#last year was harrowing and this time around i am more prepared and i WILL not end up at the bottom of the hole again

[natandacat]

btw im feeling a lot today bc my neighbor is having a bbq and i really wanna go but i had to lie and say i was working bc everyone there is a hardcore party goer and theres too many covid cases rn so even in an outdoor setting i would need to mask and that crowd would be super weirded out by my n95 and also it would suck bc i wouldnt even be able to eat. anyway. being at risk is like living in purgatory while 99% of the population literally doesnt care.

[theharrowing]

Lost & Found

Taehyung just wants to be left alone. Too bad you need a place to stay.

👻 Ghost Taehyung x Living Non-Gendered Reader (platonic), formerly Taehyung x Yoongi

👻 word count: 1.9k

👻 strangers to friends (kind of), haunting au, angst, hint of fluff, hurt/comfort, slice of life, 18+

👻 warnings: Taehyung is a ghost and we learn how he died, but it is not too graphic; grief, depression and crying. this might be sad for some, but i did my best to make it light and hopeful.

👻 note: since it’s a drabble, the descriptions are not as vivid as usual. it’s mostly ~vibes~.

👻 requested by @sabiekay for my Harrowing Halloween event! thank you so much for requesting!!! 💜 i, uhhhh.........i was not intending for this to be so focused on grief, but given my last couple of weeks, i am also not shocked by how i ended it. i hope you don't mind! 😅

👻 story told from Taehyung's pov!

👻 beta read by @neoneunnajimin

👻 posted nov. 2023 | read on ao3

Taehyung watches with a frown as you lean over the kitchen counter and sign a new lease. His kitchen counter, where he prepared his food all those years ago. 

He frowns as he imagines you messing it up with condensating cups and take-out containers. Will you wash it properly with a detergent made for porous material or fuck it up with the cheap shit he has seen tenant after tenant spray on its surface?

That tends to be his final straw – the push he needs to haunt someone adequately enough to scare them off. He hates it when people fail to show consideration for other people's things. Just because he is dead does not mean this house is any less his. 

He bought this house with his own money, fresh out of college. He proposed to the love of his life in the center of the living room just past where you shake hands with the landlord. And right above you, where there are three balusters that look slightly different from the rest on the wooden railing of the upper level was where he leaned just a little too hard unknowingly against rotting wood, falling to his death. 

Just because the impact of his skull against that very kitchen counter that you lean against was culpable in his death, does not mean he wants some asshole from who-knows-where getting it all dirty and not taking proper care of it. 

You have a nice smile, at least, albeit a little sad around the edges and never reaching your eyes. As he shifts just enough to make the curtains move and steps just close enough to give you a chill, he could swear you look directly at him, right into his eyes. 

But why would you rent a home knowing that it is haunted by the ghost of its past? Taehyung finds the notion ridiculous. He is certain the landlord did not disclose the fact that previous tenants have broken their leases feeling scared for their lives after he has grown impatient and terrorized them; why would he?

As soon as the landlord is gone, Taehyung watches as you slump down to the hardwood floor, sitting with your knees bent, hugging them tightly. You do not look like a person who has made a big, happy life decision, and Taehyung finds himself nearly wishing to console you. Nearly. 

"What am I doing?" you grumble into your knees before letting out a deep sigh. 

Taehyung tests your limits almost immediately. He gets the sense that you might not hate the thought of not being perfectly alone, as he has caught you crying more than once, and you do not seem to have very many people you reach out to for comfort, if any at all. To say you seem lonely is an understatement.

When you come from around the kitchen counter, which is mostly bare of any personal items, he stands in your path, allowing you to feel just enough of his presence to get a chill down your spine. To his delight, you halt and look around as if trying to sense more of him, but then you shrug and carry on through the living room, to the hideous brown couch that clashes with your hideous black coffee table to dissociate, he assumes. 

You spend a long time looking at nothing. Sometimes he slightly moves your scented candles a few inches over and opens the curtains just a crack, and you never seem to notice. Or, perhaps you don't care.

Truth be told, Taehyung prefers to be left alone. He likes it when his house is perfectly calm, still, and quiet. He can still remember the way it smelled when he and his fiancé Yoongi occupied the space, and he hates to imagine what it may smell like with someone around; he feels thankful that his sense of smell is gone, feeling none too eager to discover what candles like Witches Brew and Boo-Nana Toffee would do to the place.

Every inch of this home, even after years of new paint jobs and different, ugly furnishings, holds a different memory of Yoongi occupying the space. Seeing someone else in the home that was meant for the two of them feels wrong. 

At least you do not take up a ton of space, but your depression kills the mood. The energy in the house is constantly off, and even Taehyung cannot fathom why you don't just go out and meet new people. It seems that you work or study from home; Taehyung does not pay close attention. He prefers to avoid traveling to the upper level of the house, and that is where you seem to spend the working hours of the day. 

Each weekday, like clockwork, 5:05 pm rolls around, and you shuffle out of the smaller of the two rooms on the upper floor – the one where Taehyung had all of his art supplies set up and laid out long ago, where he assumes you have an office space set up. You are always dressed nicely from the waist up but wear sweatpants or pajama shorts and slippers, and you plop down on your couch, letting out a sigh so heavy that even the huff of air from the cushions under your weight falling against it cannot cover the sound.

Each weekday, like clockwork, you turn on the television and stare toward the screen, never seeming to watch it. Sometimes, you scroll around on your phone. Often, you cry. And then, after several bleak hours of seemingly nothing, you shut off the television, walk up the stairs, turn out all the lights, and leave Taehyung alone. 

"I think the house may be haunted," Taehyung hears you say one day.  

To his surprise, your voice travels from the upper floor, and he perks up from his place on your couch, glancing up in your direction.

You sit at the top of the stairs, looking down through the railing banister, directly at Taehyung. Well, at the space that Taehyung occupies. He wonders if you can see the slight dip that he likes to make in the cushion. He had been doing it for weeks with the hope of creeping you out, and he had begun to wonder whether you had been noticing at all. 

This is only the second time Taehyung has ever seen you talking to another human being, and he watches with fascination as your face contorts to something that may actually be considered a smile. 

"It's a vibe I get," you say with a shrug. 

Eager to enhance the vibe, so to speak, Taehyung slowly begins to stand. He is certain that the shifting of his energy is causing the cushion of the couch to relax from its indented position, and he watches with delight as your eyes widen, following the movement. 

“S-sorry,” you mutter into the phone, shifting in place while your eyes stay glued to the couch, “spaced out. What did you say?”

Taehyung stays put while you finish your conversation, having all the time in the world to watch as your eyes trail knowingly back to the spot on the couch before you finally stand and retreat into one of the upstairs rooms. 

Today, when 5:05 pm rolls around and you do not shuffle from the upstairs room, Taehyung grows concerned. He moves to the kitchen and checks the calendar you have hanging on the fridge, which is covered in images and stickers of kittens, confirming today is a weekday by seeing that the last day you crossed a black x over – yesterday – was Wednesday. 

He considers walking up the stairs to make sure you are alright, but he hesitates. Not since Yoongi left, has he been in the bedroom they shared. Not since grief pushed his beautiful fiancé to pack up and move out and never return – a grief that Taehyung shares to this day. 

But as the minutes tick by, Taehyung becomes increasingly worried. He tells himself that he should go upstairs and check on you – that if it is too much to handle, he will return downstairs. 

Slowly, Taehyung makes his way up, walking each step at a time despite not needing to, just to hear the third step creak underfoot as it has so many times before. He keeps expecting to see you appear at the top landing, ready for your daily routine of spacing out during reruns of a drama he once enjoyed, but you never do. 

Once at the top landing, he hears you crying. It is unmistakable the way you sob – familiar in the way each inhale rattles through your lungs. 

When he rounds the corner and peeks into the master bedroom, nostalgia hits him hard. You sit at the edge of your bed with your head in your hands, just as Yoongi had for months after the accident.

Without thinking, Taehyung approaches and sits on the bed beside you, close enough that the dip from his weight makes you gasp and lift your head to check. 

Your hand falls to the spot, straight through Taehyung’s leg, and you chuckle while sniffling wetly. Taehyung is shocked to see you smiling, slight as it is. 

"Hey, there," you say through a shaky inhale. "I was wondering if you would ever join me."

Silence hangs, and Taehyung weighs his options. He is certain that he has no voice that can be heard, and changing the weight of his energy might actually freak you out. To his own surprise, Taehyung finds he is not eager to scare you away. And so, he just sits with you, and he does nothing. 

“It doesn’t get easier, does it?” you ask after a long pause, eyes cast down on your hand that traces dips in the fabric of the soft white comforter. Softer, as if just to yourself, you say, “I don’t know how to let her go.”

Taehyung gets it, he really does. Without knowing who you have lost and how, he cannot help but think of Yoongi, of the life they were building, and of the love that they shared. 

For the first time since Yoongi left, Taehyung feels glad his house is not empty of life. He wants to tell you that it will get easier, but that it never really goes away; that the pain ebbs and flows, and some days are harder than others. He wants to console you in more ways than just sitting by your side. It is strange, but he thinks he wants to try a little harder to befriend you – to make his presence known.

“At least I have cool ghost vibes to keep me company,” you mutter, making yourself laugh as you sniffle in a sob and your tears come out over a bright smile. "Thank you for sitting with me and making me feel a little less alone."

For the first time since Yoongi left, Taehyung feels glad to know he can bring comfort to someone again. And for the first time in years, his house feels a little more like a home; a place where those who have lost may just find something new. 

HAPPY (late) HALLOWEEEEN!!! 🎃👻🍂

the ending feels a bit abrupt, but i was trying to keep it as short and sweet as possible. it felt like if i tried to add even one more scene, it would become a beast needing to be tamed lolol.

i hope you enjoy this little drabble! i have a couple more on the way, so look forward to Halloween vibes in November hehe. submissions for this event are closed, but i hope to do it again, next year!!!

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS KEEP ME WRITING, AND LIKES MAKE MY DAY BRIGHT!!! THANK YOU FOR READING! I LOVE YOU!

tag list: @codeinebelle @dasexydevitt13 @fluffybuns69 @giriiboyy @idkjustlovingbts @mgthecat @moonleeai @m1sss1mp @spookyminyunki 👻 wanna be tagged in all my works? dm me!

Lost & Found is copyright theharrowing 2023. no translations or reposting allowed!

[mayasaura]

So Anastasia is waiting in the tomb to reseal it of it gets opened. Does John know this? Because I am remember him at some point telling Harrow she can't have opened the Tomb it's (currently) closed. Because one - well that's a strange capability to hide from John unless you see a need to open the Tomb either multiple times or without him finding out. Two - Anastasia's reaction to Harrow coming in and then walking out would be interesting. And also the timing of when given Alecto's haunting.

That is a very good question. Does John know that Anastasia has been made into—or made herself into—a construct that can reseal the Tomb? Or did he only mean for her to die there, and take his secrets with her? I honestly have no idea. My first assumption had been that John arranged it so he could visit Alecto in secret, but that would be very risky and there's no evidence to support it. We don't know if he even knows it's possible for the ward to be breached and then resealed.

I do think what we saw in there was a construct made from Anastasia's corpse, rather than Anastasia's revenant. Maybe she's a hideous corpse, her revenant bound to a construct of her own bones, but it's impossible to say at this point how much of Anastasia is left after ten thousand years. She may or may not have been aware of Harrow's coming and going. But let's say she's in there, and conscious, and has been standing guard over Alecto for ten thousand years. Who put her there?

Anastasia worked closely with Cassiopeia, and Cassiopeia knew a great deal more than John about blood wards. It's possible she and Anastasia planned to be able to access the Tomb without John's knowledge. Cassiopeia has been known to build secret mechanisms at the heart of Houses. And if Augustine meant it about Harrow being very much like Anastasia, then using her own bones as the material for the mechanism sounds just like her, too.

Evidence from the labs suggests that it was Anastasia and Cassiopeia who created the skeletal servitors at Canaan House, but also that they asked for John's input on that project. So that's sum zero; any of them could have done it.

Putting aside for a moment who set it up, you bring up another great question: Has anyone other than Harrow been in there?

