like?” She leans in closer over the small end table between you. 

You carefully move to grab her wine glass and press your glass to her palm. She beams and immediately gets your meaning. You link arms together, giggling quietly as you try not to spill your respective drinks. 

“Cheers to yet another wonderful night on this train wreck of a planet,” you say, tilting the wine glass to clink against the highball. 

“I’ll drink to that!”

No sooner has the wine touched your lips, you hear a small commotion in the audience. Not enough to interrupt the show, but not something that won’t be noticed. 

The wine is bitter and sour on your tongue and you don’t bother to school your expression into something tame. Madam J laughs quietly behind her fan and offers your drink back. You hastily hand her back her awful wine and nurse your significantly sweeter cocktail.

The rest of the evening is blessedly uneventful. Patrick doesn’t make another appearance, but you don’t expect him to. You were surprised that he showed up personally in the first place. At the end of the show, after having another attendant–a real one, this time–slips you both back into your coats. Opens the door and thanks you for your patronage and only closes the door behind you once you’re most of the way down the hallway. Madame J links your arms together as you walk, chittering away about the singers’ performance. 

Once you reach the lobby, excuses herself for a moment to make a phone call. You make your way over to a plush lounge chair by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and take a seat. It’s fairly early, for a Sunday evening, so you pass the time people watching. Your phone vibrates in your coat pocket just as you see Madame Joncquière making her way over to you. Quickly look at your phone notification. 

‘Have her drop you off here,’ followed by an address and a room number. You don’t have time to respond back and ask where the fuck that is before Madame J extends her hand out to you. 

“I’ve been instructed to provide transportation for you, chère,” she says as you accept her hand to stand. “You’re alright to give my driver your address, yes?” 

Your body doesn’t seem to know if it should be excited or apprehensive. You acquiesce to Madame J after a second. Once you do actually enter her car–a vintage Cadillac with the classic wings–and let the driver know where to drop you off, she practically begins vibrating in her seat next to you. 

“Oh, please, you have to tell me who you’re meeting there!” she says, eagerly reaching for and grabbing your hands. The question must be written on your face because she laughs giddily. “Ma belle, the MacArthur is a veritable oasis in Sacramento. If you’re going there and you don’t know this, someone is very eager to make sure you enjoy yourself.”

This time the excitement wins over; you can feel your face heating up and you’re not entirely sure what your face is doing. You struggle to come up with something to say to that–what do you say to that?--but Madame Joncquière giggles some more and pats your thigh.

“So it’s Monsieur Jane, after all? What a man. I wonder who he conned into letting him stay there tonight.” 

“Probably someone else who owes him a favour,” you mutter. Your cheeks hurt from trying not to smile too widely.

“That would be a pretty sizeable favour to cash in on for leisure.” Her tone says she’s just thinking out loud, but you think you understand what Madame J’s trying to say.

Awful big favour to cash in on one woman. Must be a special one.

You try not to think too much about it.

The general manager meets you at the car. You wouldn’t have known he was the general manager if Madame Joncquière hadn’t turned into a gossipy 14 year old girl at the sight of him exiting the hotel doors. He opens the car door for you and helps you out with a hand.

“Lovely to have you, Ms Benraft. I’m Stephen Crawford, General Manager,” he introduces himself, taking a moment to lean forward to address Madam J. “Always a pleasure, Madame. Your friend will be in good hands with us.” 

“Always a pleasure, Monsieur Crawford. Have a wonderful night, chérie,” she finishes while addressing you, tossing a wink. “À la prochaine!” 

The general manager understands his cue to close the door, and the Cadillac slowly pulls away. 

You’re guided through the main building, where Stephen explains the history of the hotel and its various accommodations, all of which go into one ear and out the other. You’re taking directly to your lodgings, and  the general manager assures you that all amenities have been accounted for, including a late dinner and, in his words, “a small wardrobe in anticipation of whatever you would find comfortable”. 

You’re starting to understand why Madame Joncquière reacted the way that she did. Patrick has treated you to luxuries before–dinners, various events, even a trip out of the country–but none of it felt quite this… decadent. Almost overindulgent, actually. 

It truly feels like being spoiled rotten, and you’re still not sure how you feel about it.

