#i know them more deeply than i feel ive ever known anyone...

[1980ssunflower]

There is something so indescribably special about my loves...

[teethkid67]

i havent said anything personally on the situation bc im not sure that its my place & not sure what my next move is .

first off shelby has been incredibly brave and as someone who doesn't watch her and hasnt ever, ive felt mostly that it was best for me to be supportive in a quiet way & that it wasnt my place to give my input . most of all i didnt want to reduce her solely to her abuse and "victimhood" as to me it feels extremely counterproductive to post only about that when she is obviously more than what she went through . it felt disingenuous to begin posting about it as if i was someone who's always cared about shubbles content when honestly im not . bc at the end of the day its not about me and its not about her abuser , its about shubble and ive never been a member of her community .

i dont want my silence to be interpreted as me not caring about the situation or not believing her because i do ; i don't want to speak where my voice isnt needed or could take away from others . from some of the responses ive been seeing though i feel its far more important to listen to and boost her voice than be quiet .

i dont want to talk about him because ultimately this is about platforming shelby and what shes gone through . that said i HAVE watched, posted about and supported her all-but-named abuser , so im involved at least on that level and i want to say i am horrified by the abuse shubble has described.

the general reaction to her coming forward i have seen on this site and others , from one end of the spectrum (she hasnt said his name so we cant know / its not that bad / blatant excuses and defense of him) to the other (leaktwt / posts about how hes always been a creep / jumping down the throats of anyone who words their thoughts in a way they deem wrong) has been horrifying to witness . some of the most unproductive commentary ive seen on an issue like this and i was here from cmc to drm .

im deeply upset and feel i should say somewhere that some of the shit ive seen is unacceptable and contradictory to shelbys initial point, which i understand to be 2 things: 1) highlighting how abuse is not always obvious, or 'normal', and ways to recognize these situations as a victim 2) to highlight her own personal experiences and to stop both her own abuser and others from being platformed .

mcytdom is NOTORIOUS for "drama" like this and similarly well-known for being unable to boost / listen to / BELIEVE victims or at least leave them the fuck alone . to anyone who's ever been groomed or abused, esp my mutuals who have received extremely insensitive messages and feedback in wake of this , my heart goes out to you and i hope you are doing alright & know how appreciated and strong you are . shelby, niki, and other victims of abuse should be listened to and celebrated for both their bravery and strength and for who they are as people .

on a more personal note heres ig what im going to do going forward

this is my blog & im not leaving it , wont be deleting any posts either , mutuals id love to stay in touch if youre moving out or moving on .

very likely ill still be here in the smp hell . just gonna have to see how i feel about it all . in the three and a half years ive been drawing reading and writing about these characters a lot has changed including my perspective . ultimately tho its not about me

general message i want to get across is that im glad shelby is healing and getting the help she needs, as well as doing well enough to help others recognize the signs . love you my mutuals and friends and followers . take care of yourselves

[youwouldntlietopapa]

Little Sunshine - Chapter 2

(Also available on AO3 with poorly translated Italian and Latin poorly translated for you!) +18 MDNI Includes: 2k+ words of smut, Papa IV/Reader, Interrupted solo play, dirty talk, body worship, light sub/dom, oral, vaginal fingering, comfort/gentle play, mutual pining, masturbation, etc. Notes: Shorter chapter this time so you don't have to wait forever. I was aiming for smut, I swear, but I landed closer to cute and feels. There is still smut! Copia just also needs love, okay?

_________________________________________________________

Not Papa… Copia… It drags up the memory of the first time you saw him. Those vivid red robes in a sea of black. Looking more uncertain in the black paint than you’d ever seen anyone look. That awkward smile and his old moustache. One look and you’d known you were doomed. And now he’s here, promising to take care of you. It feels even better than his fingers working you close to madness.

The toe of his leather shoe pokes between your feet, slowly urging them apart. Spreading you open wider for him. Making your knees shake and lighting an inferno in your soul. Here it may not be Papa but, Satanas, who else could hold such power over you? Partly out of desperation to touch him and partly to keep from collapsing, you reach back to bury your hand in his hair. His mouth hasn’t moved more than a hair’s breadth from your skin since his arm wrapped around you and his hot breath on your shoulder comes almost as hard and fast as your own.

When you tip your face toward his, hearing his name on your lips is all it takes for him to claim your mouth again. The same desperate, eager passion as the first time. Kissing you like it’s all that might sustain him. Your fingers tighten in his hair and he moans deeply, pulling away just enough to gasp for breath. “Cara mia… Satana può avere la mia anima, ma il mio corpo è tuo.” He says with a shaky breath. Fingers slowing their pace enough for you to regain even a modicum of your composure.

Forcing your hand to relax, to gently drag your nails over his scalp, you lean into his kiss. Softer this time, slower. Setting aside the pure, simple, thoughtless lust. Instead, giving him every ounce of passion and care and attention you have felt.

It’s so very easy to get lost in the blinding carnal desire. And so easy to overlook the way your heart swells every time you see the corner of his mouth quirk up from across the room, the way his laugh echoing in the hall has you grinning like a fool, the way the sadness just behind his eyes makes you desperate to hold him tightly and tell him he is perfect, and beautiful, and so very loved. Him, just as he is. Copia.

The sound that flows from him isn’t the same moan. It barely sounds like the same man. Enough to shake you to your core. Like touching something pure and perfect for the first time. Like summer rain on the parched earth. You barely notice his hand has stilled until the other brushes your side. Turning you around to face him. Not Papa, you think again. Copia.

It barely takes a nudge to have him stepping with you, backward to the bed. When the mattress bumps the back of his legs, he reluctantly pulls away from your kiss and sits. Hands never leaving you, exploring every surface, every curve. His mouth delicately following his hands, trailing kissing and soft nibbles that leave you whimpering and struggling to keep still.

“Copia,” you breathe, cupping his cheek, and those mismatched eyes meet yours. “I know, your turn. I won’t argue.” A small cheeky smile and a soft kiss. “Especially now that I know how very good you are with your hands. But will you allow me one tiny concession?”

He looks up at you curiously, almost suspicious. You are a wily one, after all. He’s learned that quickly. “And what tiny concession is that, cara mia?”

Your eyes flick down, trying not to focus on his open trousers or his achingly hard cock demanding all of your attention. But instead the trousers themselves and his perfectly shined shoes. “Will you let me help you out of those clothes, please? That’s all I ask.”

That tiny smile melts your heart. Copia nods, slowly letting you go after a few more lingering kisses. “How can I say no when you ask so sweetly?”

His hips shift to help when you tug the waistband of his trousers down over the swell of his backside. Copia’s eyes glittering when you steal the opportunity to run your hands over his skin, kneading your palms into the muscle. Besides, who could blame you? It’s hard to resist when a cake that looks that good.

Kneeling on the floor is much easier this time. Sitting back on your feet, a little more relaxed. Taking one foot and then the other. Undoing the laces delicately, setting them neatly aside, and tucking his socks into them. The pattern of the fabric and the red lines left by the seams of his shoes stand out starkly against his pale skin.

He chuckles softly when he hears you tutting. “The hazards of the office, tesoro. Long days and too much time on my feet.” His husky groan of pleasure stokes the fire burning in your heart, massaging firmly into his poor tired feet. Even if he gives you a bit of a scolding look and teases with a wag of his finger. “I thought it was just helping me undress, we agreed to. This feels dangerously close to more than that.”

You meet his minor admonishment with those big doe eyes again. Giving him a bit of a pout. “It’s much easier to get your trousers off without your shoes, mio angelo oscuro. And I wouldn’t want you to be distracted by your sore feet when you could be focused on far more pleasurable things.”

Copia shakes his head with a grin. “Una cosa così malvagia che sei.”

“You say the sweetest things.” Your smile mirrors his and you finish easing away the pains of his day. Trousers following quickly to join the rest.

Only then do you crawl up off the floor to straddle his lap. Finally facing him, pressed tightly against his warm skin. His hands splayed on your back, holding you there firmly. Your hands massaging into his shoulders, working out the knots of tension, and down his arms. The wonder and the awe on his face as he watches your are so plain to see, you can feel the blush rising without him saying a word.

“Now,” you purr, rolling your hips against him. “You were going to care for me, this evening? Is that right?”

His hands pull you closer and his mouth is trailing kisses over your skin without hesitation. “Si, cara mia.” He’ll accept no argument and you have none to offer. Combing your fingers gently through his thick brown hair. Moaning softly as he sucks at your nipple, flicking his tongue with expert precision.

His hands shift behind you, bracing your back and cupping your backside with a satisfying squeeze. The muscles of his shoulders flexing under your hands as he lifts and turns, lying you back down onto the bed. In the same place this all started. Staring up at the ceiling, thinking only of him. This time, however, you don’t need to picture his face. He’s right there, in all his glory. The warm glow of the candles dancing on his skin and the soft lines of his face making him look like Le Genie du Mal come to life.

His voice is gentle, a private whisper only for you. “Is this as good as you were picturing earlier, mio angelo?” His kisses follow your neck and along your shoulder.

“No…” You admit, toying with a lock of hair that hangs down over his forehead.

“No?” Copia’s attention snaps back up to your face, looking almost crestfallen.

“No,” You repeat, with the faintest hint of a smile and a shake of your head. “It doesn’t even compare. This… This is better than any silly fantasy could hope to be. Why would I ever, ever want a dream over this? Over you?”

All of the tension goes out of his shoulders and he chuckles softly, giving one hard pink nipple a pinch just enough to get a squeak from you. “Naughty girl, tormenting me so. You scared me.”

You cup his cheek and he leans into the touch. “Forgive me, I tease. I can’t help myself.”

“Oh no. No, no, no.” He bites at your shoulder and begins trailing kisses down your chest. “This just means I will have to repay your wickedness later.”

Pater infra, I hope so. This man has you grinning like a fool again.

Copia covers your chest in kisses, down over your belly. Nuzzling his nose against your skin and exploring every inch with his hands. Every little sound of pleasure from him like a gift. Watching how the muscles of his back flex and move as he explores is almost too much to bare. When his mouth presses into the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, there is a part of you that is just a little sad. The part that remembers his moustache and the hours spent thinking about how it would tickle just there. But whatever is missed from a fantasy is more than made up for by reality.

His fingers slide over your clit, agonisingly slow, as he nibbles teasingly at your thigh. One firm hand holding your leg in place. Pressing your hips closer to his fingers, trying to get more, only encourages him to pull away a little further. Even from your position, you can see the teasing smirk. Encouraging this man’s mischievous streak may be your undoing yet.

Copia looks up at you, a wicked glint in his pale eye when the candle light catches it. “You did ask me to bless you, Sorella.” He purrs.

His fingers leave you, despite a whimpered protest, two raised and slick from his teasing. He reaches up and marks your belly with a cross, speaking in a tone you know all to well from his sermons. “In nomine Patris obscuri…” Another just above your public bone. “…et Filii…” And finally, he licks his lips, sliding his fingers over you again in a cross. “…et Spiritus Profani.”

Before you can even make a sound, his fingers press in deeply, curling up and sending a jolt along your spine. He kisses along the crease of your hip, savouring your moan while his thumb circles your clit languidly. When you feel him pulling away, it’s almost enough to make you cry. But he holds up his fingers again, slick down to his knuckles. That devious smile playing on his lips. You watch as he licks the taste of you off his fingers and hums with deep satisfaction.

“Nettare degli dei…” He says almost dreamily. Shifting himself a little into a better position, Copia pins your legs open wide and reverently leans into take a taste.

Like he’s been with everything so far, he begins slowly. Giving you time to adjust, and letting the tension build. His tongue proves not to be any less skilled than his fingers, his nose bumping against your sweet spot as he drags the flat of his tongue over you. The moan he gives is almost obscene, hips grinding into the bed, grip tightening on your legs. When his tongue presses inside, you bury your hand in his hair again.

No matter how sternly you command your legs to give in to his grip, they shake and squirm as his tongue works you harder and faster. Your hips won’t comply either, pressing back against him, eager for more. For all of him. You’d tell him as much, but the only sounds you can manage are a series of increasingly needy moans.

“Co… Copia…” You manage to gasp, writhing under him and gripping the bedding until you’re certain it will tear. “Satanas… Please… I’m… I….”

He pulls away slowly, looking up at you with hungry eyes. One hand releases your leg and the marks left by his grip ache deliciously. It’s a brief reprieve as his hand picks up where his tongue left off. Copia’s chin is practically dripping, any trace of the black lip paint he wore is long gone. “You want me to release you, cara mia?”

“P-please…” The whimper is desperate. “I can’t… I can’t…”

“Can’t what, dolcezza?”

Every ounce of concentration not dedicated to slipping over the edge just yet is needed for three simple words. “I can’t… wait.”

He chuckles softly, licking his lips still slick from his ministrations. “Ah, I see.” He settles back down kissing just over your pubic bone and nuzzling his nose against your skin. “In that case, bellissimo angelo, it would be cruel to keep you in torment… Cum for me.”

Copia’s generous lips catch your clit almost daintily. As if you weren’t close enough. As if his order wasn’t one you were eager to comply with. The gentlest sucking and the quick flicking of his tongue has your back arching off of the bed like one possessed. Your voice catches in your throat and your breath along with it. While the inferno he sparked explodes and consumes you until you wonder if this may be the actual death of you. The cry that finally breaks loose is like nothing anyone has ever gotten from you before. The waves crash against the shore and slowly, finally recede, leaving you gasping for breath on the bed.

It must be only moments, though time has lost all meaning, before he’s tactfully cleaned his face and climbs up to look at you. More than a little pride in that smile. His hair is a tousled mane that wreathes his face, the work of your own hands. When he kisses you, you can still taste yourself on his tongue, sending another shock wave through your core. And another when you feel him stiff and wanting, pressed against stomach.

“Copia…” Somehow both the simplest and most complex prayer you know, said with such reverence and care. You cup his flushed cheek and kiss him again. Slowly, deeply, passionately.“Tu sei perfetto… Non Papa, non Emerito, nemmeno Cardinale... Copia. Bella, dolce, divertente, meravigliosa, perfetta... Copia.”

His blush only deepens and for a long moment, he searches your face. That sadness you’ve seen behind his eyes looks out at you again. Wanting to believe the words but holding back.

“Voglio te. Solo tu. Tutti voi. Per favore. Ti prego.” Your hands slide around, kneading into the muscles of his back, holding him close. Kissing him once more, one soft, simple kiss. Whispering as if someone might catch you both and staring back into that uncertain gaze. “Il mio cuore, la mia anima... sono tuoi. Copia.”

The look on his face is hard to read. For half a second you worry you’ve said the wrong thing. An apology is already half formed. Such a fool to be so terribly forward. To think so much of yourself. He doesn’t need to assurances of some no-

His arms wrap around you, pulling you tightly to himself. Kissing you with such ardent desire it makes your head spin. Breaking away only just enough to look at you in wonder. “Che posto strano per trovare un angelo.”

If it were anyone else, at any other time, you’d believe it was only a line. But from him, just then, hearing the tone of his voice… nothing has ever sounded so sweet and sincere.

You kiss along his jaw, nibbling at his earlobe. “Do you want me?”

His forehead presses into your shoulder. “Desperately.”

“Then, please, take me.”

[ascendandt]

really long explanation of my song choices under the cut

1. WHITE WINTER HYMNAL (FLEET FOXES)

- its the cycles. the tragedy that is and was and will be happening. the removal from the scene and simultaneous desperation

- lyrical repitition yeah. timeloop

- "and michael you would fall" you WOULD. implied repition and inevitability. ya its like gan 👍👍

2. YOU & ME (TALLY HALL)

- "off again we go, another seed to sow, another part to keep in proper order, what have i begun, a getaway undone, i have seen the signs and i ignored them"

- ⬆️ HELLO? TIMELOOP. meticulous tweaking of circumstances to get gan not evil. i have seen the signs (of the impossibility of changing fate. and also of him in the first before having moral complexity) and i ignored them!!!!!

- YOU AND ME DIVINE. A CIRCULAR DESIGN! RETURN TO BE IN ORBIT ALL THE TIME

- "you turn away and around, ive been coming down" its a bit. its a bit that you might see your shadow... iykyk

3. EVERYWHERE (BRAN VAN 3000)

- youre everywhere to me... its gan. hes hes everywhere

- everywhere you came an left you came in the name of love! and left a wake of happiness and tenderness and SWEET CONFLICT.... it is always tortured :( link is so good natured but um well. its not going right. he still holds reductive morality that wont actually save anyone

- "you come on down but you dont come down" - its the way link keeps coming back to this guy this GUY HE LOVES to save him but he never gets at the root of it he never. comes down to why gan does what he does ever.

- also works as a sorrows (part 5 of b+f) gan perspective 👍 unrequited love baby

4. TEXAS REZNIKOFF (MITSKI)

- ok i actually have very little justification for this. but its verry sorrows esque to me. sorry

- oh except "but ive been anywhere an its not what i want... i wanna be still with you". its them to me.

5. FRANCIS FOREVER (MITSKI)

- what more can i say... the isolation. the seperation

- in sorrows ganondorf if left literally all alone on a shipwreck for days to months Several times, and is also hopelessly in love with link. for context.

- "i dont need the world to see that ive been the best i can be... but i dont think i can stand to be where you dont see me" - its literally him. he really only has link in his life, and he is doing all his evil-magic suppression in isolation FOR HIM.

- ⬆️ oh also somewhat a post-fear no more link. haha. he greives rajo his son and rajo his brother a lot. all this timeloop bullshit is for him after all... in defiance of fate and the gods snd everything. he MISSES HIM MORE THAN ANYTHING one might say.

6. ANNIE'S SONG (JOHN DENVER)

- hes everything to link👍 gives him purpose

- LET ME GIVE MY LIFE TO YOU. LET ME DIE IN YOUR ARMS.... the devotion and it all. yeah

7. I'M STILL HERE (GOO GOO DOLLS)

- this is particularly a song for fear no more rajo. the weird father son dynamic they got here is so fucked

- rajo feels inadequate he feels evil and ALSO smothered by link his dad. because link is trying to save him from being evil right. so hes both expecting him to act badly and need saving and ALSO be good. its fucked

- oh and also deeply estranged by society due to being raised in hyrule abd very much Not being hylian.