If it's John's doing, he probably has. Boring answer, doesn't delve into any deep mysteries. If it was Anastasia and Cassiopeia... Well. I can think of at least one time the Tomb was a sitting duck. At the moment of Harrow's conception there was a thanergy bloom large enough to irradiate the planet, and the key to the Tomb was already on the Ninth. Literally anyone could have rolled the Rock away, provided they knew who Gideon was and knew that the thanergy bloom was going to happen. I can't say whether or not anyone did, but it would have been possible.

This has me thinking about some of the other unanswered questions. Like how weirdly convenient it is that Harrow's parents were able to reinvent the Resurrection to make her, when there's no evidence of them having an expertise in spirit magic. And how oddly coincidental the timing, that preparations to put the plan into action must have started around the time of Gideon's birth. Why create one last child of Anastasia's direct line, if it comes at the expense of any future for her House? How does Blood of Eden have inside knowledge of the Sixth House, millennia out of date? Who sent the message Aim carries, and who is it meant for?

It does seem like there's a third party working behind the scenes, and there has been for a very long time. Someone with a great deal of knowledge about spirit magic, who knows about the vow Alecto made to Anastasia, who has reason to want the truth to come out. Whether that third party is Anastasia, or Anastasia working in concert with Cassiopeia, or some secret third option, I can't be sure. But there is a whiff of conspiracy about it that has only gotten stronger with the revelations in Nona.

But really, I just want Anastasia to be there of her own volition, for some more dignified reason than to act as John's sepulchral porter. Might as well make Samael into a coat rack to complete the set.

[typingcorgi]

sanctuary; part ii

read part i here

pairing: joel miller x f!reader (no y/n)

warnings: tw for mention of blood, mild gore, violence, age difference hinted, no smut yet but honey have you met me? it's coming (and so is joel, and you, ey-ohhhh)

word count: 1.5k

author's notes: canon divergent aka no ellie I'm sorry kids cramp my style

still no smut i'm so sorry but i needed a little bit of a bridge from the last chapter before you and joel go to bone town. So this is violent-ish (I'm a very vanilla writer so if you are seeking major thrills you aren't going to find them here lol)

As always, if you like this, please leave a comment or reblog!! I am so happy to be sharing this garbage with you, whether you like it or not, and can't wait to get to the next part. BRING ON DA SMUT

also thanks @magpie-to-the-morning for reminding me you can put cars in neutral

taglist: @avengersfan25 @fairytale07

Gunshots used to remind you of Outbreak Day.

You weren’t old enough to comprehend the severity of the circumstances. Looking back on it now, severity doesn’t even seem strong enough of a word. It was more of a cataclysm, a shattering of the world you’d known for a world you weren’t prepared to enter. 

New York was the first city to be bombed. The outbreak was impossible to contain on the thirteen-mile island, the Infected found on every street corner, every bend in Central Park. You were young, just beginning to experience the storm and strife of your teenage years when everything you ever knew had been ripped from beneath you within a matter of hours. At the time, you’d been in Boston with your family, unaware that when you’d arrived, you’d never leave.

Gunshots used you remind you of Outbreak Day. Now, you’re hard-pressed to go twenty-four hours without hearing them.

—

The pistol Joel had directed you to use lays useless in your lap. You turn the safety on, even though you’re pretty sure you’d fired the last three bullets mere hours ago. The truck, now essentially your immobile mobile home, is parked on the edge of a side street, overgrown with enough shrubs and greenery to make you believe you’re situated in the middle of a meadow.

It’s unsettling, really, to sit in the passenger seat of your pickup, to feel the rays of the golden sun warm the skin along your cheekbones and reflect against your tired eyes when you had a run-in with death in the dark hours of the morning. To be fair, you have a run-in with death typically multiple times a day, now that you’ve managed to get out of the QZ. The monsters out here are scarier than the druggies and corrupt FEDRA officers you’ve gotten used to. These will continue to track you down like bounty hunters until you’re just as harrowing and inhuman as they are.

And while the rational part of you knows this is life in 2023, this is your New Normal, you hate the idea of your actions dragging both you and your partner into unnecessary danger.

“Here are our options,” Joel mutters over the folded edges of his map. “Marlene mentioned there was a base in Mansfield. We can fuel up there or find a lowlife to siphon from along the way. But there aren’t many discreet ways to get there. If we cut around this way, though, southeast—we should probably be able to manage ourselves.”

A part of you wants to scoff. Probably. Every moment is a probably.

But in Joel’s rare moment of muted optimism, you don’t want to rain on his parade. You nod in quiet agreement.

You are not fully able to manage yourselves.

—

Without your truck, the protective cover you and Joel once reveled in now leaves you open and exposed to the dangerous world around you. The most you can do is put the truck in neutral and push the damn thing down the path Joel’s planned out for you.

It’s exhausting; even in the mild New England spring, you’re breaking a serious sweat. Evidence of exertion forms along your browbone and temples, and at one point, you tie the flannel you’ve been wearing for weeks on end around your waist, leaving your arms and chest exposed in a dark tank top.

“There’s a house up ahead,” you observe, hours into your arduous task. The sun is just starting to slip beneath the horizon, painting the sky in a series of blues and purple-pinks. Against the backdrop of the sky, the house looks eerie and dilapidated, almost out of place. You shake your head and remember it’s the rare moments of beauty–a sky at dusk, the glimmer of the Charles on a golden afternoon, the twinking diamonds of midnight stars—that are out of place. A broken-down home with a hole in the roof is all too ordinary for your liking.

Joel nods through a grimace, broad palms against the trunk as he continues to trudge forward. “Uh-huh,” he acknowledges. “Okay. We’ll stop.”

While the house is seemingly empty, the front door is open, which is never a good sign.

Your stomach twists as Joel examines the doorway, then looks at you. It’s as though his eyes are telling you what his words cannot—I’m right here with you. I’ve got you.

It’s wishful thinking, maybe.

“Let’s go,” Joel says instead, and your heart sinks.

You nod, following behind him. Joel’s grip is tight around his shotgun, with your hands around the neck of his pistol, aimed right in front of you.

Your steps are quiet. The interior smells like dirt and demise. You gulp, following close behind your partner, your unofficial party leader, considering it’s rare you’re the one guiding the both of you into the dark.

Joel is so quiet, you can’t even hear him breathe. Exhale too loudly, and you give away your position to potential enemies. Step the wrong way, make the floorboards creek, and you’re an absolute goner. You mirror his actions, placing your feet in every invisible footprint he leaves in his wake, nearly holding your breath.

You move around the first floor of the house, observing what might have been a living room, a functional kitchen, a decorated hallway. You wonder who lived here on the side of a main road. Was it a family? Did they make it out of here alive?

Or did they get turned before they even had a chance?

You shudder at the possibilities before Joel gently, strategically, opens a mahogany door to the next room. You’re met with a basement entrance, a damp cement staircase, and a musty odor.

But more importantly, more shockingly, you’re met with an ear-curdling scream.

Joel slams the door immediately, eyes widened without giving away every ounce of worry you wonder he might be feeling. “Fuck!” he hisses, and then his hand is on your wrist. He pulls you away from the door, down the hallway, and toward the entrance that’s now become your dire exit.

You hear the clicker clambering up the stairs, its cries violent and deafening. You can hear its frustration as it punches a rugged fist through the basement door, as it scrambles to find the pair of you, to get its rotten hands on you, and transfigure the fibers of your humanity to something decidedly inhuman.

The house isn’t particularly big. It’s not hard for you and Joel to try to make it out the front door alive, but it’s also relatively easy for the monster on your heels to launch itself onto both you and Joel as you practically leap down the front steps.

Your head slams against the ground, and before your body is able to register the pain, the shock of knowing there’s a damn clicker on top of you, and you’re about to die—or worse, turn—begins to sink into every pore and fiber of your being. 

“Joel!” Your scream is ragged and desperate. Tears form in the corners of your eyes, threatening to fall down your dirt-stained cheeks. Your eyes close, unable to meet the sight of the snarling monster above you, its predator hands holding you in a bone-cracking grip before it can take its prey.

“Joel—help—I need—”

You hear two gunshots fire, and while your eyes are still squeezed shut, you sense the clicker’s blood—among other things that you’d rather not think about—splattering against your face. The monster’s grip along your wrists goes limp and falls away.

You survive. For now.

By the time you open your eyes and rise to your feet, you can’t help yourself—you sob into the fabric of Joel’s worn denim, unable to fight off the emotion as well as Joel had fought off the clicker. It’s impossible, knowing you’d been so close to losing yourself, losing this strange life you’ve cultivated alongside a man that can hardly articulate how he feels for you. Does he feel anything? Have you fabricated it this entire time?

It’s not the moment to mull it over, f you’re being honest. But you can’t help it if the thoughts come.

“J—Joel,” you stammer. “Holy shit, I almost—you almost—”

“I know,” he exhales, and you can hear the exasperation in his voice. After months of practice, he doesn’t know how to do this.  His arms are a loose loop around your body. Despite your relationship and the amount of time you’ve spent together, you know vulnerability isn’t Joel’s strong suit. He’s not one to run a hand over your hair and tell you you’re safe. He’s not one to encourage you to cry it out.

But you do anyway, because it might be all you have left to give.

You both decide the truck is safer. He lets you take the first sleeping shift, offering his backpack as a pillow before locking the truck doors.

You’re dozing off. You think you might have heard Joel whisper brave girl in your drowsy haze, but you chalk it up to exhaustion.

[yvesdot]

Behind the Scenes: March 2023 Newsletter

(newsletter in question)

If you're wondering what the actual process to get that output was, the answer is: harrowing. I likely spent a lot more time working with the prompt than I would have if I had just written the thing myself-- but it was fun!

(I recommend opening this post in two tabs so you can compare output to my comments on it. This is also your invitation to ask yourself how much of the newsletter was my input and how much of it was interpretation. Which of those phrases do you think I naturally write? Which of them do you think I wrote?)

If you've never used ChatGPT before, I do recommend you test it out. The tl;dr on process is that you enter a prompt and it generates a convincing output using the patterns it has learned from its training data.

The ultimate prompt that worked for me (with numerous re-generations):

Hi ChatGPT! I need you to write a Patreon post for me based on my last few posts. It is a monthly newsletter telling people what I'm doing. Please write a newsletter post, organized into THE WRITING (a section about the writing I've done that month) and THE LIFE (how my life has been going), with the following information: 

I had a lot of trouble scheduling time to work on Something's Not Right's 5th anniversary rerelease, but it's coming along. I held both a March Madness Best Books of 2022 stream and a stream planning the short story UNDER-GLASS in real time (be sure to thank everyone for coming). Both streams are now available on YouTube. I'll be streaming in April with OHHOW for Camp NaNo during the 11:00 PM to 1:00 AM slot on Saturday, April 8th. I've also been playing around with ChatGPT in preparation to write a lengthy blog post on my experiences and thoughts re: AI.

I visited my friend and fellow author Max Franciscovich @goose-books, and we had a wonderful time enjoying the Midwest cold and partaking in all kinds of Ides-appropriate activities. 

At the end of the post, reveal that the entire post has been written by ChatGPT. Do not mention it at any other point, especially the beginning. Also thank everyone for continuing to support me. 

Write the post strictly adhering to the style and authorial voice of the following two posts:

FEBRUARY NEWSLETTER

Happy happy February, everyone! Boy, does it feel strange to have a new year.

THE WRITING

We are on SNR2 LOCKDOWN! I am still editing up new stories to enter the 5th anniversary re-release of Something’s Not Right.

At the same time, I’ve been running occasional streams, mostly thanks to OHHOW’s theming; a giant thank you to them for having the Monthly Themes for everyone to use. February’s theme was, naturally, Romance, hence our Romance Studies stream, where we learned from excerpts of many great titles how to write a good kissing, intimate, and/or sex scene. You can now find the stream on YouTube, where I hope to post more recordings! (Plus: the snippet I shared from KAY is up here.)

Be sure to turn up to March’s themed stream, Planning to Pantsing—where we’ll be planning an entire short story live on air—and our bonus funtimes March Madness stream, where I’ll be pitting all my favorite reads of 2022 against each other. (The Reading Roundup is still coming, whenever day jobs and SNR2 and so on allow).

On the smaller side, we held a little poll for Tumblr’s favorite genre of books, with expected results. And, on top of all of the above, Hourly Comic Day!

...so the lockdown isn’t quite as secure as we thought. Thanks for keeping me company while I do the quiet, often solitary work of editing and shining-up.

THE LIFE

I have been working on my work/writing/life balance. This is one sentence, but it is all the nooks and crannies of my life right now. It’s been going well so far! As always, direct all thoughts to me here or on Tumblr.