Stephen hands you a very intricate key and steps back to wish you a good night, and that the front desk is available 24/7 should there ever be anything you need. You thank him and wait until he’s out of sight before turning back to the door. 

Your blood feels like it’s effervescing in your veins.

You consider knocking first, but decide to just let yourself into the room. You’re expected, after all, so it shouldn’t really matter, right? 

The first thing you notice is the fireplace. Then, the plush chairs, then the bed, then the bay window. The lighting is dim; only two lamps lit and the faint glow from the electric fireplace. The last thing you register is the sound of a shower running. 

You carefully close the door behind you and shrug your coat off, throw it in the direct of one of the chairs to your right. Walking further in, you spot a desk in a took to the left of the door with a chair conveniently pulled out. You carefully sit down to remove your shoes. Beautiful as they are and however aesthetically pleasant it was to have them match your dress, you’re happy to have them off. Carefully massage the soles of your feet, rotate your ankles, before leaning back in the chair.

This is lovely. You almost feel like you’re in one of those secluded little getaway suites in Bali or something. The vibes certainly match, even if late December weather is a bit too chilly. If you actually just let yourself enjoy everything for a second, and stop worrying about what it cost, this is just very nice. 

Maybe you’re starting to feel a little less spoiled and a little more pampered.

You’ve half dozed off by the time you feel warm hands on your shoulders. You sleepily hum, content, and sit up a little straighter. Stifle a yawn behind your hand and hear Patrick chuckle behind you.

“Have fun?”

You groan as you stretch. “Mm, would’ve been more fun withou–”

You cut yourself off after turning around and actually lay eyes on Patrick’s face. His lower lip is split on his left, and there’s a cut above the brow on the same side that you immediately know was from getting decked in the face. There’s also a disconcertingly large bruise on his left side, above his ribs, and you can’t fathom what would have caused that.

“Oh my–shit, are you okay? What happened?” 

You get halfway to standing up before Patrick gently presses you back down onto the chair. “Nothing too bad, I promise,” he answers, almost cajoling. Well, he’s breathing fine, from what you can see and hear. And he doesn’t seem like someone who got stabbed, you don’t think.

You still let the fingers of your left hand glide over the bruise. Patrick does a decent enough job to hide the wince, but it’s still there.

“Can I at least know what caused this one?” “Fire extinguisher.”

The words take a second to sink in before you start laughing. The image in your mind is absolutely far more cartoonish than what actually happened, for sure, but after an entire night of holding your breath, you can feel the tension start draining from your shoulders.

You turn back to face away from Patrick, and he resumes kneading the stress out of your traps and your neck. Thumbs dig into your neck on either side of your spine. It feels heavenly. Your breath catches when a shudder runs up your spine. There’s a heat that flares at the base of your spine when you feel his fingers gently wrap and brace against the sides of your throat.

“You did well tonight,” Patrick whispers into your hair. Takes a moment to brush your hair away before pressing a soft kiss to the back of your neck. 

You temper the rising, bubbling pride. “I didn’t even have to do anything.”

You can feel his laughter at the back of your neck. Hands slide down your arms before you feel him resting his forehead on your shoulder. 

“Switching your drinks was a clever idea.” You feel Patrick pulling away, squeak in surprise when he grabs the sides of the chair to spin you around. Crouches in front of your–and only now do you realize that he’s only got a towel around his waist, which parts dangerously wide as he lowers himself. “Made it a lot easier to catch our guy.”

Whatever tension in our shoulders Patrick hasn’t been able to dispel and disperse with his hands just… vanished. It had been a relief, initially, to know that Madame was safe and sound and not at risk of dying a slow, horrible, poisoned death. For the past 48 hours, it’s been a struggle to reign in your mind. You could barely sleep at night just for trying to distract yourself from what would happen if you didn’t pay well enough attention.

Patrick runs his hands over your thighs, up to your hips, tapping twice with his thumbs.

“I’m here,” you say airily, shaking off your thoughts to look Patrick in the eyes. “Just basked in the fact that it’s over now.” Lift a hand up to his face and gently smoothing your thumb below the cut at his brow. “Starting to wonder if I should have been worrying about you this whole time, instead.”