- like the lyrics refer to feeling inadequate and lost alone. people (in this case link and (joker voice) SOCIETY) expecting bad things from him... he wants support from his dad but its still very complicated WHATEVER...

- its um. hes just like jim treasureplanet.ok whatever

8. HYMN FOR A SCARECROW (TALLY HALL)

- by contrast. a link song.... nobody knows you and neither do i...

- the farmer jim in the lyrics is corfo cepolla to me (he is a farmer who link comes back to several times across timelines for advice and help raising ganondorf as a baby. hes cool guy).

- "he may imagine you heard and he knew... you wouldnt hear what he might have known" <- despite it all link really fails to take to heart what needs to be learned from the cepollas. HES A VERY ONE TRACK MIND GUY... like a scarecrow!

- song is about an enigma of a guy right. why does he do what he does. is he even aware. only the wind knows... its very him.

- also the birds the crows. they are fate somewhat. he drives them away by nature of what he does but the line "igniting a spark in [the crows'] minds so they circle and fly" feels like they are driven to return anyway. very much a theme in the story, like evil still arises whether in ganondorf or not. you cant save everyone always

9. BIXBY CANYON BRIDGE (DEATH CAB)

- link greiving his lost brother/son/friend ...

- in the silence it became so very clear that you had long since disappeared...i cursed myself at bring suprised that it didnt play like it did in my mind

- ⬆️ he keeps fucking dying. despite all the time nonsense rajo cant come back and you cant erase the losses of former timelines

10. SAMSON (REGINA SPEKTOR)

- the "history books forgot about us" and the "we coukdnt bring the cloumns down" is very sorrows to me. they loved each other and it still wasnt enough to CHANGE anything because he still died by links hand and the timeline was still reset.

- the uh. hair length thing is actually pretty important because 1. its a cultural thing to have gans hair long. 2. rajo cut off all his hair before he killed himself in fear no more (momentous Fucking occasion). and link feels ratherrr responsible for that. the hair cutting is a betrayal. and in the times where link raises him in the hylian fashion and cuts his hair its like. uprooting his whole life and for what? NOTHING to change. wawawawa

[strider-rambles]

avoidant attachment sucks balls

i keep feeling the urge to spill my guts but i'm so used to keeping everything behind tight lips and grimaces that its almost impossible for me to really put it into words now. i have so much to say and i have so many feelings its just not. happening and i keep wanting to sit my friends down and have heart to hearts and everything else but i think i might've managed to completely convince myself that they don't want to hear it.

and i miss having in depth, intellectual conversation, i guess. i wish i could sit down and have that side of me satiated because its its kind of a comfort i was raised on debates, and beyond that, the wholehearted sharing of experience

but i was also raised to be deeply isolationist. i avoid everyone i love because i get uncomfortable with the idea of intimacy the idea that someones expecting, begging for a reply i get so fucking uncomfortable and yet i crave that closeness to no end

and if i can control it, its fine if i can control every aspect of conversation; when, where, what, etc. i am okay if i can control every aspect of interaction; touch, time, location, i am fine

but that's fucked up. its fucked up. because they have feelings too and they might need more interaction than i can give them comfortably and i wish i wasn't like this i wish i wasn't so scared of the idea of being known, being loved, having expectations placed upon me but i don't know how to fix it so here i am rambling on tumblr, instead of being like. a normal dude, and talking to people, because its gotten to the point where im not comfortable talking to people about these sorts of things BECAUSE i'm so isolated everyones at an arms length away i am trapped in my own prison of fear and boy do i not know what to do about it like you'd think i'd have some idea of how to fix it but i don't and i i kind of don't WANT to fix it. because this is comfortable. yes its lonely but its comfortable as soon as someone starts showing interest i almost just avoid them ive gotten through it a lot of the time and there are special cases where i just don't find the person to be someone i could really get down and dirty in conversation with but a lot of the time its just my own fear that brings me here alone, and sad, and so so so exhausted

i dread it when my friends dm me. like its that bad and i don't want to dread it i want to be excited and everything else but im getting worse. im getting so much fucking worse i just want to be stuck in my own little hole and reach out when i want to but that's unfair to them and it doesn't help anyone not me, but fuck. its just so comfortable and i cant. find any reason to not do it and i fuck

its so unfair to them but i want it so bad i want that control at this point i'm gonna get accused of being a dirk LMAO i am my fathers son, something something fuck, i wish i were normal like its such a pain in the fucking ass to be like this i just god and part of me wishes those friends would find this blog because itd be so much easier than looking them in the eye and explaining this because fuck, man its embarrassing. hey, just so you know, i wasn't allowed to have friends as a kid so im super weird about having friends now and also uh never contact me ever until i reach out to you because i- like shut the fuck up dude

its like i want to punish people for liking me for wanting to hang out with me self hatred is CRAZY dave you should be over that arc i guess its just mild self dissatisfaction because like ugh. i'm totally trying to punish people for liking me and also punishing myself by never letting myself be normal

but heres the problem as well its like god i don't WANT to be honest with people because they get emotional and then that just makes me uncomfortable all over again and like god i just feel the need for control so so so fucking bad. i don't even know why its not that i don't want to get close its just that i don't like when someone RECIPROCATES. fuck more thoughts coming soon maybe i don't know.

[captain-solemn-titty]

i think something about me is i actually dont understand gender or sexuality at all. i dont think theyre real . i play with labels and say whatever but honestly it doesnt feel that deep for me. and i respect anyone it matters for i really do. i will go to LENGTHS to learn/remember someones preferred name and pronouns and i super duper respect you. but i just dont get it. like what is gender. how do you know . like i know that people know, but i dont. i dont feel like anything really. like just vibes. like i guess i always assumed i was just a cis woman cuz im afab but i dont think i feel more like a “woman” than anythibg else? and what defines you as a woman versus nonbinary versus a man versus anything else. i know theres theory i could read but for me i just dont really care about my gender. and as for my sexuality i really only identify as a lesbian because almost 100% im not attracted to men. but every so often i am a little bit? like ill look at a guy every once in a million years and say “huh hes attractive i find him attractive” and usually it doesnt go beyond that which is why lesbian is like the most comfortable term but i feel like its fluid yk? and no it doesnt count but ive been deeply in love with/attracted to fictional men? i feel like i could have sex with a man i found attractive under the right circumstances. but i also very deeply have no desire to get to know any men in any way even platonically for the most part. and then i think i may be some kind of demi-romantic/demi-sexual because i don’t really ever have those sort of feelings for people until ive known them a while platonically first. so maybe i am attracted to men too i just dont know very many men intimately enough to feel that way? but also with women sometimes i do have like little crushes where i dknt know them very well im just physic very attracted to them and want to get to know them more in order to be romantically attracted to them? but would i know the difference? and then that circles back to what is gender? like its all a spectrum and it doesnt really make sense and so i also cant relate at all to the idea of fully identifying as one particular gender or sexuality because theyre such fickle things that are so easily deconstructed how has society functioned so long on these incomplete ideas about human identity. and this is rhetorical btw . dont answer that with anything serious im rambling just cuz. if u see this dont even worry about it bro.

[hyenadon]

I've seen so many trans men just adore the barbie movie and i'm on that team too. And ive seen and heard them talk about how masculinity and patriarchy is this...it's a prison. It's a beautiful golden perfect prison. If you are seen as a cis man, particulalrly a white cis man who has no disability and no neurodivergence, you get everything. Everything. It's just fucking handed to you. You never worry about the pepper spray clipped to your keys. You've never even bought pepper spray. You don't even think about it, you don't have to think about it. And idk something about this movie maybe made me realize that I will never feel like a cis man. I will never feel like a man and maybe that's okay. Maybe I prefer that. But my connection to masculinity will always be through the lense of being trans and gay and having grown up as a little girl. I like my identity. I like who I am. But my identity will always and inextricably be tied to being a little gay and a little fruity. And I shouldn't have to just like. Abandon my history as a woman to call myself by he/him pronouns. I think my history of living life as a girl is important to me. also just tagging this back to barbie - the first experience barbie has in the real world is some hardcore sexual harassment. And I just wanna ask anyone who has ever been perceived as a woman - do you remember the first time you were ever threatened like that?

I do. I was twelve. I was twelve years old and a teenage boy screamed "i'll rape you in your dreams" to me when I was walking home from school. I was TWELVE YEARS OLD. That's wrong. that's just WRONG. jesus christ. can you just imagine offering that violence to a child? and like. I actually can't even imagine being a teenage boy offering that violence to someone. I don't want to be that. I don't like that. I feel deeply viscerally uncomfortable with the fact - the *fact* that men and masculinity are tied along with violence. And so this whole thing is making me think. This stupid little movie about dolls, this stupid, derivative, easy movie, about a fucking doll, it's making me think harder than I have in- god, i swear, years.

The brain is a muscle (it's not, it's an organ, but stay with me for the metaphor) and I am working it out so hard that my brain is so sore. I'm thinking about so much. I'm thinking about my own gender and how gender is inextricably linked to power dynamics. I'm also thinking about men and masculinity. I'm also thinking about how I need to read some more bell hooks. I'm also thinking about feminist pedagogy. i'm also thinking about how like. well. the movie did indeed feature many characters of color, the movie was still incredibly white, and therefore the movie is and will always be about white feminism. I'm thinking about how there is nothing I can do to fix it. The world. I can't fix it. It's wrong and awful and I can't fix it. I can't be a woman enough to fix it and I can't be a good enough man to fix it. There is something so wrong and broken about the world. I want to make it better. I can't.

I don't even know what to do or what to say. This movie gave me a boost in self confidence - that's great - but as I said to my bestie - I don't want that. I don't wanna feel smart. I don't enjoy this. Feeling smart means I am aware of how awful the world is. How incredibly prevalent misogyny is. Every second of every day is misogynist. Every movie. Every tv show. Every book. It's hatred. I mean. I like that I know i'm smart now, my Media Analysis Powers are turned the fuck ON (ive always known that my superpowers are just in analyzing media and writing. even when I am at my worst self hatey self, I know that I can think about fiction, and write)

but I want my media analysis powers turned back off. because it's *painful* to think about this. It hurts too much. Its only been a couple days and I am so, so tired.

being aware of the world and myself and my friends and the systems that oppress us. It sucks. i feel stabbed.

[pinkmoondoll9shihtzu]

hi. can i share something. its pretty personal...its sad but also a message of hope.

so. ive been freaking out rly bad about attending this bladee show tomorrow, august 6th. the real reason for this is not just my ocd and social anxiety but also.. last year on august 6th my really good friend died. they were going by the name saint at the time. i only knew them online but we were extremely close since around 2014. we would talk often, and in-depth, bcus we both had extensive interest in metaphysics, god, angels, etc. and we both had dead parents, specifically dead from illness, so we rly deeply related to each other on those matters. they were like 9 years older than me, so i looked up to them as an older sibling. it absolutely shattered my heart when i found out they died because i know it was an accident. i think they OD’d on fentanyl cus they had been posting about relapsing shortly b4 they died. but i dont know for sure, there’s no obituary for them since they don’t have parents or family. i have cried about it every day for a year.

when i saw what day the bladee show was, i felt a million feelings at once, like, oh my god, is this some kind of orchestrated angel event? saint had the most unwavering faith, they believed in angels more than anyone ive ever met, there was no doubt in their mind. we would talk about our synchronicities constantly. it was our fav thing to discuss. they were so validating of my experiences. so in a way, i rly feel like, their angel is escorting me to this show as some sort of gift for making it thru the past year. ive been going thru my saturn return on top of grieving their death, and idk, its just been one of the worst times in my life, ive never been closer to giving up. the timing of this show rly makes me feel like saint is blessing me. bladee, saint and I are all life path 9s who r obsessed w metaphysics n spirituality, which adds to the meaning of this synchronicity for me.

the reason ive been so terrified to attend the show is because i keep having ocd freakouts that someone is going to die or that, like, this date is evil and tainted or soemthing. like literally to the point that ive spent a few entire days this past week just crying in my bed because im so terrified of losing anyone else in my life. but as the show gets closer, i am realizing i just need to trust god and believe that im allowed to enjoy myself. believe that saint’s angel is protecting me and my loved ones, just like they have every day for the past year. they have sent me so many signs, and ive known a lot of dead people but never have i received so many obvious signs from anyone, even my own father. it makes me wonder if saint graduated the rebirth cycle, since they were a 9, and they brought so much goodness to this world. i think they graduated and are now a very powerful angel forever.

its been so hard to go on without them. they were my grief councellor fr. there were some years of my life where they were one of the only people i talked to because no one else could understand. they loved POSTING, we met on tumblr and they were always so supportive of the way i express myself. after they died was when i started drawing and posting on here again bcus i knew i had to honor them this way. i cant put into words how much their friendship impacted me and i wish i could do more, i wish i cld plaster their face onto every wall and scream from the rooftops “THATS MY FRIEND AND I LOVE THEM!!!!!!!!!!!”. god i am going to cry so much at the bladee show, i know they’ll b rite there on my shoulder the whole time.

if u read all this, thank you. it weighs on me massively n i try not to show it too much online but man. i have been a mess. n sometimes i just wanna spill my guts. i cld say so so much more about my dear friend but i’ll leave it at this for now. im praying that the show goes well tomorrow and everyone makes it there safely. if u guys cld pray for me too id rly appreciate. i rly feel like saint is with me and im allowed to have hope now. i love you saint. thankyou for posting so much so i have plenty to look back on. <3

[qqueenofhades]

Hi, I’ve been tasked with researching Richard Plantagenet for a paper and thus far found extremely negative accounts of the king, his religious bigotry being a reoccurring theme (his treatment of Jewish dignitaries attending his coronation and his reasoning to join the third crusade etc)

I stumbled across your wonderful tag for Richard at the weekend and wondered if you wouldn’t mind sharing your informed opinion of Richard and his views on religions ? Your writing seems very well balanced regarding his attributes and flaws. Thanks :)

Oof. Okay. So, a short and simple question, then?

Quick note: when I was first reading your ask and saw "Richard Plantagenet," I briefly assumed that you meant Richard Plantagenet, father of Edward IV, or perhaps Richard III, both from the Wars of the Roses in the fifteenth century, before seeing from context that you meant Richard I. While "Plantagenet" was first used as an informal appellation by Richard I's grandfather, Geoffrey of Anjou, it wasn't until several centuries later that the English royal house started to use it consistently as a surname. So it's not something that Richard I would have been really called or known by, even if historians tend to use it as a convenient labeling conceit. (See: the one thousand popular histories on "The Plantagenets" that have been published recently.)

As for Richard I, he is obviously an extremely complex and controversial figure for many reasons, though one of the first things that you have to understand is that he has been mythologized and reinvented and reinterpreted down the centuries for many reasons, especially his crusade participation and involvement in the Robin Hood legends. When you're researching about Richard, you're often reading reactions/interpretations of that material more than anything specifically rooted in the primary sources. And while I am glad that you asked me about this and want to encourage you to do so, I will gently enquire to start off: when you say "research," what kind of materials are you looking at, exactly? Are these actual published books/papers/academic material, or unsourced stuff on the internet written from various amateur/ideological perspectives and by people who have particular agendas for depicting Richard as the best (or as is more often the case, worst) ever? Because history, to nobody's surprise, is complicated. Richard did good things and he also did quite bad things, and it's difficult to reduce him to one or the other.

Briefly (ha): I'll say just that if a student handed me a paper stating that Richard was a religious bigot because a) there were anti-Jewish riots during his coronation and b) he signed up for the Third Crusade, I would seriously question it. Medieval violence against the Jews was an unfortunately endemic part of crusade preparations, and all we know about Richard's own reaction is that he fined the perpetrators harshly (repeated after a similar March 1190 incident in York) and ordered for them to be punished. Therefore, while there famously was significant anti-Semitic violence at his coronation, Richard himself was not the one who instigated it, and he ordered for the Londoners who did take part in it to be punished for breaking the king's peace.

This, however, also doesn't mean that Richard was a great person or that he was personally religiously tolerant. We don't know that and we often can't know that, whether for him or anyone else. This is the difficulty of inferring private thoughts or beliefs from formal records. This is why historians, at least good historians, mostly refrain from speculating on how a premodern private individual actually thought or felt or identified. We do know that Richard likewise also made a law in 1194 to protect the Jews residing in his domains, known as Capitula Judaeis. This followed in the realpolitik tradition of Pope Calixtus II, who had issued Sicut Judaeis in c. 1120 ordering European Christians not to harass Jews or forcibly convert them. This doesn't mean that either Calixtus or Richard thought Jews were great, but they did choose a different and more pragmatic/economic way of dealing with them than their peers. This does not prove "religious bigotry" and would need a lot more attention as an analytical concept.

As for saying that the crusades were motivated sheerly by medieval religious bigotry, I'm gonna have to say, hmm, no. Speaking as someone with a PhD in medieval history who specialised in crusade studies, there is an enormous literature around the question of why the crusades happened and why they continue to hold such troubling attraction as a pattern of behavior for the modern world. Yes, Richard went on crusade (as did the entire Western Latin world, pretty much, since 1187 and the fall of Jerusalem was the twelfth century's 9/11). But there also exists material around him that doesn't exist around any other crusade leader, including his extensive diplomatic relations with the Muslims, their personal admiration for him, his friendship with Saladin and Saladin's brother Saif al-Din, the fact that Arabic and Islamic sources can be more complimentary about Richard than the Christian records of his supposed allies, and so forth. I think Frederick II of Sicily, also famous for his friendly relationships with Muslims, is the only other crusade leader who has this kind of material. So however he did act on crusade, and for whatever reasons he went, Richard likewise chose the pragmatic path in his interactions with Muslims, or at least the Muslim military elite, than just considering them all as religious barbarians unworthy of his time or attention.

The question of how the crusades functioned as a pattern of expected behavior for the European Christian male aristocrat, sometimes entirely divorced from any notion of his private religious beliefs, is much longer and technical than we can possibly get into. (As again, I am roughly summarising a vast and contentious field of academic work for you here, so... yes.) Saying that the crusades happened only because medieval people were all religious zealots is a wild oversimplification of the type that my colleague @oldshrewsburyian and I have to deal with in our classrooms, and likewise obscures the dangerous ways in which the modern world is, in some ways, more devoted to replicating this pattern than ever. It puts it beyond the remit of analysis and into the foggy "Dark Ages hurr durr bad" stereotype that drives me batty.