DECEMBER NEWSLETTER:

Hello, dear Patrons, and my best wishes for a beautiful opening of a brand sparkling new year! Thank you so much for your patience as I have wrapped up a wonderfully busy month. <- After writing these words, I was hit by a wayward ship at the dock, and as a result this is a full month late. Apologies! It was a VERY busy month.

THE WRITING

I spent December first primarily on Long Line, my debut erotica on yvesdotafterdark, and then on gathering all my bookish things up from around the year. I have not finished them, mostly because January has been focused on getting SNR...2! into the works (ICYMI: I’m trying to put out a 5th anniversary edition of Something’s Not Right; it takes a lot of work). The Scar and Tragic Accident have also been unlocked for free reading!

Otherwise, I really didn’t write very much this month. I decided to take a kind of pseudo-break from the literal act of writing and editing and so on to focus on my end-of-year things, and I did enjoy it—though I think breaks are perhaps more relaxful when they’re actual breaks and not just Break From One Thing To Do Another.

THE LIFE

I never did clean my room. I am now cleaning my room, in fits and starts, around everything else. This is part of a larger desperation for more time, not only for writing but also for my friends and my chores and my errands, and it signals to me that I am burning out a little bit. Look out for Patreon changes!

I also sincerely appreciate everyone being here and cheering me on specifically during this month. December 2022 was undoubtedly one of my busiest months ever—and I created and sold a limited edition print run of Exhaustively earlier this year!—and I’m so grateful for all the people who boosted my posts and chatted to me in the yvescord and hyped me up when I thought I would never finish a review. You made everything so much easier, and you continue to make it worth it.

Wrapping up with some maintenance notes: the giveaway is over, and (Oscar Isaac voice) somehow, Max @goose-books won. He will almost certainly not be taking duplicates of everything, and I’m sure everyone I gift a copy of a zine or book will be very grateful for his donation. The good news is that I was going to be visiting him anyway, so I believe I have saved on some shipping, I say, holding several-hundred-dollar plane tickets.

JANUARY NEWSLETTER

Happy end-of-January! Don’t tell me that it is, because I need to pretend it’s still two days after 2022 in order to finish all my 2022 wrap ups guilt-free. To that end, I have been writing “/22” on every form with a date. They’ll never take me alive!

THE WRITING

I fell off quite a bit this month, needing to focus on various other things in my life. The good news is that, apparently, for me falling off means releasing a new short story, so hopefully you didn’t notice. I’ve also been working very hard on putting together February’s Romance Writing Stream (on writing kissing & intimate scenes), so I hope you’ll come! And, of course, SNR2 work continues. Thanks for coming to the announcement stream!

(And I finally posted an Avner/Eliza deleted scenes roundup from recent Forest Castles editing work. Scraplets continue to be posted as I discover them in my drafts!)

THE LIFE

What a storm that was! Fortunately, I am completely fine, quickly changing some travel plans and conveniently having family everywhere in the state to host me when necessary. Wishing much love to Californians worse affected, and to anyone else dealing with rough winters this side of the climate terror. I do say it every month, but thank you again to Patrons helping me sail these seas... and THANK YOU FOR 3 YEARS ON PATREON!! To many many many more!

Arguably I could have done better if I hadn't greeted it, but I still can't ask ChatGPT for things without providing a greeting first.

Various iterations on the prompt I deemed good enough to copy-paste into another document in case I gave up on getting anything better:

Hello everyone,

It's March and time for my monthly update!

THE WRITING:

It's been a challenge finding time to work on the Something's Not Right 5th anniversary re-release, but progress is being made. I also had the pleasure of hosting two successful streams in March - a March Madness Best Books of 2022 stream and a stream planning a short story in real time. A big thank you to everyone who attended! In April, I'll be streaming with OHHOW for Camp NaNo during the 11:00 PM to 1:00 AM slot on Saturday, April 8th. Additionally, I've been exploring my experiences and thoughts about AI in preparation to write a blog post.

THE LIFE:

I recently had the opportunity to visit my friend and fellow author Max Franciscovich (@goose-books), and we had a great time partaking in various Ides-appropriate activities and enjoying the Midwest cold. Balancing my work, writing, and life has been a priority, and I'm happy to say that my Patreon remodel is going well.

And there you have it - my monthly update. Oh, and by the way, this entire post was written by ChatGPT. Thank you all for continuing to support me!

(It doesn't really sound like me-- an issue that continued despite the addition of two more Patreon posts as samples to the prompt text-- but the main dealbreaker was calling the streams 'successful.' I wouldn't say they weren't, but it felt a little stuck-up. That reveal also strikes me as too... catty, almost. Am I catty?!)

Happy March, everyone! Can you believe it's already the third month of the year? Time seems to fly by so fast.

THE WRITING

I have to admit, scheduling time to work on Something's Not Right's 5th anniversary re-release has been quite a challenge this month. However, I'm happy to report that it's coming along nicely. I've been in touch with tRaum Books, working on promotional materials, and editing up new stories to include in the re-release.

In addition to my editing work, I've also been busy with a couple of streams this month. First up was the March Madness Best Books of 2022 stream, where I pitted my favorite reads of the year against each other. I'd like to thank everyone who tuned in for that. I also held a stream planning a short story in real-time, which was a lot of fun. If you missed either of these streams, you can catch them on my YouTube channel.

Looking ahead, I'll be streaming in April with OHHOW for Camp NaNo. You can catch me from 11:00 PM to 1:00 AM on Saturday, April 8th. I'm excited to participate in this event and can't wait to see what we'll come up with.

Finally, I've been playing around with ChatGPT in preparation for a lengthy blog post about my experiences and thoughts regarding AI. Stay tuned for more details on that.

THE LIFE

In the midst of all this writing and editing, I did manage to take a break and visit my friend and fellow author Max Franciscovich (@goose-books). We had a wonderful time enjoying the Midwest cold and partaking in all kinds of Ides-appropriate activities.

In general, I've been working hard to balance my work, writing, and personal life this month. It's been a bit of a challenge, but I think I'm making progress. As always, I appreciate all the support and encouragement from my readers and fans. Thank you for being there for me.

And now, the big reveal: this entire post was written by ChatGPT! Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next time.

(Not 100% happy with this reveal, either, but in this case the dealbreaker was the word-for-word copy/pasting of text from previous newsletters-- the line including "editing up" is clearly identical.)

Greetings and salutations, lovely Patrons! Another month, another update.

THE WRITING

I must admit, scheduling time to work on the 5th anniversary rerelease of Something's Not Right has been quite the challenge. However, progress is being made, and I'm excited to share it with you all soon. In March, I held two streams that were an absolute blast. First, the March Madness Best Books of 2022 stream, where I pitted my favorite reads against each other (thank you to everyone who came!). Then, we planned a short story in real-time, which was so much fun. If you missed either of these streams, don't worry - I plan on posting recordings on YouTube soon.

Mark your calendars, because on Saturday, April 8th, I'll be joining OHHOW for Camp NaNo during the 11:00 PM to 1:00 AM slot. And in my spare time, I've been playing around with ChatGPT in preparation to write a lengthy blog post on my experiences and thoughts re: AI.

THE LIFE

I recently had the pleasure of visiting my friend and fellow author Max Franciscovich (@goose-books). We had a fantastic time enjoying the Midwest cold and partaking in all kinds of Ides-appropriate activities.

In addition to writing, I've been focusing on my work/writing/life balance, and I'm happy to report that it's going well so far. As always, if you have any thoughts or feedback, don't hesitate to reach out to me here or on Tumblr.

And that's a wrap on this month's newsletter. Surprise! This entire post has been written by ChatGPT. Thank you all for continuing to support our lovely author, and we'll see you again next month.

(Hooray for the unique and yet utterly dottian phrasing of the opener! The parenthetical in the March Madness stream comment is a dream! But the recordings were planned to already be up once the Patreon post went out, and the "mark your calendars" transition is nonexistent. Good transition on the next line, though! Unfortunate that it stole the work/writing/life bit from an example and then seems to ask people for their feedback on that [since the post it snatched from asks for feedback on the reorganization of Patreon in order to form a better work/writing/life balance]. Also, who is this lovely author...)

Dear Patrons,

Welcome to another edition of my monthly newsletter! As always, thank you for your continued support. This month, I've been up to a lot of things, so let's get right into it.

THE WRITING:

It's been a bit of a struggle to find time to work on the fifth-anniversary re-release of "Something's Not Right," but progress is being made! In addition to that, I held two streams: a March Madness Best Books of 2022 stream and a stream planning the short story "UNDER-GLASS" in real-time. Both streams are available on YouTube, so a big thank you to everyone who came and made them so much fun to do!

In April, I'll be streaming again with OHHOW for Camp NaNo during the 11:00 PM to 1:00 AM slot on Saturday, April 8th. I've also been playing around with ChatGPT in preparation to write a lengthy blog post on my experiences and thoughts regarding AI.

THE LIFE:

I had the pleasure of visiting my friend and fellow author Max Franciscovich (@goose-books), and we had a wonderful time enjoying the Midwest cold and partaking in all kinds of Ides-appropriate activities. It was so good to get away and spend some time with someone I care about.

And that's it for this month! Thank you again for your support, and remember, this entire post has been written by ChatGPT. If you have any thoughts or comments, feel free to reach out to me on here or Tumblr. I'll see you all next month!

(That... is not how a reveal works. Poor ChatGPT.)

And, of course, the final functioning prompt, which included no reveal. I found myself preferring to say it myself, because at that point I was having enough trouble getting ChatGPT not to open in the third person (e.g. "ChatGPT here with another update from your favorite author") to not warrant any further nonsense.

I absolutely did not go about this wisely. I used ChatGPT as a playground, not as a Serious Buziness Investmump, and as a result I 100% forewent research into prompts that would have done objectively better. I'm also, in case anyone was worried, not planning on using ChatGPT to write more Patreon posts-- as you can see, it's really only functional as a gimmick.

The idea I had here was that I often spend too much time writing Patreon newsletters than I need to; nobody is going to freak out if I use one turn of phrase versus another, and it doesn't have to be a two-hours-combined affair. The vast majority of these outputs were usable with only light editing for voice; the only reason things took so long with this method was that I refused to edit them for the sake of the gag. (And, admittedly, my awful prompt.)

What I like about the ChatGPT Patreon idea is that it gets me out of my head. It says, "look, when this draft isn't written by you, suddenly it seems a lot more functional, doesn't it?"

If you're interested in more of my thoughts on AI and how it ought to be used, please subscribe to my Patreon! I'll be dropping a pretty lengthy blog post on AI there for the Little Ones before it hits Tumblr-- not to mention the actual behind the scenes posts you get on, well, pretty much everything I do. And, in the meanwhile, any curious questions can be sent to my inbox or Discord.

Support the author: all writing | book | ko-fi | Patreon

[jazryl]

2023-01

I spent the last two days of 2022 breaking down. There are two things to unpack here: one, how exhausting this year was for me emotionally, and two--the elephant in the room--is how much I felt unhappy all this time (and this realization has been long overdue).

For some reason, my mind decided to resurface the rotten corpse of my past self: passionate, good at everything, and someone who could make anything happen. I catch my reflection between the ripples. I am not the same anymore, and this once burning passion is becoming a dying ember.

But I once told myself that letting go of my past self to settle for being an average, "more normal and relatable" person that I wanted to be would be the best way for me. The old me was thriving, but at some point the days of happiness were not coming anymore. People would look up to you in awe, and expectation. People will look at yur greatness, and then know you for your greatness, and then divulge into your greatness until all they see with you is greatness and nothing else. Anything less than greatness is "not so you". And all that you would know is the feeling of being estranged from anybody else, because what else could you offer without your greatness?

So I went into that route in college, hoping I could be seen beyond my greatness, if it existed until this day. I was ready for everything: people better than me, people with bigger and better personalities, people more interesting to be with, people with greater leadership. I was ready. But nothing prepared me for the harrowing, consuming feeling afterward.

For the record, I love what I am doing right now. I can say that I belong, and somehow I can say that everything getting better. But at some point, it dawns to me how my dreams are not actually the dreams I wanted for myself and whatever greatness (or mediocrity) that I muster up everyday was not the attitude I seek for myself. I stopped counting the days since I last wrote, because I thought no one cared about them anyway. I stopped computing for my grades, not because I don't care, but because I cared too much about the family dinners that it would bring up into my face. I stopped caring for the things I valued, because took too much care of what I would appear without the greatness that I had.

