#i wonder why i lost a day's worth of money maybe because I WAS THIRTEEN AND A DUMBASS WHO COULDNT EVEN DO MATH AT SCHOOL

[aiyaar]

Nico di Angelo was ten years old when his life went to hell. He never felt so devastated, so ruined. The only person who cared about him, his family, his everything was gone.

Nico hated all of them. He hated sister for leaving him behind, as if he was nothing, just to die afterwards and leave him completely alone. He hated those stupid huntresses of Artemis for taking his sister away from him. He hated Annabeth Chase, whoever it was, for falling off the cliff and making them go on this quest. But most of all he hated him. Percy Jackson. The ultimate hero, so strong and cool. He hated everything about him. He let him down. Percy Jackson let his sister die.

It was already a month since Bianca left this world. A lonely, cold month. Grieve still strangled him. This month has passed in a blur.

Nico passed an empty street, not even bothering to lift up his head. Snow was falling from the white sky and Nico shivered slightly from the cold. He needs to find some warmer clothes.

The city clock struck twelve, sound cutting through the silence. Another day has come. As if Nico cared. Suddenly he stopped, absentmindedly looking at the date on the billboard. 28th January.

Nico titled his head. He didn’t even know his birthday was coming. He always loved his birthday, so excited to modestly celebrate it with Bianca. Bianca…

A lonely tear rolled down his cheek, followed by another. Nico didn’t bother to wipe them, letting them fall.

“Happy Birthday to me.” He said in a shaky voice, sitting in the snow right in the middle of the street. Nico buried his face in his palms, trying to quiet down choked sobs.

Nico di Angelo was eleven years old when he lost himself.

*

Nico di Angelo was eleven when he started to chase the dream of making his sister come back to life. He was obsessed with the idea, almost going mad in the company of hurt and angry ghosts.

Minos had promised him that he’ll see Bianca again. And Nico believed. What else he could do. He was alone. He was hurt.

Why can’t she talk to him? Why she doesn’t want to show up? She doesn’t want to see him. She despises him. She doesn’t want him.

Nico heard rustling sound under his boots. He picked up the newspaper, catching the date with his eyes. 1st February.

Well, another year passed. Nico didn’t care that he missed his birthday. But a little ache didn’t want to leave his heart as he remembered how Bianca smiled at him the day he turned ten.

And then, months later, she showed up, just to say him that he has to let go. Just to make Nico know that this plan wouldn’t work. Minos was a liar. He used Nico. His only hope was trampled.

Misery was what Nico felt. The weird, nasty feeling crawled up to his throat.

Aside from that, one image didn’t want to leave his mind. His face lived in his head, not wanting to leave. His stupid smile, green eyes, tousled hair. Why Nico keeps thinking of him?

Why did she want to talk to him, not Nico? This stupid guy, with his annoying grin made Nico want to- What?

Nico freezed, trying to finish this though. Did Nico want to kill him? Hurt him? No, it was something else. He felt weird every time he heard his name. Percy Jackson.

Nico di Angelo was twelve when he started to realize something about himself.

*

Nico di Angelo was twelve when he wanted to rip out his own heart. Abnormal, disgusting. He was sick of himself. He felt nauseous at the very thought of it.

It can’t be true, no. He’s mistaken.

He was lying on his bed at his father’s castle, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his face. Those gorgeous green eyes, goofy smile, tousled black hair. His mind was ranting: Percy Jackson, Percy Jackson, Percy Jackson.

Nico felt like he was about to cry. Why is he like this? Is he broken?

He looked to the side, at his night table. A bouquet of red roses stood there. An hour ago Persephone strode to his room with these flowers and a weird expression on her face. She silently put them in a vase and went back to the door. She stopped there, turning her head a little to look at him.

“Happy Birthday.” Was what she said. Then she left.

So it was his birthday. He’s thirteen now.

Nico stared at the flowers, a little bit shocked. She remembered about his birthday. His father didn’t even bother to check up on him.

Hades only cared about their deal. Nico was very hesitant about that. But after all, he agreed.

He just thought that if he does that then maybe Percy would… Like him? But he didn’t.

Percy Jackson hated him. He screwed everything up. It was horrible. He had to fix it.

So he did the best thing he could. He had to prove to Percy, to his father, to everyone that he is worth something. He was just a kid and the battle was scary. He was scared. But he was a hero.

Everyone respected him, some people wanted to be his friends. He even wanted to stay at camp. Nico was happy but only for a moment.

Days after the battle the whole camp started talking about how Percy and Annabeth finally kissed and got together.

Nico left without a warning. Not like he had anyone to warn. Not like anyone cared.

Nico di Angelo was thirteen when his heart was broken.

*

Nico di Angelo was thirteen when Percy Jackson had gone missing. Annabeth Chase went feral. And Nico promised to help. Of course he did.

He was actually worried. What could happen to him? Nico only knew that Percy was alive. It was somewhat reassuring.

Something bad was about to happen. Nico knew it. New demigods at Camp Half-Blood. One of them is a son of Zeus. That was a bad sign.

And now that Nico knows about romans…

Today was 28th January. His birthday. He already got used to ignore this day. Nico just marked the fact that he was fourteen now.

The door of his room swung open. Nico sat up on his bed, seeing his father in his usual black robes.

He stood there in silence for a minute or so, awkwardly staring at his son.

“Um, did you want something?” Nico said, nervously fumbling with the ring on his finger.

“Yes.” Hades came closer to his bed. “Well, not really. It’s just…” Lord of the Underworld sat on the corner of Nico’s bed. “It’s your birthday.”

Nico blinked, processing what his father was trying to say.

“Yeah, I know. Thank you for reminding me.” He finally said, scowling at his father. Like he ever cared about Nico anyway. “If that’s all you wanted to say-“

“No.” Hades looked strangely awkward. “You made me proud this year, you know?”

Nico’s eyes widened. Was his father trying to praise him?

“I wanted to say that I’m… Grateful. You made me make right choice. And what I said about you before… I’m sorry.”

Nico was more than shocked at this point. He felt awkward and Hades didn’t look better.

“Anyway, I vaguely know that mortals usually make gifts for the day one came from mother’s womb. And I thought that maybe you should spend time with your… peers?”

“What are you trying to say, dad?”

Hades took a deep breath, as if he was nervous.

“I want to give you a present. So that you will be able to go wherever you want, in those places where teenagers usually spend time.”

“You want to give me a car?” Nico asked, puzzled.

“No, you’re too young for that. I’ll give you a chauffeur, he’ll be helping you go to the mall or something. Because, well… I’m not able to do it for you.”

Nico blinked again, titling his head to the side.

“A chauffeur?”

Hades looked embarrassed for a moment. Then he put on a stern expression, standing up.

“Objections are not accepted. You should be grateful.” He strode off to the door. Then he stopped. “Happy Birthday, son.” He closed the door, leaving Nico alone in the dark room.

Nico di Angelo was fourteen when he received his first birthday present.

*

Nico di Angelo was fourteen when he met him. Will Solace.

It felt like a dawn after long, cold night. Will was his blessing, his salvation. And Nico didn't know what did he do to deserve someone like Will.

They've been dating for a couple of months, wonderful, amazing months. And Nico was genuinely thankful for everything Will had done to him.

Nico woke up at the knock on his door, blinking through the gloom of Hades cabin. He didn't know if it was morning already, because black curtains prevented any gleam of sunshine from crawling into his cabin.

Still, Nico knew exactly that it was early and he knew exactly who was outside, because there was only one person in this world who dared to wake him up.

Nico got out of bed and staggering came to open up the door.

Will Solace stood on the threshold. He was wearing his usual winter jacket and a scarf, a blinding smile on his face. He seemed to be particularly happy today and, judging by the flush on his face, he was running.

"Hey, Neeks." He ruffled his hair and came in, closing the door behind him as Nico shivered from the cold winter air.

"Good morning." Nico mumbled, still half asleep. "What time is it?"

"7 a.m."

"Why did you need to wake me up so early?"

Will looked him in the eyes, taking Nico’s cold hand with his warm one, which is weird, considering Will was the one who had a walk on winter air.

"Do you know what day it is?" He looked excited.

"Um, no, to be honest. I don't pay attention to the calendar." Nico sat down on his bed, wrapping himself in a blanket.

Will looked shocked.

"Are you serious?! I mean... It's 28th January!"

Nico's brain needed a moment to process what exactly Will wanted from him.

"Yeah. So?"

"So?! It's your birthday!"

Nico sighed.

"Guess I'm fifteen now. That also explains this." He pointed to his bedside table, where black envelope was perched on the top of black box. "Probably from my father."

Will looked at him, then at the envelope.

"So, like... Happy Birthday."

"Thank you." Nico got up again, reaching for the box. "Now go so I can change."

"Ok." Will strode off to the door, a strange expression on his face. Though Nico didn't pay much attention to it.

Nico opened the envelope. There was a thick wad of money and an invitation for a dinner. Nico will come, of course, but not today. In the box lay watches and a book in Italian.

The day went by as usual. Nico had a walk in the woods with Will before breakfast, then they were busy with their camp activities.

In the evening, right before they were about to go to the campfire, Will took his arm and told him.

"How about we won't go to the campfire today?"

"But you like-"

"I don't need to go there everyday. Especially today. Come to your cabin in twenty minutes." And he hastily strode off in the direction of the cabin thirteen.

Nico came in after twenty minutes to be met with dozens of candles around his room. Will was standing in front of him, holding a cake with fifteen lighted candles perched on it.

"Make a wish." He whispered as Nico came closer.

Nico looked him in the eyes and didn't know what to say. So he just did what he was told. Will smiled brighter.

"I baked it myself." He said proudly. "Well, Cecil helped me."

He put the cake on the table, now fumbling in his pockets.

"I have something for you, actually." He said, pulling out a small box from his pocket. "I don't know if you're going to like it but..."

Nico didn't hear what Will was saying as he opened the box with trembling hands. He pulled out a sun pendant on a thin gold chain. The sun looked just like the tattoo on Will's shoulder.

Nico couldn't hold back a tear that rolled down his cheek. Will watched him attentively, stopping his ranting when he saw it.

"Nico, what's wrong-"

The next thing Will knew, pale arms was wrapped tightly around him, Nico's face buried in Will's chest.

"Thank you." Nico said in a small, shaky voice before pulling back. He placed the sun pendant on his palm, watching it glisten in the candle light. Tears still rolled down his cheeks.

Will looked at him, his eyes filled with warmth and understanding. He always understood. His sunshine was so alone, for so long. All Will wanted was to make him happy.

Will moved to embrace Nico in a tight hug, kissing the top of his head and then lifted his head with long, gentle fingers on his chin.

"I love you so much." He said. "You're such an amazing person. You're brave, gorgeous, smart, brilliant. Beautiful." He wiped the tear from Nico's cheek. "I will love you with all my might. I promise."

And with that he gently kissed Nico, making him smile while the tears of joy kept rolling down his cheeks.

"I love you, Will."

Nico di Angelo was fifteen when he found his happiness.

[thekitschdiet]

my take on the literary masterpiece, the chic diet

Firstly, I am no one. It’s part of my charm. My fifteen minutes of fame was years ago, when I had an instagram niche meme page. I didn’t even take any brand deals! And my posts averaged six thousand likes! Anyhow. I am hardly literate and well hydrated and carry a small sephora-CVS-hybrid worth in my mini tote bag. Here is my guide on how to live like me, the intermediate kitsch-rat, aspiring influencer. But like, in an apathetic, somewhat dissonant, ironic way. I like saying I live by dogmatic principles. But a lot of it, um, is just eating disorder rituals. But that’s not really important. You’re as hot as you say you are, and as much an authority on what you write so long as you say it with, you know, conviction. It’s kind of venerable how fucking delusional I am, actually. Giving any sort of advice like I’m anywhere close to the ritzy ideal of the amphetamine-areyouami label-american. New York, ideally. West Village, preferably. But I guess the kind of guide I can write is better suited to someone living in a suburb, in a house with the twelve-paned windows. I always thought those were so chic. SO quaint, in a somewhat luxe way. Like, Connecticut vibes. My parents used to drive me up there as a child to buy books and ice cream. Nowadays I’d opt for a matcha latte with novelty ice cubes, but I guess at the time it was pretty sweet. 

Because I popped a Vyvanse at like, 10pm, this next little bit could go one of two ways. I will write the most articulate, brilliant piece of literature of my life. Magnum opus, if there was a skinnier word for it. Or, I will get wrapped up doing something like folding all my last-season knits (which is part of my look, okay! I don’t have a job!) and fixating on a paragraph on how a girl’s collarbones are almost as identifying as a fingerprint, or a signature. I’m not a graphologist, but if you write your A’s with the little tail on top (like on a computer), you’re probably a snake. Nothing personal, just an observation. Also, I do have a biology final to study for. Not that I’m super anal, or even particularly committed to academia, but even in my precariously manicured (read that as separate terms; I did a good job on my nail polish, okay? But I happen to also be teetering on the brink of an epiphany or a collapse. Hence the use of the word precarious.) state, I know it’s important enough I can let one of my countless side-quests sit idle for a couple more days. 

The first section seems only natural to be about hydration. And the whole idea of drinking things, really. There was a section in The Chic Diet about Adderall dry-mouth, which deeply resonated with me. Once I bit off a chunk of a Nivea Strawberry Shine (my favorite lip balm, more on that later) and swished it around my mouth. Didn’t help. Really, really didn’t. Anyway, I suppose that even if it served no purpose for combatting my prevacatingly ingenious cottonmouth solution, I was able to milk a sentence or two out of the experience. “Do it for the Vine”, all grown up! And wearing bananapapaya resin hoops too. Side note, that Etsy shop is a parasocial enemy of mine. It stems from jealousy, which sucks, but hating from inside a club I’m adjacent to is much healthier than being a hateful individual towards people I would, you know, interact with. Daily. Or something. I stopped going to therapy because I felt stupid about going and I don’t live in the right kind of town to warrant vacuous $300 hours. Bitching about my well-adjusted parents and how desperately I wished my anxiety would just “go away” was plainly gross, and a waste. Like, pretty sure almost every problem I have could be solved by a couple painful conversations taking place during a hurricane. Such a shame it doesn’t rain much here. Anyhow, I digress. 

Staying hydrated. It is essential to my character, my persona, if you will; to never be without either an elegant metal bottle (I’m loyal to the smooth enamelled S’well ones, printed to look like marble or a semi holographic solid) or a little 16oz tumbler with a metal straw. Hydroflasks were some of the worst things to happen to society. I want to preface this claim with the fact that I wanted one in the same way a teenage girl wants a new iPhone so she can keep up appearances with her dermatologist-dad friends who still have the XR, by the way. But I ended up spending the money on like, a minidress at Brandy Melville before it fled my city. Or maybe a Fresh Sugar tinted lipbalm. For the better, even though the dress has a busted zipper now and the lipbalm tube has inevitably gotten dinged and dented by the other contents of my mini-totebag. Unlike a car, though, a couple scuffs on your laptop or your luxury lipbalm tube looks kind of cool. Like, you’re not someone who values the pristine, unused quality of an item that was ambiguously intended to be used versus displayed on Instagram.  Now, I’m wondering why this paragraph about hydration is so fucking impossible to stay on track for. I literally drink several litres of water a day, and more tea on top of that. And sometimes an almond milk latte if I can budget it in. Not that I’m so anorexic I can’t afford a 45cal latte. They’re just not that important to me. Anyhow. Drinking lukewarm (on the cool side) water is better than ice-cold. Partially because I just get it out of the tap of my ensuite and I can’t be bothered to wait for it to run cold enough every time, and it just seems wasteful. Plus, there is something so.. skinny about drinking water at an “obscure” temperature. Trust me, I want to know why my thought process is like this too. My favorite tea is blueberry tea foraged in a side aisle at my local supermarket. I love a good commercial, high-end steep or fruit infusion as much as the next girl. Maybe more. My pantry is filled with tins labelled with things like “emerald jade organic” and “magic potion”, which is really just currants and butterfly pea flowers. But there is a necessary glamor about drinking dirt-cheap tea on the daily. Seriously, a box of 25 sachets is like, $3. At a higher point with my, um, Adderall problem, I spent like several times that on pills. I didn’t really need to include that, and could have linked the price point to the cost of a drugstore lipbalm, but I wrote it in. And I’m married to it, stubbornly, as all amateur writers should be when they wittle in a somewhat indecorous little joke. This tea is sooo good because it has a strong fruit-reminiscent taste (not as sweet as a fresh blueberry, but who wants that anyway?), it’s zero-calorie, it’s the most GORGEOUS color ever. The latte, the third drink in my little trifecta, is nothing special. But necessary. The trick is to use a milk frother to whip up sugar free syrup with instant coffee and a little bit of hot water in a glass. It’ll make the most luscious foam.. Top it off with almond milk. My dad is a coffee purist, owning both an upstairs keurig AND a downstairs one (among other more analogue methods, but I can’t name-drop, so what’s the point?), so he hates this drink. Now, calling oneself a plebian is so unglamorous and teetering on self-deprecating territory, dangerously close to insecurity. But I can use it here because I am at least posh enough to have a different pair of earrings for every outfit I could possibly come up with, and I only wear Patagonia if I am in a situation where I just have to wear fleece. Like I was saying. It’s such a simple drink, certainly not a delicacy, and… I had a joke about the word plebian but I keep getting up to refill my water and I fear I have forgotten about it. 

Next section; the importance of a good tinted balm

In the intro I alluded to how a girl’s collarbones function essentially as an identifier, the way a signature or fingerprint does. This is a lie, or at least an exaggeration. But one’s ultimate tinted lipbalm is  actually extremely indicative about who you are, as a person, as a member of society, even… 

If you are loyal to Dior Lipglow, I have a couple questions. One; did you shoplift one tube, once, and refill it with cheaper stuff afterwards? I did that. I consider it one of my better-kept secrets, but now you know. Might as well explain the catalyst for my parent’s first separation now, and the horrifying experience that was meeting my dad’s Manhattan sugar baby (?) at the age of thirteen, wearing an overalls dress from, like, Topshop or something else equally embarrassing. .. Kidding. I digress. It’s such a fancy lipbalm, and good too! It smells like thin mints! But I could just never justify cell phone monthly installation payment money on something I will inevitably talk off. I do own three, but two I stole (before I lost the nerve, somewhat unfortunately) and one, a boy(not)friend bought for me. This is not something I feel any remorse about, because his house was easily four thousand square feet and his sisters had a dedicated all-glass room for their shared peloton. Oil money. Ugh!

My personal favorite lip balm, and I have tried a frightening amount, has got to be the Nivea Fruit Shine collection. The frosted one is shit-ugly. Hideous. But the strawberry one is the love of my life. It’s such a pleasant red, looking healthy and rejuvenated and really completes any look. Only downside is it will always, hopefully not always, remind me of Charles. Kissing Charles, specifically. And him asking me what lipbalm it was, because he knew I was somewhat frivolous and definitive and would have a very long answer. But for whatever reason, I simply stated it was from “out of town”. Not really sure why I said that, but it plagues me (minorly) to this day. Of all the things to make up.. .. The peach one is a perfectly demure spring classic shade. Cherry exists too, but the only tube I have ever had the fortune of owning was purchased in Costa Rica and lost somewhere on the way home. Honestly tragic, it was the juiciest shade. Blackberry is perfect too, but I have to layer it with either peach or untinted lipbalm to avoid what I imagine TooPoor would choose if she believed in tinted lipbalm. I don’t mean this hatefully, I think she’s a queen, but super dark, smudgy makeup suits the eyes better in my opinion. Or something. Or something.

Afraid to bore the reader, I have to move on now. Maybe at a later date I will release an addendum on my ultimate lipbalm buying guide. But also, that is so deeply personal (and everyone needs the excuse of “hunting for the perfect staple shade!!”), so it is really not my place to have any authority on something so intimate and subjective. Etcetera. 

Moving on; Decorating your room

Here is a section I lifted out of my memoir document. It fits, because as enigmatic as I hope I am, I am also quite unchanging.

 I just pushed three hangers and two tiny strappy tops with the tags still on, off my bed. Most nights, all, these days, actually; I spend in my large but cluttered bedroom. I have a little ensuite with a jetted tub I’ve never used because I just never get around to it. There’s a plush grey rug, spanning the expanse of the room (covering an ugly cherry wood that doesn’t match the rest of the house; no clue why. I never asked, and the previous owners were eager to sell so they could finally ditch this town and retire in Montreal for the bagels, or Hawaii for the monk seals. Point is, I’ll never know) with loose beads and loose pills and little shards of glass from plier-crushed beads. I vacuum every day. The whole room tells you exactly the kind of person I am; the clutter I possess, the encapsulation of the projects I start, start, start and the hours I don’t sleep for and the clothes I tried on (these to sell, these to cut up with kitchen scissors; thrifted lululemon and aritzia and heaps of knits and plaid fabric..) I would not say the room is a mess. Lived in, maybe. Chopsticks and mugs and gum wrappers. Single dangle earrings. I just finished the last of my Creme Brulee eos lipbalm; disguised as a relic of 2015, I was gifted it Christmas of ‘20. I think my next waxy conquest will be a tinted Burt’s one I palmed a while back, before I lost the nerve. Peering around the room you will see shopping bags strewn about the mouth of my walk-in closet. Every surface has something shiny or colorful stacked up on it. Cluttered, busy, but intentional. Except for the walls, which are bare. Bare and gray and miles-tall when I lie flat on my back, high out of my mind, willing things to change but knowing I’m responsible for a first step I will always be too scared for. Bare, pristine, no gumtack. Empty, Like they’re waiting. I wait around a lot. It makes sense. That was an awful lot of words about my stupid blank walls when truly it does not bother me that much; I really just don’t get around to it. I have other things on the ground to tend to, like post-email nausea, addressing envelopes, marrying wire and bead.  Writing a document I care about because I am determined and I am alive, alive, alive, goddammit. 

Excerpt over. The memoir is coming out when I get famous, or something earth shattering happens. Like I become the world’s least remarkable entrepreneur, and I get retweeted by Colorpop. I don’t want to be the next Elizabeth Wurtzel. I read two of her memoirs one restless night, absorbing it to make up for the nutrients I didn’t that day (you can laugh. I think that is pretty clever), heart breaking a little bit. She writes about her struggles so intrinsically, you either get it, or you don’t. Anyway. She had the books and the fame from it, and she wrote more memoirs than I think a single person should. That is admirable. Aspirational, even. But I do not want to be like her. Where was I? Oh. Yes. Decorating/adorning/filling your room. Your room should serve as the kind of place to watch a movie (if you believe in film. I don’t) and put on ridiculous glittery eye makeup, or smoke an ~artistic cigarette~ or stay up all night on the phone, which is different from staying up all night simply on your phone. Chatting with someone you are tepidly in love with is much more exciting. Not chic as the whole affair is so juvenile, but fun regardless. It’s somewhere to keep your worldly possessions, too. I know I have a lot! Also, it is kind of thrilling to hide things in your room in little crevices only you know about. Now, unfortunately, everyone reading this will know too. But, like, I trust you not to really.. do anything about it. I keep my extra juul pods in the sliding box my apple pencil came in. That box is almost more useful than the pencil itself. I’m somewhat morally opposed to the iPad. Whole culture is so embarrassing! I have a tea tin with an ounce of golden teacher shrums in it. This is tossed in my closet among tins filled with other things, like lace trim and buttons. Which makes it actually a pretty terrible hiding spot, I see now… Anyhow. Keeping benign little secrets like that is so fun. You can tell I don’t have siblings. I sort of wish I did, but it is easier to believe there is something aristocratic about being an only child. Not sure if older-sister me would be egalitarian enough to share things. But that’s prophesying, which is kind of a waste of time. I live in the now, in a room positively cluttered with meaningless things that mean the world to me, chewing on my lip because my mouth is just so dry and 5gum is just not an after-8 indulgence. To live truly kitschly, you have to have somewhat hideous decor. Now, do not confuse dissonant, or incoherent, with what I mean by “hideous decor”. The kitsch room has as many surfaces to look at as possible, while also shying away from too many shelving units. Then you risk your room looking like a storage unit or something. When my mom renovated (re: paid someone to do it) our New York house so we could sell it, all our stuff was stacked up in a Cubesmart self storage. It was sort of horrifying, seeing my childhood home reduced to plastic storage tubs piled what felt like thirty feet high. Anyway. It’s just not an  inviting way to store things; I imagine it makes your room look like your stuff is all trapped in gelatin. The more fussy, tiny things you have out in the open, the better. Nail polish. Earring trees. Bowls full of rings and lighters and water color pans perched on your windowsill. A rack with the tackiest assortment of knits and bucket hats and baguette bags. And so forth.. Quickly surveying someone’s room is so telling. Bonus points if all your books are spine-in, except for your favorite ones, because you don’t want people to get the wrong idea. (that you read). 

[britishassistant]

The Villainous Paranoiac Goes To Jail and Ninja Afterlife

Two innocent children get sent to Night Raven College

A set of scenarios about three of my ocs unwittingly trading places for two days, non-canon to any of my AUs

Swap 1:

Yuu—> Konohagakure

Yuu wakes up with a tantō to the throat.

Chie: Tell me where my daughter is and I’ll make your death quick

Yuu promptly freaks the fuck out

Through a combination of panicked yelling and tears the Prefect manages to convey to the Ketsugi that if there was a kidnapping, Yuu is both uninvolved and as much as of a victim as their precious daughter

Gai confirms that the strange teenager not only has no chakra, but clearly has little to no combat training despite his(?) athleticism, meaning Mayu-chan could easily overpower an assailant of this size, especially one this undernourished!