Weighted against this is the fact that Richard obviously killed many Muslims while on crusade, and that this was motivated by religious and ideological convictions that were fairly standard for his day but less admirable in ours. The question of how that violence has been glorified by the alt-right people who think there was nothing wrong with it at all and he should have done more must also be taken into account. Richard's rise to prominence as a quintessentially English chivalrous hero in the nineteenth century, right when Britain was building its empire and needed to present the crusades as humane and civilizing missions abroad rather than violent and generally failed attempts at forced conversion and conquest, also problematized this. As noted, Richard was many things, but... not that, and when the crusades fell out of fashion again in the twentieth century, he was accordingly drastically villainized. Neither the superhero or the supervillain images of him are accurate, even if they're cheap and easy.

The English nationalists have a complicated relationship with Richard: he represents the ideal they aspire to, aesthetically speaking, and the kind of anti-immigrant sentiment they like to put in his mouth, which is far more than the historical Richard actually displayed toward his Muslim counterparts. (At least, again, so far as we can know anything about his private beliefs, but this is what we can infer from his actions in regard to Saladin, who he deeply respected, and Saladin's brother.) But he was also thoroughly a French knight raised and trained in the twelfth-century martial tradition, his concern for England was only as a minor part of the sprawling 'Angevin empire' he inherited from his father Henry II (which is heresy for the Brexit types who think England should always be the center of the world), and his likely inability to speak English became painted as a huge character flaw. (Notwithstanding that after the Norman Conquest in 1066, England did not have a king who spoke English natively until Henry IV in 1399, but somehow all those others don't get blamed as much as Richard.)

Anyway. I feel as if it's best to stop here. Hopefully this points you toward the complexity of the subject and gives you some guidelines in doing your own research from here. :)

[firewoodfigs]

Hi!! Could you do "It was a hospital bed, and A slipped in carefully to lie beside B all night" for a Royai fic from that prompt list? Thank you!! ❤️❤️

hello anon!! thanks for the prompt aaaah I had a lot of fun toying with it in between work and the other shenanigans that have been cropping up this week <3 I hope you don't mind the somewhat unusual ending ahaha I dimly recall writing a few other fics indirectly responding to this prompt (here and here!) so I wanted to try something slightly different from my usual fare 👉🏻👈🏻 part of this was also originally from a two-shot I'm working on, tweaked to fit the prompt hehe. I hope you enjoy!!! 🥰

                                       +++++

Riza can think of a million reasons why hospitals are awful.

First, the food. She’s not sure if it’s as nutritious as they make it out to be; there are times when she wonders if it’s even edible. She’s had worse, of course - hospital food isn’t as bad as ration bars - but she’s quickly getting tired of eating plain yoghurt and bland porridge every day, for every single meal.

Second, the stench. Riza hates that every inch of the place smells like a victim of obsessive cleanliness; she has to resist the urge to upchuck every time the door opens and the smell of chemicals and antiseptic filters in like an unwanted guest.

Third, the fact that she’s sharing a room with a man who, at this point, is behaving more like a cat on hot bricks than a disciplined soldier is quickly driving her insane. She’d readily agreed to be his caretaker, of course; Riza doubts there’s anyone else capable of dealing with his antics and ever-growing anxiety. But after hearing him sigh and toss and turn in his bed for the fifty-eighth time that night (she’d counted, because she was bored out of her wits, and there was nothing else she could do other than sleep or stare at the ceiling, per doctor’s orders), Riza decides she’s just about had enough.

She looks at him from her bed. He’s presently engaged with twiddling his thumbs, thinking out loud.

Riza sighs and rises from her bed quietly. She brings the IV stand along with her - an unnecessary inconvenience - and carefully slips into his bed once she’s made sure that the tubes and wires connected to them are tangle-free.

“I never pegged you as an opportunist, Lieutenant,” he murmurs, despite her best efforts to be discreet. “Sleeping with your commanding officer while he’s blind?”

“You could always court martial me later, sir,” Riza deadpans. “Now scoot over.”

Luckily, he obliges without much retort. 

“Your wish is my command.”

Riza huffs. She adjusts the thin, scraggly piece of linen that the hospital justifies as a blanket - another downside of this shitty place - and makes sure he’s probably covered, warm.

“Three words,” she mutters.

“Eight letters?”

“Twelve, actually.”

Roy raises a brow. “What could it be?”

“Would you like to wager a guess, sir?”

“Not really.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says. Roy laughs, and it’s a tiny little sound that is so discordant with his current mood, but it’s at least genuine. “Now go to sleep.”

“Alright, alright.”

He stops fidgeting, for a while. Riza closes her eyes and attempts to fall asleep - and she actually does, for a while - at least until she hears the sheets rustling again, the movement and tension coming from beside her. She groans softly.

“You should sleep, sir.”

She feels him stiffen. Roy smiles sheepishly, looking right through her like she’s not there. It still unnerves her how this is probably going to be their new normal: him without his sight. Her as his eyes.

“Sorry.”

Riza frowns. An apology is not the answer she wants. What she wants is for him - or them both, actually - to sleep and rest and properly recuperate so that they can have a speedy recovery, so that they can get out of here as soon as possible.

“Bad dreams?” she asks, because it’s the exact same thing that’s been haunting her. (She’s lucky her throat makes it impossible for her to scream or kick up a fuss; she’d hate for Roy to stumble blindly through the room in what he probably thinks is an act of chivalry and/or heroism.)

He shrugs.

“Then and now,” he offers. His smile fades, and he lapses into an unexpected moment of vulnerability. “Hard to differentiate between day and night nowadays, too.”

And because Riza doesn’t know what to say, she simply brushes her knuckles against his.

Roy returns the gesture, drawing indiscernible patterns on the back of her hand with his bandaged one.

“Well, it’s almost midnight now, sir.”

He lets out a small laugh, but it’s painfully hollow.

Riza shifts slightly. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze - hospital beds are clearly not meant for two persons (or anything inappropriate) - but it doesn’t bother her all that much. She just wishes there’s more she can do, to comfort him. Make him feel a little less gloomy.

“It feels like I’ve been sleeping for years.”

“If it helps reduce the incidents of you falling asleep during office hours, then you should get more sleep now, while you can.”

Roy turns, like he’s searching for her, even though there’s not much closer she can be at this point. He exhales shakily. She feels his hand trembling against hers, and responds with a gentle caress. (She knows he’s still feeling guilty, probably berating himself internally about their predicament, about what transpired beforehand. And to be fair, there’s a part of her that’s still angry about all that's happened underground. They’ll probably have to talk about it, at some point, but probably not now — not when they’re both still drugged up and only half-lucid.)

“Humour me, Lieutenant.”

“What?”

“I can’t sleep,” he confesses. Dimly, Riza notes that his voice has taken on a somewhat petulant edge — like a child complaining about their bedtime, but she doesn’t comment on it. Being nearly bedridden for a week is enough to drive her nuts, too. “I’ve tried counting sheep and all that shit, and it’s just — it’s not working.”

Riza sighs. She’s tired, yes, but she’s also aware that she’s probably not going to get any sleep at this rate. She tries to think of ways to stave off his restlessness. Reading is one — she can probably bore him into sleep with a Xingese recitation (she’s gotten pretty good at that lately), but she’s technically not supposed to be talking much. Alcohol is another, but neither of them are supposed to be drinking (and besides, the only form of alcohol available in hospitals isn’t meant for human consumption). Maybe chess, then. She’s not particularly keen on playing a game of chess, now (because she just wants to sleep), but she thinks it’ll help exhaust some of his boundless energy.

“We could play a game of chess, if you want. Breda was kind enough to drop a vinyl board here in the afternoon.”

“I can’t see —“

“I’ll tell you where I move my pieces.”

He frowns, clearly not liking the idea. “You’re not supposed to be talking much, Lieutenant.”

“I’m fine,” she insists, turning to pour a cup of water for herself before continuing. “I won’t have to speak much — unless you’re being a nuisance or a cheat or a fraud.”

He laughs. “I’ll be none of those things, Lieutenant.”

“Good.”

She sets up the board on his bed and helps him sit up. Riza lets him play white.

“It’s your move, sir.”

“You’ve made yours?”

“No. You’re playing white.”

“Tough. It’ll be more embarrassing if I end up losing.”

Riza smiles. “Well, we don’t know that yet, sir.”

He opens with pawn to e4. She helps him move his pieces and parrots her movements back to him. Pawn to e4, too. Pawn to d4. Same here. A closed game, not quite like his usual aggressive style of playing.

Riza watches as he frowns with intensity. It’s probably more a test of memory than strategy for him at this point. She wonders if there’s a way he can adapt to chess, to the military’s utilitarian (and frankly unsympathetic) demands now that his sight’s impaired.

(Life is so unlike chess, Riza thinks, in spite of Roy’s silly metaphors that postulate otherwise. The rules are never fixed, and the universe is always rife with uncertainty. It’s not like chess, where you can predict your opponents’ moves if you get good enough. Neither of them had expected that he’d be here right now, losing sleep and contemplating life over a chessboard while blind.)

He clucks his tongue, reciting a series of movements from memory. The Blackmar-Diemer. Riza smiles indulgently.

Still as aggressive as ever, sir.

Of course.

The game quickly becomes a round of blitz, and though he manages to open his lines and mount a rather decent attack, it’s clear that he has trouble recalling after the eighteenth move. It's still an impressive feat, though. Better than the average layperson.

“Check,” Riza announces, conversationally. Technically, she’d had the advantage, both on the board (and in real life). It shouldn’t really count, and besides, checkmate isn’t her objective — it’s to get her commanding office to sleep.

“Well-played,” Roy hums. He’s strangely still in his bed as he closes his eyes, rubbing at his temples — presumably to ease off an oncoming migraine. It happens a lot, when he’s in deep thought, when he’s over thinking. Thinking too much for his own good. “I need to work on my recall, I think.”

“I think so too, sir.”

He laughs, but the sound is again empty, foreign. It is so at odds with his usual smirks and unbridled laughter (when he’s laughing at someone else, or a joke made at somebody’s expense), like there’s an ache beneath the surface that she cannot reach.

Roy turns slightly, bumping into his dethroned king as he adjusts himself on the bed.

She blames the sudden, uncharacteristic urge to cry on her drugged-up system.

(Riza doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to how uncommunicative his eyes are. He’s always regarded each and every one of his subordinates with respect and meaning and gratitude, but he’d simply looked over the unit as if taking inventory when they had come by earlier.

But she’ll make do, Riza thinks. She has to. She’s always known him in a way nobody else has, in a deeply intimate way, like a book she’s memorised by heart.)

They fall silent for a few minutes. His lips part a little - she knows  he’s about to say something - but it snaps shut again, like he can’t bring himself to say the words.

Riza simply waits for him, like she always has; holding onto his held breath like it's the last thread of hope. She leans into his touch a little closer than necessary.

I’m right here, even if you can’t see me.

Roy smiles.

“I hope I won’t forget your face, Riza.”

[trini-trin-trin]

Sharing this from a FB group that I am in. I was very moved by the article and felt affinity with the experiences shared. A really sweet read.

Here is the article if you don't want to click on the link (I know it is a little long, but well worth your time to read!):

The letter I received ten years ago was unsigned and bore no return address. Clearly its author did not expect, much less want, a reply. A message in a bottle, from no one to no one, that letter still remains the most bizarre form of communication. It asks nothing but to be read, promises nothing but to share a few facts and feelings, and, seeing that it must have been dashed off on a lined yellow sheet that seemed hastily torn out of a pad of paper, the author would not be surprised if, after skimming through it, the recipient decided to crumple and lob it into the closest dust bin.

The letter is one page long. One page is enough. The handwriting is uneven, perhaps because the author had lost the habit of writing in longhand and preferred the keyboard. But his grammar is perfect. The man knew what he was doing. I assume he was writing the note by hand because he didn’t want traces of it on his laptop, or because he knew he was never going to send it as an email and risk a reply. Now that I think of it, he probably didn’t care if it even reached its recipient, a local Bay Area reporter who had mentioned my novel about two young men who fall in love one summer in Italy in the mid-1980s. The reporter eventually forwarded it to me, minus its envelope with the postmark. It took no time to see that all the author of the letter was looking for was a chance to blurt out the words he couldn’t dare breathe elsewhere.

My book had spoken to him. His letter spoke to me.

So here it is: dated April 16, 2008.

I came upon Mr. Aciman’s book while on a business trip back East. Not the type of book I am normally able to read, so I bought a copy for the flight home. I think I’m glad I did.

You see, I was Elio. I was 18 and my Oliver was 22. Though the time and place were different, the feelings were remarkably the same. From believing that you are the only person who has these feelings, to the whole “he loves me – he loves me not” scenario, Mr. Aciman got it right. I was particularly impressed with the attention he gave to the morning after Elio’s and Oliver’s first encounter. The guilt, the loathing, the fear. I felt it too much. I had to put the book down for a while.

But in the end I was able to finish the book before we landed at SFO. Which was good, because I couldn’t take the book home. Unlike Elio it was I who married and had children. My Oliver died from AIDS in 1995. I’m still living a parallel life. My name is not important. His name was Dwight.

Instead, I kept the letter. I kept it for ten years.

What moved me was not just its sobering matter-of-factness or its hint of downplayed sorrow, but the associations it provoked in my mind. It reminded me of those short, clipped messages to loved ones, written by people about to be shipped off to the death camps who knew they’d never be heard from again. There is a chilling immediacy about their hurriedly scribbled notes that say everything there is to say in the fewest possible words — there wasn’t enough time for more, no smarmy pieties, no hand-wringing, no treacly hugs and kisses before the tragic end. It also made me think of the moving phone messages left by those who finally realized they were not going to make it out alive from the Twin Towers and that only their family’s answering machine was going to take their call.

“My name is not important,” he writes, almost as an apology for remaining anonymous; yet the author drops quite a number of hints about himself — hints he likely knows will stir his reader’s wistful curiosity to know what made him write the letter in the first place, what he hoped to accomplish, and if writing did indeed help. The letter itself allows us to see that he travels for business. We also sense that he probably lives in the Bay Area and that he travels not infrequently to the East Coast, since, as he writes, he is “back” in the East. And we know one thing more: that he simply needed to come out and tell someone that a man called Dwight had been his lover when the two were young. The rest is a cloud. We’ll never know more. Writing has served its purpose. We write, it seems, to reach out to others. Whether we know them or not doesn’t matter. We write to put out into the real world something extremely private within us, to make real what often feels unreal and ever so elusive about ourselves. We write to give a shape to what would otherwise remain amorphous. This is as true about authors as about those who want to correspond with them. Over the years, many have written to me either after reading or seeing Call Me by Your Name. Some tried to meet me; others confided things they’d never told anyone; and some even managed to call me at the office and, on speaking about my novel, would eventually apologize before bursting out crying. Some were in jail; some were barely adolescents, others old enough to look back at loves seven decades past; and some were priests locked in silence and secrecy. Many were closeted, others totally out; some were widows who felt a resurgence of hope if only by reading about the loves of two young men called Elio and Oliver in Italy; some were very young girls eager to meet their long-awaited Oliver; and some recalled former gay lovers whom they’d occasionally bump into years later but who’d never acknowledge what they’d once shared and done together when both were schoolmates and neither was married. All were keenly aware of living a parallel life. In that parallel life things are as they perhaps should be. Elio and Oliver still live together. And no one has secrets there.

Unlike Dwight’s lover, everyone who took the time to write to me did not withhold their names, but all had, at one point or another, withheld something very primal. They withheld it from themselves, from a relative, from a friend, a classmate, or colleague, or from a beloved who would never have guessed what troubled longings seethed below their averted gaze whenever they crossed paths.

Some readers wrote to tell me they felt that my novel had changed them, and given them new insights into themselves; some felt it was urging them finally to turn a new leaf in their lives. But some couldn’t go so far and, despite their perfect command of language, confessed lacking the words to explain why they were so moved by my novel or why they felt an unresolved longing for things they’d never considered or desired before. They were experiencing an upwell of emotions and of ungraspable might-have-beens that were asking to be reckoned with because they seemed more real than life itself, a sense of themselves that beckoned from an opposite bank they’d never known was there and whose potential loss now was a source of inconsolable grief. Hence their tears, their regrets, and the overpowering sense of being lost in their own lives.

And yet, they said, theirs were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of recognition, as though the novel itself were a mirror for readers to watch their own emotions laid bare before them. These responses made me aware that Call Me by Your Name does not call attention to anything readers didn’t already know, nor does it bring new truths or revelations; all it does is shed new light on things that were long familiar but that they never took the time to consider. It would be so tempting to say that they are reminded of their forgotten first loves; the truth is that all loves, even those that occur late in life, are first loves. There is always fear, shame, reluctance, and not a tiny dose of spite. Desire is agony.

Everyone who’s read Call Me by Your Name understands not only the struggle both to speak and hold back their truth but also the shame that comes whenever we want something from someone. Desire is always cagey, always secretive — we’ll tell everyone we know about the person we crave to hold naked in our arms, but the very last one to know this will be the person we crave. Same-sex desire is even more guarded and watchful, especially in those who are just discovering their sexuality. Awkwardness and desire are strange bedfellows at a young age, but shame and inexperience are just as paralyzing as fear when we watch them tussling with the urge to be bold. You’re torn between the raw horniness that makes you dream scenes you hope to forget as soon as you’re up and the scenes you pray you’ll dream again and again — if dreams are all you’ll have. Silence and solitude exact a cost that leaves us emotionally wrecked. At some point we need to speak.