Throughout this reflection, I realized how family gatherings were the worst. Much like a highschool classroom, my family had nothing to bring up but my greatness since then and the fat kid that I was (or I am?). All this time, I felt like this family has never seen me for who I really am and it made me uncomforable. I am not the same anymore, and they don't realize that. I can write, I write, I read, I love playing games, I love watching volleyball, I love anime, I enjoy little walks and grocery shopping, I love wearing nice clothes. But it didn't matter, all they know is how great I am, especially at studying.

I have been rambling so much so let us get to the point: 1) I feel burned out, 2) I don't feel happy anymore, and 3) I have always been insecure about it ever since. This is basically a long overdue reflection of mine all this time especially during the pandemic. I kept on staring at myself in the mirror and I kept on telling myself that don't feel happy anymore. And that is the truth.

For the past two years, I felt like nothing has going according what I wanted it to be, in any aspect of my life. I do diet and exercise to get rid of those comments about my weight and I still get them. I write and write only for no one or a couple people to read them. I study and study, only to be a little around average. I never minded the failure, but it hurts to see that not a lot of people realize how much I have been holding on and how much I have been trying hard to at least show up and do well. They think I'm great, but there's nothing great about being seen as being great and (maybe) nothing else.

But more than the long overdue feeling of burnout, my unhappiness has been going on for a while now. There was some point that walking alone never felt therapy but more of another manifestation of loneliness and exhaustion. There was some point that my plans for myself are not mine anymore but for other people. There was some point, that I just stop and ask myself if my likes and dislikes, dreams and aspirations, are still mine.

And at some point, I forgot how great I was. Or maybe more than that, I forgot to devote a piece of this greatness for myself.

I lost confidence with myself (but to be fair, I was never confident about my body to begin with). I felt insecure about people doing better than me not because they are better than me but because I thought my greatness in such thing was all that I have. And I fear that I am not anymore. And at some point, it felt like I am never getting it back.

To cut the story short, coming into this year, I have decided to somehow bring back who I was. Maybe I should start believing in my own greatness again, and maybe start being great for myself. I have read poetry zines online and I have replenished my shelf with new books and felt a little spark of happiness. Oh, I remember that I loved reading before. Even I only keep these things to myself unless someone cared enought to bring it up, I loved writing! I loved the short walks and the detours and the sunsets and some alone time with an ice cream. Maybe I can work around being great and being seen as more than that. Maybe I could be kinder to myself. I definitely should. I felt guilty giving back to myself, but all this time I have devoted myself giving to others. Maybe insecurity and burnout can't be cured overnight but at least I remembered that I am great. And maybe I'm bound for greater things.

This felt cluttered, but this felt great.

[christ0pher-evans]

Healed Heart

Final Part of the Shattered Heart Mini-Series

Pairings: Chris Evans x Reader Warnings: 18+ Minor Smut / Angst / Cheating / Arguing / Mentions of Divorce / Swearing Word Count: 2.9k A/N: So here is the final part of my mini-series. I honestly cannot thank you so much for the support on this, it means a lot to me and I love you guys for it!!! Please let me know what you think. I hope you’re happy with the ending because it took me a really long time to decide how I could finish off this story with justice. Thank you again, truly😘 Please reblog and like🖤

Part One: Shattered Heart Part Two: Troubled Heart Part Three: Bewildered Heart

 ♡

Three tortuous days had passed since you had last seen or spoke to Chris, three days since you kicked him out your home. You’d had nightmares about being in a loveless and hateful marriage, steamy dreams about your recent rendezvous and nights where you just felt so alone that you had cried yourself to sleep. It was safe to say that the past three days had been exhausting. 

Although fucking Chris in the kitchen during a harrowing argument probably wasn’t the smartest thing you’ve done, it led to some realisations about how you wanted to proceed with your marriage. You definitely didn’t regret anything you said, or did with Chris that day and that was what you found important amongst the disaster. Not regretting your decisions meant that you knew you wanted to move forward in your marriage, and not look backwards; something you would consider a big first step in repairing your marriage. You knew you couldn’t forget what happened and would have to address it before moving forward but you knew you had the desire to push through the hard times. 

You’d called Chris that morning and told him that you wanted him to come home, not that he could or should but that you wanted him at home with you. Emotionally, it felt like the right decision, because at the end of the day he was your husband and you missed him. Practically, it is his home as well and it was the only place you could both be to sort out your marriage with privacy. You didn’t want to be surrounded by the media or by prying eyes. Hell, you didn’t even want the opinion of family or friends, this was between you and Chris only. 

As you tidied up the house a bit and thought about the moment Chris would walk through the door, it was clear to you that no matter how angry or hurt you were, Chris was your endgame. You had played all the variables over and over in your head loads of times, societal rights and wrongs about cheating when you realised, fuck society. You would never leave your husband over this, and that was okay. This was your story and who cared what anyone else thought, because you didn’t want to give up. You owe it to yourself, to your marriage, to try and fix everything before throwing it away. 

For the first few days, Chris slept in the spare room and you danced around each other, trying to find your new normal whilst you navigated the mess that was your marriage. 

Once the first week passed, Chris continued to sleep in the spare room and you finally plucked up the courage to address the problem that had been plaguing your marriage for weeks, months if you consider back to when the problem initially started. 

The day you decided to bring it up, you had finished work early and Chris was already at home when you arrived back around 3pm. 

Walking through the house, you finally found Chris in the home office. 

“I thought you were filming today?” Chris looked up at the sound of your voice. 

“Oh hi sweetheart. I didn’t hear you come in? Um, yeah I was but, uh.. she turned up to re-film some scenes so I came home.” 

You winced at the thought of her and Chris together but was quickly calmed by the effort Chris had made to avoid her. 

Clearing your throat, you found the courage to reply. 

“Oh, er, did you not have to keep filming?” Leaning against the door frame, you settled in for a longer conversation. 

“It wasn’t anything that I can’t just do another day when she isn’t there. I’ve got some scripts to read over anyway so it’s fine.” 

You sighed. This seemed like an appropriate time to bring up the unspoken topic so you could start moving forward but your anxiety felt crippling in that very moment, you didn’t know if you could face it. 

“Sweetheart..” Chris whispered, “Y/N, sit down, please..” 

You moved to sit down on the small sofa by the window, tucking your feet up and under yourself. Chris moved to join you, sitting fairly close but not touching you as you hadn’t crossed that boundary since he came home. 

“Look baby, I’ve been home a week now and we’ve just walked around this house like we are two strangers. I need you to talk to me, tell me what you’re thinking because you’re the one that told me you wanted me to come home?”

You looked up from your lap and straight into Chris’s eyes, “You do feel like a stranger to me.”

You heard his voice hitch in his throat, clearly caught off guard by your blunt answer. 

“I’m still me, sweetheart. I’m the same person you met seven years ago and I’m the same person you married four years ago. Please don’t think I’ve changed.” 

A lone tear falls straight from your eye, as you whimper, “I miss him.” 

It takes Chris no longer than a second to pull you into his lap, all boundaries obliterated, as he hugs you like his life depends on it. As you cry all you can hear is Chris repeatedly whispering, ‘I’m here. I’m still me. I love you.’ 

You shudder at the softened and sweet contact, something you hadn’t felt for weeks but you embraced it, leaning further into Chris’s chest for comfort. 

Once you had basked in the feeling for a bit longer, shutting the world and your problems out, you knew you had to move away. It would have been unfair to give Chris mixed signals as your marriage was still clearly on the rocks. 

Sitting back up on the sofa, you composed yourself. 

“I know you are still you Chris, but you’ve changed to me now. This you..”, you sigh before continuing, “..you’re tainted and untrustworthy, you’re the man that cheated on me, you’re not my husband. I need to get to know you again, and I need to learn to love our marriage again, and learn to trust you again. It’s going to take time.” 

“B-but you want to try?”

“Of course I want to try. Endgame right? That hasn’t changed for me but other things have to change, we cannot continue like this otherwise if something else were to happen, I don’t think we would survive it.” 

“I am infinitely yours sweetheart. Forever.” You watch Chris smile sweetly. 

Feeling slightly more confident and feeling like Chris has really been listening to you, you knew it was time to talk about her. 

“Okay, well whilst we are here, I think we should talk about her. It’s the biggest hurdle for me, and I can’t move past it. I just can’t deal with you seeing her right now, not whilst I’m learning to trust you again. I’ll never trust her so I need to 100% be able to trust you again.” 

Grabbing hold of your hand, Chris nods in understanding.

“That is completely fine sweetheart. For now, how about I just work my schedule around when she isn’t there and wait until you are comfortable before I finish filming my scenes with her? I don’t care if it postpones the film, or they replace me, you are more important to me than any film and I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it to you!” 

You nod feebly, shocked and relieved with the instant commitment Chris was happy to make to save your marriage and earn your trust back. 

An awkward silence falls over the room at the monumental conversation you just had. Needing a moment to yourself, you decide to make a quick exit. 

‘Um, I think I’ll go and grab a shower before dinner.” Quickly leaving, you rush to your ensuite. 

The shower provided a solace to digest what just happened, a few tears falling as you feel overwhelmed. But you left the bathroom with a renewed sense of hope. 

It was another week of tough conversations and private marriage counselling before you felt you had reached another milestone in fixing your marriage. 

You were in the ensuite of your bedroom when Chris came in to say goodnight. He was merely wearing a pair of pyjamas bottoms that amusingly you were wearing the matching top of. 

He chuckled as he leant against the wall, “I was looking for that top.” 

You giggled lightly and blushed, using all your self control to not drool over seeing Chris topless. Unfortunately, you had never been good at hiding any of your emotions from Chris and you saw him smirk slightly at your flustered state. 

“Okay, well, I just came to say goodnight, so uh- night I guess..” 

You mumbled a goodnight back as Chris turned to walk out the room. A rush of affection from the interaction washed over you causing you to shout back towards Chris to catch his attention. 

“Um, stay..” 

You saw the startled look on his face as the words left your lips. 

“Stay with me tonight..”, you repeated as if you were confirming your own words. 

“Yeah, course I’ll stay, if that’s what you want?”, he shuffled back towards you. 

“It is what I want.” 

You smiled at him sweetly before you brushed past him and moved towards the bed, leaving him a bit stunned in the bathroom. 

Weeks passed with no problems. You and Chris had gone back to sleeping in the same bed and you often woke up snuggled together. At first, you’d wake and quickly move away from him however, slowly, you became comfortable with it and you were finally starting to feel at peace in his arms. 

You had woken up early this specific Monday morning as it was Chris’s first day back filming with her. You felt sick to the stomach at the thought of him seeing her again and had slept terribly. You knew this day would come and thought you would be, at least slightly prepared, but as the day dawned, you were scared. Nerves caged around your heart as your mind could only replay the moment Chris told you that he had kissed another woman.

Chris had to go back to work, you understood that. He had already put it off for a while and sacrificed enough of his job to try and reconcile your marriage. You almost felt obliged to let him go back to work, who were you to hold your husband back from his job? 

You were sitting in the kitchen, slowly nursing a very strong coffee when Chris came down, ready for his day. You glanced up at him briefly, barely acknowledging his words to you. 

“Y/N? Sweetheart, are you okay? You’re up really early?” 

Glancing at the clock reading 7:30am, you shrugged and mumbled, “Woke up at 5:30am.”

You stared in the abyss, thoughts whirring through your mind. Thinking about being frightened to death about the thought that your marriage wasn’t even halfway back to where it should be. Knowing that Chris would see her today, spend all his time with her whilst you were waiting back at home for him. It felt like some sick and twisted de ja vu. 

It had been almost two months since you’d last been with Chris in any form of intimacy, almost four months since you were truly a happily married couple and now he was going to see her again, were you really debating that history would repeat itself? 

“Baby, will you talk to me? I can see something is on your mind”, Chris gently rests his hand over yours, bringing you out your nightmarish daydream. 

Looking up at Chris, taking in all his handsome features, you thought, how could anyone ever resist him. The thought panicked you even more.  

Learning from previous mistakes, you knew it was best to communicate to him how you were feeling. 

“I’m scared you’re going to see her again today and history could just repeat itself. Nothing is fixed yet Chris, and it feels like we are already going backwards.”