Yuu tries not to be offended and to avoid staring at Gai and Lee’s eyebrows they’re so big

Promptly shrieks when Kami!Sanji materializes to confirm that the Paranoiac had nothing to do with Mayu’s disappearance as far as the other gods can tell

Yuu becomes convinced that this place is the afterlife

The sad part is that Chie and Jirou can’t actually say much to the contrary, because??? Their daughter remembers dying before she came here?? Also there are active deities just floating around so.

Actually tears up at the homemade meals the Ketsugi provide

Before being sick as a dog later because food infused with chakra? Does not agree with a person without a chakra regulatory system

Surprisingly patient with Lee and any questions he has the purity of Jack and Deuce is strong in this one

Bit more long-suffering towards Naruto and his rendition of Wonderwall. Sunshine child too bright, introvert Yuu can’t handle it

Keeps writing down everything everyone says

This makes ANBU and ROOT very twitchy

The Paranoiac is quietly slated for “interview” at T&I the next day

Yuu crashes on the Ketsugi couch none the wiser

Mayu—> Nanba

Mayu wakes up to confused screaming and profanity.

It’s Hani.

It’s very rare for screaming not to be because of Hani

All he knows is one child was in this bed last night, and now’s there’s a different one dressed like it came straight out of Ninja Kamikaze???

Mayu for her part is both very alarmed to be waking up in a prison cell with two strange men and very glad she has her bokken with her

Kiji comes in to find his beautiful inmates being menaced by a twelve year old with a wooden sword

The twelve year old is winning

Once Mayu has ascertained that they aren’t enemy ninja and she’s somehow in her old world (?) she becomes much more cooperative with the guards

She’s very worried about how she’s going to get back to her family in Konoha

Also wondering if she should try to contact her former little brother Harp (who knows if she’ll ever get the chance again?)

These worries are not assuaged when the Warden informs her that there’s no records proving “Tamara Kaur” ever existed

For lack of any relations who they can contact to take the child off their hands, and because they have no idea how she successfully infiltrated the most secure prison in the world and replaced one of the inmates, the Warden decides to keep Mayu in Nanba’s holding cells until further notice

Guess who finds the samurai child while breaking out?

Nico, Uno, and Rock are amazed at the existence of a real live Japanese Samurai! With a katana and everything!!

Jyugo just asks straight out if Mayu’s an actor too

Mayu is very bemused by everything, but they seem friendly! The one with the mohawk likes food too!

Plus the blonde one is British! Just like she used to be!

Uno is very confused about how a twelve year old somehow lost her citizenship

Break Mayu out to get food together

They get caught the moment they set foot in the cafeteria and scolded very harshly

Mayu has trouble sleeping in a cell cot that night

Nana—> Night Raven College

Nana’s first instinct on waking up in a strange bed next to a monster is to assume he’s been kidnapped and attempt to subdue his captors

Which means Grim wakes up to an attempted smothering

The ghosts hear muffled screaming and rush in only to get salt and iron filings to the face. Nana actually has them all on the run when Crowley bursts in

Instantly becomes a confused and lost child in front of the headmaster and dorm heads

Only Grim and the ghosts know the truth, and their complaints are overlooked due to them “scaring the poor boy”

No one has any idea what to do with a thirteen year old magicless kid. It was hard enough with Yuu, and the Prefect was at least sixteen and could attend classes!

Nana adapts quickly to the idea of being in this new world— he’s just sad he couldn’t say goodbye to Kiji, Hani-senpai and Trois-senpai before leaving Nanba

Immediately resolves to leave NRC at the earliest possible convenience when he gets a good look at the Theory Wall— he can’t even read Japanese but that amount of crazy that it signifies always spells trouble

Is confused by all the pictures of Disney villains on the Theory Wall, but decides it’s not worth the trouble to ask about

Actually uses the beauty products Vil left for Yuu correctly

Gets semi-adopted into Pomefiore after asking Vil where the high quality products came from

Grim and the ghosts aren’t sorry to see the little brat go

Vil carts him around to test his potential in the performance arts

Epel tries to be a good senpai for the kid, and tells him he doesn’t have to just go along with Vil

Nana appreciates the effort, but does find this kind of thing more fun than being on his own he’s homesick for his cell

Rook enjoys seeing the child freeze up minutely whenever he asks about the prison attire and the large “7” tattoo on the back of the boy’s head

Nana likes Rook less and less with every pointed question the vice dorm leader makes

Can’t sleep in the big cushy Pomefiore bed and so curls up on the floor with a pillow instead

Swap 2:

Yuu—> Nanba

What why is Yuu in jail now

The prefect was supposed to be back home/in Ramshackle Dorm, why is Yuu in jail now—

Yuu is stressed and overdue for Grim snuggles

Paranoiac is also not thrilled about being stuck in Building Three— it’s like Pomefiore on steroids

At least Epel and Vil don’t steal and obsess over the underwear of their “fans”

Rook...the jury’s still out. But probably not. Probably

Maybe

Hopefully

Much less cooperative than Mayu.

Questions about the Prefect’s family name are met with a stony glare. “It’s Yuu. Just Yuu. How many times do I have to repeat myself?”

Can’t answer any questions about Mayu or her current whereabouts despite admitting to knowing of the girl, but does posit a theory about the three of them transmigrating and swapping places based on the information gained in Konoha

Gets offended and even less cooperative when the interrogating guard calls the hypothesis “crazy”

Not intimidated by Hajime or the other guards in the slightest. Yuu’s classmates are far more likely to inflict lasting bodily harm and it’s hard for even the worst human glare to measure up to Floyd or Leona on a bad day

The Warden scares the Prefect though

Doesn’t stop Yuu from requesting a lawyer or other legal counsel before submitting to further questioning

The Paranoiac is a Japanese citizen and has made a point to know what the applicable legal rights for this situation are

Yuu ends up in the holding cells

Guess who hasn’t learned their lesson while breaking out?

Uno takes one look at Yuu

“Ah Jyugo, this one has your energy”

Nico loudly asks if the Prefect is from an isekai and died and reincarnated in Nanba??! Do they die over and over again and revive to beat bad guys?? Do they have an amazing cheat skill?? Are they a spider?? Can they shoot a beam??

Yuu just thinks. Ah. So this is what would happen if Kalim and Idia somehow had a kid

Don’t break the Prefect out, but Jyugo comes back later and deposits something through the bars

“This is Kuu. He’s a guard, but he’s also really good when you’re lonely. You look like you could use the company”

Yuu blinks and holds out a hand for the black cat with a guard cap to sniff

Crashing in a cell cot is uncomfortable, but hey, at least there’s a cat to pet

Mayu—> Night Raven College

Why is there a tanuki in her bed?

Grim isn’t waking up by being murdered but being poked with a stick by another smol child isn’t much better

Mayu is Concerned by the Theory Wall

“Is— is the person who lives here okay?”

Grim: Hell if I know

Mayu’s even more Concerned when she opens the fridge and sees it’s bare

>:|

Sanji wouldn’t let these people go hungry, so she’s not going to either!

Searches until she finds the Prefect’s grocery money and marches with Grim to Mr. S’s Mystery Shop

Everyone is confused by the presence of a new preteen on campus after the last one vanished from Pomefiore during the night

Mayu’s used to haggling with market people who would rather see her starve than even sell her the worst of their produce, so she’s easily able to barter Sam down to a third of the price for the groceries she wants to buy

Sam’s more amused by the guts of this tiny samurai devil than anything

Mayu and Grim drag all the food back by themselves with a few students following from a distance out of curiosity

They all soon enter Ramshackle once the smells of cooking begin to emerge from the dorm

Silver first followed because the child has a sword and is now helping to knead dough

Epel arrived because he had questions about where Nana had gone, but Mayu is genuinely clueless so now he’s peeling apples for lack of anything better to do

Mayu soon has several “helpers” for making bread and other easy-to-preserve and mix-and-match bulk meals to fill the Ramshackle fridge, though she soon has to send Grim out for more ingredients when her helpers begin getting hungry

The night ends with a feast that can rival the quality of food served at Kalim’s parties

Mayu finds one of Yuu’s blank notebooks and writes down some easy recipes the Prefect can use for all the food now in the fridge and pantry, with emphasis on fish based dishes

The ghosts and Grim enjoy having Mayu much more than Nana

Mayu still has trouble sleeping in the big Ramshackle bed that night

Nana—> Konohagakure

Well this isn’t Nanba or Night Raven College

Welp. Time to go then.

Nana is halfway out of Konoha before anyone notices

Gai does notice because a strange kid in a prison jumpsuit swiftly scurrying to the exit sticks out like a sore thumb in the early morning

ANBU’s search for the vanished Yuu is the only reason Nana isn’t stopped by them

Nana tries to run

Nothing can outrun the Beautiful Green Beast of Konoha

Nana is now more than slightly traumatized

Gets carted off to early morning training with Naruto and Lee

Is initially more interested in plotting yet another escape attempt until Lee mentions Yuu and NRC—then he’s curious about what information he can glean about the two other members of this triad

Especially interested in the concept of reincarnating into another world or being brought there by an outside force rather than moving between worlds freely

Eats an almost alarming amount for his size at breakfast that morning and leaves nothing on his plate

Unfailingly well-mannered to his hosts

Offers more information about Mayu’s past world in payment for eating the Ketsugi’s food and waking up in their home after they refuse to let him pay them back using manual labor

Asks them to tell him what they already know so he can work out what knowledge gaps to fill in

Nana: ...Why are you singing Wonderwall?

Takes it upon himself to teach Lee and Naruto more English so they can at least form basic sentences

It’s an uphill battle because predicates and participles are hard

A supportive and encouraging if slightly inept teacher

Soon realizes Chie somehow knows all the swearwords and glares at him for trying to teach them to the boys

Also falls ill from eating chakra-infested food

Gets twitchier as the day goes on and asks to leave the village several times, insisting he can’t impose on their hospitality any longer

Only agrees to sleep on the couch once Jirou subtly implies that at least people will notice and go looking if he goes missing from their house compared to if he disappeared from a tree miles away from Konoha

Can’t sleep on the couch due to jumping at noises during the night, ends up curling up on the floor next to it

[shadowhuntertrash]

Malec - "Umm...I’m kinda… chronically ill? So you don’t really wanna date me sorry."

Alec worked at a small coffee shop in the middle of Brooklyn. It wasn’t very well known but it was cozy and they had a lot of regulars. Alec typically worked the register due to his constant tiredness and inability to move around too much.

   Alec was diagnosed with lung cancer when he was twelve, they had all expected him to die by the time he was thirteen at most he would live to be fifteen, but here he was eighteen years old and still suffering.

   He often wondered if it was worth it, being alive. If being dead was the only way to stop the cancer why couldn’t it just kill him already? But it hadn’t and so he tried his best to live a normal life. Go to school, work, be a good sibling.

   He wasn’t sure when his last day would be, but he tried to ignore that. The only thing he did that was a conscious decision because of his illness was the fact that he didn’t make friends or bond with new people. It wasn’t fair when he was past his expiration date.

   Which was why he found it annoying and endearing at the same time when one of their regulars would ask him out every time they came in. 

   His name was Magnus Bane and the only appropriate way to describe him was sparkly. He was always wearing glitter, and he always had a smile. He was such a bright presence that you couldn’t help but look up when he came in.

   In all honesty, Alec would love to go out with Magnus, but he couldn’t do that. He didn’t want to cause this stranger unnecessary pain so every day when Magnus came in at exactly noon and asked him out he said no. He had gotten creative at this point, it was basically a game.

   Every day went the same, Magnus would throw him a flirty wink as he took his coffee and would ask him to dinner or for a walk or for coffee (which Alec thought was the best date but he may just be biased) and every day Alec would kindly decline, “Sorry I have homework.” or “Sorry I’m not gay.” Which was the biggest lie he could tell but Magnus didn’t need to know that, not that he believed the lie anyway.

   So when Magnus came in that day, looking fabulous as always, and started flirting with Alec, Alec got annoyed. He wanted Magnus. He wanted to go on a date. He wanted to date, period. He had never had a girlfriend or boyfriend due to his illness and it was torture having to turn this incredibly hot guy down six days a week.

   Magnus winked at him when he handed Alec the money. Alec smiled politely back, wiping his hands on his apron before taking the money. “You know Alexander, I do love a man in a uniform.” Magnus said biting his thumb while he let his eyes travel unselfconsciously over Alec’s body. 

   Alec lost his cool and put his hand on the counter so roughly Magnus’ eyebrows raised. “Could you not? Maybe some people enjoy this but I don't. It's creepy, stop it.” Alec said, glaring at Magnus who actually looked a little sheepish. “I didn’t know it bothered you that much. I'm sorry.” Magnus said quietly looking at his shoes, a rosy blush rising on his cheeks. Alec cursed and closed his eyes.

   He hadn’t meant to hurt Magnus’ feelings; he was just annoyed. “I-I’m sorry that was mean. It doesn’t bother me. I mean it does but not for the reason you’re thinking.” Alec muttered under his breath looking anyway but Magnus.

   Magnus lifted his eyes back up, their normal light dimmed considerably. “Then why does it bother you, Alexander?” Alex blushed at the use of his full name. No one called him Alexander except his parents when they’re mad but Alec didn’t seem to mind much when Magnus did.

   Alec let out a deep breath and turned back to Magnus. “Well, you see… it’s just… umm… I’m kinda...chronically ill? So you don’t really wanna date me, sorry.” He said cursing his cancer for the umpteenth time.

   Magnus’ eyes widened considerably and he opened his mouth only to close it multiple times. Alec sighed knowing he had just scared this hot guy away. He turned away from Magnus and went to make his coffee while Magnus thought that over.

   He hesitantly stepped back towards Magnus who was staring at him again. Alec shifted awkwardly before handing Magnus his coffee. “I’m sorry, just so you know you don’t have to keep asking out of pity. I totally understand not wanting to date someone chronologically ill.” Alec said scratching the back of his neck, biting his lip. Magnus sat his coffee on the counter giving Alec a hard look.

   “Alexander, I apologize if I gave you that impression, it just shocked me is all. I would like you to know that I am still going to ask you out and it’s not because of pity I guarantee you.” Magnus said softly, Alec laughed a little. “I don’t think you understand, it’s not just chronic, it’ll kill me.” Alec said slowly.

   Magnus visibly flinched, frowning at Alec. “I will still ask you out unless you genuinely wish me to stop. As sad as that is, and it truly is Alexander, it just gives me more reason to ask you out now.” Alec stared at him for a few moments before slowly shaking his head, a smile crawling across his face. “Okay.”

   Magnus’ eyes widened again, a smile breaking across his face. “Wait really?” Alec laughed and nodded, laughing harder when Magnus jumped up and down. “Yes! I don’t have to drink coffee anymore!”

   Now it was Alec’s turn to raise an eyebrow, Magnus pursed his lips and looked at the ground. “I-I just mean, haha well, umm. I don’t like coffee.” Magnus said laughing again, Alec blinked at him in surprise. “Then why do you come here every day?” Alec asked confused. Who would come and get overpriced coffee every single day if they didn’t like coffee? 

   Magnus watched him with amused eyes. “It gives me an excuse to see you and ask you out every day.” Magnus says nonchalantly, the shy blushing side leaving as fast as it came. Alec laughed loudly, his head thrown back, eyes shut. “You came here, every, single, day, just to ask me out?” Alec asked incredulously, Magnus smiled confidently as he said, “Yep.” and popped the ‘p’.

   Alec laughed again before taking Magnus’ cup back and writing his number neatly on the side. Magnus looked at his cup as if it had just done something beautiful. “Ah, how cliche this is.” Alec shook his head a stupid smile still on his face. Izzy was going to freak out when he told her.

   Magnus shook himself out of his daze and raised his coffee. “Thank you for this and I will see you, Alexander, after work.” Alec nodded, watching amused as Magnus walked backward out of the coffee shop, not once hitting a chair. Alec knew if he tried that he would have fallen almost immediately.

   Alec turned away from the door, not bothering to try and cover his growing smile. He had a date with an attractive guy who didn’t care that he was sick. Alec grabbed his phone, thanking whatever god there was that it was a slow day at work as he pressed Izzy’s name on his phone.

   She picked up on the second ring and Alec smiled as her voice floated through the phone. “Aren’t you at work?” She asked him immediately. Alec rolled his eyes, smile never faltering. “You’ll never guess what just happened.” ____________________________________________________________________________

   Alec and Magnus ended up having a great date, which led to many more, and then they had been dating for three months.

   They were inseparable and when Magnus wasn’t at Alec and Jace’s apartment, Alec was at his. Alec’s health was getting better much to everyone’s amazement, Alec stayed cautious as he always was and Magnus was amazing and always asking if something was too much or if he just wanted to stay in. Magnus liked going on walks and so did Alec but he always had a hard time so Magnus would give Alec piggyback rides everywhere.

   They were in Magnus’ apartment watching Eli and Niomi’s No Kiss List when Alec felt a burning in his chest. He was rubbing his chest attempting to calm it before Magnus noticed. He was hoping that it wouldn’t be the start of something that would eventually lead him to the hospital but when he found it getting harder to breathe he excused himself and went to the bathroom to call Jace.

   He knew Jace would stay calm and make sure he was alright, he knew Magnus would too but he doubted Magnus’ ability to stay calm when Alec was in so much pain. 

   Jace picked up on the first ring with a chipper ‘hello!’. Alec let out a shuddering breath, his chest felt like it was caving in. “Hospital.” He said quietly holding his chest, waiting for a break from the pain. Jace’s playful tone left immediately. 

   “Alec where are you?” He asked urgently, his keys jingling in the background and then the sound of the door shutting. “Magnus’. About to leave.” He said weakly. Jace cursed and Alec heard his door shut. “I’ll meet you there.” He said before hanging up. Alec sat the phone down and looked at himself in the mirror.

   He was too pale and his eyes held too much pain. Alec cursed quietly, embarrassed at this having happened in front of Magnus. He was worried it would scare him off, seeing it in person as opposed to hearing about it.

   Alec walked into the living room slowly, walking getting hard with the lack of air he was getting. “Magnus.” He said quietly, too quietly since Magnus didn’t turn around and laughed at something in the movie.

   “Mags,” Alec said louder this time. Magnus turned around with a smile on his face, one that quickly fell when he saw Alec. “Hospital.” Alec said shakily as he walked to the door. Magnus cursed loudly and started frantically looking around for his keys. Once he found them he came over to Alec who was bracing himself on the doorway, breathing too heavily.

   Magnus watched him with wide eyes and Alec felt a wave of guilt wash over him for having scared Magnus. Alec tried to smile reassuringly, but it was interrupted by the worst pain yet. Alec gasped and his legs gave out sending him crashing to the floor. Magnus caught him before he fell, adjusting him so he could carry Alec to the car.

   Alec finally let himself cry and buried his head in Magnus’ chest whimpering softly. “It hurts.” He said quietly, shaking from lack of oxygen. Magnus was running now, he hadn't waited for the elevator instead running down the stairs. Normally Alec would be scared that Magnus was running so fast and concerned he would be dropped, but Alec couldn’t focus on anything other than the immense burning in his chest.

   Magnus kissed the top of his head murmuring a comforting, “I know.” quietly before finally reaching his car and setting Alec as gently as he could in the passenger seat. Alec just curled into himself as if he could protect his lungs from the disease currently killing him.

   He had a small moment of panic realizing that this could be it. He could genuinely, truly be dying right now. He quickly decided he would rather have died than have to endure the pain any longer. 

   Magnus was driving crazy and Alec wanted to tell him to slow down, to stop and focus, but he couldn’t force any more words out of his mouth. His vision was starting to spot, little stars messing his sight up. He closed his eyes instead, willing them to go away but they just got worse.

   Alec reached blindly for Magnus’ hand and Magnus quickly latched onto it. Alec squeezed his hand tightly, something he always did to Jace when he wasn’t able to talk anymore. It was comforting to feel Magnus squeeze his hand back. He was going to be fine, he had to be. 

   And with that thought, everything went black.

____________________________________________________________________________

   Alec had expected the event to scare Magnus away but Magnus did the opposite. He seemed to understand the severity of Alec’s condition and Jace had talked to him while Alec was unconscious. 

   Magnus was now constantly asking if Alec was okay and if anything hurt. It was annoying most of the time but it was nice to know Magnus cared so much.

   When they reached their tenth anniversary, Alec moved in with Magnus. It had been good timing since Jace had been wanting to live with Clary. Clary moved into Alec’s old apartment with Jace and Alec moved in with Magnus.

   When Alec’s birthday came around everyone threw him a big party, a ‘congratulations you haven't died yet!’ kind of party. Quite honestly Alec was also surprised. 

   He had never had much to live for, just his siblings, but Magnus made him want to live. He made him want to try things, not just to exist, but to make the best of it. For once he was living not to die, but to have fun. He was living for himself. Magnus made him happier than he ever thought possible.

   Which was why when the expected happened, he was ready.

____________________________________________________________________________

   Alec got a lot worse around the time of their one year mark. He found it harder to breathe a lot of the time as if an elephant had taken permanent residence on his chest. Alec knew it was coming, so did everyone else but Magnus refused to accept it.

   “You’re not going to die. It’s not allowed, you can’t leave me.” Alec frowned. There wasn’t much he could do about the fact that he wasn’t always going to be here. “Mags. I know you don’t like thinking about it but it will be so much worse if you don’t accept the fact that it’s happening.” Magnus glared at him. “I don’t want to.” He said as if that was the end of the argument. 

   “Magnus, stop it. I’m going to die and you’re going to have to find someone else to make you happy. You’re my boyfriend and I love you so much, but I am not going to be here and you have to move on when I’m gone. You have to.” Alec was winded by his short rant but he stopped breathing completely when Magnus said in a quiet voice, “I don’t want to be your boyfriend.” 

   Alec froze for a moment before looking away, embarrassed at the tears in his eyes. He knew this was coming so why was he getting so upset? “I-If you don’t want to be my boyfriend Magnus I am not going to force you to.” Magnus’s eyes went wide and he surged forward hugging Alec tightly. “God no. No, no, no. That is not what I meant.”

   Magnus was rubbing soothing circles on his back and Alec had to take a few shuddery breaths before he found his voice. “Then what did you mean?” Alec asked, weaker than he meant to. 

   Magnus pulled away from his with a determined look in his eyes. “We should get married. I don’t want to be your boyfriend that sounds too insignificant. I want to be your husband. I want to give you your happy ever after.” Alec froze again before shaking his head. “Mags no. I can’t do that to you.” Magnus shook his head, eyes narrowed in thought. “Yes, you can. I’m asking you, Alexander.” 

   Alec smiled sadly at him and shook his head. “It’ll just break your heart.” Alec said slowly, eyes cast downward. Magnus tilted Alec’s head up with his finger, eyes locked on each other. “Then break it, Alexander. I give you permission. Shatter it.” Alec faltered at that. Was Magnus so sure of this he would break his own heart?

   Alec watched Magnus for a minute before stating quietly. “I will but you have to really think about this. I’m serious, not some spur of the moment thing. Think about it, I probably won’t last more than three months.” Magnus flinched at that but nodded anyway, giving Alec a shy smile. The kind of smile that was reserved for Alec and Alec only.

   “I have thought about it. A lot. Alexander, I’m serious about this. I really want to get married.” Alec watched Magnus with contemplating eyes before a bright smile stretched across his face.

   “Okay.”

____________________________________________________________________________

   

   Magnus and Alec went and got married the next week at the courthouse. They were planning a wedding but they wanted to do this just in case something happened beforehand. Jace, Izzy, Clary, Simon, and Raphael were all there.

   Magnus and Alec both cried, both refusing to admit the fact afterward. 

   It was the best moment in Alec’s entire life and he thought back to that fateful day at the coffee shop and silently thanked his short temper.

   Alec and Magnus spent the next few months planning the wedding, they had moved the date around a lot but finally settled on waiting a month. Every time Alec looked at Magnus he felt a warmth bloom in his chest. 

   Everything about their everyday lives was great. Magnus had gotten a cat who he named Chairman Meow, Alec had pretended to hate him but Magnus often came home to Alec asleep on the couch, Chairman Meow nestled on his chest.

   It pained Magnus to see Alec grow weaker every day, it pained Alec to see Magnus in pain. They had many late-night discussions on what was going to happen after. Sometimes there were tears, other times there were laughs, but mostly they just held each other and thanked God for the time they had spent together.

   Everything was busy the day before the wedding. Magnus and Alec both had their suits and were spending the day together before tomorrow happened and they were crowded by everyone.

   They spent the day eating ice cream and watching movies. They played games and fondly referred to each other as a husband even though they had technically been married for a little over a month.

   That day Alec had felt more at ease than he ever had before. He felt at peace.

   That night when Alec woke up gasping for air refusing to go to the hospital Magnus had cried begging him over and over to not go. To not leave him. Alec had begged him in return to not be mad.

   Only when Magnus had forgiven him for leaving him did Alec reach out tentatively kissing Magnus one more time before falling into a peaceful sleep. 

   The only pain he could feel was the emptiness where Magnus had once been.

[ratatoongi]

infidelity- jhs- thirteen

⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋰⋱⋰

The day felt dragged on so long that you would have to buy 4 measuring tapes. Your feet, head, brain, hands, and heart hurt so much. The day felt long but you didn't want it to go quick. You cleaned all the chairs. Made appointments, watched Namjoon tatt a few people and that was how your day went, oh but how could you forget the constant staring and brushing of the shoulders whenever you walked past your ex Hoseok. It was excruciatingly painful. You felt like the day was going too slow too fast. It was the work, you were doing it too fast.

You did everything so slow you talked slow and you walked to Yoojun’s office unhurriedly. You knocked he yelled back to come inside.

“Yoojun do you have anything else for me to do?” He was writing something down on a little notebook that looked important enough for him not to hear you the first time so you repeated what you said. He looked up when you talked to him the second time, his eyebrow raised. You know it is out of character for you to ask him for more work but you needed it. Anything to draw away from you from him.