So “is it better to speak or die?” asks Elio, the narrator of Call Me by Your Name, quoting words penned by the sixteenth-century Marguerite de Navarre in her collection of tales known as The Heptameron. Marguerite was the sister of King Francis I and the grandmother of Henry IV, himself the grandfather of Louis XIV, hence she was plenty familiar with court intrigue, gossip, and the risks of opening up to someone who may not welcome what’s in our heart and could easily make us pay for it. Not everyone who has written to me has dared to speak their hearts to those they loved. Some have sought silence — slow, lingering droplets of quiet desperation taken every night before bedtime until they realize they’ve been dead and didn’t even know it. Many have written to me with the feeling of having missed their chance when someone tethered his rowboat to their jetty and simply asked them to jump in. “Some sentence or thought on almost every page,” writes a reader, “triggers tears and knots my throat and chest. Tears well up in my eyes on the subway, at my computer at work, walking down the street. Perhaps I am weeping in part because I know that at my age there is virtually no possibility of experiencing anything remotely comparable to what Elio experiences with Oliver.” Someone else writes, “Reading Call Me by Your Name made me feel a love I never had.” A happily married 50-plus colleague took me aside and said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this much in love in my whole life.” “I'm 23,” tweeted someone else, “and have never felt such love, until I read Call Me by Your Name. I feel like I lived it.” “Elio and I are essentially the same age,” writes a teenage girl. “I have never really experienced his environment of the Italian summer…My experiences have only taken place halfway between nature and smog, however I have felt the same tension, fear, guilt and overwhelming love that you express perfectly through both Elio and Oliver…Finding myself in Elio was something I never expected and I’m positive that I won’t experience anything quite like it ever again. The first girl I ever loved remains…the only girl I have ever loved and though everything she and I shared…lives now as a secret between two friends.” “I finished reading Call Me by Your Name a couple of days ago,” writes someone else, “and wanted to let you know how much it affected me. It felt like a narration of my thoughts that I had systematically buried long ago.” And finally this from a 72-year-old: “I was fascinated by the idea of parallel lives where would I have been if I had gone with him, where would I be if I traveled alone? Maybe the point is just what do I do with the gift you have given me during the remainder of my life.”

There are at least 500 more such letters and emails.

Some find themselves weeping at the end of the film or the novel, not for what happened long ago or for what did not and might never happen in their own lives but for what has yet to happen, for the terrifying moment when they too will soon have to decide whether to speak or die. This from an 18-year-old: “[Your novel] gives me hope that one day I will meet someone whom I desire so badly that I’ll actually find it in me to make a move, the way Oliver is that someone for Elio. Maybe my Oliver will also turn out to be someone that I realize I love as well as desire.” She was crying for a week, as was this 15-year-old young man: “I stopped reading…because I didn’t want [the book] to end, didn’t want the wounds that you caused me to close, I didn’t want to overcome, for some reason that I have yet to find out. I wanted to stay a wreck, emotionally and mentally fragile….My mother handed me tissues because she had never seen me cry like this. I had finished your book and ‘moved’ is too weak a word to express what your book had done to me. Here a week later and it is literally all I can think about, not my midterms coming up, but…Elio and Oliver and if it is better to speak or die. You answered questions I didn’t even think I had.”

Indeed, the whole novel seems to enable the outing of all manner of feelings, feelings from Elio’s relentless inward journey and obsessive self-examination that readers are invited to identify with. Through Elio’s unfettered introspection they too feel exposed and sliced open like a crustacean without a slough, now forced to look at itself in the mirror. No wonder they are moved. The mask that is torn off their faces is not just the mask that conceals same-sex desires from themselves and from others. Rather, it is the realization, through Elio’s voice, of what they truly feel, who they truly are, what they fear, what bears their signature, and what coy little shenanigans they go through to read others and hope to reach them. Some identified with some effusive sentences in my novel so much that they had them tattooed on their bodies. They even attach photos of these tattoos. People have also tattooed peaches on themselves!

But what moves most people — and this is as true now as it was when the novel first came out — is the father’s speech. Here he not only tells his son to nurse the flame and “don’t snuff it out” after his son’s lover has left Italy, but that he too, the father, envies his son’s relationship with a male lover. This speech tears away the last vestige of a veil between reader and truth and is a moving tribute to the irreducible honesty between father and son.

Most readers have written to me about the scene because the father’s speech rekindles the very difficult moment when they decided to come out to their parents — or, as is often the case with people 60, or 70 or older, it reminds them of the conversation they wished they’d had but never did have with their parents. This is the loss no one forgets and from which no one recovers after seeing Call Me by Your Name. It bears the very essence of that precious and life-defining might-have-been moment that never happened and never will.

Here is the speech:

“Look…[y]ou had a beautiful friendship. Maybe more than a friendship. And I envy you. In my place, most parents would hope the whole thing goes away, or pray that their sons land on their feet soon enough. But I am not such a parent. In your place, if there is pain, nurse it, and if there is a flame, don’t snuff it out, don’t be brutal with it. Withdrawal can be a terrible thing when it keeps us awake at night, and watching others forget us sooner than we’d want to be forgotten is no better. We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything — what a waste!...

“… {L]et me say one more thing. It will clear the air. I may have come close, but I never had what you had. Something always held me back or stood in the way. How you live your life is your business. But remember, our hearts and our bodies are given to us only once. Most of us can’t help but live as though we’ve got two lives to live, one is the mockup, the other the finished version, and then all those versions in between. But there’s only one, and before you know it, your heart is worn out, and, as for your body, there comes a point when no one looks at it, much less wants to come near it. Right now there’s sorrow. I don’t envy the pain. But I envy you the pain.”

I received the anonymous letter sometime in early May 2008. At the time, I was staying at my parents’, because my father was suffering from throat and mouth cancer and was already in hospice care. He had refused radiation and chemotherapy, so I knew his days were numbered; though morphine was clouding his mind, he was still lucid enough to bandy a few quips about a host of subjects. He had stopped eating and drinking water because swallowing had become very painful. One afternoon while I was stealing a nap, the phone rang. A reporter I’d met in California had just received a letter, which she wanted to share with me. I told her to read it over the phone. After she’d read it I asked if she felt she could mail it to me. I wanted to show it to my father, I said, and explained he was dying. She felt for me. We talked about my father for a while. I told her I was trying to make it up to him these days, and that he too had been exceptionally easy to be with. How was it growing up with him? she asked. Tense, I replied. Always is, she added. Then the conversation ended, and she promised to mail the letter soon.

After hanging up, I got out of bed and went in to see him. Over the past few days, I had made a point of reading to him, which he liked a great deal, especially now that he was having difficulty focusing. But rather than read to him the memoirs of Chateaubriand, one of his favorite authors, and feeling buoyed by the letter I’d been read on the phone, I asked if he’d like me to read from the French translation of Call Me by Your Name, the galleys of which I had just received from Paris that very morning. Why not, since you wrote it, he said. He was proud of me. So I began to read from the very beginning, and soon enough I knew I was opening up a subject neither he nor I had ever broached before. But I knew he knew what I was reading and why I was reading it to him. This made me happy. Perhaps it made him happy as well. I’ll never know.

That evening, after the rest of us had dinner, he asked if I could continue reading from my novel. I was nervous about arriving at the father’s speech because I didn’t know how he’d react to it, though he was the kind of father who would have given that very same speech himself. But the speech was two hundred pages away still, and that would have taken many, many days. Perhaps I should skip some parts, I thought. But no, I wanted to read him the whole book. My father didn’t last long enough to hear the father’s speech. And when the letter finally arrived from California, he was already gone. His name was Henri, he was 93 years old, and he inspired everything I’ve written.

[missmonsters2]

Between the Lines || XII

PAIRING: Steve Rogers & Fem!Reader (Platonic) / Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader / Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader / Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader x Wanda Maximoff

Summary: Vampire AU. Life has changed drastically since the 1600s. Things are always on the move, and you’ve been very careful to not get on SHIELDs radar. Living on the down-low owning a café, you’re content to live out a quiet existence. That is until the Avengers enter your life.

[Set after the New York Invasion, in CAWS, and goes up to AoU. Canon divergent after.]

Warnings: This series will contain smut(**), poly-relationship, and dark themes.

Note: Introducing....David’s king 😏🥰

PART I || PART II || PART III || PART IV || PART V || PART VI || PART VII || PART VIII || PART IX || PART X || PART XI

PART XII of XX

Translations:

не против - Don’t mind

ти си моето семејство, во овој и во следниот живот - You’re my family, in this life, and the next.

Count: 5,633

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"Ah..."

The sound made you stop, pulling your mouth away as you stood straighter while licking your lips. 

Wanda stood in front of you, breathless as she leaned against the wall, unable to move too much with the tight space. Her hands drifted from your neck to rest on your biceps. Turning, you look at the mirror before you. 

Eyes red with stained lips, you internally sighed, feeling an uncomfortable pit in your stomach that told you everything felt both right and wrong. 

"I think that's enough..." You say quietly so Wanda can hear, but you don't attract too much attention outside. You turn to grab some paper towels from the dispenser as you wet them under the sink to wipe your mouth. 

Turning to Wanda, you notice you hadn't closed up the wound on her neck and purse your lips. The brunette seems to realize as well as she tilts her head to the side, exposing her neck to you once more before she grabs the edge of your bomber jacket and pulls you back against her roughly.

"Wanda," you call her name in warning. Though you are a seasoned vampire, you weren't looking to dance along the edge with the newly feeding you have to do.

"You should finish me off before you say you're done at least," Wanda says, and you feel yourself biting your tongue at how suggestive she sounds.

You wonder if she's doing it on purpose. 

Nonetheless, you sigh, leaning your head down, careful to not brush yourself more against her than you must. You lick at the bite wounds, tentatively but quickly, watching the wounds close after.

You pull away, Wanda letting her grip go on you. You use the wet towel to wipe her neck clean of the bloodstains before you throw it down the toilet and flush.

Though feeding gives you energy and revitalizes you, you can't help but feel drained from the experience. 

You're about to leave again when Wanda pulls you back.

"Wanda," you say in a more serious warning this time. She's been a little more daring the past couple of days, and you're both intrigued and frightened by it. 

Luckily for you, Wanda seems to know where the line is. 

"Relax," Wanda cocks her brow. "Your eyes are still glowing red. You should wait until it subsides before you go out."

You look back in the mirror, eyes glowing red brightly, and you sighed. Your body was overly excited about feeding again, and it would take time to adjust.

The two of you idly stand in the small space. You could hear people coming back and forth to check if the washroom is empty.

"So, how often is often?" Wanda asks.

You stand stiffly, cursing at how small airplane washrooms are.

"For now, once a week," you answer her. "But let me know if you feel unwell, and I will check to see if it's my venom."

Wanda nods, blinking languidly.

"I'm sorry," you say when you notice she looks tired. "I promise I will find a way to fix this."

Wanda gave you a tiny smirk. 

"No rush."

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When you returned to your seat, you sat down with a sigh.

"You alright?" Natasha asked as she grabbed your hand. You turn to look at David. He was clutching his legs in tighter so that Wanda could squeeze past him to her seat. 

"Yeah, sorry for taking so long. The red in my eyes are still adjusting to fresh blood," you apologize to Natasha, pulling her hand to kiss the back of it gently before you settle in your seat.

It was just you and Natasha in the aisle, a small moment of peace that you're thankful for. It's been rather quiet between you and Natasha the last few days. When David had located Leo's descendant, he wanted to book the flight for the next day, but you insisted on taking a couple days to get your things together and rest. 

The days that followed were simply being in your home with Natasha, quiet as it seemed like Natasha was working through her own emotions and things she seemed not ready quite yet to speak to you about. 

And you were okay with that. 

"Have you been to Nashville before?" Natasha asks as she looks out the window, the city getting closer in view as it lowers. 

You nod, rubbing your thumb idly on the back of her hand. "Yes," you say, "In fact, David and I lived there for a few years."

"Oh?" Natasha smiles. "Did you like it?"

You shrug. "It's a little too country for me and not the good parts of Country culture." 

Natasha nods, and you take a moment to put your head on her shoulder, deeply inhaling the scent of vanilla and dry leaves. Natasha leans her head over, pressing her lips to the side of your head, causing your heart to flutter.

"I think I want to be in Bora Bora or maybe the Maldives," Natasha says softly after a moment. 

You turn your head upwards slightly, peering up at Natasha's face.

"I'll take you anywhere you want to go," you say as Natasha smiles, head lowering as she presses her lips against yours.

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It seems like autumn is also coming to an end in Nashville, the air smelling a little crisper for winter arrival. 

Pietro has called Wanda again once her plane landed. He was a little upset that he couldn't come along, but Steve said he could use the help with locating Bucky, and speed would definitely be helpful.

At first, Pietro declined, but then Wanda insisted that he go with Steve. If they were going to make up for the things they've done and be a part of the team, this was the time to show it.

And so, they parted ways for the first time since, well, ever. 

"How are we getting there?" Wanda asked as she looked around the airport. Her face held a thinly veiled layer of discomfort that she was trying to hide, though poorly.

"Are you okay?" Natasha asked as she looked at Wanda, seeing through the tough act.

Wanda stared at Natasha, and for a moment, you don't think she's going to answer.

"Yeah," Wanda says finally, licking her lips and swallowing. "I'm just a little tired...and there's a lot of people here. It's...loud."

Natasha looks around and notes that it seems to be prime time for flights. People are bustling around trying to get to their gate on time, and families have gathered to meet people coming off the plane or say goodbye. 

"I can't do anything about the loudness," Natasha says, digging into her pocket. "But, here." Pulling out a hard candy wrapped in transparent paper, she gives it to Wanda.

Wanda holds the candy in her palm, tilting her head slightly before she looks back at Natasha. "Thanks."

"Might help with the tiredness," Natasha shrugs before she tells you she'll go grab the bags and walks off with David following her. 

Wanda is opening the candy from the wrapper, popping the little thing in her mouth as she sighs, eyes fluttering close as she rubs her temple. 

"Headache?" You ask her, garnering her attention.

Wanda nods with a frown. "Yes, more so lately, and it's worse in a crowd. I can hear everything in people's heads, and in a crowd, it's a jumble."

"Turn it off," you tell her with a shrug, and she gives you a look.

"It's not that easy."

"It is," you tell her back. "You're like a radio picking up every station is the available area. It gets easier with time and practice to distinguish the noise, but if you can't handle it in such a large crowd, turn it off."

Wanda merely stares at you as if she doesn't know whether or not to believe you, but she supposes because it's not like you're a stranger to her powers, she sighs.

"How?" She asks.

You come to stand closer to her, blocking her view of anything behind you.

"Focus," you tell her, "You only need to be hearing one voice, and that's your own. Focus on the space within your own mind. Live there."

Wanda gives you a look where it tells you she doesn't quite think it will work but closes her eyes with a sigh and takes a deep breath.

"I...I can't focus," Wanda says frustratingly. 

"Relax," you tell her. "Try again, but this time, focus on my voice."

You go on to talk about miscellaneous things like the color of the walls, the scuff marks on the ground, the man with an obstinately ugly hat. And before you know it, the stress lines on Wanda's face begin to fade.

"Better?" You ask when she opens her eyes.

"Yeah," Wanda says breathlessly with relief, "Thank you."

You don't say anything else as Natasha comes back with David.

"So, how are we getting there?" Wanda repeats.

"We rented a car. I'll go grab it and pull it up front," you walk off before anyone say anything.

The ride is silent, with just a radio playing quietly in the background. It's you and David in the front as David helps you navigate and discuss details with you.

But that leaves Natasha and Wanda in the back. The two girls are on opposite ends, looking out the window. 

You sigh internally as you focus on the road in front of you.

"What's his name again?" 

David pulls up a file. "Robert," he says after a moment. "Devayan. He is Leonard's great-great-grandson. He's the priest for a church in his neighborhood. Well-known and respected in his community. He's got a wife, two kids, and a dog—very American dream with a picket fence and all."

You hum. 

"Does Leonard's descendants know about...?" Natasha asks as you look in the rearview mirror. 

"Us being vampires?" You supply for her helpfully with a smile as she nods. "Yes, they do, but the secret is only passed to the child who has the greatest alchemy affinity, which most kids won't show until they're at least 13."

"That being said," David jumps in, "we haven't really kept in touch because we only go to a descendant when we have another vampire entering a coven because they have to get the searings to be able to go into the sun, amongst other things. And as you can see, we haven't added anyone new since me."

You turn into a bright community. The sound of children's laughter and dogs barking make their way to your ear. It's a lively little suburban neighborhood, and you wonder if this was something you would have ever wanted. 

"Leonard seemed to be really close to you, to be willing to do so much," Wanda comments as she continues to stare at the window at the children playing. 

You pull up to the house, putting the car in park with a sigh.

"He was family."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷ 

"Sorry, the wife and kid's are out shopping right now."

You look at the man before you. He was a young priest, and there were hints of Leo that you recognized in him, like the subtle ginger hair. 

"Didn't want to tag along?" David asks, and Robert laughs.

"Goodness, no. Can't say that's how I like to pass my time." Robert sets down a tea tray for the four of you, and Wanda takes up the task of pouring it. Putting in a splash of milk and two and a half sugar cubes, she gives a cup to you.

"Thanks," you say, scrunching your eyebrows initially. But it was your favorite way of taking simple tea, and you took it with ease. 

"не против," Wanda mutters as she continues on with pouring tea for Natasha and David, but leaves them to put in their own condiments.

"So, what's this about?" Robert asks as he settles into his seat. 

You shift in your seat a little, licking your lip before you clear your throat and bring his attention to you. "Yesterday is gone, tomorrow is a mystery, and today, I have you..."

Robert just stares at you wide-eyed and mouth gaped open. He seems to regain himself and clears his own throat.

"Until the days run out..." he breathes.

"ти си моето семејство, во овој и во следниот живот," you both complete the passage. His Slavic being much rougher than yours, but still, he completes it.

"Huh," Robert grunts in the back of his throat. He slumps in the back of his chair, blinking as he clasps his hands together. "You really exist."

"Did you think I didn't?" You cocked your brow at him. 

Robert gives a short, humorless laugh. "To be fair, no one in my family has seen you for a very, very long time. It's not like we have a family photo of you just lying around. I thought my grandfather was lying to me, and my father was not a believer either."

"Well," you shrug, "It gets hard to keep up with visitations when there's no reason to really."

"Even though the passage literally says we're family?" Robert cocks his brow.

"Leo was my family. By that extension, yes, you are somewhat family, a wonderful legacy Leo left behind that I promised him I'd take care of," you try to delicately tell the man before you that no one could ever be family the way Leo was.

"Kind of hard to take care of us when you're not around," Robert says, but not in an unkind way.

"Being around is not the only way I can fulfill my promise. You truly think your family's trust fund just comes out of nowhere?" You rest your jaw against your hand. 

Robert seems surprised at that like he had no idea his entire family line was sponsored by you. 

"So it seems," Robert smiled softly before clearing his throat. "So what can I do for you?"

You lick your lips.

"I'm looking for you to find a way to break my curse, or at least, find a counterspell to suppress it until I can find another way," you tell him.