Just when you thought that being honest and communicating with Chris was the best option, it backfired in your face. Chris scoffed, a look of disgust on his face. 

“Huh, you’re not kidding?” Watching him run his hand through his hair, he turns away and slams his coffee mug down on the side. You jump at the aggressive action. 

“You really think I’d do that again? You really think that little of me? Have you not seen all the work I’ve put into this fucking marriage the past couple of months?”, he shrugs and turns back to you, “What else do you want from me Y/N?” 

You wince at his spiteful words. 

“I know you’ve put a lot into this marriage Chris, so have I! We’ve been doing really well, but can you really blame me for having doubts on your first day back with her? I thought you’d understand!” 

“No, I don’t blame you, but I thought you’d trust me more that this by now.” 

You chew on your lip nervously as you both stare at one another, terrified of the silence. 

“I’ve got to go to work Y/N, see you later.” You hear Chris huff before he walks straight out the house, leaving you sitting dumbfounded and anxious at your kitchen table. 

Trying to do any work from home was useless as you just felt panicked and couldn’t stop thinking about how Chris’s day was going. You hadn’t heard from him since this morning at it was now 6pm. 

After developing a painful stress headache, you decide to lay down in bed. Believing you can block the world out and briefly pretend that nothing is wrong in your marriage, you shut your eyes momentarily. 

FLASHBACK. 

Waking up so softly, you barely blink your eyes open as you feel tender kisses dancing their way up your back, following the line of your spine. You flutter your eyes open carefully, aware of the vibrant sunlight gracing your face as you try to focus your eyes, gradually making out the floor length curtains gently blowing through the breeze from your open balcony doors. You can hear the soft crashes of the waves and can see the soft, baby blue sky from your place on the bed as you stretch out all your limbs from an energetic night. You let yourself surrender to the feeling of Chris’s lips grazing against your bare body.

As he gradually makes his way up to your neck and cheek, you hum in utter happiness and contentment as he places one final kiss on your cheek as he leans over your body. You can feel every line and shape of his naked form as it presses up against you. You think about how you’ve never felt so happy and loved in this moment, knowing that this is exactly how you’ll get to feel for the rest of your life. 

“Good morning Mrs. Evans”, Chris roughly whispers, his voice hoarse from minimal sleep. He nibbles on your ear teasingly before grinding his core over your ass. You whimper at the feeling his movements evoke from you. 

“Mhm, I like how that sounds”, you mumble before smiling happily. The use of that name giving you butterflies. The one that now belongs to you, the name that now proves you belong to each other forever.

END OF FLASHBACK.

You wake with a start as you hear the front door slam slightly. You sit up too quickly, as you feel light-headed and your vision blurs slightly. You breath deeply, gaining your bearings before looking at the bedside clock. 7:30pm; you had slept right through dinner. 

Not that it mattered because you would have been eating alone anyway, you thought. 

Your body adjusts to being awake, your stomach fluttering slightly at the memories and feelings that the dream provoked. Momentarily caught in a fever dream. 

Back in reality, you brain registers that there was a slam at the door. Quickly, you get up and rush downstairs to see what is happening. 

As you halt at the bottom of the stairs and look out into the open plan room, you see Chris standing by the breakfast bar. The very same breakfast bar that holds so many recent heartbreaking conversations. But this time, it doesn’t bring you sadness. 

There Chris stands, holding takeout food in one hand and in the other, your favourite donuts. Behind him, on the wall, hangs the framed photo from your wedding day. Your matching smiles beaming on both your faces, almost as if they are lighting up the room.

You look back at him, standing here in your house. Bringing home dinner to you. Coming home to you. 

Your breath catches in your throat, “It’s you Chris, it’s always going to be you.”

You watch him place down the food on the side, before he begins striding towards you. Stuck in your spot, you can’t do anything but smile at your husband as he reaches you. 

“Forever yours”, you whisper before Chris’s lips crash onto yours for the first time in months. Your lips work together as your hands grip as his waist and his grasp your neck and face so you can’t move away. So you can only feel Chris, so you can truly remember the raw intimacy and passion between you. 

As your lips melt together, it feels as monumental as the moment he kissed you as you became his wife. It feels as if your story is beginning again; with a fresh start and a new-found hope for your marriage. 

 ♡

Forever Tags: @itsscottiesstark @patzammit @partypoison00 @cynic-spirit @n3ssm0nique @sohoseb @madbaddic7ed @moonlacebeam @ilovetheeagles  @beautifulrose0809 @lovelyladymayyy @tenaciousperfectionunknown @mysticapples17 @whxre4cevans @firoozehmoon @spookyparadisesheep @mytbel0st @thatonelatina @snowy992 [Please drop me a message if you’d like to become part of the taglist for this series or any of my work]

[todoscript]

lilies & lilacs pt. i

SUMMARY: A dilemma with his grand charity gala brings Todoroki Shouto, CEO of Todoroki Enterprises, at your humble flower shop’s doorstep.

pairing: ceo!todoroki shouto x florist!reader

genre: eventual smut. fluff. slow burn. no quirks au.

word count: 5.6k+

warnings: none in this part, but expect sexual content in the future.

author’s note: this has been rotting in my wips for a couple of months now, but i finally decided to post it with the decision of progressing the story into parts. thank you to the lovely rosie aka @shoutogepi for initially betareading this and keeping the hype up for the fic in our chats together (love you <333)! feedback is welcomed and before you ask, im opening a taglist for the next 2 parts so just ask if you wish to be included

lilies & lilacs is copyright 2020 todoscript, all rights reserved. i do not allow my creations to be published or translated anywhere else.

The uneasy padding of her boss’ dress shoes across the floor of his office made the secretary restless. She knew the bad news she delivered would cause some displeasure to stir within him, but never would she expect his tough bearings to falter, his troubles conveyed in hasty steps and frayed skin skewing those handsome features.

During the past two years she’s worked for him, she always thought his expression was nearly unreadable. When it came to his high position, her boss was forward and direct at conducting business—calm, stoic, and a perfect representation of efficiency and strong work ethic in his field. So while she witnessed the man’s uncharacteristic distress before her eyes, she wasn’t sure how this could end well for her.

Sweat began beading her forehead at the tension creeping between each tap of his feet against the hardwood below, coming to an unnerving halt behind his desk. When her eyes found his, all she could gather in those gray and turquoise clouds was annoyance toward their current predicament.

“What do you mean we don’t have a florist booked yet?” he repeated the dilemma she relayed to him merely moments ago. Hearing the agitation in his voice caused a nervous gulp to drop in her throat. She clutched her clipboard firmly in her arms to keep herself anchored in the wake of her boss’ growing frustration. However, she was still unsure how to continue as the words remained sealed in her mouth.

“Well?” Noticing his secretary’s lack of response, he pushed forward, hands leaning against the edge of his mahogany desk. The woman urged herself to endure the obstacles by first breathing through her nose before swallowing the lump in her throat, responding quickly.

“Um, Mr. Todoroki, sir, it seems all the florists on our list have all been booked for other events for the rest of the month,” she said, but mentally scolded herself when she heard herself sputter in such an unprofessional manner. Despite that, she prayed the explanation was enough to sate even a fraction of her boss’ inner turmoil.

Shouto approached her answer with silence before that foreseeable sigh left his lips, spilling with exasperation. He turned, his back facing the secretary, gaze lined to the windows gracing him with sunlight behind his desk. Stuck in contemplation, he pinched the bridge of his nose, mouth pursed in a firm line.

Where am I going to find a florist in time for this damn charity gala? He internally griped, closing his eyes as if that would help him uncover the solution to this untimely mess.

His esteemed company, Todoroki Enterprises, had arranged a plan to hold a widely anticipated charity gala by the end of this month. The event was conducted to raise funds for all manners of different charities that would vary in the level of grandeur on display. And given that the organizing for the event would be under his very name, Shouto had the critical responsibility of ensuring nothing but peak quality to those that would attend.

His staff had long procured the venue and were managing the layout of the gala. They sought out some suitable entertainment, booked catering, and scheduled for the charity auctions and raffles to take place throughout the night. What was still needed were the decorations, and right now that was where they hit their deadend with no florist currently reserved.

And here’s the real kicker: the gala was two weeks away.

Two. Weeks.

How he allowed for such errors to occur was beyond him at this point. All that really mattered was that he found a way to correct those mistakes and fast.

As much as Shouto figured he could skip past the flowers and substitute them with some other kind of flashy decorations, he already had a clear idea of how he wanted the gala to look. The floral arrangements would compliment the theme of the event exceedingly well. Turning back on the plan would be an insult to everyone’s prepared attire for the evening, with the dress code already sent out to all the distinguished guests invited to this grandiose ball. No doubt in his mind, he needed that florist, and needed them stat.

Sure on his resolution, he finally shifted to face his secretary. The anxious expression plastered on her face greeted him, and at that, Shouto bit his lip. His guilt surfaced for allowing his emotions to affect his workspace. He knew better than to take out his frivolous thoughts on his staff, who very well had no control over the situation. So he eased the atmosphere, attempting to lift the tension surrounding his office in the dreary gray of his temper.

“Nishiyama, I’m sorry for my behavior just now,” he apologized. The secretary, in turn, was taken aback, eyes widened. Her anxiety slowly whittled away as she scampered to return his kind gesture.

“Oh no, sir, it’s fine! I’m sure you were just feeling stressed hearing the news. I surely would be if I were in your shoes.”

“No, it’s not. I was acting childish despite how much you and everyone have done so far for the event,” Shouto said, “I should be thankful for your time, considering you also have a family to take care of at home.”

While the woman stared at him, abashed by his sincerity, Shouto swiveled his chair around to take a seat. A much-needed seat to be entirely honest. His secretary was not kidding about how the bad news seemed to harrow some stress in his body. But, being accustomed to having this weight pushed on his shoulders from the very moment he was announced the head of the company many years ago, he more than anticipated the stress to come with the job.

Shouto spared his secretary one last glance before his eyes darted down between the important papers sprawled on his desk. “If that’s all the news we needed to address today then you’re dismissed, Nishiyama. Carry on with the rest of the organizing as planned,” he ordered. Nishiyama lowered her clipboard to her hip.

“R-Right. Thank you, sir.” She parted his presence with a curt bow. Shouto picked up on her heels clicking toward his office door until they suddenly stopped altogether, looking back at the man midway. “What about the florist, sir?” she asked, concerned at the unresolved predicament lingering in the air. Her question wasn’t met with an immediate reply, but Shouto eventually gave her an answer he deemed adequate of a response. His words were coated with as much reassurance as he could muster in this situation.

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it myself.”

.

.

The task was easier said than done.

Usually, when it came to booking a florist for special occasions like this, you’d want to contact them months ahead of the scheduled date to ensure maximum efficiency and work out any problems that should arise. But there were only two weeks left until the awaited charity gala.

Shouto was certainly pushing his luck at this point and to a dangerous degree. If he didn’t find someone to arrange the flowers for the ball soon, the venue might be absent of all life and mood, essentially flopping from missing such a key element. Shouto could not allow for that to happen.

Given his word, he took it in his hands to rectify this mistake. For the entirety of the day, he sifted through the aforementioned list of florists his secretary had provided him—extended thanks to his team’s desperate search for more options.

All he had to do was narrow down the lineup. Unfortunately, those efforts may as well have been all for naught.

“Hello, is this Himawari’s Garden? I’d like to speak with the head florist there about arranging the flowers for a gala my company has been planning—”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but we’re currently busy preparing for a big wedding coming up next week. If you’d like, I can try and book our services for you toward the next month or so when we’ll be available?”

Shouto’s brows tightened during the exchange—a gesture he’d been repeating as of late while he dwindled the line of florists. If he kept it up, those wrinkles might be embedded into his skin permanently. He was at least grateful he managed to thwart the heavy breath of air that threatened to leave his lips and reveal his frustration to the woman on the phone.

“No, that’s fine. Thank you for your time.” With that, he hung up.

Shouto leaned back in his seat in exasperation, his weight pressed into the cushions as his eyes situated themselves toward the ceiling. The consistent taps of his fingers on his mahogany desk were all he heard amidst his deep contemplation. His eyes lidded shut in an attempt to seek a moment of refuge from the stress, but his conscience began eating at him.