“More work Y/n are you sure I mean I have a couple of things that you can do but what for?” Think of something, anything. Jeez, why is he so smug. “I just need to keep myself busy and more work means more money right.” You smile out the man in front of you to make it more convincing but you know that he can see right through it. He rolls his eyes but agrees. You silently claim the victory that is bestowed upon you. You're ready to walk out of his office and do the new work he assigned to you but not before he says something to you.

“You and Hobi must really like working, you two have been doing so much, I just might give you two a raise.” Your eyes widen. Did Hoseok ask for work too? Why, does he not want to see you? You turn around to ask but all that meets you is a door. He didn't just slam the door on you did he, you were too busy caught up in your own thought to notice that he had been guiding you out of the room while you two were talking or that he had been writing a list of things for you to do even before you asked. You were wondering why he had such a sly smile on his face the entire time

Why did you ask for all that labor, it definitely wasn't worth it but it did keep you busy for a good chunk of time. It came the time you had to leave and of course, Hobi ran to his car but didn't leave. He was obviously not gonna leave just yet he was waiting for you. You started your car and immediately drove out of the parking lot. Hobi Followed.

Hobi halfway started to recall the route of your house and stopped at a gas station. You were a little troubled as to why he stopped. Did he have something to do, is he still doing that little meetup with Misolee. Maybe he just didn't want to talk. Whatever, you don't care, you tried, that's what is important. You continued to go on your way home.

The drive was obviously quick because it was your house. You hoped that nobody would have given you a surprise visit today while walking up the stairs today. You were sadly not in the mood, for any right now. You took the key out of your tiny bookbag and twisted it into the keyhole that opened your apartment door. When you turned around and went to lock it you were met with a foot in the door. That foot was very familiar. The same dirty black Vans.

“Please let me in.” You giggled at his kiddish Disney voice. The bags he was holding were crinkling so you looked down. You cocked your head to the side and looked at him confused. “What did you get?” You asked him as you finally closed and locked the front door. He set the bags down on your counter already getting comfortable and adaptable to the home he was in. He always did that, made himself at home wherever he was, he did it the first time he met your parents at their house.

“I stopped by that little mini-mart remember.” He spoke up, taking out all the items in the bag. Oh, that's why he stopped. “So I thought I would stop and pick up some things for you and i.” It was like he picked up condoms and lube, god knows you don't need that now but he did bring your favorite snacks. You thank him.

“What did you wanna talk about?” he asked, leaning on the island in the kitchen drinking a can of Sprite and you assumed he was playing with his phone to distract himself from the awkwardnesses, jeez you almost forgot that the whole point of him coming was to talk about everything felt so normal for a little. You nod at him. “Yeah, I almost forgot about that.” He put his drink down and walked over to the couch where you were sitting. He opened his mouth to speak.

“I'm so sorry I have been acting weird y/n, as soon as I found out that you were working at Yoojun’s parlor my mindset flipped my original plan was to get enough money to leave Seoul.” Your eyes widen and you get up from the couch and start to pace. Leave Seoul, what was he saying?

He heard what he said, it slipped out, he didn't want it to but it did he knew you were gonna blow it out of proportion way more than you had to. “You were gonna leave Seoul, why?” You demanded to know. “I don't know y/n I have too much history here and it's upsetting most of the time. I wanna start a new life. I'm different since the last time you talked to me I haven't touched a drink in a year.” you rolled your eyes. Like that was credible.

“This is your home Hobi your life is here your life started here. You can't just pick up your shit and leave like you don't know any of your friends or family or me. Yeah, you have history here. Some of it is bad, most of it good. You have a job, a home.” He scoffed and continued to talk.

“A home.” He murmured. “I have a couch in another man's house. That's what I have. I lost so many jobs. I'm worried I'll lose this one working with you. I'm afraid I'll lose you.” Shit, he did it again. He slips his tongue so many times he's afraid he'll have to put his fist in his mouth and just let you speak. Your stance freezes, you're no longer just walking around with anxiety and fear that hobi will leave, now you're frozen with the fear that you'll have to tell him how you truly feel.

You sit back now and lean all the way back Hoseok puts his hands on his face and drags them down groaning. “Don't drag your hands like that hobi you'll spread the grease and germs, get sick or get pimples.” You reminded him, he laughed wholeheartedly. He smiles at you and leans back on the couch. “Still telling me what to do huh.” You stare at him and nod. “Till the day you die hobi.” He looked up at the ceiling and felt the itch to touch. Well, you.

He puts his hand on yours and traces little stars on it. You giggle. “That tickles.” You pull away. It didn't you just couldn't have him touching the cause if he did then you would be saying some word vomit too. His smile was gone when you did. It's not like you didn't want him to touch because you were disgusted by him which is what he's probably thinking sits just that the feeling the tingling feeling when he does makes you dizzy and you don't wanna fall into his trap of hazy feelings that may or may not be really due to the arousal between the both of you.

“I still have feelings for you Y/n, they didn't go away as soon as I left or as soon as we split and they were so much stronger as soon as I knew you were working with me.” He spoke out to you trying to avert your gaze. Just say it Y/n, You want to say it so bad you need to more than ever. “I miss you all the time and I know you know I do and at this point, I don't care if it's pathetic your the only that that ever matters, no hookups or dumb dates could change that

“Y/n please say anything I feel like this conversation is one-sided.” He exclaims, you open your mouth to say something but then again nothing comes out.

“Come on, please don't leave me hanging here you have to say something that's why we're right to talk, Y/n.” He is still talking but you're too caught up to notice.

You have feelings. I have feelings, that's all you have to say but yet again you know that your throat goes on autopilot and doesn't do its job to let those words come out. Hobi pulled out his phones. “Y/n I have to go, it's red pill blue pill time you tell me what you need to say and we can talk and say nothing and I walk.” He still types on his phone and when he does you meet his gaze.

“I want you to promise me that if you say nothing right now and I walk out the door that when we see each other that we won't have any weird tension that we've been having.” You nod. You stick your pink out to reassure him. He holds it and faintly smiles but it fades as soon as it comes.

He grabs most of the stuff he brought with him, says goodbye, and leaves. His stomps were audible and the surface under him was sensitive and you could hear him go down the stairs.

Shit shit shit shit. As soon as he left those same wet tears that were there even before you started talking started to come out. It was there that lump in your throat the weird uncomfortable pressure on your chest, the urge just to tell hobi that you want him back and you want to forget the past and have him live with you. The urge just to speak, why didn't you; because of that lump and you knew that if you did all these emotions would come out and hoseok would anticipate you as weak.

You could have been getting loved and those same amazing perfection emotions if only your pride wasn't so huge if only it wasn't so huge you could be fine and not be crying like a huge baby. You look at the no so empty space next to you not so empty because there is a phone replacing the spot that had your ex sitting on it and messages came flooding in. Fucking Misolee. He was still meeting up with her must have been when he was waiting for your answer. He knew what your answer was; he just didn't want to believe cause he wanted to hear it. You wanted to hate him right now but for some reason, you just couldn't.

You and he were not meant to be and it was just never gonna because Hobi doesn't change he never will. You really need to stop calling him Hobi, send’s the wrong message. So what are you gonna do? You tried a couple of times and finally guessed the silly password, the day you and he went lingerie shopping. And like any ex you texted the sweet little booty call misolee cause why not what's the worst thing that could happen you just wished that hoseok wouldn't come back to come to get his phone. And cause what could go wrong you didn't have anything too loose.

Anymore.

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Series summary

↣you have finally got a job at a tattoo shop after months since your Ex Hoseok’s incident at Yoojun tats. You wanna get your life back on track after everything but the past always seems to get caught up in the present and even now when everything is going right everything seems to go wrong so easily.

↣Hopefully, you can forget Hoseok’s infidelity and move on with your life but even now you still think about what could have been.

▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁

↝fic type: exes to lovers

↝main parings: jung hoseok x tattoo artists reader

↝side parings: jikook, namjin

↣genre: smau, bad boy hoseok, comedy-drama

↣warnings: cheating, lying, potty mouths ofc, jealously, mature themes.

↛status: ongoing

@yoongistruth @diamonddia-mond

[pancake-man]

i’m already cursed

This is my Pinescone Secret Santa for Pamela @ladynightmare12 ! She gave me the prompt Fairytale and I instantly knew what to do. I’ve been wanting to write something for this song for so long! Thanks so much, I hope you enjoy it!

Here it is on Ao3!

Story below the readmore!

Lyrics and Inspiration: Fairytale by Alexander Rybak

Years ago, when I was younger,

I kinda liked a girl I knew.

She was mine, and we were sweethearts.

That was then, but then it's true.

Two children, hair wild around their heads like messy halos, dirt clinging to the edges of their clothes and mud stuck between their toes. Smiles on their faces growing as wide as their eyes at each new thing. A stick bug looking for food. A deer stepping lightly through a forest. The call of a bird, shrill and loud above the gentle sounds of the forest.

Dipper’s cap is long forgotten. He doesn’t need to hide, not out here. His birthmark is clearly visible, freckles in an odd pattern, connected by a shaky line of pen. Wirt says he looks cool.

And Wirt, forever cold, even with the warm sun beating down on their backs, closed up in his cape. The ends are frayed and covered in burs, but the blue stands out brilliantly against all the green. Dipper doesn’t ask. It’s not important.

It’s a summer of laughter and running wildly through the woods, shouting Catch me, catch me! And hiding in thickets. Neither of them wants to leave.

But growing up is impossible to avoid, and both have their responsibilities. Dipper packs up his gap-toothed grin and Wirt abandons his dissonant laughter. The wind is ready for winter, and they say see you later!  instead of goodbye. 

I'm in love with a fairytale

Even though it hurts.

'Cause I don't care if I lose my mind.

I'm already cursed.

Sometimes Wirt is there. Sometimes he isn’t. Dipper is thirteen, his voice hoarse from changing hormones and from screaming into the silence hoping for some kind of response. He thinks he sees blue through the leaves, but it’s the sky, and he wants to give up.

A childhood of silly games and happy giggles is a fading memory. Dipper wonders if he dreamed it. 

The awkward smile seems like a curse, haunting him at the back of his mind when he wonders what he did wrong.

Dipper has never been one for sitting around doing nothing, so instead he does something. He picks himself up and starts writing. He documents the way the temperature seems to drop around certain parts of the wood. He illustrates in rapidly-improving style the odd twists of the trees. He finds the money for a library computer pass and does whatever research he can. Maybe he doesn’t have time for anything else. He knows it’s worth it.

Every day we started fighting,

Every night we fell in love.

No one else could make me sadder,

But no one else could lift me high above.

Dipper is fifteen. Two years of research have given him a book of matches and bags beneath his eyes. The forest seems colder than he remembers when he steps into it for the first time this summer. Nine months of seasons and he still knows where each root and rock is, carefully making his way to the center even when he can’t see his feet.

The match casts shadows over the trees around him, turning the knotted wood into pained, twisted bodies, calling out for his help. Dipper isn’t there for them.

He steps closer to Wirt’s favorite tree, a towering mess of tangled limbs and leaves. The blaze of the match is nothing compared to the blaze of his eyes. 

“Please,” comes the voice from behind him. Dipper spins around, his match extinguishing. In the shadows he can only make out the vague shape of a cloak. “Don’t do this,” the voice whispers.

“Why not?” Dipper asks, arms crossed because even if he can’t see Wirt, he knows Wirt can see him, and it’s important that Wirt know how pissed he is. 

There’s a pause. “You know what I am, then?”

“I have an idea,” Dipper says, and it’s so hard to keep malice in his tone when Wirt sounds like that. 

Wirt sighs and his shadow melts a bit. “I’m sorry, I couldn't-”

“Sorry?” Dipper interrupts. He actually wasn’t expecting an apology. “You abandoned me. You lied to me!”

“Lied? I never-”

“‘See you later’, that’s what you said. It’s later, Wirt! And I can’t even see you!” Wirt’s outline shrinks a bit. “I want more than ‘I’m sorry’, now. I want an explanation.”

The silence of the forest becomes deafening for a long moment. Dipper has to cover his ears, and then Wirt is speaking again. “Come again tomorrow, in the day. I’ll… explain what I can.”

“No,” Dipper pulls his hands from his ears. “Everything.”

“...Right. Everything.”

I don't know what I was doing

When suddenly we fell apart.

Nowadays I cannot find her,

But when I do, we'll get a brand new start.

Wirt isn’t there the next day. Or the next. Dipper’s research stagnates, and then one of his journals is lost when a leak in the ceiling soaks the pages beyond legibility. He’s seventeen and walking through the forest when he should be somewhere, anywhere else. He’s given up on seeing Wirt, but something about the air still calms him the way Wirt’s smile always did.

Dipper is eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Every summer he still goes back to the forest. He talks out loud to the rabbits, the raccoons, the birds. He tells them about his life, how he’s doing, asks if they could please let Wirt know he’s okay. Dipper is studying mythology now. He wants to be a researcher. The things he found on his hunt for Wirt lit something within him, and he regrew his passion into something more… productive. Dipper sits on a log, his head in his hands.

“Please, Wirt, I don’t…” Maybe he’s finally going crazy, talking to open air like this. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand, but I want to. I miss you. Wirt..” 

Dipper imagines the hand on his shoulder, and dreams the cold comfort he gets from it.

I'm in love with a fairytale

Even though it hurts.

'Cause I don't care if I lose my mind.

I'm already cursed.

The forest is no place for a home, not for him. Not for someone whose clothes and hair and mannerisms are all manufactured, manmade, fake. But Dipper stays close, his useless degree at least getting him a job as a forester. He clears fallen trees, checks on the wildlife, chases away hunters(not that the forest needed any help with the last one) and more than anything, he talks to Wirt.

Occasionally Dipper needs extra cash, and he’ll venture into town for odd jobs. The people trust him with their work and nothing else. The crazy man who talks to the trees he lives with. Dipper is fine with that reputation. 

And with time, he’s happy. The forest is calming and protective of him. People are difficult and scary. More and more of his home leaves the grid, until he’s surviving on rainwater and old logs for firewood. He knows Wirt keeps him safe. Wirt is the one who leads him home when the skies darken, or to bushes full of berries when he’s hungry. Maybe he can’t see Wirt, but he’s there, in the trees and in Dipper’s heart.

She's a fairytale, yeah.

Even though it hurts.

'Cause I don't care if I lose my mind.

I'm already cursed.

Dipper hardly notices as he becomes more and more a part of the forest. Leaves in his bed in the morning likely blew through the cracked ceiling, or twigs caught in his hair are from midnight walks through the wood. 

His face sags with content wrinkles and his hands grow knobby. Checking on the trees becomes painful as his joints creak and scream. He fashions a cane from a branch left on his doorstep. Pamphlets advertising retirement are promptly burned. Dipper is old, and in love, and happy.

Soon it isn’t skinned rabbits or firewood on his doorstep. It’s Wirt, his age indeterminate. He’s older than Dipper remembers, though he has the body of a young twenty-something. The only tell of his true age are the bags hanging heavy beneath his eyes.

“You came back,” Dipper says.

“I said I would,” Wirt replies.

“It’s time then?”

Wirt nods. “Is there anything you’d like to say goodbye to?”

Dipper looks about at his home, a rundown cabin on the brink of collapse, nestled on the edge of the forest he loves so much. “No.”

Wirt hums, sways awkwardly. “Are you ready?”

Dipper smiles, and seeing this Wirt relaxes. He smiles back.

Two men, boys, friends, lovers, soulmates meet in an embrace as warm as the sun and strong as the trees. Years of waiting, loving, proving themselves worthy. 

The townsfolk tell stories of the crazy old man who protected the forest. He talked to the trees, they say, and one day he disappeared. His body was never found. The people know the rules: Never enter the forest alone. Never hurt a living being within the forest. Never disrespect the trees. 

[saltyfilmmajor]

Questions

My mother barely holds back her tears as she delivers the eulogy for my father. The church is silent, with only the tears of the congregation to break it. There’s a beautiful glass-stained window behind her, at the top of the altar, illuminated by the mid-morning sun.

“My husband was a loving man, he worked hard for me and my daughter…” my mind begins to wander, not that it was really all there to begin with. It all feels like a bad dream, all muddle up with scary emotions and surreal imagery. You know, like the ones where your teeth fall out in front of everyone. I just want to get away from this place. Full of mourning people who knew my father in different ways. Coworkers, church members, family. And then there’s me. I step outside, no longer wanting to sit idly by as my mother begins to cry, the mascara staining her face.

I stand outside the church wrapped up in my winter coat. It’s been years since I’ve seen some of these people. Cousins and aunts and uncles. People who watched me grow up. It’s funny how time drifted us all apart, we all used to be so close. Was it time or was it me? Mm, perhaps we both share the blame. The cold air nips at my skin keeping me from collapsing from exhaustion. The tiredness of grief I suppose. Still, my eyes begin to droop as I reminisce the last time the family was together about three years ago. They are fond memories, but they all start to blur after a while so I can’t differentiate them. I can hear myself talking.

The syllables roll around like marbles in mouth. My tongue emphasizes the wrong accents, my r’s and double l’s mispronounced like a beginner. I mix up el and la constantly only to be corrected by my father immediately after. Both in our home and amongst family my voice speaks a broken Spanish. I am an outsider to them. The Spanish that rolls off the tongue of my relatives is quick and fluid, like a well-oiled machine. They never need to second guess themselves. They speak with confidence while I speak with shame. Still, I smile and nod.

When my family gets together, we are all crammed in a small apartment. Small children run around, screaming and laughing. Sounds that come with the carelessness of childhood. The smell of food wafts from the kitchen at the other end of the apartment. My aunt and cousins are preparing dinner fussing over pots and pans on a hot stove, making sure that there will be enough for the 30 of us.

Because the apartment is so small, the heat from the kitchen reaches the living and dining rooms. The adults sit around in the living room, with a tv that is somehow too loud and too quiet. They all speak animatedly about sports and work, and old memories of their youth. The children make trouble and I am sitting in the corner observing.

My cousins are older than me, married with young children. They are vulgar but also full of warmth. We joke like teenagers, but I am the youngest of them at 19.

“Prima, what are you going to school for?”

My eyes shift to my father, he is talking to one of my cousins’ wives. He is beaming and joking. I can’t help but think that I am a burden on him. I smile politely and tell them I haven’t decided what I want to major in. That placates them for now.

After a few minutes, dinner is finally served on cheap paper plates and plastic cutlery. The food, however, is made with love and care and I readily devour it in seconds. I sit next to my father; he is already eating his third tamale. I’m glad he is able to enjoy himself. My mother laughs and says, “Remember when my daughter would eat like that?” The comparisons begin again, like at every family gathering. I don’t mind them much. My father and I are alike in temperament and in appetite. However, I suddenly excuse myself from the table and hide in the bathroom. I feel as though I’m failing my father. In a room full of uneducated people, they have their lives set in order. They work, they live, they take care of their families. They aren’t tied down to expectations like I am. I’ve worked my whole life to get into a good school, and now that I’m actually there, I don’t know what to do. This is the first time I realize I was raised with a survivalist mentality. The memory fades back as I remain standing by the entrance of the church.

“Did you get to enjoy your life?” I ask out loud, wondering if he was able to live and enjoy the fruits of his labor. I walk back inside; someone is bound to notice my absence. I’d rather not have gossip run around the walls of the church. Heathens they are, grabbing onto anything that’s unseemly and passing their judgments, even at the funeral of one of their own well-respected members. I feel their eyes stare on at me waiting for me to slip up. Once school began I stopped congregating here. I couldn’t stand their hollow smiles. Sincerity among the church is not a common trait. It is hypocritical of me to judge them, but it’s not like I’d tell them directly how I feel. They won’t know.

I drive home with my mother after my father’s burial. An American grave, against his own wishes. But he’s dead now I don’t think he’d mind. How much is an American grave worth, compared to one from Guatemala? Does it mean the possibility of a better status in the afterlife?

I don’t say that out loud, I don’t think my mother would appreciate it. I can’t help but be flippant otherwise I have to think about my feelings. Reminders that despite my best efforts, I am still a vulnerable human. Grief can cloud your perception, and as horrid as it sounds I’d rather be in my mother’s shoes.

My father’s death leaves questions in its wake I’d rather not contemplate. I’m an over-thinker by trade. I think humanities majors are required by law to be. My mother has fallen asleep and I try to drive carefully. She hasn’t slept in about three days, spending them crying and

eating. While I sleep and have lost my appetite. I wish I could do more for her. The love of her life is gone, and it destroys me inside. But all I can do is drive her home and heat up the leftovers in the fridge. My thoughts go back to my father, even if they never really left him.

He wanted to be buried near his father back home in rural Guatemala. The gravesites painted with colorful hues of purple, pink, and orange, contrasting with the vibrant green of the landscape. Death, at least in the aesthetics, is much more of a celebration in his homeland. Given the incredibly intense Protestant culture that is embedded in the country, I understand why. Death is never the end, twenty years of Sunday morning sermons drilled it into me. Yet now, I find myself questioning it. An American gravesite, making his corpse part of the land that rejected him and his kind. Still, he had managed to find work. Work, work, work. That’s all my dad did. Even in death, all I can think about is how he worked. Worked for our house, our food, my schooling, everything. He took pride in being a breadwinner and being able to be the man of the house. He didn’t have much growing up, so he learned to survive.

As a survivalist you must use the tools available to you. It didn’t matter that I was his daughter and not his son. Gender roles mean little when you aspire for your only offspring to thrive.

I helped him around the house, I helped with the yard work, the heavy lifting, learning how to work on cars and handle money. Along with cooking and cleaning. My status as an only child meant I become much more well-rounded than I otherwise would have been.

My father valued education above all else. Perhaps because it was not available to him. At the tender age of eight, he began to work the land and by thirteen he left school altogether.

He had no childhood. No room to enjoy being a dumb teenager. He passed that on to me, every time I brought home a test grade or a report card. I’d come home and run up the stairs happy to show him the ninety-two I got on my algebra exam, a subject I had struggled in.

“Ok good, but next time you get a one hundred.” He was satisfied, but that was it. No beaming pride, no congratulations. My smile faltered and I’d show my mother, telling her what my father said. We’d laugh about it, but deep down it hurt. He tried to teach me to do better but what he taught me instead was dissatisfaction. It wasn’t good enough. I had to get straight A’s, to get into a good school, to get a good job, to become successful.

I graduate soon at the end of the semester. Four long, hard years capping off a chapter I’ve spent almost my entire life working towards. But now after working so hard for a degree he spent my entire life telling me to aspire towards, he’s just gone. Dead, never to rise again.

All these years of pressure to get a piece of paper that says I went to college and he has the audacity to die.

“Are you proud of me? Were you ever proud of me?”

The question stirs in me and I am frightened by the fact that I truly don’t know the answer. Understanding my father’s motives does not bring me closure and asking questions just makes me angry. He taught me everything he could, but I still feel unprepared. What do I do without him here, telling me to aspire for more? All he ever wanted was to do was survive but he wanted me to want to live. Grammar nerds would say those words mean the same, but linguists would beg to differ. Although I side with the linguists I’d rather not argue about the semantics in my head, especially not while my mother is still fast asleep.

The sun has since set and the front of our house is cold and uninviting. My father’s car is in the driveway, so I park in the street. Even in something so innocuous my father is still

influencing my decisions. The more pertinent decision to make is will I choose to live or merely survive? Will I be like my father or will I become his expectations of me?

Maybe I’ll take the third option and just stop asking.

[missmarquin]

Magnetic, Interlude

In the future, romantic attraction is literal: each person is fitted with an electromagnetic bracelet which will pull you to your soulmate. It's hard, wondering who's out there for you. It's harder yet, when you have to come to understand yourself first.

This is a little interlude, set between chapters 2 and 3. It offers us a little background on how Otabek and Yuri met in this universe, and how they came to be where they are. 

Read on A03 (proper italics and such!).

Interlude

To Charge a Particle (Or Two)

‘A magnetic field is caused by electron-charged particles, constantly moving about.’

---

Yuri met Otabek when his parents moved to Moscow for business.

Yuri lived in a shit-hole of an apartment, rented by his grandfather-- because who knew where the fuck his mother was.

The tiny-one room apartment that he shared with his grandfather was as old as the first world war, with walls so thin that you could hear a person cough on the other side. Yuri’s room had been covered in peeling wallpaper and kept cold by a moldy window unit.

The moment that Grandpa had met Otabek, he’d yanked him inside apologizing for the mess. Not that the home was a mess, it just wasn’t put together, like Otabek was. He wore armani jeans and a leather jacket that would have cost more than their month’s rent. Still, Otabek would call the place homey. And despite everything, he always preferred to spend time at Yuri’s.

Yuri never knew why.

....

Otabek was different. Otabek’s parents were well off, buying a house on the opposite side of the train tracks, so to speak. The lawn was perfectly manicured by gardeners and the home cleaned to perfection by a maid named Yulia.

The last thing he’d wanted to do at the age of thirteen, was move to Moscow. The next last thing he wanted to do was hang out with a fucking ten-year-old. Funny how things turn out, sometimes.

School was easy enough, since he spoke Russian. But people fled from him, like he was diseased. And he knew why, he knew that he didn’t fit in. He was too well-worded, too well dressed, too high society, for the shit-hole of a corner in Moscow, that he lived.

Yuri was treated the same way, but not for the same reason. People were threatened by his ferocity, by his well-clipped claws and carefully placed fangs. The moment they’d bite into him, he’d bite right back, his green eyes searing, daring them to say something.

The eyes of a soldier, Otabek had thought. A scrawny slip of a blonde kid, three grades lower, and had no need to look like that. No fucking need.

So when he went to him, Yuri expected to have to fight back. Otabek only extended friendship. “Why fight each other,” he’d asked, “when people can just hate us together?”