Robert stares at you. It takes a long moment, but he gives another small smile, sighing deeply as he grasps his temples. "Hah..." he lets out. "Figures the one time you come to see us for help, and I can't even help you. I was hoping you just needed a place to stay."

"What do you mean?" David asks, frowning. "You haven't even tried."

Robert looks up again, staring at David before he turns to you.

"I don't have the affinity for alchemy."

Silence ensues after Robert reveals his lack of gift. 

"You...don't have the affinity..." David says slowly.

"Guess it decided to skip a generation. My father wasn't much of a practitioner either," Robert pursed his lips together. He gets up, walking over to the kitchen, grabbing something off the refrigerator before coming back and passing the item to you. "This would be the person to go to if you're looking for help on that."

You look at the postcard in your hand with an address from Vermont. 

There wasn't anything else but a name and a short message.

Liam Bai I have settled in. 

"And who is this?" You frown. The idea of having some outsider know your secrets was not ideal. 

Robert sighs.

"He's my adoptive brother."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷ 

The annoyance of traveling all the way to Texas just to go to Vermont, an hour away from New York, irks you slightly. 

David pulls up a file on Liam on the way, but not too much is found. 

Chinese descendant. 26. Tattoo Artist. Adopted by Robert's grandfather when Liam was 17. 

He seems to run a small tattoo shop in Vermont, a decent following on his Instagram. Other than that, it seemed Liam prized his privacy and peace. No tickets, no personal social media accounts, a minimal online presence. 

"Jeeze, this guy gives me serial killer vibes. Only weirdoes have such a small digital footprint," David curls his lips. 

"We all have virtually none too, David," you cock your brow at him.

"Case and point," David smirks back at you while Natasha and Wanda chuckle.

Liam's house is a little away from the city where his tattoo shop resides. There are houses but quite spread apart, and it only reaffirms how Liam likes his quiet. 

The trees are bare with autumn colored leaves on the ground. The air crisp and cleaner being away from the city. When the four of you approach Liam's home, it a quaint house, wider than it is taller, and painted a deep burned orange. 

Hopping up the steps, you cross your arms and tap your foot impatiently, turning to look at the open space while Natasha rang the doorbell and knocked on the door with her knuckles.

You hear footsteps within the house, stern steps as they lazily make their way to the door. 

When it opens, you turn, and your eyes widen along with everybody else's.

This man, at least six feet tall, towers over everyone as he casually lifts his arms high to lean against each side of the door with his left leg crossed lazily over his right. 

He wears a muscle shirt, most of the top part of his body exposed. 

Tattoos. 

Everywhere.

A large black ornate religious cross tattooed on his throat, while you could see most of the creations of hands branded across his front chest near his collarbones, fingers just about it meet at his jugular notch. Each arm had a full sleeve tattoo. 

His left arm was designed with a twisted snake going downwards, a bitten apple in its mouth, shrouded with leaves and vines. His right arm were things you didn't quite recognize but could guess it was alchemy spells, fully tattooed elaborate circles and symbols. Even his hands and fingers had symbols and shapes. 

He looks like belongs in a gang rather than the adopted grandson of a long line of priests. 

"Well," his voice is somewhat low but soft. "You must be the visitors my dear brother sent my way." The way he says dear brother has the slightest tone of amusement, and you're not sure what to make of it. 

You stare at him a bit longer because his face is much clearer than the photo David pulled up. His skin is fair with a cool complexion, thick brows, and tousled black hair that seems to be perfectly styled that way with his fringe cascading just above his eyebrows, parting to reveal his forehead. His almond-shaped eyes showed a deep dark brown, like the rich soils of the earth, but yet hold no warmth. 

He looks somewhat familiar, but you're not sure if it's just because you recognize those eyes in yourself once upon a time.

You look over to David, who has his jaw hanging as he stares at the man before them. You nudge him, drawing him out of whatever trance he was in as he coughs to clear his throat.

"Er, yes," David stutters before he rambles off everyone's name quickly. "Can I--can we come in?" David blinks, and Liam turns his head slowly, locking eyes with David. A moment passes, and you're about to speak up again when Liam stands straighter and turns to walk back into his house.

The four of you follow the man inside, looking at the place around you. Antique furniture, just like yourself, but there are shelves upon shelves of books. 

Liam walks into his kitchen, putting on a pot of hot coffee as he pours himself some, but doesn't offer any to anyone else. He then walks into his study room and leans against his desk, half-sitting on the edge.

"What are you looking for help with?" He asks, neither sounding reluctant or eager. 

"Robert mentioned you were adopted into the family because you had an affinity for alchemy," you say. "I'm assuming you know--"

"That you're a vampire?" Liam cuts in. "Yes."

"You don't seem surprised by that," David interjects slowly. "Even Robert was taken aback."

Liam rolled his eyes lightly. "You can spare me the details. Robert and I both went through the spiel with his grandfather. Robert doesn't have the affinity. I do. Belief is different when you are different too."

"His grandfather...?" You raise your brow.

Liam puts his coffee down beside him. "You must realize that though I've been adopted by them, I'm not an actual descendant of Leonard Devayan. It was clear that I was brought in to help fulfill the promise between you and Leonard. I get financial support from them, but I'm not entitled to your trust fund to them, nor can I inherit the church."

"That's kind of fucked up, considering you'll be doing all the work here," you frown. 

Liam shrugs. "No need to feel sorry for me, I have zero interests in their money or inheriting the church, and Robert is annoyingly persistent that I visit them during the holidays. Besides, you can probably tell, I don't quite look like the regular priest."

"Actually," you give Liam a small smile, "Leo was rather similar to you. He liked tattoos as well. Though, just on his hands. He wasn't as adventurous."

Liam gave a small smirk but moved on. "So," he takes a breath, "What exactly are you looking for help with. Robert wasn't clear on the phone. Are you looking to turn more people and need searings for the sun?"

"No," you breathe, "I need you to help figure out how to end my curse."

Liam stares at you for a moment. The curse wasn't discussed in great length to him as not too much information was passed down because Leonard believed you wouldn't try to ask to remove it again. 

Still, he eyes you before he turns and studies Natasha a bit before Liam looks at Wanda.

"You bit her, spreading your curse to her," Liam deduces. 

"How do you know it's Wanda?" Natasha asks with a slight narrow of her eyes.

Liam licks his lip as he stands up, using his fingers to gesture everyone to follow up. He walks up to his bookshelf and pulls a book down like a lever, and the entire bookshelf splits and makes way into a secret room.

Inside the room, there are rows of tables filled with papers and things you would find in a science lab: beakers, stirring rods, mortars and pestles, and chemicals.

"In some ways, alchemy is a derivative from a witch's spells or magic. What do you think alchemy is?" Liam asks. 

"Leonard always said it was a power given to them by God to be able to protect themselves against the supernatural," you recall.

"Kind of, not really," Liam says as he walks over to grab a black chalk and begins to draw circles and symbols on the ground around Wanda, motioning her to stay in place. "There are different types and levels of alchemy. Alchemy, one on hand, can also be a science. It's changing one thing to something else. Anyone could practice it. Even Robert could to a degree."

Liam finishes drawing and drops the chalk to the side as he dusts off his hands. 

"But to have the gift for alchemy," Liam lifts his thumb to his lips, "Means your DNA has an affinity to the sun, the moon, the wind, or the earth." 

Liam bites down on his thumb hard enough to break the skin, blood rushing out, the smell assaulting both you and David instantly before Liam presses his thumb against the line of the circle. 

The air changes. 

A white, hot electric buzz fills the air as the alchemy circle flashes a bright blue for a second before returning to normal. The chalk drawing underneath Wanda disappears.

"What...happened?" Wanda asks slowly as she looks at her hands and the rest of her body, but she doesn't find anything amiss. 

Liam gestures at Wanda to check where her sternum is. Pulling the front of her shirt at the neck, she peers down. 

"What..." Wanda mumbles. 

Both you and Natasha looked at each other before moving forward to check, Wanda holding her shirt open for the two of you. Wanda's bra was blocking part of the view, but her sternum now visibly bore the curse's inscription. The black words on her skin and then dark-colored veins prominently spreading outwards from her sternum.

"What did you do to her?!" You whip your head towards Liam, snarling at him.  

He holds his hand up to calm you down.

"Nothing dangerous, relax," he cocks his brow at you. "As I said, Alchemy is about changing one thing to something else. I used the chalk as a medium to bring the curse to the front of Wanda's body so it can be visibly seen."

When you realize Wanda's not in any imminent danger, you pull your snarl back, and the red from your eyes fade away. 

"This will help you tell when the curse is spreading. Wanda's veins will darken and spread as her cells deteriorate. Don't EVER let the dark veins spread past her chest. If you do, the curse is meant to collapse her sternum and pierce her heart. She will die." Liam warns sternly, eyebrows furrowed together, and lips in a straight line. 

"How do you know?" David asks with a slight frown.

"As I said," Liam looked at David, "Alchemy is a derivative from witch's spell or magic. The inscriptions are alchemy transmutation spells. If an alchemist has an affinity for alchemy, they can tell when it's been used on someone." Liam turns to you. "That's how I know it was Wanda that you bit."

You nod curtly. You think about how the veins were just barely protruding from her sternum, so Wanda would be relatively safe for a while since you just fed on her during the plane ride to Texas.

"What did you mean that your DNA has an affinity to the sun, moon, wind, or the earth?" Natasha asks.

You turn your attention back to Wanda, trying to inspect if she was indeed okay. It wasn't that you didn't trust Liam, but you couldn't help but worry.

All of this was your fault.

The fact that Wanda was cursed with potentially no way of getting out of this.

And the complicated mess you know would only hurt everyone in the end, so you needed to get this shit sorted out.

"It means," Liam interrupted your thoughts. "I have an extra DNA strand."

You blink.

"Honestly, I don't blame people in the past, believing alchemy was a gift or power given by God," Liam shrugs. "In a way, I guess they're not wrong. Alchemy's affinity comes from people who have an extra DNA strand from one of the natural elements. The sun, the moon, the wind, the earth." He uses his fingers to count as he speaks. "Having an extra DNA strand is a...mutation. The deformity being able to perform alchemy as a power. As you can guess, depending on what extra DNA strand you have, that's the alchemy you have an affinity to."

Natasha nods thoughtfully as she holds her chin. "I see. So the sun would be fire, the moon would be water, the wind would be air, and the earth is well...earth."

"Exactly," Liam nods.

"Leonard must've been fire," you say pensively to yourself, reminiscing. 

"What are you?" David asks Liam, licking his lips.

Liam tilts his head to the side.

"I have four extra DNA strands."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷ 

Something has been putting you on edge since you've arrived in Vermont.

"Are you okay?" Natasha asks softly, catching you look out the window for maybe the millionth time now. 

"Yeah, sorry," you breathe, uncrossing your arms. "It's just...something feels off," you tell her quietly, as to not attract the attention from others.

Liam and Wanda were currently looking over his books and scrolls to see if he could find anything that would help Wanda while David helped them.

"What do you mean?" Natasha asks as she takes a seat on the couch's armrest, pulling you closer, so you were between her legs. She rubs your arms up and down, hoping to comfort you.

"It's just..." you start to say before you turn sharply at the window again. Natasha's brows furrow, but she has no time to ask as you barrel into her while David tackles both Liam and Wanda to the ground. 

The glass of the window shatters as a body breaks through. It happens so fast, you hardly even have time to move, but you do. 

You smell burning flesh because there's still sun out, though it's setting. A snarl rips through the air as the intruder turns and leaps toward Wanda. David gets up, forcing his feet to push off the ground as he launches towards the vampire. The two of them collide into a blurring mess. 

Natasha starts to get up, but you hold her in place.

"What--"

"Don't," you warn her. "If that thing collides into you, your body will tear apart, enhanced, or not."

You get up, running over to David as he's pinned to the ground as you rip off the vampire. 

Even with his fleshed burned, he was strong. 

Liam scrambles to get up as he grabs another chalk nearby and starts drawing another transmutation circle on the ground as fast as he can. 

You're trying with David to get the upper hand on this vampire, one locking him into place while the other tries to rip his head off.

"Wanda," Liam calls, and she turns to him with worry in her eyes as she stands in the corner, unsure of what to do. "I'm creating a prison for him. You need to use your powers to place him in here and keep him down."

"Okay," Wanda says determinedly. 

You look at David, who nods in sync with you. You both let go of the vampire at once, and Wanda lifts her hands, casting her powers over the vampire to lock it in place.

He tries to thrash in place, but it's impossible to move with Wanda's vice-like grip on him. She wobbly moves him until he's in the middle of Liam's transmutation circle. 

Liam bites in the same place of his thumb earlier, breaking the wound once more, letting a single drop of blood fall in. 

The ground starts to shake slightly as the floor where the vampire lies crumbles, giving way. The outline of the circle lights up, and suddenly, vine-like branches with spikes shoot out of the ground. It wraps around the intruding vampire, the spikes piercing his body. He screams out in pain, trying to move, but is unable to due to Liam.

The light fades, leaving the vampire bleeding out as he's trapped in his spot.

"What...was that?" Wanda asked, everyone clearly knowing that he was after her.

You help Natasha off from the ground, checking her for injuries. You find nothing other than a tiny cut on her cheek from a stray glass shard.

"I'm okay," Natasha assures you, more frustrated with herself for being unable to do anything. 

You frown, wiping off some of the blood with your glove before you turn to the offender on the ground. 

"That was so cool," David breathes as he looks at Liam, who is giving him a tiny smile.

With the vampire immobile, you could finally take a good look. 

He was somewhat sickly pale. His eyes were red, a dark red, meaning he wasn't hungry when he lunged for Wanda. 

But the thing that stood out the most to you what the prominent veins underneath his eyes.

And you've seen that before. 

"No," you frown in denial. 

"Where did you come from?" You demand, but the vampire just smirks.

You want to leap in to strangle the thing, but Liam holds your arm to hold you back. 

"Anything that steps into that circle will be roped in just like him," Liam warns.

The vampire continues to bleed out as it laughs.

"Wait--" David says, "he's actually dying. Look!"

Everyone looks to where David is pointing at, and you clench your jaw. As a vampire, the only thing that could kill you was wood from the Methuselah tree. Yet, this vampire was disintegrating, turning to dust at his toes.

The vampire looks at you, and you feel a chill down your spine.

"How cute," he tells you, voice raspy as he's disappearing. "Looks like you have everything you've wanted."

You furrow your brows at him.

"Do I know you?" You say, but the vampire doesn't even seem conscious of the fact that he's speaking. 

"My love," he says, looking at you, and while you revolt, there's something familiar in the way he says it. 

Like you've heard it before.

"It seems you've learned how to want more," he smiles cruelly. "But if it's not more for the right things...then I'll show you what it's like to lose everything you have."

Your heart drops.

"Wait!" You shout, trying to somehow get him to stay, but before you could say anything else, the vampire completely crumbles to dust, leaving nothing behind.

All of you stare at the empty space. The shackles that were holding the vampire in place disappears along with the transmutation circle.

"No," you start to say quietly. "No, no, no, no--"

"Hey!" David grabs you, trying to keep you calm.

"This can't be," you say slowly.

"What? What's wrong?" David shakes you by the shoulder a little. 

You look at him.

"That was her."

Silence.

"What?" David says, not understanding. 

You look at the ground where the vampire used to be.

"I don't know how...but that was her," you say.

"That was Tatyana."

PART XIII

[flowerwrites06]

break my mind’s eye X — jjk

Plot: Jungkook thinks marriage is the only way to seal a deal.

Pairing(s): Druglord!Jungkook x Fashion Designer!OC (Name: Belle)

Rating: G | PG | M | R 18+

Type: Drabble | Oneshot | Two Parter | Series

Parts: Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Special 

Word Count: 7k+

Genre: Mafia | Angst/Smut/Fluff

Tags & Warnings (for entire series): drug dealing, marriage through trickery, explicit smut, drug use, dubious consent, prostitution, miscarriage, lots of manipulation, impregnation through manipulation 

The entire house descended into an ominous silence. Yoongi could hear murmurs coming from through the door where Saito and Belle were still conversing. No one could really hear what they were talking about. He had a few ideas however. Taehyung sat down at the small dining table while Jungkook had his back faced to everyone, leaning over the study table.

Time was running out. In only a few minutes those doors were going to burst open and Yoongi knew he had to keep his heart hardened. Exposing and arresting Jungkook was not just an act of heroism but it broke so many manipulative ties. So many dens used vulnerable people as bait, Taehyung being one of those victims. The countless amounts of people who died or were severely damaged while Jungkook made money off of that suffering.

Those thoughts provided him with a new boost of determination. He was doing this for good. It was a heartless act for a broken hearted man but it was the right thing.

Glancing over at Taehyung, Yoongi tried to give him an apologetic look knowing this was not the right time to be adding more stress. But they both knew this was for their freedom.

Heat erupted like a volcano from his toes right up to his head. Hands trembling and eyes burning as Yoongi reached into his holster, carefully hearing the rustling outside of the house.

Heartbeat pounded in his ears muffling all sound for a moment but his chest felt the thud.

The door burst open as a small crowd of police officers marched in almost like an army of cockroaches except more organized. Dark uniforms contrasting with the soft warm tones of the house design.

One of the officers pointed a gun at Taehyung making him stand up from the chair and raise his arms in defense.

“Stand down, he’s not the one we want. Niether are the two women inside the bedroom.” Yoongi ordered simply glancing over his shoulder as he pulled the gun out of the holster. He watched Jungkooks’ movements carefully but the younger male stayed still. Almost like a statue of sorts. Even Yoongi grew convinced that the world finally froze for a moment to give them time to breathe except he could only hold his right now.

Then Jungkook turned his body around, reddened gaze and an unreadable expression adorned on his broken features. Eyes merely glanced at the officers as if he already expected their presence…or was just too heartbroken to really care. Finally that same eerie gaze fixated on Yoongi. “Suppose I should’ve guessed it. No medical apprentice would know how to work a gun that well.” He smiled sadly, eyes still a little glossy.

“Jeon Jungkook…” Yoongi sighed, tightening his grip on the gun and pretending he was dreaming for a moment to make it easier not to shake. “You’re under arrest. Don’t make this harder on yourself and just come with us.”

“I’ll go.” Jungkook nodded a lot longer than Yoongi was comfortable with.

He could recognize that silence from far too many arrests already. Not a single person went so willingly, even the innocent ones.