“Probably should have,” Patrick shrugs, and there’s a thrill that runs through you when you think, Of course I should have, of course you’d be getting yourself in some kind of mess.

He doesn’t say anything else when he stands back up and extends a hand out to help you to your feet. You feel silly for it, but you giggle when he makes you twirl, puling you back in with a hand at your waist. 

“Love the dress,” Patrick says, dipping in for a peck on the lips. “Where’d you get it?”

You scoff to compensate for the blood rushing to your face. “Some absolute scamp made me wear it tonight.”

Leading you into a slow, gentle sway by the fireplace, he puts on a show of looking offended. You laugh lightly at the exaggeration, but clear your throat once his expression settles. 

“I suppose the scamp should take it back, then,” he answers, voice low as the hand that held yours skips over ribs and moves up your back. 

You tilt your head when he begins to place opened-mouthed kisses down your neck. You let him pull your zipper down but otherwise don’t help him. Not that he needs much help; once the zipper stops, nearly at the very bottom of your spine, the top of your dress simply crumples away, taking the rest down with it.

Patrick takes a moment to pull back, hands smoothing down your upper arms as he takes a look at you. There’s a very self-content smirk on his face when he takes stock of the lacey, racy lingerie you’re wearing. A hand reaches down and tugs at your garter before letting it snap back into place.

God, the way he looks at you with such open, raw hunger continues to do things to you that you hadn’t known anyone was capable of. Until him.

“Even happier to see someone can follow instructions,” Patrick comments, sounding every part like the cat that got the cream. Both hands both over your hips, up your ribs, thumbs tracing the underside of your breasts.

Patrick leans in, lips barely brushing against yours. “Think you can keep following instructions?” 

You sigh shakily at his tone. “Yes, sir.”

You can feel his chest vibrate with his rumble of appreciation. He doesn’t speak when he tugs you along to bed. Doesn’t need to tell you what to do when he sits, tossing the towel from his waist in the general direction of the sitting area, leaning against the headboard. You dutifully install yourself on his lap, slowly settling your weight over his thighs. 

With two hands firmly on your rear, Patrick pulls you in as close as he can. Thrusts his hips up as he does so. Just the heat of his erection, throbbing against your damp underwear, has you moaning behind tightly sealed lips.

“That’s it,” Patrick encourages when you begin to rut against him without prompting. “Take what you want, I’ll give you the rest.” The rest of his sentence is almost unintelligible as he takes turns between kissing and nipping at your breasts. The bra is a pathetic excuse for fabric, and you understand why he had you wear this particular set; it almost feels as though there’s nothing at all between your skin and the wet heat of his mouth.

It doesn’t take long before you have to brace yourself against Patrick’s shoulders, and soon after that you find yourself whining as you toss your head back. The friction and heat are both wonderful in their own respect, but the angle is wrong, and it’s not nearly enough. 

You’re ravenous, and Patrick is a meal that loves to hold himself out of reach just a bit past long enough.

“Use your words,” he breathes into your collarbones, one hand moving us to massage at one of your breasts while the other moves lower. Down past the delicate lace waist of your panties, thumb teasing around your clit. 

“Fuck,” you choke out, unable to keep yourself from grinding down harder and faster in the hopes that something will change. 

“Not quite enough words,” Patrick quips, and you growl, annoyed. Bring your head back forward and do your best to maintain eye contact. 

It still feels embarrassing, even now. To say it out loud.

You’re learning to accept that… maybe you’re just. A little bit into that.

“Please, sir,” you start, clearing your throat and swallowing thickly. “I would very much like you to fuck me, please.”

Patrick practically purrs, satisfied. This part, too, is well rehearsed. You muster just enough self control to raise your hips. Enough room so he can pull his cock forward. Enough for you to gather saliva in your mouth and let it dribble down. Over Patrick’s hand, and over his cock.

He groans with the feeling of it as you exhaled in something you think might be awe. His eyes are close and head tilted back. He looks debauched, you think, but not quite enough. 

“Can I–can I touch, sir?” you pants, hands already raised by the sides of his head.