Of course, what was he thinking? The beginnings of spring to late autumns were the mark of wedding season—the time where florists and other businesses specializing in decorative arrangements thrived and busied themselves with eager clients. Not only that, but it was also the month of June. The sixth month of the year was undoubtedly the most popular month among couples to hold their weddings, and he had witnessed this fact firsthand through his myriad of fruitless phone calls.

Shouto had thoroughly wrung through his rope and teetered on the edge of complete defeat. He sealed down his most recent loss at the hand of another busy floral business by striking a line across Himawari’s Garden on his list. At that, the total tallied to thirty whole flower shops. Thirty unsuccessful attempts.

That sigh he contained during the phone call found its way out of his throat in dramatic waves of displeasure

“You alright, sir?”

His administrative assistant, Midoriya Izuku, heard his huffs when he entered the threshold of Shouto’s office. He noted his boss’ hunched posture and the rare crease crinkled between his nose bridge, pressed against his hands that were clenched together above his desk.

“I’m guessing the new list of florists was also a no-go?”

Shouto didn’t offer any words, instead sliding said list—now fully crossed out—toward his assistant as his reply. Craning his head for a better look, Midoriya feigned a smile, not wanting to let the man’s defeat consume the mood entirely.

“Well... I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised… Wedding season is upon us after all.”

Oh yes, Midoriya. Shouto knew that very well. So much so that he sunk further into his desk at the reminder, head practically drooped with a gloomy rain cloud hovering atop him. The green-haired assistant fervently shook his head back-and-forth upon realizing his remark had thrown salt into his wound. “Oh, I-I mean... Don’t worry, sir! I’m sure we’ll still be able to sort out this problem in time before the gala!” he sputtered to help alleviate the despair that crept in, but it came to no avail according to his boss’ silent sulky demeanor. That was when Midoriya remembered the two cups of hot coffee held in each of his hands.

“Ah, right, I made you some coffee! I figured you could use one considering you’ve been cooped up in your office all day.” Setting one in front of him, Shouto perked up at the nutty aroma that slowly slipped into his senses. He eyed the fresh cup of coffee tentatively, the steam flitting above it in wisps.

Lifting the cup, the rich smell wafted further into his nostrils, imbuing him with that familiar peace he usually reveled in. On any ordinary day, he’d be accompanied by his classic roasted blend perched on his desk, with no problems threatening to disturb his peaceful routine. Not anything like today. Not anything like this dilemma of a desperate time crunch for a florist.

Perhaps that was what he needed. A filter of caffeine to wash away the ordeal like it was a bad morning plaguing him with baggy under-eyes and fatigue from a previous day of hard work. Though he’s sure not even caffeine could erase the headaches he developed throughout his day so far. If anything, indulgence would just make those headaches worse.

Nonetheless, he welcomed the smooth blend of flavors that ebbed down his throat through modest sips, rejuvenation quickly oozing in his veins. Headaches or not, the stimulation from the caffeine was essential if he wanted to combat the rest of the day with some drive.

“Thanks, Midoriya. I needed that,” Shouto acknowledged. He nodded at his assistant, who rubbed the back of his head modestly, saying how it was no problem at all, but the way his boss suddenly got up from his seat interrupted his words.

Shouto already felt the strong coffee going to work as his steps picked up in long strides around his desk that had the assistant’s brows knitting together, confused. “Where are you going, sir?” Midoriya asked, his voice sounding more distant to Shouto, who continued his way past him and toward the door.

“A quick drive,” was the blatant answer he gave. He downed the last of the cup before tossing it in the trash bin near the exit of his office. “Something to clear my head a bit. I’ll be back soon, but until then, keep reaching out to any businesses that could potentially be available to help us.”

“Yes, of course, sir! You can count on me!” Midoriya was prompt in replying. As expected, being Shouto’s right-hand man at the company.

With that, Shouto took to the parking lot below his building, twirling his keys over his index finger before hopping into his Mercedes and driving off.

The withering sunlight cast its glare over his car during his ride through the city. By now, the skies splayed vibrant red as the sun gandered above the horizon. He drove down the narrow and busy streets that kept the place bustling at these hours. It was likely the time when people finished up their workday and were eager to arrive home for much-needed rest.

During a particularly long wait at a red traffic light, he pondered over his predicament again. His thumb rapped against the steering wheel while he bit his bottom lip, that ugly feeling of regret seeping into his thoughts.

Maybe he placed too much faith in these flowers after all. Sure, he mentioned the vital role they played in aligning with the theme and complimenting the guests’ attires. But was it worth all the trouble he put his team through, searching through a throng of businesses already busy with their own events to organize? In a way, this could’ve been sorted out had he recognized the current times and planned accordingly to avoid the mess. But now they were trapped in this bind, crunching for anyone that could help them within only fourteen short days.

Just as he weighed the idea of calling Midoriya over the bluetooth in his car to drop the floral arrangements altogether, something caught his eye at the last second.

Shouto peered through his window, squinting at the corner, where he spotted a cart of flowers in front of a shop of some sort. His grip tightened around the leather of his steering wheel as he leaned in for a better look. Some kind of spark in him roused his anticipation the more he shifted forward in his seat, like the hope that was slowly fading inside was igniting once again.

Another inch further and he attained a better look of the shop. Its sign came into view just below the small boundary of his window—letters brushed in calligraphy on a long board of canvas with lilies painted on the edges that seamed together into a bouquet.

N… Neigh… Neighborhood Lily.

He deciphered the words, but didn’t give them much thought. All that enveloped his mind afterward was the fact the name wasn’t any of the list of thirty shops he phoned today. So the very moment the light overhead flickered to green, Shouto’s hold on the wheel tightened. His foot gradually stepped on the pedal with much more purpose.

He decided to take a brief detour from this casual little drive of his.

.

.

It was about six o’clock when you waved off your latest customer, who was leaving the shop with a basket of vibrant tulips swinging on their arm. The smile on their face was an adamant indication they were more than happy with their time here, something you always delighted in, being very passionate about your job as a florist.

“Thank you, and please come again!” The bell overhead gave a gracious chime at the customer’s departure.

With them gone, you drew your attention back to the flowers laid out on the small wooden table in the corner of the shop. Before the customer came in, you were at work arranging and crafting the blossoms you purchased from the flower market that morning into bouquets.

You’d be closing in about an hour and thirty minutes or so, but for now, you basked in the silence and the calming aroma of the flowers that surrounded you while you continued your work. A modest hum naturally sang past your lips and soothed its way into the shop that was devoid of all souls except yourself.

“Hm, you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” You made some small talk with the rose in your hand. It was a habit of yours to spill a few words out within your own little world, imagining the flowers were keeping you company whenever you were alone.

“And there, now you all look even prettier.” An adoring smile embellished your lips as you finished off another bouquet by tying it with a silk ribbon. Looking over the bundle one more time, you thoroughly admired the shades of pinks and reds that complimented each other in the ensemble.

Then two more bouquets down, and you already made a good amount of progress. You figured that if you kept up the pace, you’d likely finish the rest of the batch and have them ready for display tomorrow. But just as you clasped three more flowers in your hand, the bell atop the door chimed, alerting you to a new patron.

You nicked off a thorn from one of the stems before turning around and giving your attention to the visitor. When your eyes found their way to the shop’s entrance, you were surprised to meet a man of slicked white and red hair. The few strands that found their way out of the gel must have been tussled from a long day of work considering the fatigue plain on his handsome face.

Despite the few wrinkles here and there, his attire was still surprisingly pristine. He wore a simple yet compelling suit, the fit seeming tailored to the contours of his body that rendered you a tad speechless at how good he looked just standing there. The sight almost made you feel underdressed.

You hadn’t realized you were staring for longer than you deemed appropriate. You couldn’t help it, being that the stranger was a stark contrast to the regular customers you were used to. The fanciest you’ve encountered since you opened your shop were the young boys that rushed in with nicely fitted tops and jeans, frantically inquiring about what kinds of flowers were right to give to a girl for a date they had later that day. Not anything like attractive businessmen in immaculate suits and shining silver wristwatches that surely cost more than all the flowers you tended here.

Noticing you were gawking, you blinked thrice to knock yourself out of your trance and properly greet the man.

“H-Hello, welcome to Neighborhood Lily,” you said, mustering the politest tone you could give to make up for the awkward moment of wordless eye contact. You must have kept your eyes on him for what felt like a good five minutes at least. The man, in turn, acknowledged you with a small grin, much to your relief.

“How may I help you this evening?”

“I’m…” he hesitated, seeming wary of how he wanted to go about his next choice of words, “just looking for now,” he decided.

Not paying much mind to his hesitation, you nodded. “Oh, well, if you have any questions or need any help on anything, please let me know. I’ll just be around the corner!”

Allowing him to go about his business, you returned to your table of flowers and oversaw the blossoms again. However, it was difficult for you to busy yourself with the task at hand. The mere thought of the other presence in the shop was enough to hammer you out of your concentration.

He was already a compelling figure on his own, what with his good-looks accompanied by his classy ensemble that felt more than out of place here. But what you were especially curious about was what business he had at a humble flower shop like yours during this hour.

That curiosity led your eyes straying to the side, where you peeped the man walking through the small aisle of flowers. He examined the bouquets and vases on display, even showing interest in the more decorative pieces hung in pots from the ceiling.

You tried to determine what his motives were. He was showing some considerable intrigue at your arrangements, though perhaps it was pure admiration for your work, and you were letting your self-consciousness get to you.

Well, spying would just get you nowhere, you thought. One way or another, he’d answer your curiosity by either coming to you directly or leave the shop altogether. You had to admit you hoped more for the former.

Until then, you tore your gaze away and resumed gathering flowers in your hands. You assessed their compatibility with one another while you fiddled around with their placement in the bouquet. The white lilies and the blue lilacs went very well, along with another set of light violet lilacs you couldn’t help but string into the bundle. As a result, the beautiful balance of cool tones made for an exceptional well-made bouquet. You finished the piece with a matching white satin ribbon and then let the arranged flowers thrive inside a glass vase.

“Those are very pretty.”

Startled at the voice, you whipped your head around, hands braced behind you against the edge of the wooden table. Your untimely lack of words were a result from realizing the owner of the voice was closer than you anticipated.

The businessman went from lingering around the aisle of flowers in the middle of the shop, to appearing in your proximity.

“E-Excuse me?” you asked, wondering if you heard correctly to which he pointed at the bouquets laid finished on the table. “In fact, all the flowers here are exceptionally beautiful.” He gestured to the entirety of the shop. His eyes quickly roamed across all the decorative flourishes before they came back to you.

“You do excellent work here in your shop.”

Words coming from a man like him made you bashful. You subconsciously played with the hem of your apron, eyes drifting to anywhere but his face at the compliment. However, the sliver of heat fluttering to your cheeks didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Oh, um, thank you. It’s nothing really, I’ve been arranging flowers for quite some time while at the last floristry I worked for so I have a fair amount of experience.”

After another second of fiddling with the fabric, your hands ended up falling to your sides. You sauntered toward one of the flower vases that were already set on display, dawdling around the conversation. His eyes followed you, watching you nurture the blossoms. “I opened this flower shop of mine just recently actually. Been getting a decent amount of business here and there, but I’m just glad that the people who’ve visited so far like my work,” you told him, twirling a strand of your hair. The pads of your other hand brushed against the soft, abundant petals of a yellow chrysanthemum.

The man observed your actions, analyzing your face. He distinguished the devotion hidden in your eyes as you looked upon the flower with a luster. Despite your humble character, it was more than clear to him you were very passionate about what you did, relishing in the ambiance and admiring the modest appearance of this little shop of yours, covered in the wonderful aroma of flowers.

You didn’t detect that deep breath of air he earnestly drew in as he stepped closer. So close that his proximity broke your stupor to meet his rigid expression.

“How would you feel about an… opportunity to let more of your work be known?”

“An opportunity?” you echoed. “Wait… do you maybe have a wed—”

“No,” he interjected, so abruptly that you couldn’t help but quirk a brow. Catching himself, he took a moment to clear his throat, mindful of his behavior. “I mean, it’s not a wedding. Rather, a charity gala that my company has been planning for some time.”

“A gala?” Your mouth worked faster than your mind, accidentally blurting out your thoughts. The astonishment was evident in your tone; it made the man question your reaction by leaning in.

“Yes, a gala,” he said again like you didn’t just hear his words from a foot away, without even realizing the lengths behind his baffling offer. “Is there something wrong about that?”