Before anyone was prepared, Jungkook grabbed the gun from the table and shot the guard next to the older male.

Almost like machines all the standing officers raised their guns while injured officer groaned, bleeding on the floor.

“No! Stand down!” Yoongi ordered in more of a growl now ensuring no shots were fired from the police officers to prevent casualties. Especially since Taehyung was still standing there, breathing heavily. Raising his own gun at the Jungkook, both men now had their weapons pointed at each other.

None of them made a move for the trigger nor were they determined on lowering their guns either.

-

Belle and Saito jumped at the sound of a gunshot from the other side. The younger womans’ memory now jolting to what was to be done today, she pushed herself off the bed. Pain shot through her entire lower body as she moved her legs to the side and got to her feet. Belle leaned onto the wall with a light groan.

Saito immediately held onto her arms to keep her from moving any further. “You need to stay here if there’s danger happening.”

“No—” She shook his head, gently patting her hand. “He’s not going to listen. I need to talk to him.”

“If someone pulls the trigger accidentally—”

“Then I’ll get shot.” Belle replied simply, walking past the woman trying to be as kind as possible. There wasn’t really anything else that was going to surprise her anymore. If death was the next option for her continued torture then it didn’t look too bad.

She opened the door harshly causing a gust of wind and dust to flow through her hair and dress. Belle’s heart dropped when she saw Jungkook and Yoongi pointing a gun to each other. She hated not knowing which side scared her most. Either way her trembling feet moved forward.

If both Yoongi and Jungkook were stubborn before, it quickly faded to a numbing feeling when they saw Belle stand smack damn in the middle of them.

Yoongis’ eyes widened seeing his gun pointed right at her back and Jungkook lost all his anger for a moment seeing the end of his weapon aimed at his wifes’ forehead.

“Belle, what’re you doing?” Jungkook asked in a breathy voice, immediately putting his gun down as Yoongi did too not wanting to have that view ever again.

“Turn yourself in.” Belles’ lips quivered but she stood her ground, not wanting to succumb to the pain anymore even though it felt so easy to do so now.

Jungkooks’ mouth moved in a subtle manner attempting to form words, eyes momentarily glancing over at Saito who stood at the door before looking back at Belle. “Yoongi betrayed us—” He leaned in as if to try and reason with the woman in an attempt of a private conversation.

“You—” Belle corrected. “He betrayed you. Not us.” Her features twisted welcoming another brewing sob as more tears gathering at her stinging eyes. “He’s helping me.”

Jungkooks’ expression deflated. A disquiet silence plunged into the warm room. “No…n-no you’re just tired, you’re saying things.” He forced out a chuckle but it quickly faded into a confused frown. “Just go back to the bedroom.” He reached out to hold onto her arms.

Belle pushed his arms away and shook her head. “It’s over, Jungkook.” She gulped down the lump in her throat. “Please let it be over. I don’t want to do this anymore.” Tears overflooded and streamed down her cheeks, voice crackling at every word. “It hurts too much now, I tried—” She gasped lightly. “I really tried to be good for you but it has to end. Let it end.”

It didn’t take a mind reader to see Jungkooks’ whole world crash and shatter right in front of eyes when his lips parted and he lost control of his tears again. As his body shook and his heart clenched until it grew ten times smaller, the grip on his gun loosened. Metal clanged onto wood making Belle jump a little.

Yoongi gestured over to four officers making them immediately rush over to where Jungkook backed away and grab him by the arms.

Belle stood frozen as she watched her husband being dragged away out of the house. Letting out a drawling breath, the girl had to stop for a moment to ensure this wasn’t some kind of sick dream. Looking over her shoulder she saw Taehyung slowly walking towards her.

Immediately the older male engulfed his sister into a warm hug.

As if another dam broke down when Belle let out a series of sobs, a strange mixture of hurt and that little tingle of relief that she so longed for. It wasn’t fake anymore. Her sobs muffled a little into his shoulder. For a few seconds the woman could take a breath and quite happily cry her suppressed pain out without the pressure of smiling again.

She was hurt, broken and deeply damaged. But she survived. That was all that mattered in this moment of heartwarming vulnerability where a brother and sister could finally walk towards freedom.

-

A week almost flew by without Belle fully realizing her world changed overnight. The sun shone a bright golden high in the sky as she sat in one of the biggest law firms in the city where divorce papers were being filed and signed. Cool air brushed through her grey bodycon dress, the extra swell on her belly still poking out when she sat but it definitely dialed down significantly after all the check-ups and treatments.

Saito seemed to lose her smile for the past few days finding out the unfair game her biggest customer had been playing with none other than own protégé. A part of her felt guilt settle in her upset stomach letting all this happen under her nose without, even for a minute, checking if everything was okay.

Once Belle’s signature etched onto the paper, the papers were enveloped and made to be sent to the prison where Jungkook was held. Apparently the now convicted drug lord specifically asked to have a private cell as far away as possible from the city.

No pleas for bail. Nothing. Just quiet acceptance of the fate given to him.

Standing up from the chair after bidding farewell to the legal team, Saito guided Belle out of the office to the elevator.

With a pleasant ding, the doors slid open to reveal that the elevator was empty and the two women walked inside in silence.

-

As the doors closed and Belle felt a lift in her stomach as it descended down, she heard Saitos’ voice break the silence.

“I’m sorry, Belle.” Saito murmured not facing her but looking at the blurry reflection of her figure against the doors. “I should’ve known something was wrong from the beginning. Maybe—maybe none of this would’ve happened.”

Belle turned her head to face the older woman immediately shaking her head. “I’m the one who accepted the deal. And I’d do it again if I had to.” She spoke with any confidence mustered in the past few days.

All the daily interrogations really built a wall of confidence over her. Investigators really liked asking questions about the impregnation ritual and miscarriage on how it was not technically Jungkooks’ fault she said yes to him.

Even Namjoon, Yoongis partner, in all his ability to be patient, grew frustrated at the inappropriate and misogynistic questions thrown at her which really did not bring them closer to thickening Jungkooks’ case.

Both officers were struggling to find a decent number of years fit for Jungkooks’ sentence. That would only work if the investigators were not trying so hard to make Belle look like the real personification of Lady Macbeth, using her wit and beauty to ‘trick’ Jungkook in to committing the crimes he did.

Eventually that mindset was debunked considering how long Jungkook and his whole family had reigned over the city.

-

Out the elevator, Belles’ thoughts seemed to come to life when the two women were welcomed by two familiar officers at the lobby.

Namjoon and Yoongi stood waiting, with coffees in hand and badges flashing from their belts looking utterly out of place in an area infested by people wearing suits.

To her though, the familiar look brought a smile across her face.

“Can I say I’m out of the woods now?” Belle chuckled nervously looking at Namjoon and Yoongis’ expression twist into a mixture of a smile and some splashes of disappointment. “What was the verdict?”

The two men met each other’s gaze for a few moments before Yoongi took a breath to speak.

“Five years.” The answer lingered amongst the group with an eerie note.

Belle’s smile disappeared as she shifted where she stood, trying to immediately reassure herself with any comforting words that could be conjured. A lot of things could happen in five years. Which brought a sink in her belly wondering whether the life she makes at that time would be interrupted by a ghost of her past.

“You’ll be under court protection so he can’t come near you whether in prison or not.” Namjoon explained in the calm tone.

“It’s not him I’m worried about.” She smiled sadly. The couple were ripped apart in the heat of swirling events that overwhelmed the both of them. Despite the brush of freedom Belle now felt, there was still the nagging feeling at the back of her mind that something needed to be said. Like a chapter unfinished or a song stopped smack damn in the middle.

“There’s no need to worry about something that long away now.” Saito patted the younger womans’ back. “I’m going to work. You are going to get a whole day off and try not to think about anything else but yourself.” A comforting smile spread across her lips.

Belles’ gaze flickered over to Yoongi, her heart jumping a little to see his eyes already fixated on her.

-

Walking out of the firm building, the heat was pleasant on her skin after the chill of the air conditioners for hours. Saito took her own car to drive her around because Belle started getting a bit too jumpy to drive for a while. The younger woman was not so sure why because she had already seen and heard so many things that no person should in their lifetime.

Saito walked to her car and climbed inside.

As Belle tried to follow her, Yoongi lightly touched her shoulder to bring attention back to him.

“There’s something I need to show you.” He murmured, his tone serious.

Belle looked over at the male, confusion gripping her features but she did not argue much further.

Giving a quick farewell to Saito, she opted to climb into the SUV the two officers drove in. Apparently police protection had to be done in the subtle way possible to prevent spies from getting way too observant on when they were coming to watch Belle.

Climbing into the vehicle, the AC once again bursting throughout as Namjoon already started the engine while Yoongi got into the car. They drove off almost immediately and kept a strange level of silence in the air. Not that Belle was in mood for any kind of conversation, it still brought a small tinge of discomfort.

-

Passing the building at a somewhat snail pace as the traffic thickened, Yoongi finally built up some kind of courage to structure the words in his mind. The piece of paper in his hands itching to be given to the woman. The letter that could have potentially determined Jungkooks’ fate that night. If anyone found out that the man handed this confidential document to someone so close to the criminal, he would lose his job almost instantly. But it had to be done. Despite all the things happened Belle deserved to know Jungkooks’ plan prior to his arrest.

“What did you want to show me?” Belle broke the silence out of pure lack of patience with the thickening quiet.

Yoongi let out a deep sigh glancing over at Namjoon who kept his focus on the road rather than any of them. Pushing himself to a jolt of courage, he held the folded piece of paper behind him gesturing it closer to her. “This.”

Brows furrowed, Belle gingerly accepted the paper and unfolded it revealing handwritten words that only went through half the page.

“It’s the last letter he wrote before getting arrested.” He stated. Somehow the exchange proved to be a thousand times easier when Yoongi could not actually face the woman. However the deafening silence very quickly grew unbearable.

Eyes scanned across the words carefully written with the extra ink spreads at the end of most of the letters. Little dots scattered after a sentence because he was probably thinking up the best way to say something. Then the words themselves. Jungkook planned to give everything up to raise their family. He chose to give up his riches, power and reputation for family.

It was a lie. It had to be, right?

Why would he lie to his parents however? There was no reason to dramatically announce giving up his empire for his wife and child for people who were not even in the country. His parents wouldn’t want him to give up the empire. Jungkook didn’t say what his parents probably wanted to hear. Nor was there any use to lie to them about how much he cared about his own growing family.

It couldn’t be the other thing.

That wasn’t real, remember?

Belle felt her eyes sting and burn forcing her to rip her gaze away from the letter. Staring out the window, the buildings began blurring into one another either from her teary vision or the speed of the car. “Did you find this before or after the arrest?” She asked in a mixture of a murmur and whisper.

Yoongi pursed his lips together. “Belle—”

“Before…or after?” She emphasized her words in a more firm tone.

The male glanced up at the ceiling feeling a light constraint in his chest. A part of him prepared for this very moment where he would tell Belle the truth about Jungkooks’ intentions. Maybe his need to abide by duty overpowered it. Or maybe it was something a little more selfish than just his job. “Before. I found it before the show.”

Belle let out a shaky sigh, body deflating into the leather seat as she hugged the paper to her chest. “Why—why did you keep it from me?” Her voice cracked a little.

“What would you have done if I had told you?” Yoongis’ stomach may have dropped the slightest thinking of a very different turnout if Jungkook actually went through with his plan.

“You still shouldn’t have hid it from me.” Her heart began pounding and racing so hard, they could almost crack through her ribcages at this point. Did she do the wrong thing helping Jungkook get arrested? “He was—” Belle tried to let out a deep breath but it all collected in her throat preventing any of her nerves to calm down. They only grew more frazzled, tightening and numbing any ability to hear things clearly. “He was going to stop.”

“People like that don’t just stop.” Yoongi replied simply. “Give him three years of keeping his promise and he’s going to be back at it again.”

“That still didn’t give you the right to go behind my back like that!” Chest rose and fell as the woman struggled to gain a normal pattern of breathing. Her body burned like a volcano erupted from her belly, shooting uncomfortably through each vein.

“I was undercover, that was my job.” He spoke through gritted teeth.

“I was helping you! The whole time I thought—” At this point all Belle could do was heave as all the heat rushed through her head, tears melting down her cheeks and dripping onto her chest.

“He—”

“Yoongi!” Namjoon finally spoke up glancing over at the older male before indicating to the left. “She’s getting anxious, stop it.”

Yoongi had no stubbornness to fight any further anyway except now he wished there was anger to at least numb down that twisting feeling in his stomach. He could hear the way the girl heaved to get a deep breath out while the car slowed down gradually coming to the side emergency lane.

Namjoon puts the car to a complete stop and Belle immediately climbs out before Yoongi could mentally prepare himself for it.

The fresh breeze of air felt new as if Belle had not been breathing it a few minutes ago. Her body cooled down although it merely touched the surface; heart still beat far too fast to really think in a proper pattern. Everything felt like a kaleidoscope of emotions. Reddening from anger, then blue splotches of deep rooted sadness, deep maroon when she found the space next to her bed empty and her own apartment looked foreign all the while accompanied with a vibrant yellow to reassure her everything was going to be okay. The best and worst feeling that brought confusion to her vulnerable, healing body.

These momentary crashes of panic were happening a lot more often than she liked to admit. Belle remembered the first time was two nights after the arrest. Her whole night completely spent with Taehyung trying to help her regulate her breathing until at an ungodly hour of four in the morning, they managed to get some shut eye. Although not enough to keep them alert the next day.

Being in the car usually caused the worst of it and it didn’t help with the letter now swirling in her mind. It was so much more easy to think that Jungkook was a horrible, tyrannous drug lord who didn’t care for anyone but himself and his empire. To think that he had other priorities in mind while Belle helped his enemy brought an unwelcome twinge of guilt.

After a few moments’ of leaving the woman alone to her space, Yoongi climbed out of the car into the cool air. Sighing, he spoke up to break the silence. “Belle I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“I would’ve stayed with him.” Belle answered hugging herself as tightly as she could before nodding briefly. “If you told me about the letter, I would’ve protected him.” Her features twisted, not a face of pride for a loved one but one of submission and desperation. “At first it was because I was pregnant, I couldn’t raise the baby on my own, I knew that, I knew that my baby deserved a good family away from the world he was in. So if Jungkook ever told me he was going to give the whole life up…I would’ve gone with him.” A long drawling breath passed through her lips as the words seemed to loosen a few knots in her body.

For a minute she tried to searching deep into her mind wondering if the words coming out of her mouth were true. But there was nothing. “Why didn’t the police ask me about this?” Belle held up the paper not really knowing she was still holding.

“I am the police.” Yoongi shrugged. “I just didn’t give it to them. They had enough evidence to ensure Jungkook was the culprit for all the drug dens. The assassination on the mayor was more information for the mayor only.” He dug his hands into his pockets. “About you going with him…” He let out a brief sigh. “Is it just for the baby?”

Tears dried up from the wind, her face feeling a little tight. She shook her head. A part of Belle still grew so used to pretending like she had to sugarcoat things or make it sound like she was in control. However once you allow something to feel broken, it’ll feel like falling and falling into an endless abyss until all you can do is get back up again. “No…it wasn’t just for the baby.” Belle’s bottom lip quivered. “I didn’t want to…I really didn’t want to—” She closed her eyes before hanging her head. “But I do.” Shaky hands held onto the letter again.

Yoongi could almost feel a dark cloud over them. Belle should have been moving towards a path of healing, not wondering what it would been like all her life. Granted there was no way to know whether she was going to continue helping him after reading the letter but it still didn’t give him any right to keep this truth away from her. The last thing she needed was getting played into another lie.

Belle took another deep breath as her body now slowly calmed itself down. “It’s okay though, right? You did it to protect me and other people.” She sucked in her bottom lip. “There’s no reason to cry about it now.”

“Belle…” He murmured taking a small step closer.

“It’s okay, Yoongi.” Reddened eyes met his gaze. “Just take me home please.” Belle padded past the male and climbed back into the car leaving Yoongi with a question of whether he just helped the woman or rushed through a mission just so he could get what he wanted.

-

The drive back to her apartment reverted back to its original silence. Belle placed the letter into her purse despite a few sensible sides of her advising she get rid of it. It would only hurt more to keep it and wonder but her body seemed to grow weak whenever the thought crossed her mind.

Namjoon parked in front of the apartment building and Belle gave the two officers a quick ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’ before climbing out of the car.

Up the elevator and through the hallways, Belle felt a rush of relief coming back to her home again. At least she tried to call it her home now. It almost felt like coming into a hotel or just a really strong déjà vu as the old memories of her time here seemed so long ago.

Walking through the entrance, Belle tossed her purse on the kitchen island, leaning against the edge of the counter, fingers ran through her hair only to get a little caught in the middle. Pulling them out, she merely pushed the strands back and grabbed scrunchie from her purse to tie it back up into a loose ponytail. “Tae?” She called out softly.

The apartment was fairly silent at least until she heard ruffling on the spare room. Belle had moved most of her designs from the room to her own while some of her steel stands scattered around the living room.

Eventually the door opened with a half-naked Taehyung padded out of the room, ruffling his hair as his lips pouted out, eyes squinting into the light. “Hey…how’d the signing go?”

Belle shrugged, rummaged through her purse and seeing the piece of paper just sitting there. “I guess the same as any other divorce.”

“If you marry a mob boss, sure.” Taehyung stopped near the edge of the counter.

“What were you doing today?”

Taehyung rubbed his face trying to hide the wide smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. Despite the exhaustion across his expression, there was still this aura of joy. It was not hard to guess who may have caused that smile. Seokjin had created full freedom for Taehyung to visit Angel without any rules involved but for her protection against her ex-husband, she had to publicly stay married to him. That is until some solid legal actions were made to properly keep Angel protected so they could think of something more serious with their new blooming relationship. “Little this, little that.” The struggle to keep his smile failed terribly as the biggest damn grin graced his features.

Belles’ heart swelled, a more comforting warmth spreading across her body compared to the one she felt during the drive. For a moment she could remind herself that things were actually more okay now. Taehyung looked so much happier and she even saw him sketching the other day. Things were looking to be normal again. Except for the secret in her purse. Gulping down, she pulled the paper out. “Tae…” Eyes stared down at the folded paper before placing it on the table.

The older males’ smile faded away into one of curiosity when he saw the paper in her hands. “What is it?”