Yuri had regarded him warily, like it might have been a trick, but he took his words at face value.

And then one day, Yuri had followed him home, to the sprawling yard full of unnecessary trees and flowers. The front hall full of tapestries and rugs that only made the place look more lonely. Yuri had shifted uncomfortably, feeling dirty while surrounded by such wealth.

The moment that Mrs. Altin had laid eyes upon Yuri though, she’d basically adopted him as her own, demanding that he sit and eat.

Yuri always did.

...

They were entire opposites, it shouldn’t have worked, but it did. Life just threw them together, it seemed, and the friendship that ensued was effortless.

Yuri liked Otabek’s home, because he had the things that he never would.

Otabek liked Yuri’s home for the same reason.

Whereas Yuri wanted material things, Otabek wanted homey comfort.

And therefore, they always ate dinner at that shit-hole of an apartment. Cramped on his bed, no room to stretch their legs, shoulders bumping into each other. Grandpa sleeping in his armchair out in the living room, his snoring loud enough to disrupt whatever it was they watched on the laptop that Otabek had sitting on his lap.

Their friendship required no work, it just came naturally.

The best things always did, it seemed. Maybe it was fate.

...

Yuri first realized that he loved Otabek when he was fourteen. Maybe that was too young, or whatever, but all he could remember was Otabek’s tight face as he explained why he had to move back to Kazakhstan.

Otabek was seventeen and freshly graduated, because of course he did so a year early. Only the best, for the oldest son of the Altin family, unable to ignore the wit that was as sharp as a tack. Otabek had responsibilities and such, apparently. Things that he had to do.

Things that couldn’t be done in Moscow, for whatever reason.

It was fucking hilarious that Otabek would eventually ignore his calling (as so called by his high-class parents that expected things), to work in a greased up garage instead.

But back to their youth and the first time in his life, where Yuri was face-to-face with the idea of losing Otabek. The idea of not having him there to be around, to do everything with, was unbearable.

They laid on his tiny bed, barely able to fit on the twin mattress. Yuri was an awkward mess of gangly limbs affected by puberty. Otabek droned on about his future, his parent’s expectations, and how this didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends--

But it wasn’t the same, Yuri had thought. Being friends from afar wasn’t the same as being friends up close. And his heart burned, and it ached, and the idea of losing him was an all consuming dark spot that--

And then Yuri had swallowed.

And then Yuri had contemplated telling him.

No Beka, you can’t leave, I fucking love you.

But he didn’t say anything, he just listened to Otabek ramble on and on, staring at the ceiling like it meant something. The only thing it was good for, was keeping his wandering gaze away from the tanned skin next to him, and the sharp jawline of Otabek’s face.

He still didn’t say it weeks later, even when he hugged Otabek tight in the airport, his fingers digging into his leather jacket, like he might disappear forever the moment he stepped onto that plane. And Otabek hugged him back. Not some little tug to the side, but a full wrap around of his arms, pulling Yuri tightly to his chest. One hand around his waist, the other resting against his golden hair.

Yuri cried. He hated it, but he did.

Otabek didn’t, but Yuri could feel the slight hiccup in his breath, the hesitation to pull away.

But then he did.

And then he was twenty yards away, at the gate. He turned and waved, just a little twitch of his hand. Yuri didn’t wave back, he shot him the finger instead.

And Otabek laughed, before turning away to board.

Yuri filed it away so he could remember it forever.

…

This was the one moment, he’d allow himself, Otabek decided.

It wasn’t the best one perhaps, standing in the middle of a busy airport, but he’d fucking take it. Because the moment that he boarded that plane, his life would be set on a different path. And that path fucking sucked.

So, he held Yuri to him, his palm flat against his skull, fingers carded through the feather-like strands of blonde hair. He could feel his shirt wet with Yuri’s tears, and he paused, he nearly jumped ship.

What the fuck would Yuri do without him?

What the fuck would Otabek do without Yuri?

This wasn’t friendship anymore, this was something else entirely, even if Otabek wasn’t exactly sure what. All he knew was that he didn’t want it to go away, he didn’t want to give up those days spent in Yuri’s shoebox of a room, too hot because the AC didn’t work.

But he’d have to.

Because the world wasn’t fair, and you had to work with what you were given.

...

And then there was Amita.

Despite promises of visits, it took just over a year for Otabek to finally come back to Moscow, and when he did, came Amita. A cunning woman, with a sly smile and knowing eyes. Long black hair, carefully piled into a braid on her head. A blouse and skirt combo that would have cost Yuri three months worth of pay to buy, even if he was only a waiter at a shitty diner, part-time.

Old Money, Otabek had told him, waving it off.

It’d been a long time since Yuri had felt so poor, but Amita made him feel like gutter filth.

And then he heard the dreaded word fiancee slip from Otabek’s lips, and it was like his whole world had cracked. There would be no happy ending for him, because even if Beka got his fucking bracelet, he’d do the right thing--

And that was marry Amita.

…

The moment Otabek was introduced to Amita, he knew that he’d made a mistake.

He should have never listened to his family, he should have never left Moscow, he should have never left Yuri. Because if he had just fucking ignored them, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

Amita was a fantastic woman. Kind, cunning and incredibly smart, she was a good choice for him. At least, that’s what his parents had said. And as they were a lot, they were correct. He and Amita mixed well, they got along together.

Except for the fact that you know, he didn’t love her.

Well, he did, but not the way that he was supposed too. He loved Amita, like he loved Maya. But he wasn’t in love with her, because he was in love with--

Yuri.

Yeah, that was a weird thought, and something he hadn’t realized until his mother had made it very apparent that this girl was to be his future. He didn’t want her to be. He wanted his future to be full of long legs and glimmering golden hair and-- holy fuck he can never, ever let anyone know that.

Which is why it nearly broke his heart, to introduce Amita to Yuri.

“This is Amita, my fiancee,” he’d said quietly.

He’d expected Yuri to get angry, but he didn’t. Instead he had looked sad, like Otabek had just kicked Potya across the stomach, and in a lot of ways--

In a lot of ways, that was the worst fucking thing Otabek could have ever imagined seeing.

Because Yuri looked like he had lost, and it fucking broke his heart.

It was a wound that never quite healed. Instead, Otabek just locked that feeling away, intent on being as happy as he could be, with what was expected of him.

…

Yuri got over it by the time that he was seventeen.

It was impossible to hate Amita, because she was just so… Well, she was herself. So he allowed himself to become friends with her. They swapped stories of Beka, Yuri delighting in ones that were particularly embarrassing for good measure. He’d share his own, causing Otabek to call out in alarm, batting away at him, while Yuri laughed.

The ache in Yuri’s heart was still there, but it was okay, it was fine.

Because Otabek was happy, he seemed to be in a good place. And Amita was good for him, really she was.

Then Otabek was scheduled to receive his bracelet.

“Why?” Yuri had asked him, “You have Amita.”

“Well, why not? Wouldn’t you want to know?”

Yuri scoffed at that. If things were all good, why worry about it at all? Otabek and Amita had been together for nearly two years, they were getting married-- what was the point? Even if Otabek’s bracelet pointed elsewhere, it’s not like he’d go after it.

But it wouldn’t. Yuri knew it, Otabek knew, everyone knew it. The two were perfect for each other, and so, their bracelets would be too. Which is why he bet against Amita (and really, who bets against their fiance? How stupid was that?).

It was a relief when Otabek’s bracelet didn’t activate.

But a worry when Amita’s did, and Otabek’s remained quiet.

And then Amita left him, to find her own perfect someone, leaving Otabek behind. Who fucking did that? Who left behind the most perfect person in the entire world? Just how stupid was Amita?

---

The moment Amita revealed that her bracelet had activated and his hadn’t, there was a moment of hesitation, despite their promise to still stay with each other.

Amita wasn’t his person, and while he was okay with that, he didn’t want her to be tied down to him. Sure, he loved her, but that wasn’t enough, not when there was proof of someone who could love her more. And that proof was wrapped around her wrist, blinking quietly with a gentle green light.

When she made the choice to leave, he wished it had been a relief.

Instead, that careful wall that he had built came tumbling down, and he just remembered all those feelings that had been so carefully bottled up.

It had taken a cross-country motorcycle ride to sort out his feelings.

Did he still love Yuri? Of course he still loved him, he could never stop loving him, that would just be stupid. But what should he do about it? And so, he’d packed a bag, kicked up the stand and just rode.

And he rode and rode and rode.

At the end, his choice was pretty fucking obvious, because he’d wound up right where everything had started-- On the front step of that shitty rat-hole of an apartment, Yuri leaning against the support column, with his arms crossed his chest.

Otabek had felt like he was coming home.

Because he had.

....

Until Yuri kicked him right back out, telling him that he was stupid to come for a visit without warning. That he didn’t have room for him, that he had practice, that he just didn’t have time.

And so, Otabek rode back home, no hard feelings. He’d just been happy to see Yuri, to hug him again. Because that was enough. Now he could just live. He could be himself, by himself, and it was a good place to be.

The wonders that something like closure could do.

Until Yuri turned twenty and fucked everything up again.

...

‘The moment that the current is interrupted, the magnetic field will fail-- that is, until the current is started once more.’

[withercat-writes]

strife 90

Hey uuuuuuuuh what the hell happened to this? I’m sorry I didn’t mean to ramble. Warning for drug use but it’s Strife c’mon you expect that. AO3 Link

It was a rainy night, but Strife paid it no mind, umbrella in hand and sunglasses pushed over his eyes to avoid detection, he walked confidently into the dingy warehouse, not bothering to look behind him as the car pulled away. He’d been waiting for this all month, and he had made extra sure to Parvis proof the plans, and thus, he was alone, finally.

Walking in the warehouse was dark, but an area with a few candles caught his eye, yes there it was. He walked over, a table set up and a deck of cards, he looked over at the people playing hand and he tossed some money onto the table, “Deal me in Minty.”

Minty gave a polite smile and said “Oh I’m glad you made it Strife, I was worried that the weather would stop you from coming,” though Strife knew that even if she was quite polite, she could break most people like a toothpick, and while normally he would never lump himself in with ‘most people’ Minty could absolutely break him like a toothpick also.

“Of course an evening playing cards and away from Parvis-” he gave a small glare at Xephos who gave a knowing look. “Nothing could have stopped me.”

“Really I think you were late because you were a chicken! A pansy chicken” Sips crowed, grinning, he had the most chips on the table, someone was doing quite well tonight Strife noticed, before slipping his shades back to his head.

“Not a chance Sips, someone has to take your dirty money from you and clean it up” Strife remarked back, making the entire table groan as Strife smirked

Xephos in particular held his face in his hands “Must you Strife? We’ve all heard that joke so many times.”

“And make the William Strife come up with new material? We both know he could never!” Ravs snarked taking his chips out of his mug and stacking them on the table to clean the mug more, a clear sign of bragging, seems Ravs was doing second best.

Strife finally took a chair and Sips slid him a cigar, Strife happily took it, no comment made between them, as Strife waited for the next hand. After a few minutes of watching and a few more cards dealt to no reaction beyond Ravs sighing and folding and the others throwing a few more chips into the pot they flipped up there cards to Minty’s check, she was a good card shark, Strife couldn’t help but smile as he remembered the one time Sips tried to cheat and got hogtied to the roof by her with ease, that was hilarious he still had the pictures.

“Xephos has a straight, Sips has a three of a kind, Nano has a two of a kind, Nilesy has, a straight flush? Seems it’s turning up for you, Nilesy wins the hand.” Minty said after a quick examination of the cards and Nilesy grinned and pulled in the cash, Strife realized he hadn’t seen any other chips with him, he must have gone all in.

“Oh come on! Must I lose every good hand I have??” Xephos groaned as he looked to his dwindling pile of chips, at this rate he’d be first out.

“Don’t blame me Xeph, the cards just like me more! Really if you slips me a few diamonds I could lend you a few of mine-” Nilesy wheedled before Xephos interrupted

“Isn’t the price usually that or friendship”

Strife snorted a bit at that, ah Nilesy, still so idealistic. Nilesy seemed to huff though as he pointed his nose in the air and said “Well I thought we were already friends Xephos how dare.”

“Well we uh are I suppose hm, still not paying you diamonds though.”

“Geeez what a cheapskate whatever though enjoy the walk of shame in oh, five minutes.”

Snickers littered the table at Xeph’s expense who blushed a bit.

“Alright boys settle down, mama needs a new pair of shoes, Minty deal for us wont you?” Nano interjected, getting the game back on track

“Of course, usually blinds, Ravs and Sips you’re up.”

Ravs and Sips rolled there eyes but tossed a few chips in the pot and Strife asked while Minty dealt “Let me guess, Rail Bros failed to show again?”

Nano shrugged as she checked her cards “Eh when do they ever, say they should be less busy next month hopefully, maybe we’ll even get to see them for a minute!”

The table laughed for a few seconds as they also checked there cards and Ravs spoke up “Eh screw them anyways we don’t need them to have some fun, since this is all of us you guys want to break out the keg I brought? Only a hundred bucks to use it!”

Strife found himself feeling a bit parched and spoke up “I’ll give you fifty and a hit of redstone.” taking out the bag, he would need that concentration for the game and Ravs grinned.

“Deal give me that hit!” and reached into his big bag by his feet and pulled out a decent sized keg with ease.

“Dealer gets free drinks.” Minty said casually as she grabbed a cup and got some to Ravs rolled eyes, but he didn’t protest. “Besides your swill isn’t worth 100 anyways, it’s basically fifty percent squid ink these days.”

Ravs crossed his arms and complained “Rythian doesn’t notice or care you should all be like him” very notably not denying the claim.

“I think if Strife tried to be more like Rythian, he’d explode he’s basically the antirythian.” Xephos remarked, not grabbing a cup himself, just taking a swig from a flask, someone was pregaming.

Strife checked his cards ignoring the banter, red jack heart and red heart four, not bad. His neutral face scanned the group as they settled back down for another round, Xephos itched his nose, he had a bad hand if he had to guess, Sips was as steadfast as ever, not giving a thing, and Ravs had no shame in thumping his face into the table in defeat, he was bluffing he’d use that trick before, he must have a great hand. Everyone else gave away nothing yet, Strife clicked his tongue as the table went around to him “Check.”

“Oh someone’s being a pussy.”

“Shut up Nilesy”

“He does have a point though Strife, the nights young.”

“You just want me to lose more money then you might.”

“I take offense at that.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Watching as the game continued and soon Minty dealt cards onto the table, Strife clicked his tongue, dammit, black spades eight, black jack clubs, and a red six heart, dammit all. At least he still had a pair which was better then an ace high.

“Check again”

“Chicken”

His eyes darted to the speaker, Sips, before speaking, his brow had a slight furrow, he had a terrible hand now, and he had bet earlier hadn’t he, bastard probably was hoping he could at least get ahead of him in money lost here.

“Bite me”

The hand continued a six black spades had appeared, giving Strife a two pair, and everyone was checking, wait no Ravs had just raised, and soon it was his turn to call, the hand was no longer free, and Strife figured they were right, the night was young.

“Call.”

“So Strife how is your business going anyways, still taking that leave of absence with Parv?”

He rubbed his face, how dare Nano remind him, “Unfortunately yes, someone has to keep him alive and that’s my problem to deal with, he listens to me the most so I can’t just hire someone easily, it’s a pain. Xephos you know the debt wasn’t worth this pain.”

“Well I didn’t know at the start he’d get into blood magic Strife, that’s your fault.”

“Augh.”

Holding his face in his hands, the rest of the hand went by without any notice as Strife grumped about being stuck with Parvis. He tied the hand with Ravs, who also only had a two pair, huh guess the move earlier was a double bluff, when did he get good at poker?

Strife didn’t know but the rest of the night Strife’s concentration wavered, even as he took a few hits of redstone, he found himself, uninterested in the game, and he looked around the area he was in, a dusty old warehouse, no electricity or heating, the sound of a storm outside, why was he here. His eyes fell upon his companions, and wondered how they got here, old memories of a childhood long gone flashed behind his eyes.

He looked to Nano, when did she get so, defensive? Sure even as his childhood friend and crush she had always been feisty, but never so on guard, she went missing when he was sixteen, and only recently a few years was found in the Nether, memories of her childhood gone, his heart tugged for a minute for her, she was still the girl he had loved, but she never did settle back in with the group again, never fully having the connection the others had, and yet she showed, why did she force herself to show? Strife wasn’t sure, but he could tell that she was in pain, was it the flux? Or something more? He would never know.

Next up was Nilesy, a skittish kid the group met in high school that swindled away Sips’ entire wallet, he fell in fast with the group when he realized they weren’t about to murder him when they confronted him, a kind trustable face to a cunning viper in a tie, rumors spread about what happened in Cabertown, but whatever had happened there, it changed Nilesy, now on guard as well, with a stiff posture, what had he and Ravs done?

And Ravs, the pickpocket and get away driver in the band of youths, he used to be so carefree yet wise at times, just wanting money and something in his hands to fiddle with. People say there were no survivors of the Cabertown Riots, and yet, he and Nilesy sat before them, denying they had ever been there, but a greed of a new kind had entered Ravs eyes, it worried Strife, what had driven such a simple guy into a frenzy behind his smile? Why did Nilesy always keep an eye on him? What had he done?

Minty served up another hand, and Strife couldn’t help a small smile as he remembered the day he and her met, she beat him up thinking he was Sips, the dumb and mildly concussed Strife of only thirteen had proposed on the spot, must have been weird for her, She did seem apologetic when she learned he was in fact not the half dwarf Sips, and instead the supposedly completely human Strife. She brought him homework and sweets, tutoring him where he fell behind and training him how to break out of grips when she wanted to practice her martial arts. She now had a knife under her sleeve at all times now even more poison in her polite smiles, rumors of all kind swirled around her, perhaps military service? Or she became a mercenary? The more, crass rumors he had stomped out sparing no expense, Minty didn’t deserve that. All Strife knew for sure, is that Minty has killed at least one person, and it changed her forever.

The Rail Bros, well, they were an oddity, while not here tonight they had been the groups dealers, and the ones with the bail money, while they had fallen mostly out of contact with the bros, they still had a place for them at there table.

Then there was Xephos, yup there was certainly Xephos, Strife was glad his hero complex was doing better, that caused them a lot of trouble in there youth, Xephos need to cause trouble, just to save the day, its a miracle they weren’t arrested, its a miracle Xephos got Honeydew. Though Strife was still pissed about Parvis, he knew Xephos was a good man, better then him that’s for sure.

Last but probably least, was Sips himself, the half dwarf was an oddity among the group. The only openly nonhuman, the group made sure any who fucked with him got beat the shit out of, Sips was too slow to anger for his own good after all. He had been the comic relief and sleaze of the group, joking and charming his way out of trouble, though rarely taking the group with him with it. The unofficial leader, he encouraged Strife to go to college with him, and later saved his life from the blood magic. He changed the least, out of the group, but even he wore the weariness of age, no longer just zoning off, Sips always looked like he knew something, and that he desperately wish he didn’t. Strife could only guess what it was, he heard rumors about something to do with copper? What abyss had Sips looked into?

Strife leaned back in his chair as he folded his shit hand, and now here they all were, meeting in an abandoned warehouse to play poker once a mouth, just like they were 14 again and had the world in there palms.  They really did have it now, but Strife wondered if it had been worth it, what had happened to the energetic group that loved life? He didn’t know, and now they played poker pretending the atrocities they had seen and done never existed, that everything was still okay, that there was some semblance of sanity. Maybe that’s why the Rail Bros never came around anymore, perhaps they grew up where he could not? Perhaps they gave up holding onto the past? Strife frowned, he couldn’t do that, it was one of his very few chains, if he forgot the past he’d just become, a shell, he had to remember why he was here, and not get lost to his secrets and drives for power and cash, to remember his humanity. He knew the day he stopped coming, was the day he could no longer be called human, and so as he watched the group play, a fakeness and feeling of forced from every action, Strife could not stop himself from asking to the group, letting every inch of weariness and age show in his words.

“Do you remember when we were all little?”

Then the group was silent, and Strife knew he had broken every facade there, the group would never be the same.

Strife could only pray it would do some good, and not bring the chaos he feared so dearly that would befall it from challenging the unspoken rules.

[philcphobic]

[ ONE / THREE ] hello ! it’s KRIS with my first of three muses, and she is known as ANGEL, an assassin for the most iconic gang, DRAGON EYES ! she is a FORMER MEMBER OF RED LIONS and lasted almost two years, before taking her leave about a two months ago because a dragon eyes member ( shout out to @bladehoney ) convinced her to ... so ... there’s that. if you’d like to plot, smash that heart & i’ll come to you as soon as i can either through tumblr im’s or through discord !

[ TRIGGER WARNING ; DEATH, PARENTAL LOSS, BULLYING, VIOLENCE, RUNNING AWAY, UNDERAGE DRINKING, DRUGS, MANIPULATION, MURDER ! ]

LIFE BEFORE GANG ACTIVITY !

born as kim jangmi on november 05, 1997 and she was born to two loving parents and the youngest of five children in total !

( DEATH, PARENTAL LOSS ) paradise doesn’t last forever, and she and her siblings lost their parents when she was 7 years old. she doesn’t know much about her parents, as she lost them to what police would call ‘ an unfortunate accident that should’ve never happened ’, but she knows that her father was a big time attorney & businessman.

he’s known to never have lost a case up until his death. let’s just say some people higher up on the ladder were NOT fond of him and wanted him GONE.

after their death, all five kids were sent to an orphanage. one by one, she would watch as her siblings were either all adopted or headed to live with a foster parent, and wondered if they were all ever going to see each other again. reassurance can only go a long way.

eventually it was just her and her oldest sister, and they were considered a package deal, which is why no one wanted to adopt them; everyone that came around always wanted one & one only.

they soon entered the foster care system but it turned out to be a lot more hellish than they’d presume. the first family was extremely promising, and could’ve been their best bet to a normal life again if jangmi just wasn’t so disobedient.

jangmi was confused and scared, and wanted to go home to what she was used to. she wanted her parents and these people were not them.

it was an endless cycle of going back and forth between new homes for a couple of years, and by the time jangmi was twelve, she and her older sister were finally separated, everyone believing they would be better apart like their brothers were.

all she had of her family now were unspoken goodbyes and one last family photo, taken on christmas day, a month before everything shattered.

luckily, a family chose to adopt her. they had other foster kids, troublemakers like her, and they wanted to test if adopting one would change them for the better before adopting the rest.

this … did not sit well with these other kids.

( BULLYING, VIOLENCE ) these older kids did not like her. they had a lot of reasons, but usually pinning it on her beauty at a young age. jangmi was used to rough housing with her own siblings before separation, but the way they ‘ played ’ with her was nothing like that.

she always had cuts and bruises, and told her ‘ parents ’, she was just really clumsy when they asked. her foster ‘ siblings ’ frequently told her that she wasn’t pretty, forcing her to look in the mirror with all of her injuries and tell her this is what she truly looks like.

( RUNNING AWAY ) there is only so much a young girl can actually take. she thinks it’s easier to run far away, where no one else could hurt her or make her cry. she takes whatever can fit into her backpack, and runs as far as she can physically handle.

an old couple end up finding her passed out on a bench in the park late in the night and take her home. they end up becoming her new parental figures, and they take care of her ( and hide her as she pleaded them to, ) as she is still considered a missing child.

the woman is an ex-professor and the man is war veteran, so she believed she had all she needs in order to live what’s considered a ‘ normal ’ life. she plays with the other kids in her neighbourhood leisurely, but is homeschooled for the fear of being found out, despite already having another identity as ANGEL. she’s taught everything she needs to know from them; everything from english & japanese to self-defence & how to use a gun.

life is perfect with them, and they’re the kindest, most understanding people she’s ever met. they give her a lot of freedom to be her own person, and they usually don’t discipline her, partially because they feel bad about her messy childhood and also because they thought she’d rebel if she was contained in a certain box …

despite their efforts, she turned out to become a rebel anyway.

( UNDERAGE DRINKING, DRUGS ) with so much freedom and little to no discipline, it was easy to push her boundaries away from her. they didn’t know about her getting involved with alcohol and drugs underage, her equally troublesome friends, nor did they know about her first boyfriend three years her senior, at the age of sixteen. they just believed she liked the freedom, and since she was obedient when around them, they didn’t feel the need to be suspicious.

( MANIPULATION, RUNNING AWAY ) it’s good up until she turns eighteen, when she’s about to attend university and meets … [redacted], and they hit it off quickly ! they convince her that she doesn’t need her parents anymore, and manipulating her into thinking she’s a burden for being so troublesome, and should leave them alone. this marks the second time she runs away from home, but this time hurts more than the first.

she left nothing but a letter and a necklace they gave her for her fourteenth birthday, and hasn’t seen them since. in her letter she apologizes for taking a gun from her father, and hopes they don’t try to find her.

[redacted is somehow connected to the gang red lions. she doesn’t understand why someone with so much money would be involved with a gang, but she doesn’t question them ... mostly for safety, in case this person was dangerous, but she’s always been curious.

( VIOLENCE, MURDER ) it takes a year for her to stop being naive with this person, who has isolated her for her ‘ safety ’ while being her biggest threat as they stay under the same roof. she realizes this one night when she looks in the mirror and sees a reflection of the same girl she was when she was thirteen, living with a bunch of foster kids who hated her. a fight ensues, and it’s clear who wins.

meticulous as ever, she erases her presence in their life to avoid trouble with the law, but realizes she’s alone again for the fourth time in her life.