“Can’t say no when you ask so nicely,” he breathes out. You immediately run your hands through his hair, digging your fingertips into his scalp. He moans, a drawn-out thing that has your cunt clenching in a desperate way. 

A shudder like electricity shoots through you when you feel Patrick simply pulling aside the gusset of your underwear before lining himself up with your entrance. He takes a second–during which you whine in complaint–to get a hand at the back of your head, fisting the hair there just enough to get your attention. Look down at him with impatient, hooded eyes. 

“You’ll forgive the terrible timing,” he starts, sounding about as breathless as you’re sure you currently do. “But there’s been something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“You’re right,” you groan, leaning your head forward to rest against his. “It’s terrible ti–”

Your sentence is blissfully interrupting when Patrick thrusts up into you. Not quite hilting himself, but damn well near it. You’re not sure what you would call the sound that cracked its way out of your throat. He groans in unison with you, and you’re not sure who’d trying to pull who in closer.

“Fuck,” Patrick breathes out, one hand guiding your hips to slowly move against him, the other smoothing the hair at the back of your head. “I love you.”

You keen, a quick, sharp pitched sound. Push yourself just far away to look him in the eyes. Takes him a second to build enough composure back off to raise his head and look at you straight on.

He’s been unguarded before, sure, but not like this. There’s something swirling in your chest and low in your abdomen. Something heavy, heady. 

“Christ,” you exhale, lifting your hips before slamming them back down. Your sharp inhale catches in your throat and Patrick bites back another groan. “Worst timing. Other women would question your motives.”

“Mmh, good thing you aren’t any other woman.” The end of his sentence is punctuated by a particularly sharp thrust upward. You can feel the tip of his cock just brushing against your cervix, and the jolt it sends through has you grinding down back in turn. 

Patrick winds his arms around your back and presses your against his chest. You feel him bracing his feet against the mattress, immediately move to grab the edge tof he headboard. Feel him chuckle under you, flinch when you feel teeth against one of your nipples through the sparse lace.

“Fortunate that I love you too, then.”

You don’t get to properly register the sound you hear bubbling up from the back of Patrick’s throat before he thrusts back up into you. Sets a pace that might’ve been brutal, but even in the haze of oxytocin in your brain you can recognize that this is relief. 

A man that’s been alone and snarling at and against the world for so many years just… just told you he loves you.

When you feel a hand make its way around your throat, you take the cue. 

It’s a tomorrow problem.

Tonight you can just feel, and bask in several jobs well done.

Tag List

@fucklife-or-me @mamacakeishereforfun @newavenger @yearningforsappho @natsukee @piper570 @rikuisthesweetestboy @berry-blink @wandabillywrites @leftovers-and-headrubs @pauphs @gamingfeline @racoonkitty @dogmatic255 

[ineffectualdemon]

I am pro mental autonomy

People with mental illnesses deserve to have control over their mental health care and that includes whether or not they seek treatment or medication

By this I mean being openly mentally ill shouldn't be stigmatised against or forced treatment on if no one else is being harmed. Even if they make other people uncomfortable because discomfort is not harm

The rare instances where mental illness can contribute to harm against others is a complex matter and even then they should have a say in their treatment

And I say this as someone who has been situations where someone else's mental health has made me fear for my safety/life

But I have also been in many more situations where someone else's mental health made me uncomfortable. And I can tell you the way the people who merely made me uncomfy were treated by society was disgusting

(for the record I tried not to show my discomfort and either help or ignore them depending on the situation, my age, and what I felt was more appropriate at the time)

This is all to say I am against forcing treatment

That being said I am also really pissed off that the metric of who receives treatment is based solely off if they make other people uncomfortable/pose an obvious risk to themselves

I cannot tell you all the harm my religious delusions caused as a young person and why I have had to fight to find my own ways to protect myself. The distilled version is it drove me to self harm both physically and mentally and it would have gotten worse. There were times I was close to cutting my hands to mimic the stigmata and the only reason I didn't was because I was sure it would start on its own. I understood why people in the past had whipped themselves bloody in the name of God

I was in it deep

And I don't think anyone I lived with or knew knew about this at the time because a symptom of my delusions is that I can't tell people or bad things happen. Extreme secrecy is a by product of my delusions. And the religious delusions are only one of my delusions