“Yoongi gave me this…” She murmured, fingers caressing over the surface. Much to her slight shame Belle could imagine caressing Jungkooks’ cheek. How warm he felt and he would almost always lean into her touch naturally. The thought made her abruptly stop the action, gulping those feelings down. “It’s a letter…from Jungkook.” Belle took a deep breath. “It says that he was going to give everything up for me…” Her stomach twisted. “For the me and the—the baby.”

It didn’t take a genius to feel the heat of anger already radiating from her older brother as he tightened his jaw. “He’s just lying.” Taehyungs’ voice grew dark, making it even more raspier than it already was.

“It was a letter to his parents.” Sharing the same thought as the other male would have been comforting but Belle knew better than to lie to herself just for the sake of making things easier to bear.

“Doesn’t matter. He’d never do that, he loves his power too much.” Taehyung shook his head.

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t care about his family.” Belle glanced down at the letter.

“There isn’t any family now.” He corrected. “You’re divorced, he’s not your responsibility and the kid—” Taehyung immediately pursed his lips to calm his frustrations down before he said anything he was going to regret.

Belle stayed silent staring down at her dress, lump growing in her throat. With the whirlwind of things that had been happening in such a short time, the miscarriage seemed a distant memory. At least until she was reminded of how fresh the wound still was. “I know all that.” She murmured.

Taehyung immediately padded closer to the younger standing next to her. His arm moved over her back, rubbing up and down her arm while his forehead pressed against her temple. “I’m sorry…” He whispered. “I know everything hurts right now but it’ll be okay.” He tilted his head to try and search her expression. “You gave up so much to take care of me. Let me take care of you.” Long fingers brushed back a few strands of her hair behind her ear.

Chest fell and pushed out with a small sob passing Belle’s lips, the heat from Taehyungs’ body in such close proximity providing her comfort. “Okay.” She whispered. Turning her body around with a light sniffle, she buried her face into his bare chest, arms hooking back and hands gripping at his shoulders.

How freeing it was to be able to curl up into Taehyung’s arms whenever her mind decided to play tricks on her. Belle knew she was strong, so many people including the reporters on the news continuously tried to tell her. But it never reassured her. Strength was what got her into this mess. For once, Belle truly felt happy knowing she was strong but could still rely on the people she loved when her strength wasn’t enough.

-

Tonight had exactly been that night where Belle’s mind opted not to give her a break. Hazy visions of running around the dark Jeon mansion, not even the guards were present. Then it faded to the house she grew up in with her parents celebrating Taehyungs’ birthday party while she peeked out from her bedroom to watch it.

Then her bedroom now in this current apartment. She forcefully looked to her side and saw a familiar sleeping figure, blurry phoenix tattoo on his chest. His large hand came over to rest of her belly but now she wore a white dress. As he raised his hand up, blood spread from one point all across until the color changed.

Pain jolted in her head when she heard a gunshot.

Belle’s eyes opened.

Everything stilled, light ringing in her ears like she just walked out of a club. Sweat layered in on her skin as if she was really running before passing out on her bed. The ringing got louder. Belle realized it was not coming from her ears but from somewhere in her bedroom.

Exhaustion still pulling at her form, she pushed herself up from the bed to look at her nightstand. Her phone lighting up the entire room as it vibrated against the wood and sounded a ring. A familiar name on the screen: Yoongi.

Brows furrowed, Belle turned on a lamp since going back to sleep again after a dream like that was not likely. She pressed the green button and put the device to her ear. “Yoongi? What’s wrong?” For a moment it felt strange hearing her own voice, still raspy from her slumber.

“Sorry I know it’s late.” Yoongi murmured through the phone.

“It’s alright, I’m up anyway.” Belle scratched the back of her neck lightly, eyes still closing but her mind still too frazzled to let her be pulled back in again. “What is it?”

“Could you—could you come outside? Bring your stuff with you.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah, it’s important. I can’t do it during the day so—” Yoongi cleared his throat.

Belle pouted looking at the clock for a moment to see that it was two in the morning. “I’ll be down in five minutes.” She replied quickly before completely getting off her bed and walking to her closet. Leaving her deep blue pajama set on, she merely draped a big coat over her body. Messy hair tied up in a somewhat decent bun as the girl stared in the mirror with a subtle pink tint on her lips to make her look less exhausted. Though the puffiness under her eyes spoke the truth.

Tiptoeing out of her bedroom, she glanced around before seeing the door to Taehyung’s bedroom closed. A part of Belle wanted to let him know that she was going somewhere but at this point, the older male wouldn’t really wake up so it didn’t seem necessary.

So giving one more look over her shoulder the woman placed on some shoes and walked out of the apartment as quietly as she could.

-

The crisp night air was both refreshing and unwelcoming as the moon still smiled onto the world from where Belle was looking. Across the path from the building to the curb where Yoongihad his van parked, she noticed the dew on the grass glimmering under the silver light while the trees whistled in the wind.

Eventually Belles’ gaze fully set on the van where Yoongi had his lights on to ensure she could confirm it was him and not someone trying to lure her. There had been a lot of looming danger for Jungkooks’ enemies to try and put the woman in danger despite their end in marriage. Which was also why the police protection was put in place rather than just keeping her safe from her ex-husband.

Walking to the passenger seat, she opened the door and climbed in without a word spoken until her seatbelt was fully fastened.

“Where’re you taking me?” Belle asked in a calm tone though the lack of information made her heart beat a little too fast for comfort.

“Somewhere I’m not allowed to.” Yoongi answered simply, turning on the engine and letting it purr for a moment before driving off into the street.

Silence took over the cool air of the vehicle adding more fuel to the confusion filling Belle. The streets slowly faded into main roads and then it turned to a highway. She pulled her knees into her chest, looking out the window wondering whether to ask again or just figure it out when the car stopped.

But then Yoongi spoke up for her. “You deserve closure.” His eyes were completely focused on the road, finding it easy to explain himself when he wasn’t meeting her gaze. “We got our jail sentence for Jungkook.” He shrugged. “That was all we wanted. To break his empire down in a status that was manageable. But you—” He glanced for a second after gaining some courage but looked at the road. “Your relationship with Jungkook is more personal than anyone else who wanted him down.” Yoongi took a sharp right turn.

“Aren’t you going to get into trouble?”

“Not if you can keep a secret.” He smirked.

Belle couldn’t help but smile a little. Although now there was a light sink in her belly having to prepare for a meeting she never thought she would have. Police and even her lawyer reassured that she would never see the male again but somehow it didn’t reassure her as much as seeing him on more time did.

-

The car drove into a dark yard, the building towering over the car park with some bright white lights shining inside the cement fences. Yoongi drove towards the metal date, letting the guard at the booth know who he was. A piercing clang echoed through the air as the gate slid open, creaking terribly in its journey.

Slowly inching into the car park, the male drove closest to the building before turning the engine off.

Belle climbed out of the car and stepped towards the entrance. Footsteps crunched against the gravel until the older male stood next to her.

Through the entrance, the two were already welcomed in by the guards. However welcomed was a strong word for blank expressions and monotonous voices. Yoongi was told to stay outside while Belle walked in because only one person was allowed to visit at a time.

-

Past the dank looking halls, Belle walked under the greenish light, all the while hearing howling and moaning from the other side. Indistinctive words but it wasn’t hard to tell they were all expressing misery. Her mind now filled with the vision of that wide sweet smile and warm gaze stuffed into this crowd.

The guard opened a door for her revealing a room with a line of seats. A glass division in front of it. It was mostly empty aside from an elderly woman sobbing while talking to a younger prisoner on the other side.

Belle was gestured to sit in one of the center booths. Hugging her bag to her chest, she did as she was told. Eyes flickered over to the guard on the other side keeping a close on the younger prisoner at the other side. A metal door closed next to him. In the slight silence the girl attempted to take a deep breath and organize what she could say.

Then the metal door clanged open making her jump back a little.

A figure wearing bright orange padded in and sat on the center, eyes not meeting hers yet. He slouched down on the chair, hair mostly tied up except for large piece handing over the side of his face.

When his gaze flickered up, his expression softened and his posture straightened. Jungkook stammered glancing around the room before looking back at Belle almost convinced that this could be a dream. “I thought you weren’t allowed to be here.”

“Do you want me to go?” Belle gripped at her purse tightly, heart pounding against her ribcages at the anticipation of his answer.

“No.” Jungkook pursed his lips together.

Silence plunged between them. Whether it was comfortable or disconcerting was up for debate.

Belle leaned in a little resting her elbows on the little table before her, eyes momentarily glancing down at the little holes made to be one of their ways of clear communication. “I saw the letter.”

It didn’t take Jungkook far too long for his face to soften into one of recognition.

“Were you lying?”

“Would it make you feel better if I said I was?”

Belle let out a shaky sigh, another small lump growing her throat but she swallowed it down. “No.” She shook her head slowly. “I want the truth.”

Jungkook shifted in his position causing the handcuffs around his wrists to clink. “That day I yelled at you…” He stayed silent for a few seconds to take a deep breath. “I realized my priorities were muddled and I needed to figure out what was more important.” Adams apple bobbed up and down as his glossy eyes met hers now. “What I loved the most.”

Lips quivered as the lump only grew in her throat until she had to hang her head. “I didn’t know.” Belle whispered, breathing shakily. “I thought—I thought you didn’t care about us and then I saw Yoongi and—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He answered simply. “Yoongi was going to expose me with how close he was anyway. The new mayor was at my tail, it was bound to—”

“It’s not about the mission.” Belle closed her eyes and emphasized her words, fingers trembling a little. “I hated your job. I hated everything about it but I didn’t hate you.” She sucked in her bottom lip. “When I read that letter that you were going to give everything up for me, I felt—I—”

Jungkook searched the beauty’s expression, leaning in a bit more to maybe catch some warmth from her body or her scent. “What did you feel?” His voice came out in a whisper.

“I felt like I just—gave up something. Something that might’ve made me happy.” Belles’ eyes flooded with tears making her irises blurry before a single drop escaped down her cheek. “I kept thinking about how different it could’ve been if you weren’t who you were. Maybe if you were just… Jungkook and none of this happened. Maybe we’d be happy together.” She chuckled sadly before briefly covering her mouth.

“Would I have made you happy?” He sniffled lightly. “Even after all I did?”

His question floated in the air freely for a few moments as Belle wiped away the escaped tears staining her skin. “Maybe…” She shifted closer. Eyes flickered down at the holes again. Shaky fingers slyly hooked onto two of them not looking back at Jungkooks’ gaze rather looking at down her digits and sighed. “But I can’t…do this all over again on a ‘maybe’.”

Jungkook almost had his forehead pressing against the glass just to feel her close again. Instead the woman initiated the second best thing by putting her fingers through the opening of the glass division. His own rough fingers reached in to caress her soft skin before hooking them on top of hers.

Belle couldn’t help but feel a jolt in her belly feeling his familiar fingers on her again. It was a subtle action but it brought so many long slumbered feelings through her body. They both know this electric magnet between them was a ruse to hide the real truth. What they needed to say but could never admit in real life.

Until now.

“Do you feel happier now?” Jungkook asked, breaking the warm silence.

The real truth. The reason why Belle wanted to come here. Was it a real feeling of longing? Or just a strong attractions towards the comforts she created in the fantasy of her past? No matter how heartbreaking. It was a moment of weakness where the woman could only remember giggling under the sheets with Jungkooks’ warm hands all over her body, eating ice-cream late at night or giving each other reassuring words.

It was at this moment, Belle needed to remember that was only part of the story. Part of the beautiful fantasy they built together but now the show needed to end before anyone else got hurt.

Belle now spoke out the truth.

“I do.” She nodded, smiling through her light tears. “I do feel happier.”

Jungkook couldn’t control a wide smile of his own stretching across his lips hearing those words. “That’s good.” He let out a faint chuckle. “That’s all that should matter to you now, okay?”

Belle hummed lightly in agreement. “I hope you feel happier soon too. Once you’re out of here.”

He nodded finally succumbing to pressing his head gently against the glass, breath fogged up the surface as he spoke. “I’ll try.”

That was all they both needed to hear.

The curtains had been lifted and the fantasy dissipated. All that could be seen now was two broken individuals in their rawest form, making their slow but healthy path to a happier life. One they could finally choose for themselves.

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[bioticgoddess]

Untitled O-14 One Shot

Pairing: Osiris/Saint-14 (O14)

Summary: Grief. Angst. I have no shame when it comes to these two. Set sometime between Saint's death and the excursion to find him in the Infinite Forest.

Note: I apologize for any typos and grammar issues. Wrote this in one go because I'm a masochist. Enjoy!

I. Mercury: The Gray Pigeon Osiris listened to Saint's message again. His eyes were red from tears and rubbing at them with the heel of his hands. His gauntlets as stained as his scarf and skin from them. His skin raw and throat tight. How many times had he failed to tell Saint just how much, how deeply, his affections ran? How long had he hoped to see him again? How long, trapped in the Infinite Forest and playing a deadly game of keep-away with the Vex, had he dreamed of the Exo? Or asked Sagira to show his holographic projection in the hopes it would help sleep come easier and be less painful. And now? Now, all he had of him were memories, a fragment of ribbon caught in the pilot's seat, and this letter. Pressing the piece of Saint’s accolades to his forehead, he mumbled, “This will not happen. I...I will save you.” “Osiris,” Sagira asked gently, floating to her chosen cautiously. “Are you...no...what do you need?” The care in her voice was more than he could bear, no matter what the Warlock had resolved to do. Eyes closed, tight, he tried not to cry again - for all of them. When she pressed a flat portion of her shell to his cheek. It was cold comfort but she was trying and he knew that. He knew it better than anyone. He wept. II. Earth: The Tower, Osiris’s Private Study The report was laid out across the long table. Sagira floating over them, able to read from a distance so she wasn’t in Osiris’s space. He was determined, singularly focused now, and - though she had tried - could not be convinced from his path. The little golden ghost flexed the wings of her shell. It was all there. Everything the Guardians had seen in the Forest. Most importantly, he had been there. Saint-14 laid to rest in all his glory. A fragment of Geppetto brought back though they hadn’t been able to retrieve the Exo. She watched, frowning as much as was possible, at the piece of her lost friend. Geppetto had been one of the good ones. As determined to keep her guardian safe as long as she could. Only, someone - the Vex she thought - had killed her, snuffed out the poor Ghost’s light and she was afraid. If Geppetto had been slain then what hope did they have of saving Saint? No. She couldn’t think that. She wouldn’t. Osiris needed her to believe that this insane plan might work. That it had a ghost of a chance of working and that the Light would lead them to exactly when they needed to be. “This won’t be easy, even on Mercury,” she cautioned, projecting an image of the device they needed to build. It’s schematics on yet another data pad at the center of the table. The warlock’s gloved hands on either side of it. “We’re gonna need help.” “No. This...I owe him and so I will do this,” there was a fire in his voice bordering on anger. He was right, he had to be. Which meant that if anyone could do this, could walk the corridors of time and find Saint-14 - the right Saint-14 - it would be Osiris. Her chosen would not let this be the end of their story. Not now. Not ever. Not so long as he still grieved the man who’d shown him the simple joy of the night sky over Prague. And there, as he sat and began scrolling through the data pad on his chair, making a list of the needed supplies, Sagira could have sworn she saw him weeping again. One of his hands touched a spot on his breast, the place he’d carefully hidden away the scrap of purple silk ribbon that been left behind in the Pigeon. He whispered, “I’m coming Saint. I’ll find you. I promise.” III. The Infinite Forest: Time Unknown, Mercury Saint-14 had sent Geppetto on her way, hoping she could find a way out of the forest. If anyone could it was his little Ghost. She’d been a good companion all this time but he would not bind her to his fate, not if it was avoidable. No. Someone needed to tell Osiris what had happened. To apologize for the words in his last log entry on the Gray Pigeon. He trusted Geppetto to guide his precious phoenix back from the brink in his absence. It eased his mind that she’d have Sagira there to confer with and be the voice of reason. Yes. He would take as many Vex with him as he could. If he were truly lucky and the Light was with him, it would cleanse the forest. Maybe Mercury could be a garden world again? That would be nice. Chuckling to himself, he let his mind wander and for a moment, Saint-14 was in Prague with Osiris. They were sitting in the ruins of a building from long before the golden age. It’s stone walls provided a safe haven they hadn’t known they needed. He remembered a basket, barely held together except for prayers and an old - but clean - stretch of canvas. The meal within had been simple but their conversation, he’d made the Warlock smile broadly and laugh in a way no one else ever saw. He focused on the memory of the way his eyes wrinkled at the corners. The groaning of metal bodies held together with wiring and bolts echoed, shattering his moment. Too close. He’d run too close to taking memory and letting it become fantasy. Here, especially, that could never be. No, the Vex were closer than he expected. The Exo checked his ammunition with a huff, silently lamenting his ever diminishing reserves. Worst case, he could headbutt the bastards, but he didn’t relish the idea of getting up close and personal with the Vex. He wished he could have shared one more meal with Osiris, just the two of them. Perhaps something sweet? IV. The Infinite Forest: Time Unknown, Mercury Saint collapsed, heavy under his own weight. He couldn’t breathe. Joints were going stiff. Could feel everything starting to shut down. His Light was gone. His mind was hazy, vision unable to focus. Geppetto was gone. Safe at least. He hoped. “Do not blame yourself,” he whispered to the strange golden glowing hallucination. For a moment, he thought he felt the warmth of his touch against his cheek once more. V. Earth: Tower - Temporary Quarters assigned to Saint-14 “I’m sorry,” the Exo whispered, “I should not have left.” Osiris let out a sob of a laugh, “I left first and have regretted it ever since.” Not that he’d really had a choice. Exile or not, they could at least agree that he’d left the city first. His tone, the guilt that pulled at the edges of his joy made it sound to the Titan that he thought it absurd that the Exo apologized. They were silent for a moment. Not unsure but, unbelieving. They’d come to the little apartment that would be Saint’s, for now. They’d sought solace where others would not immediately seek either of them. They’d spoken as old friends with more secrets shared between them than half of the residents of the City. Stories of what really happened in half a dozen different and now mythic adventures that they had lived. Now, sitting in this space, with no one to watch them, it was different. Under the Exo’s luminous gaze, Osiris began weaving the violet ribbon he’d been fidgeting with on the Gray Pigeon’s steps into the net of those that stretched across the left of Saint’s breast plate. “It took longer than it should have but...I was resolved not to be parted from you,” the Titan explained, head tilted and eyes fixed where he could watch his partner’s fingers work. Their gloves and helms had been abandoned to the same sad little barren counter after they entered the dwelling. Those nimble fingers gently moved the ribbons that were taught so they held this new addition in place. His gloves long abandoned to one of the flat surfaces that Saint had chosen as a workbench. Voice steady despite the hesitancy in his words, “You’ve never told me what these were for.” “I thought you did not wish to know,” there was no judgement in his tone. “I do, I have been terrible at actually remembering to ask you” he swallowed, securing the ends of the ribbon, “There. Now I will be with you, no matter where you are.” He laughed, smile broadened, eyes warm, “Then I shall tell you, once you are ready to ask. You should know, there are few things in life I have always been certain of,” collecting the Warlock’s hands as he spoke, “That you are always with me is one of them.” “And you with me,” Osiris’s relief was palpable in that moment. This. He had dreamed of

this, of having time to sit and simply be with the other Lightbearer. That and deserts, but that would have to wait. The pantries, while stocked, lacked what he needed and tonight, nothing was more important than the time they were together and on finding the new laugh lines in the Warlock's face.