LIFE WITH GANG ACTIVITY !

she slides her way into RED LIONS just days before her nineteenth birthday, already having connections on the inside. it’s the second ‘ unfortunate accident ’ in her life, but this time she’s involved and it’s anything but an accident.

she doesn’t know whether they genuinely thought she’d be a good addition to their growing empire or if they pitied her circumstance ( since she didn’t tell them the blood is on her hands ), but she finally found a stable family.

she is the story of [drake vc] started from the bottom now we here, as she went from having nothing for to her name to rising in the ranks as she proved her worth time and time again. she somehow rose high enough to be one of the trusted assassins in red lions, and was also taking money from outside sources ( coughs aka sugar daddies / mommies ) when she was really in need.

targets are mostly the wealthy, as it’s easier to maintain secrecy when they have reputations to live up to. she usually takes her sweet time with targets, ( no longer than a month ) just to know their schedules and … them as a person. sometimes there are hit & run opportunities but she doesn’t like doing spontaneous jobs like that too often … they get messy.

so she’s there for nearly two years, but during then she befriended sienna and she somehow managed to convince angel to leave red lions and join DRAGON EYES …

or is there more to the story? yes, but it’s not important tbh since it’s minor.

she left red lions at the beginning of september 2018, and joined dragon eyes at the beginning of october 2018. no one outside of dragon eyes knew this until recently … for obvious reasons. hopefully there’s no hard feelings because she still loves the members of red lions !! ( most of them, maybe? hopefully? )

still an assassin, that hasn’t changed ! — not sure what happened to their old assassin, but that’s not her problem — she’s still the same girl, who has tattoos for both gangs despite being only in one. she has been mostly independent in red lions ( except for those times she needed a warm body if ya’ get what i mean, ) and that hasn’t and won’t change. her allegiance is with one gang, but she usually works by herself unless specifically requested to do something other than kill.

red lipstick, pistols & pretty chrome daggers are part of her aesthetic.

ANGEL AS A PERSON !

she wasn’t always a strong person, but she’s stronger than she’d ever thought she’d be. there were nights when she didn’t think she’d see the sun the next day, so she’s proud of her growth. she’s not too in-touch with her negative emotions, so pride is what she feels.

this girl is always looking for improvement, and is constantly challenging her skills, her strength, her mind, & her perseverance when she has the chance. if you look at her desk, there are files of herself with records of her improvements. she’s extremely organized and careful, which helps for her job too.

she is a university student during the day, just to keep as a front if she’s to be acquainted with targets. she majors in criminology, ironically enough. she minors in chemistry, which is also useful if ya’ get what i mean.

she has a lot of money now, mostly because she has a bunch of unknown sugar daddies / mommies funding her every need. if you need anything just hit her up and she’ll get it … with a small price. it’s two way street, but she is more lenient.

she’s a social person, but she’s not extroverted … does that make sense? she doesn’t go out of her way to go out ( unless it’s a target ) and likes staying home a lot. she likes staying with her persian cat, sumi, and her cute lil rosy boa, nagini.

skills include self-defense, knowledge of & experience with most weaponry, lying, forgery, stealing, disguises … uh … driving? maybe one or two more but … whatever. she’ll do whatever the gang needs her to do, no doubt !

( DRINKING, DRUGS ) she drinks every week, but usually tones it down when she’s got a job. luckily, she doesn’t really do as many drugs anymore, but she smokes marijuana occasionally ( when someone offers it to her ) and smokes cigarettes when she’s really stressed, but also once biweekly if anything.

this girl is pretty much a clean slate. ever since she met [redacted], any life with the elderly couple is erased, and her life in and out of foster homes is so far gone that no one knows about it. her name was kim jangmi back then; NO ONE knows she’s kim jangmi unless she’s told them, or made the connection by themselves on their own time. as far as anyone is concerned, kim jangmi died as a missing child back in early 2010. she’s secretive about her past; don’t try digging into it unless you plan on digging your grave too !

she has a lot of repressed emotions, sadness being the biggest one, and isn’t the type to get angry very often, if at all. annoyed is the most she’d get, but she wouldn’t raise her voice. to be honest, she’s decent as long as people are as well? again, it’s a two way street. give respect & you get respect !

uh … these repressed emotions will eventually spill over : ) one day !

ummmm that’s it for now folks !!!!! pls plOT with Me !!!!!

[feynites]

First little taste of the Voltron AU! Ileth and Tonlen are @scurvgirl‘s. 

The Mabari Mission to the outer reaches of the solar system has gone missing. 

Ileth gets the call, first. Courtesy. Courtesy call, from the authorities. Before he can see it on the news.

Your parents are lost.

 The news reports aren’t as delicate with the matter. Some unknown error, they say. The ship didn’t return to the check point, and communications with it were down too long. Well past the emergency mark. Speculation runs rampant on what could have gone wrong, but at this point, sources all agree - the Mabari Shuttle didn’t have enough reserves to last this long.

 If they haven’t come back by now, the experts say, then whatever happened - they’re gone.

 Ileth doesn’t know what to do.

 But he knows he can’t just leave it at that.

 He knows Tonlen won’t, either.

 In the end it’s his brother who pours over every bit of information on the mission, the ship, the course and crew. The Mabari Mission was the highlight achievement of the international Galaxy Garrison, a new program bringing together the most talented and promising candidates from all across Thedas. To ‘reach for the stars’. Ileth’s parents had both been plucked for the program during its earliest stages, back when they were both in elementary school.

 The kicker of it was, neither of them had really loved the job. Not the way that some people did. But the program wasn’t quite as squeaky-clean as some people liked to imagine. There was a sense of… urgency to it. A kind of undercurrent, and an enduring degree of manipulation. Ileth’s parents had scored well in their tests, especially in their training for taking action under stress. When his father had tried to drop the program in his teen years, it hadn’t lasted more than a few months before the Garrison had come knocking with the bill for his ‘educational expenses’.

 As it happened, anyone could opt-out of the program. But if they did it after opting in, and without serving a set minimum term in the Garrison’s actual projects, then they were billed for the whole thing.

 And it was expensive.

 Enormously expensive.

 The Mabari Mission wasn’t just exciting for the Garrison’s publicity. It had been Ileth’s parents’ last mission. Once it was done, they would have served their mandatory record in order to clear their student debt from the academy days. The media spun it more discreetly, of course, citing the mission’s inclusion of a promising new pilot - Kel Lavellan - and two experienced recruits from the founding days of the Garrison. But at home, the excitement was almost entirely for the prospect of it being done.

 Tonlen was suspicious. He was angry, and he was sharp; and he had never liked coincidences. Ileth didn’t know if it was just terrible luck, or really some kind of conspiracy. Would the Garrison actually kill one of their most promising new recruits just to… what? To stop their parents from getting different jobs? That just didn’t seem like it was worth it. But he couldn’t deny that things weren’t adding up, either. The lack of answers felt like a gaping wound, cut in the shape of his parents’ absence.

 Lost.

 He couldn’t bring himself to think… he couldn’t handle the idea that it was, was more final that.

 And neither could Tonlen. As the older brother, Ileth thought he should intervene more. Tonlen was sick. The life insurance from the mission paid out once the authorities agreed that their parents were legally gone, so at least they could still afford the expenses. But emotionally, his brother ought to be resting. Looking after himself. Taking everything slow and easy, not spending his nights pouring furiously over schematics, reading pages and pages off of screens, and listening to whatever transmissions he could reach on the high-tech interstellar receiver that Ileth had let him buy.

 He has no idea what to expect when his brother wakes him in the dead of night. Solemn and still as he gently shakes his shoulder.

 “I found it,” he says.

 Ileth blinks, and looks blearily at the clock.

 “Found what?” he asks. “Ileth, it’s after midnight. You need to sleep.”

 “I will,” his brother replies, dismissively. “But later. The hacker I paid came through.”

 “You paid a hacker?” Ileth asks, waking up a bit more. His brother was usually full of life and colour and drama. But ever since their parents’… going missing, he’d become more subdued. Terse. He’d cried, too, buckets - just like Ileth. But sometimes there’s a certain wildness that comes over him. The determined kind, that looks thoroughly and eerily out of place on a thirteen-year-old.

 And then he went and did bizarre things like hiring hackers.

 “To hack into some of the Garrison files,” Tonlen explains. “I’m not really good at that stuff, so I outsourced.”

 “Outsourced?”

 His brother pokes and prods him out of bed, and starts tugging him insistently down the hall. Past the closed door of the master bedroom, and into his own room.

 Since Ileth just turned eighteen, social services had let them get by without requiring a guardian. But only just. With Tonlen’s medical conditions, though, there are a lot of stipulations on that. But it means that they can stay at home. It means… it means a lot of things, really. And Ileth doesn’t mind; culinary school can wait, in the grand scheme of things.

 He’d promised Memae and Papa that he’d look after his little brother.

 “It took a while, but he finally found something,” Tonlen tells him, directing him towards the computer.

 Ileth sighs.

 “You know there’s a good chance that he just made something up so you’d pay him?” he asks, a little less patient than he would be with more sleep under his belt.

 “Maybe,” Tonlen concedes. “But I didn’t really tell him what I wanted, exactly. Just where to look. And he doesn’t know who I am, either. We did everything online and I made sure it was anonymous.”

 With another sigh, Ileth looks towards the screen. Looks like an audio file, of some kind.

 “So what is it?” he wonders.

 “Communications,” Tonlen explains, more excitedly. “Based on the files they were in, they’re signals that the deep space probes have been picking up. For years, even. I’ve been digging into it all, I started back at the beginning, and it explains… it explains so much, Ileth!”

 “Transmissions from probes?” he wonders.

 Tonlen hits ‘play’ on the audio file.

 It’s not terribly clear. But Ileth frowns as he hears strange voices, speaking rhythmically but not in any language he recognizes. There are some odd tones to it, too. Something… really off.

 “The communications aren’t from the probes. They aren’t from us,” Tonlen insists. Moving, he goes to stand by his window, and points out towards the sky. “They’re from out there.”

 Ileth blinks.

 “Don’t you get it?” his brother asks. “The Garrison was founded decades ago, when the governments of Thedas agreed to fun the world’s more extensive interstellar program ever. Everyone agreed. Everyone. Countries have been letting the Garrison hit them up for money and students for longer than we’ve been alive, but why? The year it was founded, space flight wasn’t in high interest. Funding had actually been declining in most programs for the whole decade prior. There wasn’t anything to inspire it, it just… happened. And conspiracy theorists have been insisting ever since that there’s more going on than we know-”

 “And they fake stuff like this, Tonlen,” Ileth feels compelled to point out. Gently.

 His brother just lifts a finger, forestalling and shaking his head.

 “I know,” he says. “I wasn’t born yesterday! I’ve seen tons of fakes, I’ve heard boatloads of crackpot theories. If it wasn’t for the data from the mission, I would consider it just more of that. But the thing is, Ileth, there’s no way that mission should have failed. I’ve been over all the data. All the schematics. Even the Garrison has released a statement saying that the failure must have been due to pilot error-”

 “Wait, what? When?” Ileth asks, a little more sharply.

 “About half an hour after you went to bed,” Tonlen tells him, gesturing to his phone. “It came on my newsfeed.”

 He sighs.

 “I told you not to leave your phone by your pillow,” he chides, even though he’s starting to feel a bit… strange about all of this.

 A good big brother, he thinks, would try and get Tonlen to calm down and climb back into bed.

 But Tonlen is looking at him so intently. Not unnervingly obsessed, not fixated, just determined.

 “So why can’t it be pilot error?” he asks.

 “I guess that’s likelier than mechanical failure,” Tonlen says. “Which is probably why they settled on it as an explanation. But let’s be realistic, here. The Mabari’s flight routes were pretty set. The only thing the pilot was really needed for was take off and landing on the target moon, to collect samples. Both landing and take-off were reported successfully. So how does a pilot create a moment of error when the shuttle should have been practically flying itself at that point? That’s like falling off the runway when you’re not even on it!”

 “...People mess up, Tonlen,” Ileth ventures, hesitantly.

 “Yeah. Or, the Garrison has been hiding the existence of aliens from the world at large ever since it was founded, and the reason why they lost contact with the Mabari Mission was because Memae and Papa met them.”

 His brother gives him a look, and then sags into the chair at his desk. His shoulders fold inwards. Ileth reaches over, and when he doesn’t get shrugged away, he pulls his brother forward until Tonlen’s head is resting against his chest. Settling his arms around him.

 “You think I’m crazy,” Tonlen mumbles.

 Ileth stills, and then pulls back enough to look him in the eye.

 “Never,” he says, firmly. “I think you’re looking for answers. I think it makes perfect sense. I just… I’m just not sure that the universe is going to make sense.”

 He thinks about his parents. His divorced grandmothers. His father’s own family, dead in an accident when he was still in kindergarten. He thinks of Tonlen’s trouble with his lungs, the way his body has never been able to live up to his spirit.

 Ileth knows the universe isn’t really fair, even though it’s nicer to pretend it can be.

 …But he knows Tonlen is aware of that, too. Maybe even more than he is. His little brother gives him a look, and slowly, Ileth finds himself thinking of things more in terms of what the information is. Rather than what he should do for the sake of his brother’s body; but what he should do for the sake of his mind.

 “Where did your hacker friend get these recordings?” Ileth asks.

 Tonlen’s eyes brighten, just a little. Vindicated, as he turns towards the computer, and starts explaining more.

[xmasimt]

I Gave You My Heart

“We were the bastard children of The Clash. We thought music could change the world.”

-Bono, on the recording of “Do They Know It’s Christmas”

Track One

“It’s Christmas time…

There’s no need to be afraid.

At Christmas time

We let in light and we banish shade…”

                 Christmas Eve was always special for George. Not only because of the anticipation of Christmas morning, or the time away from school and his family’s restaurant (it was the only time of year the restaurant closed), but because Christmas Eve was also his mother’s birthday. Nothing fancy—his mum never made a fuss and hated to be fussed over; just a nice dinner his father prepared—traditional Greek favorites and an English Christmas pudding, then a movie on T.V. George was allowed to stay up late, watching holiday favorites with his mum, happy to have her to himself after everyone else had gone to bed.

Since she passed away twenty years ago—was it really twenty years ago, he wondered in disbelief—Christmas and Christmas Eve were nearly unbearable.

 This Christmas Eve, people were singing one of his own songs just outside his window.

               God bless them.

               He waved and they cheered before marching on (“He looked like a ghost standing there looking out his window,” a neighbor told reporters later), down the lane they went with their candles and their carols, passing slowly along outside his beautiful little house. His favorite of the four homes he owned. Don’t feel too bad for me, he joked.

He was happy to be here. He was always happy to be here. People let him be here.

                 He had gone out and danced among the stars once. And, for a while, he even outshined them.

               Falling…

               Falling…

               Star.

 He was a star. For what it was worth. Not a flash-in-the-pan. Not just a teen idol. Here today, gone tomorrow.

He showed them, didn’t he? Didn’t he?

 He was a star!

It costs him nearly everything and he nearly threw it all away. For what? He couldn’t tell you now.

                 It was his own fault. There was no one to blame but himself. Maybe he wanted it. That’s what he told everyone anyway. Sometimes, he even convinced himself.

               His life was an open secret. Always had been, even from the early days. In the earliest days when they were still schoolboys, he told Andrew the truth and it did not matter. Andrew loved him. And still did, even now.

               But he could not—would never tell his parents. His mother lost a brother because he could not live with the truth. He could not do that to her again. And there was always the fear of death, especially in those days. He could not, would not, worry her needlessly.

               But now his mother was gone.

               Anselmo was gone.

               Kenny was gone.

 George (the other George) called him, “camp,” the night they famously sang that song together, the one the crowd sang for him tonight. It’s funny looking back on it (consider the source); but he wasn’t laughing then.

No matter now.

He watched the holiday lights twinkling on the tree. Looked out on the fading stars outside his window. Could still hear the carolers as they wandered the neighborhood as they did every Christmas Eve, singing. Some years he joined them, but not this year.

His heart hurt and he needed sleep.

Track Two through Five

“This is the year of the hungry man

Whose place is in the past…”

                 He went upstairs to bed. Turned on the T.V. and flipped through the channels (his mum used to let George choose the movie they watched even though it was her special day). He stopped when he saw “Last Christmas,” on one of the music channels. He didn’t normally watch himself on telly, but tonight, what difference did it make? What harm could it do now to look back?

               He turned on his laptop. Searched Youtube. Found himself there.  

               God, why didn’t anyone tell me? He laughed. My hair! That earring! He saw now, with hindsight, why it would be so distracting that the songs he sang were all but ignored, but at the time…

He tried to have a sense of humor about it all, even then. He put on a happy face and his dancing shoes. His tightest pants. Versace suits. That leather jacket he borrowed from the video’s director at the last minute. That damn jukebox.

He often felt like little more than a prop himself. James Dean for the MTV crowd. But he played his part and it paid the bills.

               Isn’t that what everyone does?

               “But some mistakes were built to last…”

               Right?

                 Listen now…

without prejudice.

Tracks Six Through Twelve

“My memory serves me far too well

The years will come and go

Some of us will change our lives

Some of us

Will still have nothing to show

Nothing, baby, but memories.”

 He never listened to his own music once the work was done or the show was over. He never read reviews. He never watched his own videos if he could avoid it (that one where he played the cab driver/stalker made him cringe. He hated that one. But whatever, it sold CD’s).

“Sometimes love can be mistaken for a crime…”

And didn’t he know it.

But the truth was always there…if you listened closely.

 Normally he would watch Coronation Street and doze off (where was Fadi, he wondered).

But tonight…

Damn the internet…

Damn Youtube…

All the ghosts were there...

 “Stop playing with that radio, George. I’m trying to get some sleep!”

His mum. God love her. She didn’t understand him, but she tried to be supportive. Especially when his father seemed cruel. His father was a Greek immigrant who worked his way up from waiting tables to owning a fish and chips shop in Kingsbury until finally he was able to open his own restaurant, Mr. Jack’s, where he and George’s mother, George and his two sisters worked the long, long hours that enabled Mr. Jack to move his family to Radlett and send his young son to a posh school that he could never have dreamed of getting anywhere near himself. His father was furious when George refused to darken the doorway of that place.

“You’ll never amount to anything,” his father said, frustrated with him; hurt that he would spurn such a grand opportunity, one that Jack, himself, had never had and had worked so hard to provide for his son.

So, George went to Bushey Mead Comprehensive at thirteen, partly out of shame, to please his father.

He worked in his father’s restaurant after school, bussing tables and washing dishes, and spent all his money buying records: Tom Jones, Aretha Franklin, the Supremes. Dancing around and singing in his room upstairs.

“My, my, my Delilah

Why, why, why Delilah.”

He imagined that he was David Cassidy, high atop the old LWT building in London, crowds of screaming fans below, adoring, but unable to ever reach him.

It was just a matter of time, he knew, and even his father would see what he saw in the mirror then.

“Sing?” his father scoffed after scolding him one too many times. “You barely speak!”

But his mother, who once upon a time had been a singer and a dancer herself (he never knew until years later when she mentioned it, off-hand, after he made his first record) indulged him. Maybe she just understood him better and was not surprised when he said that he dreamed of being a pop star. Even though he was always painfully quiet and shy; awkward and a bit funny looking with his glasses and curly hair. A pudgy Greek kid; his nickname was Yog (short for Georgious, his given name) and kids at his old school teased him by calling him “Yogurt.”

“Yogurt! Yogurt!” they taunted as he ran home and up the stairs, their voices fading behind him, then finally obliterated with the blare of the records he played.

He was happy, at least, to leave that behind when he went to his new school.

His mother tried to comfort and encourage him.

“You’ll make new friends there,” she promised, “You’ll see.”

And to his surprise, he did. On the first day, even.

“Students,” the teacher introduced him. “This is George. He’s new this year.”

His classmates all stared blankly at him.

“Who will volunteer to show him around?” she asked.

One boy raised his hand. He stepped forward from the back of the room where he sat and shook George’s hand. “I’m Andrew,” he smiled at George. “Stick with me,” he said.

“Alright, alright,” the teacher said, “Now that that’s settled, take your seats.”

George sat in front and Andrew returned to his seat at the back. When class was dismissed for lunch, Andrew sat with him. After school, they rode the bus together and Andrew walked him home.

“Would you like to come up?” George asked, certain Andrew would politely decline now that his duty was done.

“Sure, mate!” he said, to George’s surprise.

From that day on, for the next ten years, the two boys were rarely apart.

 It was Andrew who broke hearts back then. Young Yog just followed Andrew’s lead. He straightened his hair with his sister’s hot iron and stopped wearing his glasses. Dressed like Andrew in jeans and leather jacket. Learned to play guitar and started busking at Green Park Station. He made new friends, aside from Andrew, and snuck off with them to Bolts in Brighton where the boys would play their first live show a couple of years later. George worked in a cinema, selling tickets at the door, and saved his money to record some of the songs he had started writing up in his room and shared them with Andrew.

“Guilty feet?” Andrew laughed.

He once even wrote a song from a note that Andrew had left for his mum: “Wake me up, up before you go, go…”

It was at Monroe Studios, six months after leaving school, where the boys went to record their first demo tape of George’s songs, that they were heard by a record producer who took them right next door to the Hope Workers Café to sign them on the spot.

“Can you believe it, mate?” George asked, signing on the dotted line without a moment’s hesitation.

“Of course, I can,” Andrew smiled as he signed his name on the line beneath George’s.  

George had grown in confidence, at least when it came to his music, but even he was gobsmacked.

By September they were playing their first live gig, for drinks, at Bolts, a gay club in North London.

“Andrew only came down when they performed,” the DJ, Norman Scott, said later, “But George kept coming back and even came to Bolts in Brighton on our bus. People left him alone. Some asked if he and Andrew were a couple,” he laughed. “But really he just came because nobody bothered him there.”

“Looking for some education

I made my way into the night

All that bullshit conversation

Baby, can’t you read the signs…”

 Once, on New Year’s Eve, he and George shared a cab.

“Everything is gonna change soon,” Georgee said. “After we hit America.”

‘On to bigger things?” Norman asked.

George stared out the window; watched the snow fall; two men were walking down the icy sidewalk and one slipped and fell. The other one pulled him to his feet and for a moment the two men embraced then pulled apart when they saw George watching them and they walked on together as the cab drove on.

Two years later, on another New Year’s Eve, George returned, again, to let Norman play the boys’ new record—a song called, “Freedom.”

It was the last time Norman saw George at Bolts, dancing alone in the crowd of men on the dancefloor as his record played and his music filled the club and echoed out onto the snowy streets.

 Sold-out crowds. Girls screaming.

“Was it everything you dreamed it would be?” his sister asked.

“How could I have imagined all this?” he said.

He imagined that he was David Cassidy, high atop the old LWT building in London, crowds of screaming fans below, adoring, but unable to ever reach him. He didn’t imagine being mobbed and manhandled everywhere he went.

“I couldn’t believe that was my son up there on stage,” his father said the first time he saw the boys perform at Earl’s Court a year later. “But I couldn’t deny he’d gone out and proved me wrong, hadn’t he?”

Amazing what selling a few million records will do to change people’s minds, even his father.

But he was already so weary, and he wasn’t even twenty-one yet. They had conquered America. Japan. Returned home to England idolized and filthy rich.

 He watched now, all these years later, and tried to see what others saw then. There he was at the Concert of Hope, introduced by Bowie, whom he had loved as a boy; Princess Diana in the audience. There he was with Queen, singing for Anselmo. All the ghosts were there.

He turned off his computer. He’d had enough for one night. “Haunt me no more, spirits.”

He wanted to be famous…then, but he didn’t really care about the money. He never got used to it. He gave much of it away. The royalties from their own Christmas song, he donated to charity as he did many of the royalties from his songs. The song he wrote for Anselmo, years later, was given to a children’s fund. The duet with Elton, he gave to an AIDS hospice and eight other charities. Every Christmas he gave a free concert for the nurses who cared for his mother when she was sick.

He would miss it this year. Truly, he would miss it. He enjoyed it, maybe more than they did. But he just wasn’t strong enough.

Maybe next year.

He flipped the channels. Nothing but old movies. Bing Crosby, George C. Scott, Jimmy Stewart.

Sometimes, he wished that none of it had happened to him, too. But he was glad, in the end, that it had happened.

In the end, it was all worth it.

Track Thirteen through Sixteen

“Loving you takes such courage

Everyone’s got their eye on you.”

                 Even he sometimes forgot how young he was back then.

He was only eighteen the first time they were on Top of the Pops. They took the bus there and stayed in a cheap motel near the T.V. studio. “I was shocked,” he said later, “It was so tiny!” After the show, they rode the bus home. The next day he strutted around the streets, just waiting to be recognized only to be left utterly disregarded, the moment cheapened. “I thought, ‘This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,’” he laughed.

He was nineteen the first time they appeared on American Bandstand in America.

               He was twenty-one when he performed at Live Aid singing with Elton with literally the whole world watching.

               “Although I search myself

               It’s always someone else I see…”

               Who was that boy? He barely recognized him. He never recognized him. Even back then. This monster he created.

               “Choose Life,” his T-shirt read.

               Choose Life.

 In the 80’s and 90’s being gay was deadly.

And well he knew it.

In the 80’s and 90’s being gay was career suicide. Rock stars are heroes and there’s no such thing as a heroic poof.

It never occurred to him that he could be the one; the first.

 “You didn’t talk about it in those days,” his sister said, “Even if you knew—and I did—you pretended not to know, and life went on as normal. In fact,” she shrugged, “You pretended not to know what you knew so that life could go on as normal.”

That’s just the way it was then.

“It’s hard to be proud,” he told a reporter years later, “When loving is something you associate with shame,” he looked away wistfully for a moment, “When it’s something that you have to hide.”

Stealing looks at the boys while he danced with the girls. Popping E to get in the mood. It was the 80’s and 90’s and he partied like it was 1999, certain it would be over long before then.