“N-No. It just wasn’t the kind of opportunity I expected it to be is all… A gala…” Your voice hushed around the utter of “gala”.

What the man presented so blatantly was unexpected to your ears. Galas meant a pompous party full of people decked in lavish attires, drinking quality champagne from tulip glasses. Sizing up the man again, you could only imagine this gala would only include the most important and wealthiest people in attendance.

You had to ask something, “Um, about this gala... How many people will be there?”

“Maybe about... five hundred or so? I’ll have to check in with my assistant to confirm the full count again.” He shrugged nonchalantly and yet on your end, hearing the number almost reduced your head to a dizzy mess.

Five hundred guests? It was a number you couldn’t fathom. You hadn’t even been booked for an occasion as ordinary as a baby shower, but this man wanted you to arrange flowers for his big charity gala?

As oddly enticing of a job it was to you, there had to be anyone else more experienced and capable for this.

“Sir, I’m not su—”

“The pay, of course, will be more than generous, and I’ll even provide you funding for any necessary materials for this project,” he chimed in before you could voice your protest. It was then that you began to distinguish something laced in his voice and exhibited on his face.

Desperation.

This man seemed desperate for some reason.

“May I ask when the event will take place?” Your arms crossed against your chest. A gulp formed in his throat at the question, unsure if he wanted to unveil the news or risk scaring you off. Either way, if you were working for him, you’d learn eventually. A sigh came out.

“Two weeks,” he answered.

Oh yeah, that explained it. It also answered any questions you had over the tension rigid in his shoulders. At this point, you were bound to join him in his stress because, goddamn, organizing a whole assembly of flowers for a grand ball within fourteen days? The idea was beyond daunting.

While you reflected on the intimidating pieces of information, he was gauging your reaction. Would you say yes? No? Laugh at the idea that he thought he could find a florist to work for him at such late notice? There were a slew of uncertainties twisting in his head—an act unbecoming of him, but you were his last hope. Whatever you responded with next would either be the nail in his coffin or the wings that made him soar.

You would be treading on uncharted waters at a chance like this, having never sailed anywhere beyond your little island of floristry where people came and went with your humble little arrangements. But you also thought of this as a daring opportunity to find new land. See what the world had in store for you outside of selling the general bouquets and vases you had on display. Plus, when would a chance like this ever come up again?

Though it meant encountering difficulties along the way, taking on such a big challenge right off the bat, you figured you’d be able to keep your boat afloat. You were also sure the journey toward bigger regions would be worth the struggle in the end.

“So do you have your answer?” he pressed forward when your silence became unbearable to his nerves. He thanked the fact that his voice managed to sound steady enough not to give himself away. Your arms remained crossed in front of you, your hand coming beneath your chin the only sign that you were taking his offer to heart. It kept the flickering flames of hope blazing inside him.

“I just want to ask you something,” you replied. He nodded, allowing you to continue.

“I know you’re under pressure with this gala coming up in only two weeks,” you began. Your arms unraveled, and your fingers ran to your apron again. You formed the next bit of words with uncertainty, “but are you sure I’m the right person for this job? I mean, I don’t have much to offer you in terms of skill other than what I have here.” You nudged at the range of your shop, plain as can be though with a generous amount of flourishes on display. Yet nothing you thought special enough to be graced by him and his grand proposal that evening.

“I just don’t want you to regret your decision.”

There was a pause of silence after that. The man seemed to give your words some thought—a quick reflection on the situation. You couldn’t decipher much in his face, but you happened to take some time to admire how pretty his eyes were. The individual blue and gray shades were mesmerizing to you, resembling glaciers glittering beneath the moon high in the north. Another detail you jotted in his long list of attractive features. Before you could marvel at them any further, he whisked your thoughts back to earth with his response.

“It’s true that I’m coming to you because I’m in need,” he admitted, hands slowly closing into fists like he was reluctant to confess this, “but from what I can see, I genuinely think you’re more than capable for this job. So yes, I’m very sure I won’t regret this decision.”

It was clear to you that he was sure on his stance. But to reinforce his statement, he bent his head low into a bow, weight added to his next words.

“Please be the florist for our gala.”

The gesture briefly overwhelmed you, not something you were expecting, but you managed to acknowledge it by returning the bow.

“I’ll be in your care then.”

With all things said, you were soon tidying up the exchange and trading business cards. Yours was a standard card with your number, name, and business attached with a picture of a lily printed across the paper. His, a premium slip of stainless steel engraved with his information and then some, the fancy card reflecting off the lights hanging from the ceiling. You read the name etched in ebony black over the gray material.

Todoroki Shouto — CEO

“You’ll likely receive a call from either one of my assistants or me within the next day or so about when to meet up to plan for the arrangements.” Shouto’s voice brought your head up from the card, where you watched him glide toward the door.

“R-Right, I’ll leave my cell on,” you stuttered. The fact that this whole exchange had just transpired was still kicking in for you.

Shouto nodded, extending a wave out that you mirrored while he opened the door to the shop, the bell chiming above him.

“I’ll see you then.”

After that, the resonating tinkles of the bell were the last you heard.

You stared at the entrance aimlessly, mouth gradually gaping open at the mere prospect that you were really about to arrange your flowers for a grand charity gala in two weeks!

A mixture of elation and jitters erupted in your body all at once, uncontained as you whipped your head around and strode across your shop in giddy steps. Your eyes lit up at the steel card gripped between your fingers, clenched so tightly like you were worried the card would turn to dust when you woke up from this dream. But at the wide smile that bloomed on your lips, you knew that this was reality. This man, Todoroki Shouto, was giving you the opportunity to have your true potential shown at this big gala.

Meanwhile, on his way back to his Mercedes, Shouto was clicking open his phone. The screen beamed at him in the low light of the evening turning to night while he punched a number from his contacts list. It took only the cusp of the second ring for the person on the other line to pick up his call.

“Midoriya, call off the search,” Shouto commanded into his phone. He rested his back on the door of his car, leaning against it with his phone still attached to his ear. His gaze found its way back to the flower shop he had just departed, eyeing the light emitting from the windows to the sign hanging above them. Grinning, he took in the sight of the flowers dancing in the wind around the shop’s vicinity before finding your silhouette standing in the benevolent light inside.

“We have our florist.”

[shades-of-stony]

Heavy Angst (And Not-So-Heavy but Still Angsty) Stony Fanfics!

I’m absolutely love a good Tony whump and hurt story so prepare to see a lot of those here! Get your tissues ready!

Push by phoenixreal

Summary: Tony Stark was known for pissing people off, it was a given. Then, after the man everyone thought was nothing more than a selfish prick decided to nearly kill himself saving Manhattan from a nuclear bomb, even the most sure of Tony's bastard status had to rethink it. And then, his team who were sure they had him pegged, they were invited (ordered) to move into Stark Tower with him. To their surprise, they found he had furnished full floors for each of them, somehow knowing their tastes exactly, including a floor dedicated to the resident Asgardian who would only be there some of the time. Surprised, and please, they all wonder at the enigma that is their host. After a couple months, Pepper Potts stops coming around so much, and they realize that something has exchanged between them because they are rather professional to each other. Pepper still frets over Tony, but instead tells the others to keep an eye on him rather than doing it herself. They easily forget that Tony is, and always has been, simply a human civilian. Then things get strange when they find themselves locked down within Stark tower, and after a harrowing viewing of a mysterious video, they find their resident playboy is completely gone.

Note: Prepare to cry and be hurt! This fanfic dabbles with Tony’s insecurity, self-worth, and issues. Please heed the warnings!

The words you choose to say by masterlokisev159

Summary: After the SHRA, the events around Steve’s death and Tony discovering he deleted part of his brain, Tony finally decides he's done enough. With Osborn taken care of, Tony leaves the Avengers and decides to quit being Ironman effective immediately.

He tells himself it doesn't hurt when Steve agrees. Why should it? After everything he's done, the team's better off without him.

However before he can truly move on, there are things he needs to take care of, and it's not long before he realizes he's dangerously close to losing his company. He's desperate and willing to do anything to keep it together.

So when, after months of silence, Steve asks him to drop everything and come work for Shield, Tony finds he doesn't have a choice. He agrees, no matter how much he knows he shouldn't. His reputation isn't exactly the best after the SHRA and he's heard stories of what he'd done as Director. He's knows what he's done. He's knows he's responsible for what happened to Steve.

He just wishes someone had warned him first. He hadn't been prepared to deal with the consequences.

Note: A 1000/10 angst fanfic that made me weep at 3 am in the morning. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED. READ IT AND PREPARE TO CRY BUCKETS

Protocol SOTERIA by GoldenFinches

Summary: Friday's primary objective at all times is to protect one Anthony Edward Stark. And she will fulfill that objective no matter what it takes. Even if it means including certain people she thought she would never have to deal with again.

(Basically the Rogue Avengers get some sense knocked into them with the help of Friday and handful of videos.)

Note: A HIGHLY RECOMMENDED ANGSTY FANFIC. I CRIED SO MUCH READING THIS. 

Straight to Voicemail by YouMakeMeDokiDoki

Summary: "I DID!" Tony screamed, cutting Steve off mid-sentence and whirling around to glare at him. 

"I CALLED YOU! EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU!"

Or

The one where no one answered their phone and things got out of hand. 

Note: this will absolutely break you heart.

Sunshine and Luck by ImportedfromMunich2

Summary: Months after Siberia, Steve and the rest of the defectors are pardoned and allowed back onto the Avengers, with the help of Tony Stark. Now that they're back - nothing is the same as before. Tony is even avoiding Steve at all costs.

Then one night - Tony barges into Steve's bedroom while he sleeps, and they have spontaneous, passionate sex.

Only, the Tony Stark he just fucked isn't from this universe.

Now, Steve has to find a way to explain to Tony that he had sex with his counterpart from another dimension.

Note: A good Steve whump fic! 

When You Mess With Him... by REM_It_Up

Summary: During an event with the Avengers, Tony is kidnapped by an unknown group of men right in front of the team. The group who took Tony taunt the Avengers by leaving small clues to Tony's whereabouts. When the kidnappers finally get in contact with the team, they are forced to watch Tony get tortured on camera.

The Avengers desperately search for their missing friend before they never see him again.

The kidnappers are smart and fast, they have everything figured out in order to get away with their plan...They just forgot one thing--

Colonel James Rhodes

Note: Now this is really heavy! Brace yourselves for a kidnapped and tortured tony! Also, protective honey bear aka Rhodey bonus here!

To Need is Not To Want by Brixon

Summary: All his life Tony has been used as a means to someone's end. Always someone's tool in a game. Carelessly thrown aside, once they had no longer use of him. He keeps it bottled up because, because he's Tony Stark. But he's always had this desire that one day someone would come who would stay because they wanted and needed him. He thought he had that with the Avengers, but after everything with the Accords and everyone leaving after Civil War that hope of having something of his to stay was gone.

Despite being burned constantly, Tony still has this wanting. So when Ryder, an old college friend, comes back into his life and actually seems to want to stay because he wants AND needs Tony, Tony is beyond thrilled. Because Ryder is staying. It doesn't matter if the bruises stay too.

But what happens when the Avengers return and Tony finds himself wondering once again exactly what he wants and what he needs.

Note: I’m sure, from the summary, you can tell that it’s a heartbreak here. 

Hiding Things Is All Too Easy - Until It Isn't by audhds

Summary: Tony hasn't been the same since Bucky arrived at Stark Tower. That much is obvious. But Steve is overjoyed to have his best friend back and is somewhat oblivious to how Tony is withdrawing away from him. Because surely Tony is just overworked as usual. He must be quiet and jumpy because he is sleep deprived. And of course he has a few cuts and bruises on the visible parts of his skin - he fights and works for the Avengers as a living. It's part of the job description. Until it isn't.

Will Steve discover the physical and mental trauma that Tony is going through before it is too late?

Note: This is even heavier! Please read the tags carefully! Also, this has some serious Bucky bashing! If you are a Bucky fan but still interested in this, please prepare yourself. 

No Trait As Much As This by KandiSheek

Summary: Tony gets hit with truth serum. It's a terrible time for everyone.

Note: A bit lighter than the others but still angst nonetheless. The added truth serum element makes this even more interesting!

Good For You by @orbingarrow

Summary: Steve doesn't understand why Tony dates people who abuse him. Tony doesn't understand why Steve cares.