I figured this out during a clear period in my early twenties and that's when I became someone known for oversharing. Because if I didn't have secrets I couldn't create elaborate realities in the same way. It hasn't ended the delusions but it has kept me safer and away from certain things but I know how easily I fall back into old delusions. I know religious delusions are just lying under the surface. Hell I listened to a song last year that had a Christian message and that alone very nearly pulled me back in. I had to stop myself from listening to it and it was difficult*

But I am not obviously mentally ill to most people. I don't show my symptoms very much because of the extreme secrecy part of it and generally other people aren't uncomfortable around me due to my delusions because they don't know about them

So when I went to the doctor during a lucid period and said "I have these issues and they cause me this kind of harm and I need help" and because I wasn't actively and obviously delusional in the moment and I was not making anyone else uncomfortable I was told "those aren't delusions" and denied treatment for them

Same for my hallucinations. Who cares if it scares me and keeps me from sleeping if I know they weren't real by the time I talked to a doctor and it didn't bother other people around me

I only ended up on an anti-psychotic and got therapy by emphasising my mood swings...you know. The thing that bothers other people

I'm off my anti-psychotic now for many reasons and the only reason I'm doing okay is because my in-laws paid for a private therapist for a year who actually believed me and helped me with my delusions and hallucinations

I am just so angry that people get treatment they don't want forced on them because other people find them a bother and people who want treatment can't get it because they aren't enough of a bother to other people

*and I was only able to do it because of my last therapist

[licorice-and-rum]

Truth is... I cannot live with my own heart

It was just that... there was so much loneliness in adult life, so much loss. If she thought about it, Annie could make a whole timeline of her life with the things she had lost as she grew up:

At first, she lost things she didn't care about anyway, like clothes, shoes, and jewelry. Then, she lost toys and blankets and beds as she grew a bit older. Then, she lost friends—both sides forced to separate because of changes in their parents' lives (Annie believed that was why there was so much rebellion in adolescence: nothing but a desperate struggle for a bit of control so that the losses weren't so many, so extensive, so painful, to make things stop disappearing just for a second).

Then, suddenly, people were no longer so kind, so lenient. Suddenly, an adventure was just a trip, Christmas was just another celebration, songs became a little less magical—things started to become duller, less bright than they once had been to her childish eyes, things were no longer a mystery to be discovered. Suddenly, the people who had always been around her started to disappear, leaving only an irreparable void inside her.

But for Annie, the most devastating loss of adulthood was what everyone seemed to call so confidently independence, though to Annie it just sounded like loneliness; it was the belief that because she was an adult now, she should know what to do with all those feelings, with all those emotions, with all those sensations and those situations, with all that life that she didn't fully understand; it was the dichotomy between placing the responsibility of being an adult on her shoulders, but doubting her ability to be one competently with every step she took.

But more than all that, it was the complete and desperate loneliness of being left alone with her own emotions as if they were a messy room she needed to clean up, but that only kept getting messier no matter how much she tried. Alone because other people had their own messy rooms to clean up and Annie could no longer depend on them. There was so much loneliness in being an adult—no more mother's lap for you, because if you need help, it's because you're not ready. No more hands to support you while you walk, no more training wheels while you ride, no more of everything you took for granted yesterday.

Annie was only twenty-one years old, but she was already tired—no, exhausted—of adult life, because it was too many losses from all sides, it was too much emptiness, and it made her understand why adults accepted any desperate form of love that came their way just so they wouldn't have to face that life, that world, with the awareness of that loneliness.

[for-yoongi0309]

231012 | RM on weverse

Hello

It is my last birthday in my twenties. Though I am not sure if it’s because of my professional characteristics, but it feels that a bit of shyness that accompanies the day that is called "birthday." even though i believe that its just a day that isn't too big of a deal in my opinion.. i yet feel so happy and blessed that so many people send their sincerest wishes.

From time to time, i think that love is something that gives and creates a name to someone. to where Kim Namjoon becomes ‘Kim Namjoon’. and it is all because of you, even although it is just one day out of the many 365 days in a year, 29 year old me isn’t just a day that is passing by.