Stealing looks at the boys while he danced with the girls just like a lot of boys back then…

But he wasn’t just any gay boy back then. He partied like a rock star because he was one. He could laugh about it now, but at the time it was, in fact, overwhelming. And the thing he hated most was that he was such a cliché.

“Be careful what you ask for…”

 Two years on the road pretending.

His album, Faith, was released in time for Christmas and spent two Christmas’s at number one.

Two years on the road.

Pretending.

There he was onstage doing “The Monkey,” for the cheering crowd.

It seems so funny now….

He brought his family with him—his sister, Melanie, and his cousin, Andros. With Andrew gone, he needed the support. Melanie did his hair and make-up and Andros…well, for a while he filled the space that Andrew’s absence left wanting. Andros brought his best friend with him and the three boys tore across America, three lads with the world by the balls. Or, at least, so it seemed. The truth was, George spent most nights alone in his hotel room, and later recounted the stories that Andros told him as if he had been there too.

And he had Kathy. Made famous in one of his videos, he bragged to Rolling Stone (no less) that she was his girlfriend. But those on the inside knew otherwise.

“They had adjoining rooms on the tour,” a gossip columnist confessed years later, “They went into his room together, but…. everybody knew.”

George wasn’t the only one hiding in those days.

 Everyone knew. Or, at least, suspected. Yet, somehow Andros was taken by surprise.

Andros went out with his best friend every night, “pulling birds,” unaware that his best friend snuck into George’s room when they returned.

Andros bragged to George about their conquests each morning.

“It was like you put a knife in my heart,” George told him, years later, when he told Andros the truth.

“Now you know how it feels,” Kathy said when George cried in her arms at night.

Track Seventeen through Twenty-one

“Turn a different corner and we never would have met…”

(“This song is dedicated to a memory”)

                 They met in a club in LA when George and Andrew were on tour in America.

               Brad was dancing with his friend, Kathy, when she saw George watching them.

               “Isn’t that…?” Kathy whispered.

               “I don’t think so,” Brad told her though he was certain that she was, in fact, right.

               It was him.

               That guy from England. That guy on MTV.

                 George asked Kathy to dance,

“Take me where their eyes can’t find us. Where their two eyes may as well just…”

She stood, took his hand and they danced together all that night, much to her surprise, while Andrew disappeared into the crowd.

“I always thought you were gay,” she confessed, giggling.

“What?” George responded. He seemed genuinely shocked

               “Are you going to introduce me?” Kathy’s roommate, Brad, asked once they came off the dancefloor.

               “This is Brad,” Kathy said, pissed to be interrupted.

               “Charmed,” George said, shaking his hand.

               “Are you?” Brad smiled

                 Too much vodka. Too much Ecstasy.

               He went home with Kathy and woke up in bed with Brad.

               How did that happen?

               “Morning,” was all Brad said, “Tea?”

                 Too much vodka. Too much Ecstasy.

He went home with Kathy and woke up in bed with Brad night after night.

“My daddy says the Devil looks a lot like you…”

“Did you really think I didn’t know?” Kathy laughed. “Of course, I knew,” she said. “So what?”

 Brad was always the third wheel in public. Always the “unidentified friend.”

George marveled at how easy it was for Brad. He watched as Brad danced with other men. He heard them in Brad’s bedroom as he lay in bed with Kathy watching T.V. And when they were gone, he would sneak into Brad’s room and crawl into his bed with him.

“This just isn’t my thing,” Brad finally told him. “I’m not like…the others,” he said. “I duh‘wanna be a rock star’s wife. I don’t wanna be in your videos. And I damn sure don’t wanna be just one of your songs.”

“Too late,” George chuckled.

“What?”

George picked up his guitar and played “A Different Corner,” for him. “It’s about you,” he told him.

 “And if all that there is

Is this fear of being used

I should go back to being lonely and confused…”

                 Too much vodka. Too much Ecstasy.

               He went home with Kathy and woke up in bed with Brad.

Kathy loved George;

“I know you think that you're safe Sister Harmless affection that keeps things this way…”

George loved Brad.

“I know you think that you're safe Mister Harmless deception That keeps love at bay…”

                 Too much vodka. Too much Ecstasy. Too much of everything.

               He partied like a rock star because he was one.

                 But even he noticed the men dying all around him.

“You didn’t talk about it in those days,” his sister said, “Even if you knew—and I did—you pretended not to know, and life went on as normal. In fact,” she shrugged, “You pretended not to know what you knew so that life could go on as normal.”

               “Choose Life,” his T-shirt read.

               Choose Life.

               And he did, selfish as that may seem now.

               “I so scared

               Of this love…”

                 George changed the video he was watching on the computer.

               How could he?

If he had only known, then…

But back then he only knew…survival…not pride.

               Twenty-four seems so long ago now.

Thank God.

Track Twenty-two

“My mother had a brother…”

 “Who is this?” George asked his mother.

He was down in the basement, going through old boxes of books and clothes, when he found an old black and white photo, taken at Christmas, apparently—there was a tree and there were decorations; and people, some he even recognized—wasn’t that his grandfather—opening presents.

“That’s me,” his mum said brightly, hanging garland, “Could you lend me a hand, Yog?”

“But who is that?” George insisted, pointing to the young man beside her in the picture.

“That was your uncle, Colin,” she answered, simply, with her chin lowered and her eyes cast down.

 In 1963, the year that George was born, the year that photo was taken, to be a man like the man that George would become was a crime.

 George’s mother had a brother named Colin who was…like George.

“Same desire, different time…”

All that wasted time.

On the day George was born, Colin attempted suicide.

“…the empty spaces tortured him…”

According to records he was, “suffering from some sort of anxiety disorder,” and was hospitalized as an inpatient at Maudsley Hospital. He was let home on Christmas holiday when he took his own life shortly after the new year.

It was George’s mother who found Colin.

 As a boy, she feared for George—so like the brother she remembered. Over-sensitive and kind. She tried to protect him (his father could be so hard on the boy). But she worried, as his father did, that he was too soft. Like her brother.

“He wasn’t strong enough,” she said,

“My mother had a brother,” George sang years later,               “I thought I knew them all, I thought I knew              But she lied              I said, "Show me his face again, tell me again why he died."

 She worried for her boy. She worried that he would be like his uncle Colin.

There once was a waiter who worked at their family restaurant and who lived upstairs in a rented room.

“A poof,” George’s father scoffed.

George was forbidden to go upstairs when the man was there.

“She was so afraid that she had somehow passed this ‘gene,’ onto me,” George later said. “It was like she was afraid I could catch something. And that if this ‘gene’ was in me it would turn out the same way for me as it had for Colin.”

“Poor Mum,” he later said. “She spent years being so remorseful.”

Friends claimed George was haunted in later years by this uncle he never knew. He claimed to see his face in his dreams.

But this Christmas he couldn’t sleep, so there were no dreams to haunt him. No ghosts. Just that photograph which he still had and still held, now, in his hands.

“Mama will you tell him from your boy The times they changed I guess the world was getting warmer While we got stronger Mother will you tell him about my joy I live each day with him The sun came out, yeah, And I'm still breathing it in…”

Track Twenty-three through Thirty-one

“I knew you were waiting for me…”

                 George wasn’t sure he believed in love, much less love at first sight.

               But then…

 It was 1991.

It was at Rock in Rio.

His Royal Badness, Prince, opened the gig and George closed the next weekend, reuniting with Andrew for the encore on Sunday night. A surprise for the fans.

George was dressed all in black—tight black slacks, shirtless under a black leather vest. His hair cut short and dyed black, too; his long, blond hair long gone.  

Those days, he hoped, were over.

It was a hot night in Rio and the band was on fire. George bolted from one side of the stage to the other, his energy boundless, it seemed, but the truth was…

He was avoiding the right side of the stage…

There was a man there in the front, the most beautiful man George believed he had ever seen, and that man caught his eye even in the massive, swaying crowd.

But George did not want to be distracted while he was working. Putting on a show.

He was working. Dancing his ass off; singing his heart out.

Was that beautiful man watching?

Was he listening closely?

Listen…

 George, somehow, got to the end of the set. The big finale.

Was he still there? George bounded across the stage.

There he was.

“I knew you were waiting…

I knew you were waiting for me…”

George sang…to him.

George called Andrew out onstage and the crowd cheered. Andrew sat on a stool, center stage, with his guitar and strummed the opening chords of “Careless Whisper,” as George sang, standing behind him. The two hugged when the song ended, and the crowd erupted. After introducing the members of the band, Deon Estes, George’s bass player, played the thumping bassline that opened George and Andrew’s Wham! Song, “I’m Your Man.” George danced with Deon; then with Andrew and then sprinted across the stage, his face beaming.

And there he was. That beautiful man. Singing George’s song from the front row and singing the song back at George as he danced on stage.

“Baby,

I’m your man….”

Was he singing to him?

George sang back to the man dancing just below him…

“Don’t you know that…

Baby,

I’m your man…”

Back and forth before George danced across the stage and back again.

“One, two, three, go,” he yelled at the crowd

“If you’re gonna do it, do it right

Right, do it with me…

If you’re gonna do it, do it right

Right, do it with me…”

George ended his set, ironically, with his recent single, “Freedom 90,” dancing around with Andrew as he sang.

“Heaven knows we sure had some fun boy,

What a kick

Just a buddy and me-ee…”

George ran off stage after the song ended, glancing over to see if the man was still there, but he was gone.

 George waited for Andrew in the dressing room as he looked in the mirror and changed, putting the rock star away for the night. When Andrew walked in the room, the man from the crowd in the front row was with him.

“Mate,” Andrew said as they hugged again. “This is Anselmo,” he introduced the man beside him as he pulled back. “He designed this thing I got on,” Andrew stood back and turned, showing off the outfit he had worn onstage for their big reunion—a sharply cut fitted jacket and black slacks like the ones George wore.

“Nice to meet you,” Anselmo said. “I’m a huge fan.”

Oh God, George thought as he shook Anselmo’s hand.

Still, looking at Anselmo, he spoke to Andrew. “They’re throwing a party for us, but,” he blushed, realizing that he still held Anselmo’s hand. He let go, reluctantly. “I really don’t wanna go,” he said turning to Andrew at last. “Would you mind if we just went back to my hotel room?”

“No, it’s cool,” Andrew said. “Is that okay with you?“ he asked Anselmo.

“Oh I…” he stammered, suddenly shy and awkward.

“You’re coming,” George insisted because something told him (his heart was beating wildly) that he must insist.

“Okay,” Anselmo smiled at him. “If it’s what you want.”

George had never wanted anything—or anyone—more.

 Two years.

All of life in two short years.

George never spoke in detail about those two short years. Only that they were the happiest days of his life. Only that for the first time he loved someone without shame or disgrace and that it was Anselmo who taught him that he could love with pride because when you loved someone as he had loved Anselmo how could you hide it? He didn’t care—as he had before—who saw him with Anselmo. There was no sneaking in and out of his room; there were days on the beach or at home watching T.V; nights dancing in the clubs. George had danced among the other men back at Bolts as a teenager; but he danced with Anselmo now; held his hand when they went out to dinner or walked down the street. Was even photographed with him in public (George would have died if that had ever happened before).

How grateful he was for those photos now!

 It’s so easy to forget that the clock is ticking, that your days are numbered; that even the hairs on your head are counted, as the Bible says.

“Heaven sent.

And heaven stole.”

“Maybe we should all be praying for time…”

 Anselmo became ill with a flu that he could not shake. “The doctor says I should be tested,” he told George.

“Tested?” George asked. “for?” he asked, though he knew, had always known, had always dreaded this moment. Had always feared it was inevitable. It was, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what you get? He thought, then pushed the thought aside. Anselmo would need him now.

“For the virus,” Anselmo whispered, still holding George’s hand.

There was silence and then Anselmo stood to leave. George walked out to the patio. Stared out at the beach. Looked up at the clouds, numbed.

“Don’t you dare do this to me,” he begged, finally crying.

 “Maybe we should all be praying for time…”

 Anselmo went home to Rio later that year to finally have the test and George went home to be with his family. Normally Christmas, New Year’s and his mother’s birthday were a time of celebration—laughter and food and gifts. Late night watching old movies. Normally, the weeks before were hectic with preparations and giddy with anticipation.  But this year, of course, he was distraught: Was Anselmo sick? Was George sick?

“What’s wrong, Yog?” his mother asked.

“Nothing, Mum,” he promised, squeezing as she put her arms around him. “I’m just tired,” he said (and he was).

On the morning of November 24th his sister woke him.

“It’s someone wanting a comment from you,” his sister, Melanie, told him as she shook him awake, “Bloke insists it’s urgent.”

“George,” George’s press man, Martin, asked as soon as George picked up the phone, “George, have you seen the news?”

“You got me out of bed, Martin,” George replied. “And you wanna know if I’ve watched the news?”

“George,” Martin went on, “Freddie Mercury has died this morning. I’m afraid…We’ll need a comment for the papers, George. As soon as…”

George could not believe it. He was overwhelmed. First Anselmo…Anselmo might be…He might be…And now this. He burst into tears and simply sobbed into the phone. He wiped away his tears, gathered himself, gathered his thoughts. Said a few words he could not even remember once he hung up the phone. What had he said?

“Yog,” Melanie asked, “Yog, what happened?”

But, of course, he could not tell her. It might all come flooding out if he did and he didn’t want her to worry.

Let her find out about Freddie on the news.

George stayed in his bedroom the next few days as he had when he was a boy in the days when he dreamed that he was David Cassidy, safe above it all where nothing and no one could ever hurt him.

He lay in his room, avoiding even his mother, and waited for the worst.

 Four months later, in April, he was onstage at Wembley Stadium in front of 72,000 people, being broadcast around the world in seventy-six countries at the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert with Anselmo in the audience as George sang Queen’s “Somebody to Love,” Anselmo—that beautiful man—looking up at him just as he did the night they met.

“I went out there,” George said later, “knowing that I had to do two things: I had to honor Freddie and I had to pray for Anselmo.”

 One more year was all that was left; though, thank God, they did not know it then.

George was home, signing charity copies of Live Five, the CD of his performance at Freddie’s concert, when the phone rang.

Anselmo insisted on being treated at home in Brazil. He could not risk that news would leak of his illness, that he was gay, that he was George Michael’s lover. His family was Catholic; his parents would never understand or forgive, he feared.

George was not the only one with secrets.

George respected his wishes. But now he wished he had not.

The phone rang again. George signed one last Live Five CD and picked up.

“Hello,”

“Is this George Michael?” a voice sked.

“Yes,” George answered. “You called my personal cell, so…”

“Sorry,” the man responded. “I’m so sorry.”

“Who is this?” George asked.

It was a friend close to Anselmo, the man explained. “We’ve known each other since we were boys,” he said. Was the man crying?

“What’s wrong?” George asked. “What’s happened?” he stood to his feet and walked out to the patio, looked out across the beach. The water coming in and rushing out again.

“It’s Anselmo,” the man said, “He’s…he’s had a brain hemorrhage,” the man said. “He’s…gone.”

               George dropped the phone in the sands below and glared up at the sun.

               “How could you?” he screamed. “How could you?”

                 He did his best to make sure that those last years were happy ones for the man he loved—despite the sickness and the pain.

“Take care my love, he said Don't think that god is dead Take care my love, he said You have been loved…”

Track Thirty-Two through Thirty-seven

 One last Christmas.

One last time.

 Three years had passed since Anselmo died. Three years and George had barely written any new music or performed, save for “Jesus to a Child,” his song for Anselmo written a year after he died and performed only once in November of 1994 on MTV Europe.

“So the words you could not say I'll sing them for you And the love we would have made I'll make it for two For every single memory Has become a part of me.”

               Three years passed and then George met Kenny.

They met at a posh Hollywood spa.

               “Not a gay spa,” Kenny said, “Just a regular…Hollywood spa”.

               George asked him out to dinner. Where did he find the nerve, even if he was George Michael, supposed rock star, George laughed later. He wasn’t even sure if Kenny was gay.

               But he was so handsome. A Texan. Southern drawl and all.

               Who could resist? Certainly, not George.

                 The next morning, George woke with Kenny still sleeping beside him. He got out of bed quietly and went down to the kitchen to make coffee. Tea? No, George thought. He’s an American and a Texan. Definitely, coffee, not tea.  

               He poured two steaming cups, placed them with sugar and milk on a tray and headed upstairs, anxious to surprise him.

               And then the phone rang.

               George put the tray down and picked up the phone. As he was standing, his back turned so that he as looking out at the ocean outside his window, Kenny watched and waited, uncertain what to do (George was on the phone but was not speaking, just listening), until George hung up the phone and turned to face him.

               There were tears in his eyes.

               “Darling, what’s wrong?” Kenny asked.

               George didn’t speak. He just stood there as Kenny held him. “Don’t go,” George finally pleaded, “Please don’t leave me.”

               “I’m not going anywhere,” Kenny promised him.

                 George’s mother was ill. Stage four cancer. Months, a year to live at best.

               George had just finished and released Older, his CD of songs for Anselmo. He was supposed to be going on tour. An MTV Unplugged performance was already scheduled for later that year. But now—as he had when Anselmo was sick, he called his manager and cancelled all plans indefinitely.

               “Will you come with me to England?” he asked Kenny. And to his surprise, Kenny said yes.

                 His mother was a fighter. Most days she was well and insisted that life go on as normal. No fuss. Never a fuss. Even when George or Melanie or George’s father took her for her treatments. For a while it seemed she might beat the odds even. She even insisted that George do the show for MTV in the fall.

               “I’m not leaving you,” he told her.

               “The we’ll come with you,” she said.

               And so, the show went on.

               Rehearsals went well, George was surprised to find (after all, it had been a long time).

               “You’ve never sounded better,” his mother told him as she watched.

               “You have to say that,” he teased, “You’re my mum.”

               The show went on. He opened with “Freedom 90.” Sang “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” for Brad. Sang “You Have Been Loved,” for Anselmo. He sang, “Praying for Time,” for his mother. He barely got through it. He started to cry right there on stage in front of everyone.

               “Hi, Mum,” he smiled, trying to hide the sorrow as he had done all his life.

               Finally, the show was over. They went back to the hotel so his mother could rest. The next morning, they flew home to London.

               “Did you enjoy yourself, Mum?” George asked.

               “I’ve never been more proud,” she told him.

                 They started making plans for the holidays.

               “George, Christmas is two months away,” his mother complained.

               “I know,” he said. “I know.”

               It might be her last Christmas, her last birthday, he feared, and he wanted it to be special. He made plans, so many plans; even wrote a new Christmas song. He wanted it to be perfect and straight out of Dickens (except for the ghosts), but by Christmas his mother had taken a turn for the worse and was in hospital.

               George slept in her room as she slipped in and out of consciousness, leaving the T.V. on all hours. He spoke with the nurses who tended to her (his father spoke to the doctors). One night, when he thought she was sleeping, he sang softly as he stared out the window at the blanket of snow that covered the ground below.

               “That’s pretty,” she said.

               He turned to her. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he apologized.

               She reached out and took his hand. “Finish it,” she said.

               “It’s not finished,” he laughed. “I’m still writing it.”

               “Finish it,” she said again, closing her eyes.

               He sang what he had of the song he had only just begun, humming to fill in the parts undone until she was sleeping soundly again.

               Thank God, he thought.

               That Christmas Eve, he called his band down to London, to the hospital, and they put on a show for the nurses who cared for his mother. George wanted to thank them—he could not thank them enough, he thought. He only sang Christmas songs—“Last Christmas,” and the new song, “December Song,”—his only nod to his own repertoire. One of the nurses even joined him when he sang the Pogues “Fairytale of New York.”

               “Thank you, Sir George Michael,” she beamed.

               “Elton is Sir, love,” he smiled. “I’m just George.”

                 They made it through the holidays—Christmas and the New Year, his mother growing weaker.

               She died in February and was laid to rest near George’s home so that he could (as he did) visit her grave each day.

And for a thousand days, I was lost I said, 'Heaven knows I'm ready to be found', Underground But I think I'm ready now So please send me someone to love

Please send me someone, someone to love As much as I loved you.

Finale (Tracks Thirty-eight and Thirty-nine)

George had plans for this Christmas.

Brunch with Geri and Martin and Fadi.

Where was he?

 They had a row over nothing. George couldn't even remember what is was now. And Fadi left. George didn't know it, but Fadi was just outside sleeping in his car. If George had known, he would have gone out to him. Said, "Come inside. Let's make a fire." But he didn't. For all he knew, Fadi, too, was long gone.

There was still so much to look forward to in the new year. A new film about Listen Without Prejudice; the re-release of that CD and the MTV Unplugged show together. New music that he was excited about. If he could only finish it after the holiday.

George turned off the T.V. and finally went to bed. He could see the sun coming up outside his window—the sky turned violet and blue.

His last Christmas morning.

Track List

 Ch I: Track One

Do They Know It's Christmas?

Ch II: Tracks Two through Five

Praying for Time

Last Christmas

Faith

Freedom 90

Ch III: Tracks Six through Twelve

Waiting for that Day

Father Figure

Round Here

Too Funky

Careless Whisper

Fast Love (Live)

Freedom

Ch IV: Track Thirteen through Sixteen

The Edge of Heaven

Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me

Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

Monkey

Ch V:  Tracks Seventeen Through Twenty-one

A Different Corner

Hard Day

Cowboys and Angels

Happy

Kissing a Fool

 Ch VI:   Track Twenty-two

My Mother Had a Brother

Ch VII:  Tracks Twenty-three through Thirty-one

I Knew You Were Waiting for Me

I'm Your Man

Freedom 90 (Live)

You Know I Want To

The Strangest Thing (Live)

My Baby Just Cares for Me

Something to Save

Safe

Somebody to Love (Live)

CH VIII:  Tracks Thirty-two through Thirty-five

Jesus to a Child

I Can't Make You Love Me (Live)

You Have Been Loved (Live)

Praying for Time (Live)

CH IX:  Tracks Thirty-six and Thirty-seven

December Song

Please Send Me Someone (Anselmo's Song)

Ch X:  Track Thirty-eight and Thirty-nine

Fantasy

This is How We Want You to Get High

[aniallstory-blog]

Chapter Thirteen

Charlotte and I met when I was ten years old which meant that when my mum died she was there for me every step of the way, just as much as my family were. She saw the tears, the breakdowns, the weight loss from not eating and the stress that came from the fear of going through life without my mum to guide me. Her heart broke for me and this led to her trying to help in the well meaning, but often misguided way that teenagers do. She bought me a pack of cigarettes.

“I tried to get a bottle of vodka, but I kept getting asked for ID and I wouldn't have a clue where to buy marijuana so I stole these from my brother.”

That was her explanation. Apparently she'd seen someone chain smoking on the telly when they were anxious about something so she figured it might help ease my tension. At first it was awful, it tasted horrible and burned my throat, but I was desperate to try anything that might ease my pain so I stuck with it until I finally understood the appeal. It became a pretty regular habit whenever I was down or in a bad mood, but my dad caught me just after my eighteenth birthday (a few months before I met Niall) and forced me to stop. It was never something I relied on too heavily so quitting wasn't that difficult for me, but it was still something I tended to turn to at times of extreme stress.

Which is why I found myself sitting on my dad's porch the day after I'd arrived in Holmes Chapel having a cigarette. I'd just finished and was about to head back into the house when a very familiar range rover pulled up in the driveway behind mine.

My forehead scrunched up in confusion, but my heart fluttered with relief when I saw Niall step out of the car and I instantly launched myself down the drive, practically tackling him when I threw my arms around him.

“Whoa, Ava,” He chuckled, stumbling backwards to keep his footing. “I missed ya too, love.”

I kept my face buried in his chest, knowing that as soon as I said a word he would notice the tears that had burst out the second I saw him, but my fingers clutching into his shirt like I was scared to let him go ever again soon gave me away.

“Are ya cryin'?” He asked, his face covered with concern as I pulled away slightly to look up at him, revealing my damp cheeks. “What's the matter?”

“I'm just,” I paused to sniffle and attempted to pull myself together. “I'm just overwhelmed, it's been a hard month and I'm so glad you're home. Why are you back early?”

Niall stared at me for a moment, trying to figure out what was really going on as he clearly saw right through my only partially true explanation.

“Came back for Ariana's show in Manchester tomorrow,” He explained. “Ya weren't home when I got there and yer phone kept going straight to voicemail so I called Charlotte and she said you came here for a few days.”

“I just needed to clear my head for a bit, get away from the city, ”I informed him as I wiped my eyes. “I forgot I have spotty service up here, I should've checked my phone more. Sorry, Ni.”

“S'fine,” He assured me, worry still etched on his face. I wasn't surprised, I hadn't cried at one of our reunions since we first got together when I wasn't used to the distance or time apart.  “Why do ya smell like smoke, love?”

My cheeks flushed slightly at the fact that he caught me, knowing he didn't approve of my self-medicating with cigarettes. It was slightly hypocritical as he had been known to have one occasionally on a night out, but he claimed that using it as a crutch was different than enjoying it with friends.

“I've been stressed,” I mumbled, burying my head back into his chest to hide my embarrassment. “I only had one.”

I felt Niall's grip on me tighten just a tad.

“Stressed? Just about us? C'mon, love. Whatever issues we've had this last month isn't worth starting all that up again, is it?”

There was a slight hesitation in his voice and I could feel a new, anxious vibe radiating from him.

“No, no, it's not just that!” I rushed to assure him, peaking out from his chest to look up at him again. “I, uh, I read some stuff online.”

Niall relaxed slightly at my confession, but still felt tense and concerned.

“What kinda stuff?”

“Bad stuff, mean stuff, stuff that says I don't deserve you and you could find someone so much better for you,” I admitted, feeling more tears well up in my eyes. “It's not wrong either. For once they're just a little bit right. I acted like a brat before, throwing a fit because we couldn't get married exactly when I wanted. You deserve someone more understanding than that, someone who supports you all the time, not just when it fits in their life and-”

I was about to continue my self-deprecating rant when Niall interrupted.