[mggpleasedontlookhere]

reid’s anatomy pt. 2

summary: after seeing spencer in the OR, you have no other choice but to wait and see if he makes it or not

word count: 1,827                                                                                               reading time: 7 mins

masterlist

Pt. 1

My spine had succumbed to the soreness that had spread throughout my lower body as me and Morgan sat almost lifelessly together on cold hospital floors.

If Spencer was present at the moment, he would ramble about the billion strains of bacteria and viruses incomprehensible by the naked eye, at which our skin would be exposed to. But he wasn’t here, he’s laying placid under OR lights that were just as bright as Time Square’s streets at night and a scalpel just as sharp as the sushi chef in the japanese cuisine he took me out for our 2 year anniversary.

Morgan still continued to stroke my head, our tear ducts running dry as the minutes passed us. I sat up from his shoulder, facing him for the first time since he came to check up on me.

“What happened out there?” I asked disdainfully. It was evident in my tone that I held some sort of animosity, possibly blame towards the team for not protecting Spencer. But deep down I knew that no matter how many cautionary provisions they’ve taken, you can never dodge the inevitable.

He flinched at the presence on my voice, not anticipating that I would be so prominent in speaking. He shifted to face the ceiling, sighing as he dragged his hand over the bridge of his nose.

“I-i can’t even to begin to explain Y/N. I-i’m so sorry” He repented, his eyes beginning to water again. I prolonged my examination of him, egging him to continue his narrative.

He now bowed his head, laying them on his hands that were supported by his knees. “We were with the unsub right” He painted out the scenario, I nodded while following along with his recollection of the events. “We were in the middle of a standoff. We had about 3 additional agents with us and the police force, but me and Reid were hanging back behind the unsub, in case he had tried to escape...” He paused in the midst of his sentence, taking in a breath as he began to choke on a few words.

“It was supposed to be me” He confessed, earning a look of perplexity from me. “The unsub had a kid in hostage, and the kid got in the middle of me and the unsub. So naturally I went to take the kid away, but I made the stupid mistake of dropping my gun. Obviously, the unsub heard and turned around to shoot me and the kid since we were both defenseless. But...Reid, he-. He shoved both me and the kid, taking the shot himself”.

The words that came from Morgan’s lips were incoherent by the time he finished. He looked over to me, his eyes exhibiting a great deal of grief before searching my own for a response or clemency.

In contrast to the circumstances that were placed before us, a forced chuckle lunged out from my throat, acquiring Morgan’s attention. A morbid smile planted on my lips as I thought about Spencer.

“He would’ve been such a good father. Don’t you think?” I asked using the same tone from earlier. Morgan agreed apprehensively, sorrow still evident by the way his body responded to mine.

“He deserves children. Doesn’t he, Derek?”

“Y/N- I don’t understa-”

“Then he should be able to have them” I snapped, slamming my fist against the wall behind me. Morgan reached a comforting hand out, but I swatted his hand away. I gave him a crazed look, running my hand through my hair. “H-he should have a family, he deserves a future...Morgan, he should be...alive. That’s how it’s supposed to be” I choked out, word vomit spilling from my mouth as my thoughts swirled around my head at a thousand miles an hour, any sense of rationality I had depleting. 

“Y/N- I-” 

Soft sobs racked my entire body and defeated whimpers had crawled up my esophagus. I rocked myself back and forth, burying my head into my arms until all I saw was the artificial darkness I placed myself in. It was almost a cocoon that composed of me and my thoughts, regardless if Morgan was next to me. 

My own heartbeat was ringing in my ears, drowning out any other noise around me, including Morgan. That wasn’t until I heard scurried footsteps, metal hitting metal, and the attending inside the OR yelling brutal commands at the staff. 

It suddenly came clear to me when Morgans hand gripped mine and all that could be heard from the OR was, “his BP is down, he’s going into V-fib, we’re losing him”. At that moment, my heart stopped and my vision dwindled, I was too tired to react. Pain resurfaced as my mind grew dizzy, next followed the sensation in my arms, legs, and back. Finally, my consciousness inevitably followed in its footsteps as it withered away to the sound of the doctors frantically shifting around to save Spencer’s life.

-

Light began to be apparent again, my vision gradually retaining it’s efficiency as I noticed I was placed on a hospital chair. I rubbed my eyes, sitting up in the seat that I was slumped down on, scratching my head while my eyes examined the environment. 

The first thing that had caught my attention was that I wasn’t in the hallway anymore, but in a post-op room. My eyes felt heavy from all the crying I’ve done previously and my forehead grew hot from the stress I’ve undergone. 

The sound of voices pricked my ears, and in curiosity, I stood up to investigate. Getting closer to the noise, I noticed my legs were tender and that I had a great difficulty at maneuvering around. 

How long was I out?

I finally got to my destination and was met with a privacy curtain that ran from the ceiling to the floor. I heard a multitude of voices that rang from the other side of the curtain. 

Uneasiness set in my bones, not wanting to get my hopes up. I slowly pushed the fabric aside, letting my presence be known, and let me tell you, it was the best decision I’ve made. 

To my fortune, there stood the attending that was operating on Spencer with the rest of the crew that surrounded a single bed. On that hospital bed laid the love of my live. 

Spencer was the first one I locked eyes with, he was in the middle of speaking with his colleagues when we did, which halted his speech. In recognition of Spencer’s pause, all eyes were then relocated to me. Although I didn’t reciprocate anyone else’s glances, except Spencer. 

“C-can we have a moment of privacy please?” Spencer requested, looking at his doctor for approval. 

The attending nodded in agreement, shifting his focus to me and gave me a hopeful smile. The same smile I would give to my patients after a successful surgery. Everyone filed out after the doctor one by one, leaving Morgan to be the last one out. 

As he exited the room, I stopped him by the shoulder and silently thanked him. He returned the gesture with a large smile, nudging me towards Spence. When the room was finally empty, I inched towards spencer with the brightest smile I can wear. His eyes shone nothing but love as he continued to gawk at me venturing towards him. 

When I finally got to his side, he greeted me with an amiable ‘hello’ like it was the first time we met. He reached out for my hand, placing it on his chest for comfort and giving it an affectionate kiss. 

I, then, proceeded to lovingly whack him upside the head in return, earning a playful wince from him. 

“I swear to god Spencer Reid, if you ever, and I mean EVER, put me through anything like that again, I will personally go into the OR and cut your LVAD wire and kill you myself, bec-” 

“Y/N, honey, I’m here no-” 

“DON’T. Don’t you dare tell me to calm down Spence because I will have to be restrained and placed in a mental hospital when I lose my license for kicking the IQ out of you” I finished, heaving as I gathered my composure. 

Spencer looked at me amused, gripping my hand in his and hauling me closer to the side of his bed. “Y/N Y/L/N, I’m sorry for putting you through everything you went through” He looked up at me with sincere eyes, melting all the disdain that swelled in my heart. 

I sighed, leaning down to lay my head on his chest, in which he gave me permission to hop into his bed. I pulled him in closer, terrified that he might vanish from my grasp into thin air. “Spencer, I love you so much” I sniffled, muffling my words into his chest. “You have no idea Spence, I-i felt so lost and hopeless. I-i couldn’t do anything to save you, they-they wouldn’t let me” I sobbed, my throat tightening up as the words spilled actively from my lips. 

Spencer quieted me down, stroking my hair as I spoke. “I don’t know where I’d be without you Spence”. I looked up at the man who held me, my heart beating in delight, in contrast to the emotion my face was probably expressing. 

He leaned in pressing a long lasting kiss on my lips, then he proceeded to reciprocate the same gesture on my forehead. “You’re my absolute everything Y/N’ He sighed. “Before I- before everything became a blur, all I could think of was you. All I could think of was that I took out one less person that can harm you. I love you so much Y/N”. 

A comforting silence followed after, creating an environment of serendipity. I toyed with the hospital gown that covered his body, thinking of all the events that had occured before, thanking the heavens for the outcome that was given to me and praying for the future. 

“I want a baby” I professed without warning, feeling Spencer tense up in surprise. 

“W-what did you say Y/N?” 

“I want a baby, I want to start a family with you” I continued, adjusting my position to get a good look at his reaction. “I want to have a baby now” I declared, determination dripping from my confession. 

Spencer chuckled, gesturing to the IV and the tubes that were wired into him. “I would be glad to Y/N, but I’m kind of a human experiment as this moment” He joked. 

We both chuckled in glee, holding each other tight as we basked in the pleasant scene. “But I would love to have little Y/N’s and Spencers running around, especially with the one I’d want nothing more than to spend my lifetime with” He pulled me into another kiss, peering deeply into my eyes before shutting his own to get some rest. 

“I love you so much, Y/N Y/L/N” He whispered through his breath.

“I love you more than you know, Spencer Reid” 

-

A/N:

That’s a wrap, you know I was going to end this short story with Spencer dying, but I thought about how evil that was. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it and don’t be afraid to put in any requests :)

taglist: @l0ve-0f-my-life  @spideyreid​ @evelyn-4034

[quillandink333]

Scarlet Carnations ~ Epilogue

BotW Link X Zelda ~ Detective AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 1.7k

WARNINGS: death, murder, loss, trauma, blood and gore, terrorism, organized crime, self-harm

Summary: Inspector Zelda Hyrule, assisted by the faithful Constable Link Fyori, is infamous for cracking the most confounding of cases in a town dominated by crime. Her latest assignment is to solve the murder of her own godmother, Impa Sheikah, the late CEO of Sheikah Tech. Incorporated, while staying under the radar of the dreaded Yiga organization.

Part I • Part II • Part III • Part IV • Part V • Part VI • Part VII • Epilogue • Masterlist

The first couple of weeks following the incident that had taken my long-lost mother from me was misery in its purest form. Link and I didn’t speak, not even by phone, during that whole stretch of time. In fact, I could rarely bring myself to answer the phone at all. The memory was still too vivid, the wounds still too fresh.

He’d gotten off scot-free in the end as he’d been deemed to have acted in the defence of others—namely, of me. It wasn’t long before I learned of his plea, that if I hadn’t come along quietly, I would have suffered the same fate that he’d brought upon her, and they had believed him. How I felt about this was still something I was struggling to wrap my endlessly pounding head around.

As dark and deep as this seemingly bottomless pit of despair that I’d found myself plummeting down was, however, someone did eventually toss a rope down for me. The time I spent apart from Link gave me the opportunity to properly reconcile with those whom I myself had wronged: Auntie Purah and Paya. The former and I found comfort in our mutual grieving, and even as Paya had never really known my mother well enough to mourn her loss (though, arguably, it seemed no one had ever truly known her), she was more gracious and understanding than I or anyone else would have been, which only made me regret even more deeply my past transgressions toward her.

One day, during one of our continual conversations, she shifted to the topic of the Yiga leader’s executioner. How she could even think of him at a time like this was beyond me, but I digressed. I told her everything from start to finish. It was the first time I’d allowed myself to talk to anyone about it at length. As I spoke, she listened calmly and carefully. Despite what I’d have liked to believe, she had always been the more levelheaded one out of the two of us, save for when it came to discussing things about herself.

By the time I finished, I’d begun bouncing my still healing ankle back and forth, which I’d crossed over my other leg to keep it from touching the ground. I didn’t stop even after I noticed what I was doing.

“It’s painfully clear to see how conflicted you are about all this.” Coming to sit beside me on the sofa in the Sheikahs’ sitting room, Paya placed an affectionate palm on my thigh, bringing its restless jittering to a halt. “I understand how hard this must be for you. But the way I see it, there’s only one question you need ask yourself at the end of the day.”

Whatever she was about to say, it wouldn’t be an easy pill to swallow, would it? I straightened my posture. “And what would that be?”

“Between the two of them, who do you think was the better person?”

She was looking me dead in the eyes, her hand still resting upon my leg. I uncrossed them.

I’d never thought to compare the two before. What reason would I have had to do so? But now that she’d mentioned it, I hadn’t realized how few memories I even had left of my mother, and the ones that remained were blurry and vague beyond any hope of being recovered. If only she hadn’t left me with the Sheikahs all those years ago, maybe I could have remembered more clearly what kind of person she had been.

On the other hand, Link had always been there for me. Even during the times when circumstances had driven us apart, the thought of him was what had kept my flame burning strong and hot throughout each arctic day, and what had protected me from myself, keeping me from doing the irreparable. He had stayed by my side to the bitter end.

No matter how I’d reflected back on that day previously, the sight of his steely, focused stare and the sound of his crazed breaths, short and sharp, had been ever dominant. But now, I recalled the way those eyes had then glazed over with unadulterated horror. How his arms had shivered as they’d clung to my broken form and how they’d continue to cling for what would feel like millennia until the rest of his unit would finally stumble upon the scene.

My stepsister-of-sorts gave my leg a soft squeeze as I looked back at her with a tremor in my lip. “He s...saved me,” I whimpered. “Didn’t he?”

After a month apart, I made plans with Link for a night out on the pier, where we would celebrate the end of the Organization. The ice cream I’d promised him was at the top of my list of priorities for the evening. Tonight was a dessert-first night anyway, I’d decided. From there, we went and found ourselves a bite to eat at a seafood restaurant within walking distance. I’d hoped eating with him would feel like old times, but he hardly spoke a word throughout the whole meal. I tried lightening the mood with some banter, but this proved ineffective when he brushed off everything I said with mere one or two-word replies.

It wasn’t until I’d gotten us both a bit of something to drink that he finally broke the silence. “Have you...” he started, but lost the confidence to continue.

I perked up at the sound of his voice, wanting to hear more of it. “Have I...?”

“A-Ah...” His fingers poked at the copious amount of chips piled onto his plate next to the practically untouched fillet of fried fish. “I was just wondering if you’ve thought about what you’re going to do now, since...you know...you’re not a detective anymore.”

“Ah, right. That.” I took another sip of my drink, its contents long having fled my memory. “Actually, my auntie talked about it with me and she said she’d consider letting me inherit the company once I’ve acquired the proper education. So to answer your question, I’m thinking about going to school for engineering.”

His brows rose. “Oh! My, that’s—” He cleared his throat. “That’s brilliant. I’m happy for you.”

I thanked him with a hesitant grin, then asked, “How about you? Do you plan to stay on with the force, or...?”

“Ahh, well...” What little there’d been of an upward turn in his lips vanished. “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. It’s something I’ve been mulling over for a while now. Whether to stay on and honour my father’s work, or...whatever other options are available, I suppose.”

“Do you want to hear what I think?” He raised his head. “I think you should do whatever you think would make you happiest. That’s what you’re father would have wanted, I’m sure.”

This finally, finally, got a real, unsubdued smile out of him. And I intended to milk that smile for all it was worth.

After dinner, I dragged him back down to the arcade on the pier, where I managed to ring a few laughs out of him while we were still a bit tipsy. We steered clear of the toy gun target-type games, favouring other stands like the ring toss where he won me a plush frog that I could only just get my arms all the way around. His aim was spectacular, especially for someone who wasn’t entirely sober. Not only that, but I could never have imagined how sweet and charming he would be like this. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though we’d gone back in time again. That, or the light from the setting sun was playing tricks on me.

But by the end of the evening, he’d reverted back to that quiet, reclusive version of himself that I’d quickly grown to detest. We were out on the docks now, facing the sea. The breeze carried a mist of saltwater within its bows. I breathed it in, soaking up the feeling of it hitting me softly and coolly in the face. A hint of pink in my partner’s cheeks caught my eye, and I wondered whether it was the cocktails or my arms, which were currently wound about his waist from behind.

“Beautiful sunset,” I tried, hoping I could get him to spare me a glance at least. “Isn’t it?” But to no avail. He only continued to gaze westward at the rippling flames reflected in the water. “Hey...” Before I knew what I was doing, my palm had found the warmth of his cheek, and there was hardly an inch or two of distance between the tips of our noses. Without giving myself time to think, I tilted my head, leaned in, and started to close my eyes.

But when I realized he wasn’t doing the same, I halted. On the contrary, he’d been leaning back and away from my advances, his back so rigid and shoulders so stiff it were as though he would sprout wings and bolt were I to make any sudden moves.

“What’s wrong?”

A harsh, jagged exhale. “Zelda, I just can’t—” He grabbed both my wrists and wrenched my arms off of him. “I’m sorry. We can’t do this.” He was bent over the railing, arms folded in on each other. “Not now,” he said, dwindling, “after I’ve gone and...murdered your only family.” A weary chuckle shook him by the shoulders before he raked his hands through his wind-tousled hair.

I fell into quiet thought for a moment. Then, taking a long, thorough breath, I placed a feather-light set of fingertips atop his own. “That woman was never my family.” I’d made up my mind. Figuratively or otherwise, my real mother had moved on a long time ago. And it was time I did the same.

Link must have seen the resolve in my eyes or heard it in my voice, because now he was looking back at me openly, his body turned to face me. Though there was still an air of uncertainty lingering about him as he ran the crease of his cuff between his fingers again and again. But when I brought my arms around him and held him close, he sank into my lips, returning my embrace at long last. A lone pair of tears fell from my eyes the moment they fluttered closed—a culmination of all past ordeals—and as they fell, I couldn’t help but smile.