Except I want to be a person who can be as honest as one can be, i wonder, to what extent exactly, could the existence of the untouchable and palpable of a relationship between fans and the artists that possibly go beyond and reach up to.

Can everything just be accepted under some kind of phantasm that is called love? I am still experiencing times where expressing my inner thoughts honestly becomes the heel of an Achilles, and then honesty becomes a wound, but i am still not so sure.

I had said in the past that i was sad and that it was growing harder for me to talk about things. I feel that statement still stands true however. but however, i have grown calmer. because i received so much sincerity that one may or may not receive in one’s life in the form of cloudbursting downpour.

I regarded despondency and futility to be cool, but i realized that i am also someone who is optimistic and positive. isn't that a miracle? lately I've been living with the phrase, ‘why not?’. i want to live by sharing the optimism that i have received from the people around me. and I am also pressing down and holding onto my next songs that will be released someday. yes. But could I show honesty in a more beautiful method other than with music? It's a truth everyone knows but it feels as if it's still not enough.

And that is why I sometimes wonder if i became BTS because of this. because i wanted to do so in various ways. whether it be through programs, interview, or dance, whatever it may be.. how blessed of a life this has become. and wherever i am, these things make me want to see it clearly with my own two eyes and reflect on. they say its destiny when things coincidentally overlap but they also say coincidence is also fate disguised as serendipity.

However, i think that is of a similar reason to why I'm writing this letter to you. it feels as if i would have written this letter in September of 2023, regardless of which version of me i would have been. every time, my birthday letter is describing the place that i have arrived at but done in different languages of love each time. because of all of you, i am living really well. i want to live well. i just want to tell you every time, that i am loving you with the best version of myself.

However else, i cannot hug each and every one of you and with that, my heart transcends with those feelings. no matter what appearance i may take, i wont ask for you to love me. but i will put in the effort that reflects all of the love I have received.

The last birthday inside my twenties is going smoothly simply like this. let us be healthy and happy for a long time, no matter what sky we’re under. Let's meet again after some time passes. sincerely wishing you an early, if not a belated, happy birthday to you as well! thank you.

— Namjoon

[myriadeyed]

pikuach nefesh under the stars in the operating room

My dad had his appendix taken out when he was around my age -- twenty-three -- told me that under anesthetic, you don’t dream. It’s not like sleeping, no time goes by at all for you. You take that deep breath and close your eyes and when you open them a second later, it’s been seven hours and you’re permanently altered. “It’s like not even existing anymore,” he said. “It’s nice.” A dream is impossible. But on that Monday morning when the anesthesiologist puts the mask on and I breathe in, nevertheless, I see a scene unfold in crystal sharp clarity like a moissanite kaleidoscope:

A sixteen year old girl is sitting in the front seat of a 2016 Subaru Impreza with the engine running. Today is Sunday, and it’s the car she borrows to drive to school, but she won’t be doing so tomorrow. She believes this for one reason, and it’s true for another. The garage doors are closed tight. She’s not crying, she’s all grown up now and she is much too strong for that. The song Starlight by Muse is playing over Bluetooth because it’s her favorite song. Far away, this ship is taking me far away, far away from the memories of the people who care if I live or die!, Matt Bellamy belts out gaspingly. Yes, I remember this song. This child is wearing her favorite outfit, a dark colored hoodie two sizes too large, baggy jeans that hide her hips. She was once extremely idealistic. She wanted to save the whole world. Now she expects that today she will become an ibbur. An ibbur is one of the types of ghost that cannot move on; it is tethered by the noble purpose it failed to complete in life.

I’m standing by the garage door and as I walk up she sees me and she screams. She isn’t expecting a strange man in here -- no one is even supposed to be home. But then she notices that I am achingly familiar, like seeing a starlit ghost. And that she does know me, yes, she knows me very, very well. 

I open the driver side door. All the souls that would die just to feel al-- The music stops. A visit from a ghost of Mondays future.

“It’s time to go home,” I say. “You’re wanted there.”

Then I’m opening my eyes a minute later, it’s been seven years and it’s felt like nothing at all. My chest hurts so much but I’m still halfway dreaming enough not to notice because of the quote ringing in my ears:

“And whosoever saves a life, it is as though he had saved the entire world.”