“Ava, stop it. Ya had every right ta be upset with me,” Niall assured me. “And jealous girls on the internet and their opinions don't matter t’me. If the whole world was watching, I'd still dance with you. I don't care what they think ,they don't know us. I've told ya that before.”

I blinked back my tears, giggling slightly at his comment.

“Did you just quote your own song?” I asked as Niall smirked and nodded. “You're a dork.”

“But I'm your dork,” He chuckled, placing a kiss on the tip of my nose. “Now let's go talk inside, yeah?”

I pulled away from him and reluctantly nodded.

“Can we cuddle while we talk?” I asked, keeping hold of his hand as I walked towards the house. “I have cramps and they always feel better when we cuddle.”

Niall rolled his eyes slightly at my claim, one I made almost every month to guilt him into giving me extra cuddles during my sensitive time of the month, but nodded his head.

-

“You've had a tough week, huh?” Niall asked, referring to my current discomfort and the things I'd read online. I was curled up on my bed after changing into a comfy, loose dress while Niall brought me some paracetamol from the kitchen.

“I have,” I pouted as I took the pills and the bottle of water from him and quickly swallowed them. “But it was my own fault. I know better than to read the stuff they write online. I just knew they must have picked up on the tension between us and couldn't squash my curiosity.”

Niall crawled on the bed, adjusting my pillows before leaning back against the wall and putting his arm around my shoulder.

“Well ya shouldn't take any notice of what they're saying, none of it's true anyway,” He assured me as he kicked off his shoes to get comfortable. “But I might have an idea that will brighten your week up a bit.”

“Yeah?” I asked, intrigued by what his idea might be.

“I got the schedule for the tour the other day and there's a four week gap in October. Perfect amount of time for us to get married and enjoy the honeymoon.”

I pushed myself out of his arms and looked at him, a frown on my face.

“October? Really, Ni?” I questioned, wondering for a moment if he'd completely lost his mind. “How on earth are we going to organize a wedding in three months?”

The smile on Niall's face dropped and he looked at me with confusion in his eyes.

“Four months,” He corrected. “And a month ago ye were desperate to get married and mad that we might have t’wait and now ya do want t’wait? Not sure m'followin', love.”

I sighed and tried to squash the annoyance that was bubbling in my chest.

“I didn't want to wait two years,” I explained. “But four months is no time to organize a wedding. If you'd given me that date a month ago when I asked for a timeline then maybe we could have made it work, but I can't see that happening now.”

“I didn't know a month ago, I just got the tour dates the other day,” Niall defended himself. “And that's the best I can do. It'll be chaos after that and I can't say when I'll be free again.”

I felt the anger I'd managed to get past over the last month rise up again when I was once again faced with Niall's my way or the highway tone, but the look of dejection in his eyes helped keep my temper in check.

“We'll never get a venue in four months. The place we wanted will definitely be booked and most likely everywhere else will be too.”

I wasn't trying to be negative, but it was a reasonable objection.

“We'll get married at the house. There's plenty of space there, maybe in the garden if it's nice, and we can use the money we'd save renting the venue on the decorations,” Niall suggested, showing he'd put quite a lot of thought into this. I was mulling over his idea when he sighed and spoke up again. “Look, Ava. If we get married in October then I can help with the planning whenever I'm here and I'll have time to do some things even if I'm travelling a bit over the summer, but if we just pick a date and demand they clear my schedule then it could end up being in the middle of a world tour. I have no issue flying back from wherever I may be, but you'd be stuck doing all the work and I'd be whisked away right after our honeymoon. M'trying me best here, love.”

“I know you are, I appreciate that,” I assured him. “I'm just trying to think of all the logistics, that's all.”

“I've thought of them all,” Niall boasted with a smirk. “Don't see a single reason why it wouldn't work. Might be harder than if we waited, but we can do it. Was thinking October third? Harry has a break from the first to the fifth and my last show is on the first so we can both get home in time and Harry won't have to rush off right after the ceremony.”

I smiled at the fact that he'd even gone so far in his planning as to check Harry's schedule too and ran through a list of things we'd need to do in my brain. He was right though, it would be difficult, but if we didn't need a venue there wouldn't be anything we couldn't do in four months.

“Okay,” I nodded after a moment of thought, a grin slowly sliding onto my face. “October third it is then.”

A smile burst onto Niall's face and he instantly pulled me back into his arms, pressing his lips against mine. It was intended to be a quickly, celebratory kiss, but as my hands tangled in his hair and his arm around my waist pulled me closer to his chest it quickly grew steamy. The month we'd been apart suddenly flashed into my brain and I was reluctant to pull away especially as he let out a quiet little groan of enjoyment.

When we finally did separate a few minutes later, our lips were both swollen from the pressure. He looked adorable, all weary eyed and dishevelled and my heart soared at the knowledge that he would be my husband in four months.

“I can't wait, Ava,” Niall smiled down at me. “And I swear it'll still be as big and beautiful as you want it to be.”

I shook my head and placed another soft kiss on his lips.

“I don't care about big and beautiful, Ni,” I insisted. “As long as our friends and family are there with us to celebrate we could just get married in the kitchen in our pyjamas for all I care.”

Niall laughed and pulled me against his side.

“Not a chance, love. M'dying to see ya all dolled up in a pretty white dress for me.”

I smiled at his words before playfully letting out a groan and resting my head on his shoulder.

“Oh god, if we're getting married in four months then I'm going to have to go to the gym six days a week to get in shape in time,” I whined. “It'll just give those fans of yours more reasons to criticize me if I look like a whale in all our wedding photos.”

Niall's shoulder jostled my head as he chuckled.

“Ya could never look like a whale, love,” He assured me. “But here,” He shifted off the bed, grabbing his phone from the nightstand as he went. “If yer still worryin’ about them, I'll post something to put them back in line.”

I frowned and shook my head.

“It won't make a difference,” I pointed out. “Some of them will still hate me no matter what you do.”

“They're just jealous,” Niall insisted, holding his phone up to take a picture. “Now, pose.”

“No!”

I looked away, hoping to deter him, but he simply moved to the end of the bed and snapped his picture.

“Perfect,” He smirked, typing away on his phone. “October third,” He mumbled under his breath. “Can't believe yer gonna be my wife on October third.”

I couldn't stop the smile that burst onto my face as I reached over, took his phone out of his hand and pulled him back onto my bed to resume the celebratory kissing we had started earlier.

[shadowhuntertrash]

Hii I’m in the mood for some pain sooo I was wondering if you could write a fanfic with prompt #8 (angst) for malec?

(Sorry this is kinda trash <33)

Alec worked at a small coffee shop in the middle of Brooklyn. It wasn’t very well known but it was cozy and they had a lot of regulars. Alec typically worked the register due to his constant tiredness and inability to move around too much.

   Alec was diagnosed with lung cancer when he was twelve, they had all expected him to die by the time he was thirteen at most he would live to be fifteen, but here he was eighteen years old and still suffering.

   He often wondered if it was really worth it, being alive. If being dead was the only way to stop the cancer why couldn’t it just kill him already. But it hadn’t and so he tried his best to live a normal life. Go to school, work, be a good sibling.

   He wasn’t sure when his last day would be, but he tried to ignore that. The only thing he did that was a conscious decision because of his illness was the fact that he didn’t make friends, or bond with new people. It wasn’t fair when he was past his expiration date.

   Which was why he found it annoying and endearing at the same time, when one of their regulars would ask him out every time they came in. 

   His name was Magnus Bane and the only appropriate way to describe him was sparkly. He was always wearing glitter, and he always had a smile. He was such a bright presence that you wouldn’t help but look up when he came in.

   In all honesty Alec would absolutely love to go out with Magnus, but he couldn’t do that. He didn’t want to cause this stranger unnecessary pain so everyday when Magnus came in at exactly noon and asked him out he said no. He had gotten creative at this point, it was basically a game.

   Everyday went the same, Magnus would throw him a flirty wink as he took his coffee and would ask him to dinner or for a walk or for coffee (which Alec thought was the best date but he may just be biased) and everyday Alec would kindly decline, “Sorry I have homework.” or “Sorry I’m not gay.” Which was the biggest lie he could tell but Magnus didn’t need to know that, not that he believed the lie anyway.

   So when Magnus came in that day, looking fabulous as always, and started flirting with Alec, Alec got terribly annoyed. He wanted Magnus. He wanted to go on a date. He wanted to date, period. He had never had a girlfriend or boyfriend due to his illness and it was torture having to turn this incredibly hot guy down six days a week.

   Magnus winked at him when he handed Alec the money. Alec smiled politely back, wiping his hands on his apron before taking the money. “You know Alexander, I do love a man in a uniform.” Magnus said biting his thumb while he let his eyes travel unselfconsciously over Alec’s body. 

   Alec lost his cool and put his hand on the counter so roughly Magnus’ eyebrows raised. “Could you not? Maybe some people enjoy this but I don't. It's creepy, stop it.” Alec said, glaring at Magnus who actually looked a little sheepish. “I didn’t know it really bothered you that much. I'm sorry.” Magnus said quietly looking at his shoes, a rosy blush raising on his cheeks. Alec cursed and closed his eyes.

   He hadn’t meant to hurt Magnus’ feelings; he was just annoyed. “I-I’m sorry that was mean. It doesn’t bother me. I mean it does but not for the reason you’re thinking.” Alec muttered under his breath looking anyway but Magnus.

   Magnus lifted his eyes back up, their normal light dimmed considerably. “Then why does it bother you Alexander?” Alex blushed at the use of his full name. No one called him Alexander except his parents when they’re mad but Alec didn’t seem to mind much when Magnus did.

   Alec let out a deep breath and turned back to Magnus. “Well you see… it’s just… umm… I’m kinda...chronically ill? So you don’t really wanna date me, sorry.” He said cursing his cancer for the umpteenth time.

   Magnus’ eyes widened considerably and he opened his mouth only to close it multiple times. Alec sighed knowing he had just scared this hot guy away. He turned away from Magnus and went to make his coffee while Magnus thought that over.

   He hesitantly stepped back towards Magnus who was staring at him again. Alec shifted awkwardly before handing Magnus his coffee. “I’m really sorry, just so you know you don’t have to keep asking out of pity. I totally understand not wanting to date someone chronologically ill.” Alec said scratching the back of his neck, biting his lip. Magnus sat his coffee on the counter giving Alec a hard look.

   “Alexander, I apologize if I gave you that impression, it just shocked me is all. I would like you to know that I am still going to ask you out and it’s not because of pity I guarantee you.” Magnus said softly, Alec laughed a little. “I don’t think you understand, it’s not just chronic, it’ll kill me.” Alec said slowly.

   Magnus visibly flinched, frowning at Alec. “I will still ask you out unless you genuinely wish me to stop. As sad as that is, and it truly is Alexander, it just gives me more reason to ask you out now.” Alec stared at him for a few moments before slowly shaking his head, a smile crawling across his face. “Okay.”

   Magnus’ eyes widened again, a smile breaking across his face. “Wait really?” Alec laughed and nodded, laughing harder when Magnus literally jumped up and down. “Yes! I don’t have to drink coffee anymore!”

   Now it was Alec’s turn to raise an eyebrow, Magnus pursed his lips and looked at the ground. “I-I just mean, haha well, umm. I don’t like coffee.” Magnus said laughing again, Alec blinked at him in surprise. “Then why do you come here everyday?” Alec asked confused.. Who would come and get overpriced coffee every single day if they didn’t like coffee? 

   Magnus watched him with amused eyes. “It gives me an excuse to see you and ask you out everyday.” Magnus says nonchalantly, the shy blushing side leaving as fast as it came. Alec laughed loudly, his head thrown back, eyes shut. “You came here, every, single, day, just to ask me out?” Alec asked incredulously, Magnus smiled confidently as he said, “Yep.” and popped the ‘p’.

   Alec laughed again before taking Magnus’ cup back and writing his number neatly on the side. Magnus looked at his cup as if it had just done something beautiful. “Ah how cliche this is.” Alec shook his head a stupid smile still on his face. Izzy was going to freak out when he told her.

   Magnus shook himself out of his daze and raised his coffee. “Thank you for this and I will see you, Alexander, after work.” Alec nodded, watching amused as Magnus walked backwards out of the coffee shop, not once hitting a chair. Alec knew if he tried that he would have fallen almost immediately.

   Alec turned away from the door, not bothering to try and cover his growing smile. He had a date with an attractive guy who didn’t care that he was sick. Alec grabbed his phone, thanking whatever god there was that it was a slow day at work as he pressed Izzy’s name on his phone.

   She picked up on the second ring and Alec smiled as her voice floated through the phone. “Aren’t you at work?” She asked him immediately. Alec rolled his eyes, smile never faltering. “You’ll never guess what just happened.” ________________________________________

   Alec and Magnus ended up having a great date, which led to many more, and then they had been dating for three months.

   They were basically inseparable and when Magnus wasn’t at Alec and Jace’s apartment, Alec was at his. Alec’s health was getting better much to everyone’s amazement, Alec stayed cautious as he always was and Magnus was amazing and always asking if something was too much or if he just wanted to stay in. Magnus liked going on walks and so did Alec but he always had a hard time so Magnus would give Alec piggy back rides everywhere.

   They were in Magnus’ apartment watching Eli and Niomi’s No Kiss List when Alec felt a burning in his chest. He was rubbing his chest attempting to calm it before Magnus noticed. He was hoping that it wouldn’t be the start of something that would eventually lead him to the hospital but when he found it getting harder to breathe he excused himself and went to the bathroom to call Jace.

   He knew Jace would stay calm and make sure he was alright, he knew Magnus would too but he doubted Magnus’ ability to stay calm when Alec was in so much pain. 

   Jace picked up on the first ring with a chipper ‘hello!’. Alec let out a shuddering breath, his chest felt like it was caving in. “Hospital.” He said quietly holding his chest, waiting for a break from the pain. Jace’s playful tone left immediately. 

   “Alec where are you?” He asked urgently, his keys jingling in the background and then the sound of the door shutting. “Magnus’. About to leave.” He said weakly. Jace cursed and Alec heard his door shut. “I’ll meet you there.” He said before hanging up. Alec sat the phone down and looked at himself in the mirror.

   He was too pale and his eyes held too much pain. Alec cursed quietly, embarrassed at this having happened in front of Magnus. He was worried it would scare him off, seeing it in person as opposed to hearing about it.

   Alec walked into the living room slowly, walking getting hard with the lack of air he was getting. “Magnus.” He said quietly, too quietly since Magnus didn’t turn around and laughed at something in the movie.

   “Mags.” Alec said louder this time. Magnus turned around with a smile on his face, one that quickly fell when he saw Alec. “Hospital.” Alec said shakily as he walked to the door. Magnus cursed loudly and started frantically looking around for his keys. Once he found them he came over to Alec who was bracing himself on the door way, breathing too heavily.

   Magnus watched him with wide eyes and Alec felt a wave of guilt wash over him for having scared Magnus. Alec tried to smile reassuringly, but it was interrupted by the worst pain yet. Alec gasped and his legs gave out sending him crashing to the floor. Magnus caught him before he fell, adjusting him so he could carry Alec to the car.

   Alec finally let himself cry and buried his head in Magnus’ chest whimpering softly. “It hurts.” He said quietly, shaking from lack of oxygen. Magnus was running now, he hadn't waited for the elevator instead running down the stairs. Normally Alec would be scared that Magnus was running so fast and concerned he would be dropped, but Alec couldn’t focus on anything other than the immense burning in his chest.

   Magnus kissed the top of his head murmuring a comforting, “I know.” quietly before finally reaching his car and setting Alec as gently as he could in the passenger seat. Alec just curled into himself as if he could protect his lungs from the disease currently killing him.

   He had a small moment of panic realizing that this could be it. He could genuinely, truly be dying right now. He quickly decided he would rather have death than having to endure the pain any longer. 

   Magnus was driving crazy and Alec wanted to tell him to slow down, to stop and focus but he couldn’t force anymore words out of his mouth. His vision was starting to spot, little stars messing his sight up. He closed his eyes instead, willing them to go away but they just got worse.

   Alec reached blindly for Magnus’ hand and Magnus quickly latched onto it. Alec squeezed his hand tightly, something he always did to Jace when he wasn’t able to talk anymore. It was comforting to feel Magnus squeeze his hand back. He was going to be fine, he had to be. 

   And with that thought everything went black.

_________________________________________

   Alec had expected the event to scare Magnus away but Magnus did the opposite. He seemed to understand the severity of Alec’s condition and Jace had talked to him while Alec was unconscious. 

   Magnus was now constantly asking if Alec was okay and if anything hurt. It was annoying most of the time but it was nice to know Magnus cared so much.

   When they reached their tenth anniversary, Alec moved in with Magnus. It had been good timing since Jace had been wanting to live with Clary. Clary moved into Alec’s old apartment with Jace and Alec moved in with Magnus.

   When Alec’s birthday came around everyone threw him a big party, a ‘congratulations you haven't died yet!’ kind of party. Quite honestly Alec was also surprised. 

   He had never had much to live for, just his siblings, but Magnus made him want to live. He made him want to try things, not just to exist, but to make the best of it. For once he was living not to die, but to have fun. He was living for himself. Magnus made him happier than he ever thought possible.

   Which was why when the expected happened, he was ready.

_________________________________________

   Alec got a lot worse around the time of their one year mark. He found it harder to breathe a lot of the time, as if an elephant had taken permanent residence on his chest. Alec knew it was coming, so did everyone else but Magnus refused to accept it.

   “You’re not going to die. It’s not allowed, you can’t leave me.” Alec frowned. There wasn’t much he could do about the fact that he wasn’t always going to be here. “Mags. I know you don’t like thinking about it but it will be so much worse if you don’t accept the fact that it’s happening.” Magnus glared at him. “I don’t want to.” He said as if that was the end of the argument. 

   “Magnus, stop it. I’m going to die and you’re going to have to find someone else to make you happy. You’re my boyfriend and I love you so much, but I am not going to be here and you have to move on when I’m gone. You have to.” Alec was winded by his short rant but he stopped breathing completely when Magnus said in a quiet voice, “I don’t want to be your boyfriend.” 

   Alec froze for a moment before looking away, embarrassed at the tears in his eyes. He knew this was coming so why was he getting so upset? “I-If you don’t want to be my boyfriend Magnus i am not going to force you to.” Magnus eyes went wide and he surged forward hugging Alec tightly. “God no. No, no, no. That is not what I meant.”

   Magnus was rubbing soothing circles on his back and Alec had to take a few shuddery breaths before he found his voice. “Then what did you mean?” Alec asked, weaker than he meant to. 

   Magnus pulled away from his with a determined look in his eyes. “We should get married. I don’t want to be your boyfriend that sounds too insignificant. I want to be your husband. I want to give you your happy ever after.” Alec froze again before shaking his head. “Mags no. I can’t do that to you.” Magnus shook his head, eyes narrowed in thought. “Yes you can. I’m asking you, Alexander.” 

   Alec smiled sadly at him and shook his head. “It’ll just break your heart.” Alec said slowly, eyes cast downward. Magnus tilted Alec’s head up with his finger, eyes locked on each other. “Then break it Alexander. I give you permission. Shatter it.” Alec faltered at that. Was Magnus so sure of this he would break his own heart?

   Alec watched Magnus for a minute before stating quietly. “I will but you have to really think about this. I’m serious, not some spur of the moment thing. Think about it, I probably won’t last more than three months.” Magnus flinched at that but nodded anyway, giving Alec a shy smile. The kind of smile that was reserved for Alec and Alec only.

   “I have thought about it. A lot actually. Alexander, I’m serious about this. I really want to get married.” Alec watched Magnus with contemplating eyes, before a bright smile stretched across his face.

   “Okay.”

_________________________________________

   

   Magnus and Alec went and got married the next week at the courthouse. They were planning a wedding but they wanted to do this just in case something happened beforehand. Jace, Izzy, Clary, Simon, and Rapheal were all there.

   Magnus and Alec both cried, both refusing to admit the fact afterwards. 

   It was the best moment in Alec’s entire life and he thought back to that fateful day at the coffee shop and silently thanked his short temper.

   Alec and Magnus spent the next few months planning the wedding, they had moved the date around a lot but finally settled on waiting a month. Everytime Alec looked at Magnus he felt a warmth bloom in his chest. 

   Everything about their everyday lives was great. Magnus had gotten a cat who he named Chairman Meow, Alec had pretended to hate him but Magnus often came home to Alec asleep on the couch, Chairman Meow nestled on his chest.

   It pained Magnus to see Alec grow weaker everyday, it pained Alec to see Magnus in pain. They had many late night discussions on what was going to happen after. Sometimes there were tears, other times there were laughs, but mostly they just held each other and thanked god for the time they had spent together.

   Everything was busy the day before the wedding. Magnus and Alec both had their suits and were spending the day together before tomorrow happened and they were crowded by everyone.

   They spent the day eating ice cream and watching movies. They played games and fondly referred to each other as husband even though they had technically been married for a little over a month.

   That day Alec had felt more at ease than he ever had before. He felt at peace.

   That night when Alec woke up gasping for air refusing to go to the hospital Magnus had cried begging him over and over to not go. To not leave him. Alec had begged him in return to not be mad.

   Only when Magnus had forgiven him for leaving him did Alec reach out tentatively kissing Magnus one more time before falling into a peaceful sleep. 

   The only pain he could feel was the emptiness where Magnus had once been.

[secretlystephaniebrown]

Take My Love: 2/?

Thanks guys for following along with this self-indulgent nonsense! <3

Just a tiny warning for this chapter, this is high school. Feelings get hurt. People are asses. Also, more world building about Jackie's (and Wash's and Donut's) home planet! Fun times!

Summary: Allison Texas is a wanted woman. She stole something very valuable from the Alliance. And even if it’s going to bring a world of trouble down on their heads, Carolina can’t help but think it might be worth it.

Pairings: Church/Tex/Jackie (OC)

Previous

Also on Ao3

The day after they meet, another boy steals Church’s glasses so Jackie kicks him in the shin.

She gets a bloody lip for that, but Church manages to grab his glasses and they go hide in the library. Not under the table this time, but on top of the thickest, widest shelves, perching out of sight and out of reach. .

“Why’d you do that?” He demands, glaring at her. “That was fucking dumb!”

Jackie stares at him, frowning. “You shouldn’t use that word, you’ll get in trouble,” she says.

“You’ll get in fucking trouble!” He yells, throwing his hands into the air. “It wasn’t a big deal, it’s just glasses!”

Jackie stares at him. “They’re expensive,” she says. The last time one of her bullies broke her glasses, it meant no new books or clothes for three months. Her family back in Iowa was stable, was comfortable, but there was never money for extras.

Church looks at her, confused. Then his mouth closes. “Oh.” He shifts, uncomfortable. “I can afford it,” he says. “Really.”

And that’s when Jackie is reminded that he’s from a whole other world. Things are different, here.

“Oh,” she says, and she feels her cheeks heat up.

Church grins at her, clearly trying to distract her, but she’ll take it. And never mention it, because even after knowing Church for only a day, she knows he’ll deny it. “Can’t believe you kicked that guy though. Did you see his face?”

Jackie smiles back, clutching her books to her chest.

“Still was fucking dumb,” he tells her.

“You’re such a jerk,” she sighs.

It’s an important thing to know about Leonard Church, she realizes later.

Two months later, Church tells her about Tex, who punched a guy in the face for him. “It was awesome,” he tells her, eyes wide and eager. He doesn’t shut up about her for a whole week, before Jackie finally gets to meet her, and sees what Church is talking about.

Tex is a whole year older than them, and she’s taller than Jackie by two full inches. Her hair is long and blonde and she’s got hard brown eyes and eyebrows that always seem sharp and angled, even when she’s laughing. She’s one of the kids who are going to be soldiers, so her uniform’s different. She’s scholarship, but Core scholarship, not Rim scholarship, and even Jackie, still trying to figure out the culture and nuances of the Core, can tell there’s an important difference.

She’s beautiful and tough and she doesn’t punch Jackie or take her books or make fun of her uniform. She just joins them at lunch one day and when Church starts to make fun of people, Tex joins in without even a second’s hesitation.

She starts to hang out with them sometimes. At first, Jackie’s not sure what to think about that; Tex gets bored in the library and prefers to punch her way out of problems than to run from them or to screw with their heads.

She’s really more of Church’s friend than Jackie’s. Jackie gets the feeling that Tex is distinctly unimpressed with her. Which hurts a little, because Tex is cool and pretty, even if she’s a bit mean sometimes. But Jackie’s used to people not liking her.

Then one of the older girls rips up one of the few pictures Jackie brought from home.

Jackie doesn’t leave her room all weekend, crying and missing home and wondering how much her parents would hate her if she flunked out so they’d send her back.

Church tries to come visit her. She doesn’t let him in.

When she comes out of her room, she finds two things.

A digital version of the photograph has been emailed to her account. She can see the tape holding it together, but it’s intact, and that’s what really matters.

And the girl who did it has a giant black eye and won’t even look at Jackie.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jackie says to Tex, because who else would it have been?

Tex glances up at her. “She made you cry,” Tex says. “Seemed like she deserve it.”

Jackie smiles tentatively at Tex, and sits down next to her, closer than she’s let herself sit before.

After that, it’s different. Tex is her friend too, now. Jackie learns to be willing to put down her books every now and then to go follow Tex on whatever weird thing she wants to do that day--scale the fence and go into town, play a prank on the sports teams, break into the school gym and play loud music at midnight.

Jackie’s never done anything like that before in her life, and Church hasn’t, either. She loves this, spending time with them. Church tells stories; all sorts, both real and fictional. He’s good with words, and he knows a lot of things.