[noxtms]

dear moz ; we are pleased to inform you that your application for DAPHNE GREENGRASS has been accepted to 𝐧𝐨𝐱 ! park sooyoung is now taken. you have twenty four hours to submit your account, or else your role will be reopened !

⧼ park sooyoung, cisfemale, she/her / i donʻt smoke by mitski + ovid says one thing . parthenius says another . hyginus and pausanius and philostratus and a whole host of writers and philosophers say whatever they feel like saying but in every iteration , daphne is running away . / daphne is so very tired of running away . / you are a good daughter and a good sister . you are a good daughter and a good student . you are a good daughter and a good slytherin . you are a good daughter , you are a good daughter . you are a good daughter . / your housemates donʻt know this , but you have never been quite as accident - prone as they always believed you to be . itʻs funny to them . all the graces of a pureblood daughter except when it fails you , except when you collect bumps and bruises like chocolate frog cards , except when you end up in the hospital wing more often than anyone else in your dorm . your housemates donʻt know this , but this has always been by design . / ovid says that cupid is slighted by the sun . ovid says that he pierces apollo with one arrow and daphne with another . apollo chases and daphne runs because she must . in the myths , it is a curse . the story plays out to the tune of someone elseʻs song with daphne as the instrument . / good daughter , good sister . good daughter , good student . good daughter , good slytherin . you do your best because you must . / daphne is so very tired of being someone elseʻs instrument / your housemates donʻt know this , but even apprentice healers must take oaths . you take it so you can pick at madam pomfreyʻs brain . you take it because it is inevitable . you take it because your mother and your sisters and your father wonʻt ever ask it of you but you were never too good at listening to your family , not when it comes to matters like these . what they donʻt know cannot hurt them . thankfully , that falls beneath your oath as well . / ovid says that daphne ran and was so swift that even the sun could not catch up . until , of course , he did . when he drew near , daphne fell to her knees at the riverside and begged for salvation , for aid , for anyone to help her . someone did . / daphne is so very tired of asking for someone to save her . / good sister , good slytherin , good daughter . / your housemates donʻt know this , but you stuck around long after the tides of war had quieted down and all that was left was the cleaning . the healing . you donʻt know this , but when you roll the sleeves of your robes and get to work before madam pomfrey has a chance to ask it of you , it is only the first of many times you will do this . it would serve you better if you got used to it now . / ( spoiler alert : you never do get used to it ) / laurels mean hard - won fights . laurels means finish lines . laurel means victory . when this all shakes out , weʻll see you at the end of it all , wonʻt we ? ⧽ ━━ hey, isn’t that DAPHNE GREENSGRASS ? i read a daily prophet article on them, once ; the TWENTY-FIVE year old half blood WITCH is a SLYTHERIN alumnus who has gone on to be an MEDIWITCH . i’ve heard they can be quite DUTIFUL & CONSCIENTIOUS, but i don’t know… they came off very SANCTIMONIOUS & ALOOF in that interview. it really is hard to know what to believe these days though, isn’t it? [ moz , twenty-two , hast ]

[goddesspharo]

people I'd like to know better tag

Thanks to @at-thestillpoint for the tag!

Last song: I heard that stupid “updated” “We Didn’t Start The Fire” cover that Fall Out Boy did over the weekend and have been annoyed about it since then (it’s bad and not chronological which is literally the whole point!!! also how has their sound not evolved IN TWENTY YEARS??) so I’ve been listening a lot to the Billy Joel original (a timeless classic; the only one who should be updating is Billy Joel). But the actual last last song I listened to was Pearl Jam’s “Rearviewmirror” while eating a bag of chips for dinner because I’m on call and work is killing me. 

Currently watching: I watch a lot of movies (and that’s not even logging rewatches). I just finished rewatching the Mission Impossible franchise this weekend in anticipation of the new film (…after having rewatched the franchise last summer when the teaser trailer for MI7 got me so hyped) and, honestly, name a better franchise - you can’t because Fast & Furious has fallen off the rails (derogatory) and even when a Mission Impossible movie is bad (MI2), everyone has great hair! The soft reboot of energy starting with Ghost Protocol has only reinvigorated it. Tom Cruise can make these movies forever as far as I’m concerned and I’ll keep watching them. More recently, I watched Traffic today and it was both terrible (narrative wise) and hideous (did Soderbergh film all of the Mexico scenes on the sun???) and I cannot believe that THIS movie out of all the other (great!) movies he has ever done is what got him an Oscar for directing. Thanks, I hate it. TV-wise: I’m trying to catch up on Silo aka the show where Rebecca Ferguson keeps doing insane things and getting people killed (but also why won’t anyone make out with Common???) because apparently the only Apple TV show I’m actually capable of remembering to keep up with every week is Platonic, which more people should watch because Rose Byrne and Seth Rogen playing off each other is ALWAYS gold. They are my Jessica Chastain/Michael Shannon team up of comedy.

Currently reading: I’ve been trying to finish Laura Dave’s The Last Thing He Told Me for ages, but it’s as much of a slog as the show so I’m not sure that it’ll ever happen (…for either? God, I just want to get to the Victor Garber part!). Working my way through Making Rumours slowly and am about to start reading Piers Paul Read’s Alive: The Story of the Andes Survivors (one of the inspirations behind Yellowjackets!), but I really need to listen to Vendela Vida’s We Run The Tides first before Libby returns my audiobook loan.

Current obsession: spiiiieees (always); the cold brew I’ve been making lately with Cafe Du Monde grounds (highly recommend); the breakfast burritos I made this weekend; Tom Cruise saving cinema (why are the Oppenheimer folks so boring that they couldn’t play the game like Gerwig and Robbie?); Top Gun Maverick - still? forever? I keep waiting for it to leave my system and it simply won’t; mango season; trying to figure out which old HBO shows I finally need to watch before they get shipped off to Netflix (not the end of the world; it would just annoy me to watch an HBO thing not on an HBO platform) or yeeted to hell because David Zaslav is clearly just three kids stacked on top of each other under a trench coat.

No pressure tags: @earnmysong, @pearly--rose, @veronicafitzosborne, and anyone else who wants to do it!

[pulptv]

⠀⠀𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗣𝘛𝘝₁₉₉₉ ) :⠀ CHRIST, LOOK WHO'S WANDERED IN ! thank you for applying duckie. pat chayanit as the cfo of news media ltd is all yours. you have twenty four hours to send in an account and read over the checklist. get ready, new york is one hell of a city . . .

*  \̲\̲  pat chayanit,  cis woman  +  she / her  ] ⠀★ ,   no   way,   haven’t   you   ever   heard   of   anchali   malee   shinawatra?   perhaps   you   know   them   best   as   anchali.  spotted   under   new   york's   city   lights,   i’ve   heard   they’re   a   cfo   for   news   media   ltd   that’s   protected   by   the   sawayamas,   spilled   blood   for   loyalty   is   thicker   than   water.   the   rumour   goes   that   the   thirty   three   year   old   is   known   to   be   short - tempered   and   manipulative,   yet   assertive   and   strategic.   it’s   greed   that’s   their   biggest   vice,   but   hey,   what   do   i   fuckin’   know?   their   favourite   song   on   the   job   is   anhedonia   by   chelsea   wolfe   and   are   never   seen   without   their   cellphone,   hard   to   believe   in   superstition   in   such   a   godless   city.   ask   the   right   people   and   they’ll   tell   you   that   they   remind   them   of:   old   money,   sleek   minimalism   meets   modern   aristocracy;   blending   refinement   with   a   touch   of   rebellion,   casual   yet   refined   attire   in   unconventional   locales,   and   nonchalant   confidence;   “i   love   you,   i   fucking   love   you,   but   i   cannot   stomach   you.”;   an   intoxicating   blend   of   smoky   cedarwood   and   rich   amber,   underscored   by   subtle   notes   of   vanilla   and   a   hint   of   spiced   sandalwood;   the   modern   elegance   of   being   a   successful   woman   and   doomed   by   a   family   legacy so   whatever   you   do,   and   may   vengeance   have   mercy   on   you,   do   not   fuck   with   them.   ⸻    duckie,  26,  she/her/they,  est.