They play games; Church breaks couples up, Jackie sets them up, Tex places bets on it. Tex, Jackie learns, is poor, despite being from the Core. She never tells Tex that Core poor sounds pretty comfortable, really, because that’d be rude. Tex splits her winnings, sometimes, which is nice, since Mom and Dad haven’t been able to send much, with David being at the military academy. Mitch is helping out on the ranch, but Martha’s apprenticeship to a mechanic had to be paid for, and extra things for Jackie--spare uniforms, new glasses, some decent clothes to wear into town on their free weekends--have to fall to the side. Everything’s more expensive in the Core.

Church is rich, they learn. His father’s someone important, his mother is dead, he also has a sister at the military academy. Her name is Carolina. Jackie wonders if Carolina has met David. She considers writing to him, asking if they know each other, but she decides against it.

“Maybe you’ll find them, when you go,” Jackie tells Tex. It’s always hanging over their heads, the knowledge that Tex will graduate before them, move on to real military training, and then the army. She’ll leave them behind.

“Maybe,” Tex says, but she looks doubtful. “They sound boring though.”

Jackie laughs. “Tex! Don’t be rude.”

Tex and Church both roll their eyes at her.

Tex is not impressed by Jackie when she first meets her.

Most thirteen year olds are generally unimpressive to Tex, who is fourteen and thus that much more mature. But Jackie is a tiny little scrap of a a girl who follows Church around like a lost puppy. She’s... mousy, that’s the best word Tex has. Brown hair that never seems to be in control, blue eyes that never stay still, glasses that never seem to be on straight.

She barely even seems speak, those first few weeks, and when she does get started, it’s to correct or to ramble, and Tex doesn’t take either of those particularly well.

She’s a nerd, Tex decides, and she tolerates Church. Which is probably why Church sticks around. That and the adoring look on Jackie’s face most days. Church probably likes the ego boost.

One day though, Tex learns that one of the jerks that gave Church a black eye last week, who she’d warned off, had gone after him again.

Tex is planning on teaching them a lesson. A much more painful one than last time.

When she gets near the corner, she hears Jackie, and pauses, listening.

“So get out of here! And if I see you near Church again--”

The guy rips past Tex, face pale and his eyes red. Like he’d been crying. Like he was scared.

She peeks around the corner, and sees Jackie, looking very satisfied with herself. The look on her face isn’t mousy at all. It’s almost predatory in its confidence.

Tex’s eyebrow raises slowly, and she finds herself grinning.

It looks like she’s underestimated Jackie.

Tex resolves to pay more attention to her from then on.

When they’re fifteen, Church and Tex start dating.

Jackie’s fine with that; she’s glad they’ve finally stopped dancing around it, because they’ve obviously liked each other for ages, even if it means they’re too busy for her a lot of the time, instead spending their days just hanging out with just each other.

It’s fine, she tells herself, as she watches them walk away, holding hands. She has other friends. She’s good at making friends, now that the bullies are too scared of Tex to go after her. She spends more time with other people, focuses on her studies more. She runs a successful campaign to get one of the nicest girls in the class the title of homecoming queen, utterly humiliating the girl who’d been so sure she’d win, and probably would have if she hadn’t cheated off Church’s test last week.

But she doesn't get to share it with the other two, and Jackie pauses, missing them, even though they’re right across the common room from her. But they’re holding hands and laughing, and she doesn’t want to get in the way.

So she goes back to the library to study more.

Tex and Church lasts two months, a week and three days before they break up for the first time. There’s a huge row, a lot of broken china plates, and they both get detention for a week. They try to pass along angry messages through her and yell a lot.

Jackie’s bewildered, unsure of what to do or how to handle this. This is nothing like the relationships she saw back on Iowa. It lasts three whole days before she catches them making out in a broom closet.

Soon she gets used to it; the regular ups and downs, the breakups, the fights, the getting back together, the blissful weeks between those points, where things are calm and they’re getting along.

It’s not perfect; every time they break up, they tend to yank her back and forth like it’s a game of tug-of-war, and they tend to ignore her when they’re together, busy gazing at each other and kissing in corners. Jackie alternates between feeling harried and stressed and lonely and sad. She sleeps fitfully at night, missing the time before.

Jackie tries to date other people herself, trying to see what the big deal is. But they all tend to be boring, and every time she hangs out with them, she keeps thinking of Church or Tex, and that’s not fair on anyone, so she always ends it quickly. She’s not sure Tex or Church ever even notice any of them.

She gives up on that endeavor pretty quickly, and goes back to trying to make sure the two of them don’t forget to hand in their homework when they’re dating and passing messages between them when they’re broken up.

She sits on a couch across from them, while they cuddle and talk about a vid they went to see yesterday, and Jackie reads her book and tries to ignore the nasty, clawing feeling in her stomach.

It’s fine, she reminds herself. It’s a waste of time, being jealous. What she’s jealous of, she’s never quite sure. Is she jealous of Church? Of Tex? Of both of them, for having something like that? Is it even jealousy, or is it just her being bitter that they’re leaving her behind?

She’s never sure. She wishes that it would just go away though. It’s making things harder, when she should just be happy for them.

Then comes the big one. The nasty one.

Jackie isn’t even sure what it’s about, but this time, she thinks, they might be broken up for good. Tex is furious, spitting mad, and Church is quietly sulking. They don’t even want to talk to each other through her, and every time they meet, they yell and fight again, making Jackie want to run away until the dust settles. She splits her time between the two of them as best she can, trying to help keep them apart to avoid hurt feelings.

“He’s just such a jerk,” Tex says. They’re on the roof of the school, which they’re not supposed to be, but Jackie’s bad at telling Tex she’s scared to do things. Jackie hasn’t ever managed to convey to Tex just how horrible it would be, to go back to the Rim. Tex hates school, most days, and misses home. So does Church.

Jackie misses her family, but she does not miss the Rim. She doesn’t miss hungry nights or dust storms or schools where the teachers don’t know what to do with her. She doesn’t miss no one else being able to follow her rapid fire train of thoughts or to see things. Even her family was slow, most days. She misses them like crazy, but she still has letters, and she needs this. She needs to do something. She needs to matter.

She knows what everyone sees. A girl in second hand clothes, clinging to her scholarship with everything she has, competing to be the smartest to stand out, to prove herself. But all her awards can’t erase the Rim accent, all her fancy books don’t change the fact that she slips into farm idioms on occasion, and all of her hard work doesn’t make her uniform fit better or fix the scuffs on her shoes.

She’ll always be the girl from the Rim, but back home, she’d just be a useless burnout with hands too soft to use a hoe, so she’ll suck it up and take it.

This world is bright and real and clever and she loves it, even if she hates what it stands for. And she’ll do anything to stay here.

“He can be, yeah,” she says, staring upwards, trying to see if she can make out any constellations. The stars aren’t real here. They’re projections. She wonders what the stars look like, back home.

“He doesn’t control me, why doesn’t he get that? Why can’t he just trust me?” Tex asks.

“He’s stupid, sometimes,” Jackie says, leaning against Tex’s arm. “He’s a boy.”

Tex lets out a huff. “Sometimes I’m sick of boys.” Then she leans away from Jackie, as if she just saw something.

Jackie lifts her face up to look at Tex, curious about what she saw, and then Tex is kissing her.

Jackie doesn’t even hesitate before kissing back, bunching her hands in the thick fabric of Tex’s coat, because she’s thought about this way more times than she should admit, even to herself. Jackie’s never kissed someone before, and the fact that it’s Tex makes it even better. It’s warm and nice, almost idyllic. Tex tastes like the sweets Tex stole from her roommate’s stash and it makes Jackie want to laugh, because it’s so perfectly Tex. Jackie’s eyes are closed and she tries to convince herself she’s not dreaming.

Then there’s a clatter of something against the ground--books hitting the ground, and Jackie pulls away from Tex, and she realizes why Tex kissed her in a moment of horrifying clarity.

Church is standing there, looking wide eyed and hurt and the warm, dizzy feeling that had just filled Jackie only moments ago is suddenly gone, replaced with white hot fury and pain.

“Stay away from me!” Jackie pushes Tex away, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Stupid, how could she ever think that Tex would—how could she do that to Church?

She runs away, and neither of them try to stop her.

Church comes to find her the next morning. He’s waiting outside of her door, as usual after a fight, hands in his pockets, head bowed.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out, the second she sees him, clutching her book to her chest.

He gives her a watery grin. “It’s fine,” he says, but he’s still hurt. She knows he’s only not yelling at her, calling her names, because he doesn’t want to talk about it. If he wasn’t so hurt, he’d be making her grovel and cry, lashing out with his infamous temper. She swallows, and tries to make him happy. She helps him arrange a gigantic breakup of the school’s power couple and lets him play his stupid videogames all night instead of making him do his history project. She does it for him, carefully imitating his messy handwriting and practicing his turns of phrases while he curses loudly as he misses every shot.

She determinedly does not think about Tex, or the kiss.

They’re studying at the library late one night, rubbing elbows while making fun of each other’s fields of study, when Church grabs her arm, breaking off a tangent she was in the middle of.

(It’s been fifteen days since the kiss. Fifteen days since she’s let herself be in the same room as Tex.)

“You like me, right?” He blurts. His eyes are wide, and she thinks he might look nervous.

Jackie stares at him, confused by the expression on his face. She’s good at reading people, but she has no idea what to say. She doesn’t know what’s the right answer.

“Yeah,” she says, slowly.

“Good,” Church says, and then he leans forward and presses his lips against hers.

It’s different than kissing Tex; Tex was harder, fiercer, more sure of herself, while Church is softer, cradling her face in his hands.

Jackie melts into it just a little, leaning forward, bumping her nose against his. Her mind, normally firing off in a thousand directions at once, focuses on one thing only, and it’s Church. He tastes like bitter coffee and his hair is soft beneath her hands and Jackie’s wanted to do this for so long. Their glasses bump together and Jackie smiles against Church’s lips.

“Am I interrupting something?” Tex’s voice is acerbic and cutting and Jackie flinches away from Church with enough force that she knocks over her own chair, landing on the floor of the library in a sprawl.

She stares up at Church, who’s flushing and looking angry, and then stares at Tex, who doesn’t look hurt. Tex doesn't do hurt. Tex looks furious.

The realization that she’s just been used again sits heavy in her stomach.

“I can’t believe you!” She yells at Church, and this time she’s not fast enough, tears flowing down her face. “Both of you! You’re such—” A sob cuts off whatever she’s going to say next and she grabs her books and runs away again.

And again, neither of them chase her. She hears the echoes of their fighting down the hall as she runs as far away from the library as she can manage.

Jackie manages to avoid them for a full week, which, given the size of the school, is pretty impressive.

They manage to corner her on the grounds. She’s been studying in the small grove of fake trees instead of in the library to avoid Church, but they must have spotted her or bribed her roommate, since they corner her.

They’re holding hands. Jackie struggles with the waves of emotions that threaten to overwhelm her—happiness and jealousy and sadness and anger.

Jackie wonders if they’re mad at her. She can’t figure out their expressions, can’t figure out what they’re thinking. She did kiss them both back. She wonders if they’re going to tell her she’s not their friend anymore because she kissed them.

She hopes not. She might have other friends, but she doesn’t have other Texes or Churches.

“What do you want?” She demands, drawing her knees up to her chest. She’s not ready to talk to them. She’s hurt and mad and upset in ways she doesn’t quite understand.

“We’re sorry!” Church blurts.

Tex is looking at the ground very carefully. “Shouldn’t have done that,” she mutters. “Made you cry.”

Jackie flushes. “It’s—” She stops herself from saying it’s alright, because it’s not. She knows that. She’s not just going to be okay with that. “That’s why you’re sorry? Because I cried?”

“It wasn’t right to drag you into our mess,” Tex says, finally looking up. “Not fair on you.”

Jackie swallows. Her throat hurts. It’s not what she wants them to be sorry for, but they don’t know why she’s upset, and she’s not about to tell them. “Okay,” she whispers. “I guess that’s—that’s okay then.” She offers them a smile, wobbly as it is.

They grin at her, and sit down on either side, wedging her firmly between them. The tightness in her chest loosens, even if her throat still hurts. She’s missed this. She’s missed them.

“Hey Jackie,” Tex says, pulling Jackie out of her thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“Want to try something? For science?”

Jackie lowers her book. “You always make fun of my experiments,” she says, accusing.

“It’s an important experiment,” Church tells her.

She looks between the two of them, frowning. “Fine,” she says suspiciously. “What do I need—”

Tex cuts her off by curling her fingers around Jackie’s neck and kissing her again.

Jackie freezes this time, refusing to melt, even though Tex’s mouth is warm and firm and demanding. Tex’s other hand brushes against her cheek in a way that’s oddly tender and then Jackie gives in, kissing back with everything she has. This is a dream, she thinks, closing her eyes. Her mind again is hyperfocusing, refusing to acknowledge the existence of anything besides Tex and her lips and the way that Church is pressed up on her other side and how fast her heart is racing.

Church’s fingers dig into her arm, bringing reality back just a little. “My turn,” he says, and Tex pulls away and Jackie is dizzy and then Church is kissing her, with Tex’s hand still warm against the back of her neck and Jackie gives in even faster this time, grabbing the collar of Church’s uniform to pull him closer, and Church lets out a small yelp, which makes Tex laugh, the sound reverberating through her chest in a way that Jackie, pressed up against her, can feel.

She pulls away, her brains still not working right. “What?” She asks, blearily and confused. Tex has a hand wrapped around her wrist, as if to prevent her from running away again.

“We like you,” Tex says, and Jackie twists around to stare at her, wide eyed, because she could not have just heard that.

“You like us,” Church offers, slightly less sure of himself. “And well, we like each other. So it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Jackie’s mouth hangs open, in shock, while her brain tries to process this information. “You… you mean it?” She hates how her voice sounds. How vulnerable she sounds.

“Yes,” Tex says, close enough to her ear to make her shiver.

“C’mon, Jacks,” Church says, fingers threading through the hand that Tex isn’t holding captive. “We did the experiment. I’d say it was a success.”

“What do you say?” Tex cups Jackie’s face in her other hand, her eyes oddly serious.

“I—I—”

“Stop stalling,” Tex orders. “I know you’ve got an answer in that big brain of yours.”

Jackie manages to nod, her heart still racing in her ears.

Tex smirks. “Great.” She yanks Jackie forward onto her lap and kisses her again.

They spend the rest of the evening on the grounds, just kissing each other and laughing.

Jackie runs her fingers through Church’s hair and leans against Tex’s shoulder and smiles so wide that her face hurts.

They have six months, two weeks, and three days before everything changes.

Tex finishes school and gets transferred to the military academy.

“I’ll call,” Tex tells them, pressing her forehead against Church’s, then Jackie’s. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Okay,” Jackie says, kissing Tex quickly. “We’ll be here.”

And they are, for a month and five days. They message her and have video calls and things are okay.

And then Church gets transferred to the Academy.

Jackie’s heard about the Academy. It’s prestigious and fancy. Only the best of the best get in there.

She also knows, although Church doesn’t like to talk about it, that Church’s father is in charge of the Academy. And she knows that Church hasn’t seen his father in years. In all the ways that counts, she knows, it’s just Church and his sister, Carolina. (Carolina’s in the same school as Tex now, as David. Jackie wonders if Tex has found them.)

Church hates his father. But he won’t say no to the Academy. It’s too big, too important. With the resources and the training they can offer him, he can do anything. The sky’s the limit.

“My scores in physics were high enough that they decided they wanted me,” he says, staring at the email. “I—Jacks…”

“Hey,” she twines her fingers through his and squeezes. “I’ll join you soon, probably. Pysch exams are in a few months. I’ll probably be high enough to make the cut, don’t you think?”

He looks at her. “Maybe,” he says, smirking.

Jackie elbows him in the side. “Jerk,” she says.

He kisses her, leaving his forehead pressed against hers, their glasses knocking together. “Keep in touch, okay?”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” she promises.

Church hates his father. But that’s okay. He doesn't need him. That’s why he has her and Tex.

Jackie wants to take Church home, someday. Show him the farm and let her siblings pry things out of him and her mother fuss over him and Dad tutt over how skinny he is and feed him until he can’t move.

One day, she tells herself, as she helps him pack his bags.

One day, she’ll bring them home with her.

It takes Church three weeks to realize what’s wrong with the Academy.

He also knows that Jackie isn’t a guarantee for a spot. Psych students are a dime a dozen, and they aren’t that interested in Jackie from what he can tell, poking around in their computer files every chance he gets.

She can’t come here. Church thinks, looking at the face of his roommate after her last“session”. He’s seen the blood on the floors, he’s heard the screams. There’s nothing he can do to stop this, nothing he can do to save anyone, not even himself. They monitor communications, and while he has relative freedom as a new student who hasn’t been pulled for a session, he knows it’s only a matter of time.

It’s not like he thought, it’s not like they were told.

He doesn’t know what they want, he doesn’t know what they’re planning.

But he does know this. That a girlfriend (or two) is a weakness he can’t afford. They use people against you, in the Academy.

He needs to keep her safe. They can’t touch Tex, they can’t touch Carolina, but Jackie’s just a kid from the Rim. No one would care if Jackie goes missing. Or, even if they did, no one could do anything about it, and that’s what really matters.

“I don’t think this will work. Sorry. –Church.”

[fatgirlsguidetodating]

Blog: Cross cultural & cross religion dating.

"Love knows no borders, has no nationalities, and doesn't need a visa." A conversation with a guy on dating site oasis left me a little shaken. Supposedly I'm a bigot because I said I didn't think I'd want to be with someone who was super-religious. I don't mind someone who believes in God, just because I don't doesn't mean I'd cut out eight out of every ten men given estimates suggest that many identity as religious of some kind. I just wouldn't want to be with someone who is *super* religious. Supposedly I'm racist because when he asked about whether I'd be with someone of another culture I said that it depended on the culture and how similar it's ideologies were to my own [non religious] ones. For instance I said I couldn't be with a man whose religion or culture saw women as inferior, one where women weren't allowed to drive or venture out unless they were escorted by a male member of their family. Does the fact that I couldn't live in a society like Egypt where the women are required to walk behind the men make me racist? But yet it's okay for men to write "I am very into physical fitness and want a woman who shares that and looks after herself", which, in short, means someone who's not fat? It's okay for them to want someone who doesn't have kids because they want to have travelling adventures before having kids? It's even okay to write- as I saw one guy on I think oasis- that he's more attracted to women from Thailand or Vietnam? How is this fair when my not wanting a super religious man from a culture where I'd be treated as inferior and the man's property make me a bigot and a racist? I don't consider myself racist or bigoted. I support all races and religions and recognise that 99% of them are good people and it's only the minority that doesn't. I don't say ban the burqa, I don't protest the building of mosques and other places of worship, I don't say don't let people from this country, of that colour skin or who believe in that God into Australia. I'm always one of the first to say don't automatically assume the terrorist was Muslim, or the carjacker was Sudanese or the aboriginal man veering from side to side is walking like that because he's drunk. Just because I personally don't believe in their ideologies and think some are quite backwards even in the way women are treated doesn't make me racist or a bigot surely? At the end of the day no matter whether I was in a cross-cultural relationship or not the one thing I will not do for a relationship is not change the beliefs and traditions important to me. (But not would I expect them to either.) My friend J is Jewish. We were talking the other day about how his mum wanted him to only marry a Jew and same for his sister. He dated a non-Jewish girl throughout Uni and honestly I was sure they were going to get married. We lost touch after uni but I ran into him the other day and found out he'd ended up marrying a Jewish lady. "But you and X- you were perfect for each other!" I said, shocked. He agreed but then added his parents made it too hard. I don't know if this is the norm or even if this is the whole reason for the break up or whether there were other factors at play but after being called a racist and bigot it certainly captured my attention and voila- this blog post was born. Can cross cultural dating even work anyway? Between a bunch of friends and strangers in blog land and my own experiences who I asked about cross cultural dating approximately 73% said it's possible they can work provided both parties put the effort in and about 90% agreed with the statement that cross cultural relationships weren't easy. All new couples have obstacles to overcome but in cross cultural relationships both partners may need to compromise by giving up some of their own culture to adjust to their partners beliefs, habits, parenting ways, and perhaps even the other partners family not bring supportive of the relationship- like J. (1.) After all it's only natural that we would feel loyalty towards our own culture and traditions, which may make it hard for us to understand the opposing ones of our partners. (2.) Some of us have a more advanced cultural identity than others. I don't think of myself as super patriotic but I do consider myself a pretty "true blue Aussie girl." (Minus a southern cross tattoo, Australian flag bikini, and Australian sticker on my car.) But others I know are very much into their cultural identity. Sociologically a cultural identity isn't just about the things we see like the fashion, or gods worshipped or even the national dish. Rather it's mainly invisible. Because much of what we say, think and do is shaped by the culture we were raised in. It influences our thoughts about things such what's right or wrong, ideas about birth and death, ideas on how we should behave, our sense of self worth, understanding our place/s in society and our values- like the importance of things in life like money or family. (2.) An example. Once at work we did a day course. I don't remember what it was about but I do recall we got subway for lunch (you know- the important things) and one thing sticks in my mind. I was paired with a guy named Tariq. He was perhaps 5 years older than me, married with a daughter and a Muslim. When we had to rank things as to what was most important to us he had money at the top and love and family down the bottom. I remember wondering if that was a cultural idea- the idea making money and providing is most important. Another example. A friend who is Greek has a similar outlook; she's not happy with her husband but he's a good provider so she stays. So it could well be some cultures value money and men who provide for their family over other things like family time and affection? Me? I don't think I'd stay with someone I wasn't happy with because of money and them looking after me. Although I do think I'd have a hard time standing strong if I was in love with someone from a race/religion/culture who my family and best friends didn't like and therefore believed my partner to be the same. I'd like to say I'd tell them to fuck off but I'm not one for confrontation, conflict or even argument. Sometimes I will simply agree with someone/s just to stop any argument even if I don't agree whatsoever. However as I get older (ugh) I do find I stand my ground a lot more. As a shy child, teenager, young adult, even adult it's been hard for me but I am trying. So given all that why bother with cross cultural love? Why not just say this relationship is doomed to fail and run before it gets too serious? Because it won't necessarily fail. And even if it does- as do many relationships where people are from the *same* culture may I add- a cross cultural romance can "lead to the most exciting adventure of exploring the world though another person." (3) There are some interesting pluses to dating someone from another culture. Like learning a new language, learning to enjoy and perhaps even make native cuisines of your partners, and maybe even travelling to their native country. A German mini series doco looked at thirteen couples who were all involved in cross-cultural relationships and they offered some advice on how to keep it going. (4) Some of the suggestions were: * "Being open-minded and talking about possible misunderstandings is essential in a multi-cultural relationship.”  -Ratna and Nele * "Being in a cross-cultural relationship takes a lot of patience and tolerance, and it can take a while until one gets used to the other. But as complicated as it might be, it is always interesting and sometimes rather funny when you get to find out and explore all the cultural differences.” -Andy and Ben * “Learn the language and never compare the two countries. For me, learning the language wasn’t just about something I had to do. The main push for me was for my own well-being. I needed a job and personally needed to no longer feel like an outsider looking in...” –Derek and Marc  * "If those in the relationship love each other then they understand each other on a much deeper level, and the language becomes less important. But cultural differences are tougher to overcome. Cultural issues are the big ones." -Dr. Jane Elizabeth Dum * “One thing we can’t agree on, though, is when to celebrate Christmas. Thankfully, Tobias lets me have our Christmas tree up all December long. Most Germans put their tree up right before or on Christmas Eve. Because Christmas is my favorite time of year, I would be so sad if I didn’t get my tree until the 24th! We make both the 24th and the 25th special and combine our respective traditions. I think that’s one of the best things about a binational relationship – you can pick and choose your favorite traditions from each culture and get to know a few different things in the process.” -Sarah and Tobias * “As the age old saying goes, communication is the most important thing in any relationship. If these criteria are met you are in for a world of cross-cultural delights, learning all about the others wonderful and mysterious land, which I have found gives you a lot more to talk about than a regular couple.” –Amelie and Dean And experts all give similar advice like educating yourself about their culture, learning some of their language and traditions, being prepared to possibly deal with family disapproval and strong communication. (5) After all Cross-cultural dating is a great opportunity to expand your learning. Your new partner can teach you so much about his or her country, culture, language, traditions and religion. If you can overcome these first few problems, it is a great chance to learn more about the world we all live in. (6) Can a cross-cultural relationship work then? Yes. With work and commitment. Go into the relationship with no expectations and it could be a great adventure! (7) I'm not saying force yourself to be attracted to someone but I *am* saying if feelings are there don't deny the possibility just because it's all too complicated. After all, just because you’re open to dating someone doesn’t mean it will actually work out. You may not even get past the first date so if you do like someone from a different culture just give it a shot. You never know: you may find yourself a fantastic lifelong partner. (8) Fatgirl. Sources: 1. https://barendspsychology.com/cross-cultural-relationships/ 2. http://www.counselling-directory.org.uk/counsellor-articles/cross-cultural-relationships 3. https://coffeemeetsbagel.com/blog/index.php/best-date-tips/cross-cultural-dating-good-great-awkward/ 4. http://www.young-germany.de/topic/live/family-friends/advice-from-bi-national-couples-on-cross-cultural-dating 5. http://www.multiculturalromance.com/cross-cultural-dating-tips/ 6. https://www.google.com.au/amp/blog.datingwise.com/1444/cross-cultural-dating/amp/ 7. http://www.healthguidance.org/entry/14008/1/Cross-Cultural-Dating-and-Marriage--An-Asian-Western-Perspective.html 8. http://www.eatyourkimchi.com/speakers-corner-cross-cultural-dating/