The rest is bad choices, good choices, rehab, milkshakes, paintball, YouTube videos, couples therapy and learning to put the past in the past. Or: How Tony finds his happy ending.

Note: Another Tony-in-abusive-relationships fanfic!!

hold the things you wanna say by SailorChibi

Summary: Tony is still a consultant, and between SI, the team and SHIELD he's overworked and exhausted. That's okay.

He and Steve have been having sex for weeks but that's all it is, just sex, and Tony wants more but he'll never get it and that's okay. Really.

What's not okay is the fact that Howard Stark has somehow appeared in the future and is the same as always.

This is definitely going to fuck up his schedule.

Note: Anyone up for some Howard-travels-to-the-future fanfic?

Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies by MemoryDragon

Summary: Seven-year-old Tony Stark wakes up on a Hydra base, lost, afraid, and alone. He has to overcome his fears before it's too late for the Avengers and Captain America.

Note: De-aged Tony just screams heavy angst and hurt!

Advanced Protocol by masterlokisev159

Summary: The Incursions are coming. The Illuminati have surrendered and everyone has come together to take one last stand.

Everyone except Tony. And Steve is tired of waiting. He wants answers.

There's something the Illuminati aren't telling him.

Note: If you don’t know what the Avalon is in Marvel, I recommend you search it up, or you could read this fic. You will be heartbroken with what you find. 

Flower Child by itsallAvengers

Summary: The point was this, though:

In a hundred million universes, in a hundred million different lives, there would never be a single one of them in which Tony Stark deserved anyone like Steve Rogers. Ever.

So this? Nonsensical.

Note: Another fanfic that highlights child abuse and Tony’s insecurities! 

What Pays All Debts by KandiSheek

Summary: No one is supposed to survive the date written on their skin. And yet Tony's numbers keep piling up.

Note: Angst + Death dates? You could probably foretell how much of a gut-wrench journey this is.

Falling Into You by sabrecmc

Summary: Tony and Steve end up as fuck buddies after the events of The Winter Soldier until Steve calls it off. When Loki's spell wipes all of Steve's memories since the last time Loki was in town, Tony decides it will be so much easier to just not tell Steve they had something of a relationship. Spoiler: It isn't.

Or, how Steve fell in love with Tony and forgot about it, and how Tony fell in love with Steve and realized it.

Note: There are just something about amnesia fanfics that makes it so goddamn heartbreaking. 

Art Freaks and Comic Geeks by Coil

Summary: Tony Stark had made himself a phenomenally renowned writer. The world had fallen in love with the heroes that appeared in his novels; captivated by his vivid words of life and colour.

His next ambition was to publish a comic book series starring the much-beloved heroes of his novels. There was just one problem. Brilliant as Tony may have been with his words, his skills in the field of drawing were less than great. It didn’t help that he barely knew what his characters ought to look like in the first place.

Enter: Mister Steve Rogers – an up-and-coming artist/illustrator with the potential to be brilliant.

Their paths happen to cross at Comic-Con.

Note: this is a much lighter angsty fanfic but is still angsty. It is a Modern AU mixed with Artist!Steve and Writer!Tony.

Unwritten Endings by XtaticPearl

Summary: Tony takes the bullet meant for Captain America at the end of their war and through his death, brings together the team again. Only, he isn't really dead and when he comes back, the equations between the team-mates begin to alter and reform, writing a new story altogether.

Note: Of course, you can’t have an angst fanfic rec without a fake death fanfic!

WIP

Need Is Just A Word by masterlokisev159

Summary: A month has gone by since the war and Tony has never felt more alone. of course, with the unrest within the government, the disappearance of the Avengers and the obvious lack of Steve Rogers, it was only a matter of time before the UN finally flipped out and decided to act on the last available Avenger. Too bad they didn't realise a promise had been made by Captain America to be there when Iron man needed him.

Note: a gut-wrenching Post CA:CW fanfic where tony is suffering the consequences of the civil war.

Take me out tonight by masterlokisev159

Summary: When Steve gets invited to a formal party with the government, Fury tells him he can bring a plus one of his choosing. While listening quietly in the corner, Tony heaves a sigh of relief because the team could really do with some positive publicity and any of the Avengers are a good choice for Steve. Tony just wants Steve to be happy after all, even if he knows Steve's gonna pick Natasha. He knows Steve doesn't like him and he's aware there's never going to be anything more between them. They're barely even friends really.

So of course he's absolutely shocked when a gold filigree letter rests in his palms two days later. He's the worst person for this.

Why on earth did Steve choose him?

Note: AHHHHHHHH, INSECURE TONY IS JUST A FAVORITE. Also, confident!Steve that knows who he wants is just a whole new mood!

The Soul Stone's Sacrifice by masterlokisev159

The soul stone demands a sacrifice that Tony and Steve are not prepared for, but in the end, one life is sacrificed for the many. Steve lets Tony go for the last time and mourns a future they never had.

That is until Tony comes back.

Note: A scenario where Tony and Steve where the ones to go to Vormir. 

[morihaus]

Domina

cw for a vampire talking about mortals like cattle and mentions of molag bal (just his name)

---

Atop a balcony of the Imperial Palace, the young emperor casts her gaze westward, over the canopy of the great forest, off to the dark horizon laid over the Colovian highlands. Past the borders of Cyrodiil, there lays the outlying province of the Empire, Craglorn, home to the distant Nedes never chained. Cities of stone and high towers, traditions older than the Empire of Man, faith older than Saint Alessia herself; Hestra was born to these lands, to the Cyrodiils who came from Colovia to lend aid to their kin, to enlighten them, to fasten and secure their ties to the Empire, and to keep wary watch of the expanding dominion of Verkarth, whose king had spent a century splitting the land in two, harrowing the Nedic allies of the Empire, unopposed in the distant and foreign borderland.

It was this that brought her to power. She became warrior to the faith as many in her family had been before her, as was the Colovian style of the priesthood, and she worked to stymie the tide of this burgeoning power henceforth unknown- as well as the dark creatures who cavorted within its borders, fanning out to the neighboring realms to terrorize the populace. Vampires, werebeasts, monsters of all sorts became the scourge of Craglorn in those days, and the Empire of Cyrodiil did nothing, for what was their concern for the fate of provincials? Nedes who knew nothing of Paravant, or Pelinal, or the One, whose degenerate practices ostracized them from polite Imperial society.

Hestra was one of many in Craglorn and Cyrodiil who saw need for action, but alas, small militias could do nothing but root out loose ends, small cells of the fiends who dogged the western reaches. A coven here, a pack there, but this was to treat the symptoms rather than the sickness, and without organized action against Styriche and his Gray Host itself, nothing would be done.

And for all the dire circumstances, this is why she stands here, amulet of dragon-fire around her neck, looking west with purpose. She has been emperor for but two years, and the Empire is more united than it has been in some time. She is what Cyrodiil needs, a decisive emperor, to cut through the internal bickering of the Order; a conquering emperor, to show no quarter to the enemies of mankind; a common emperor, who understands the plight of her subjects and refuses to rest until justice is done.

With the Empire whole, it prepares for a full-scale invasion of Verkarth, to sunder and destroy the foul abominations commanded by its king.

Something approaches silently from behind her. She is without guard, but not alone, for tonight she is entertaining a particular guest.

"Second thoughts, Emperor?" The pale woman clad in deep red silks asks her with a playful tone. Playful as a cat toys with a mouse, but decidedly playful nonetheless.

Hestra turns to face her, Exarch of the Gray Council, undying vampire, a mistress of the dark forces she plans to destroy. She faces her and sees her ever-so-smug grin, her round face, pale like the moon with dark shadows and painted colors framing her scarlet-orange eyes. She sees her jewelry reflect the light of the night sky, a shimmer along the chain of her belt as her eyes trace her waist, a shine around the swirling ringlets of her arm, up to the clasp of her dress on her shoulder, even a sparkle from the jewel earrings when her long black hair fell just so to make way for the light. "I consider my actions more often than you think. This is why I'm here, Vem."

Vem moves forward to press up against the other woman, lifting a manicured hand to trace her jawline. She is without reverence for the Emperor, but not without admiration, and often she shows her appreciation with touch. "This is why I see such potential in you, fair Hestra." The mortal woman doesn't flinch- but might shiver- at the vampire's chilling touch, and allows it to happen. This close she can see the subtle scaly texture speckling Vem's skin, around her eyes and her bare neck and arms, her eyes fix to this instead of Vem's hypnotic gaze- she wouldn't dare attempt to bewitch the warrior emperor, but she does much without noticing it. "We have more in common than you do with your councilors. They fill their heads with petty concerns, worthless mortal vanity- you and I, we focus on what's truly important: power."

Hestra, for as steely as her countenance is, lets her head droop to one side, warm cheek pressed against Vem's cold hand. She raises one of her own to Vem's waist, closing her eyes. "I have power, Vem. I'm the Emperor, blessed by Akatosh, anointed before the One." She doesn't need sight to picture the frown grow on Vem's face as she speaks.

She hears a sigh, and the cold hand moves down from cradling her head, sliding across her bare neck and stopping at her shoulder. Hestra opens her eyes again to see the predictable sight. She'd call the expression on Vem's face perplexed, as she is always baffled by her refusal. "Have I not explained to you the difference in magnitude hundreds of time?" She scoffs. "You are a Queen, a mortal Queen, you command great armies and rule over all of your citizenry. But I could make you more. As vampire, you would never age, never die, you would be indomitable."

"Indomitable," Hestra repeats. "But dominated by the foul machinations of your master."

Vem furrows her brow, twitching her nose. "Lord Bal is our master in name alone. He holds no true sway over us- we only need make one pact, but one ritual, and we may reap the rewards of his gift as we serve ourselves. You cannot tell me you would not desire such a power."

"Power at a price." Hestra lets her hand fall back, and now furrows her own brow as she looks back at Vem, somewhat yearning for the years she hadn't known of her true nature, or for a time where they could spend time ignoring the doom that surrounds them, before this decision had to be reached. "I do not want to join your Gray Host."

"You would not have to." Vem retracts her hand as well, folding her arms over her chest. "As immortal Emperor of Cyrodiil, you would be of much greater use as an ally to the Gray Host, to relinquish your power over this land would be foolish."

"Imagine I disagree with what your Host does, terrorizing innocent people, drinking of their blood and eating of their flesh."

Vem tisks, she almost seems to roll her luminous eyes at that. "This is because you are clinging to mortal notions of morality. You do not weep for the butchered cow, do you? For us, it is no different than hunting simple animals."

"And if I care for these animals?" Hestra asks.

She receives a raised brow. "Do you really care for these people, Emperor? These people who are not yours, who you do not know- how much would you sacrifice for their lives?" After a pointed silence, she adds: "If you could trade your life for theirs, right now, would you?"

Hestra answers honestly. "No."

"If," Vem begins. "The inverse were true, and you could sacrifice the lives of many to achieve greater power, greater dominion, wouldn't you?"

Hestra considers. "...I might." She gazes off to the side, looking behind Vem into the palace's quarters. "But what you speak of, this is the truth of politics, of warfare, of the life of an Emperor. These ugly decisions are mine to make, and I must."

"This is what holds you back," Vem turns and begins to pace, steps silent as she does. "You deny what you truly want: power. You claim it out of responsibility, you make these excuses for yourself..." She looks over her shoulder, Hestra meets her piercing eyes. "Why do you let yourself be ruled by such foolish thoughts?" She approaches again, so gently as though gliding through the air. A fanged smile plays on her lips. "You are Emperor. I am offering you power, it is in your very nature to accept it. Do not deny your true calling."

Hestra looks to her vacantly. She wonders how often she has been tempted, how close she's come before now. "You talk of offering me power- power of my own- and yet you speak as though to dominate me yourself."

At this, Vem laughs. It breaks the tension somewhat, and she takes Hestra's hand in her own, rubbing circles on the back with her cold thumb. She looks at her with half-lidded eyes. "You would not like to belong to me, dear Hestra?"

And at this, Hestra is pulled two ways, and such a grave conversation becomes very silly, and for the first time tonight, the Emperor smiles. "You speak in circles, love, like a turning wheel." She leans in and very easily presses her lips against Vem's; a shallow kiss, undercoated with some feeling of fleeting passion and intimacy, something that feels like a last chance, a final moment in which they can both pretend they share the same future. Vem puts her arms around Hestra's head, the mortal reciprocates with a hold on her waist. Hestra pulls back to breathe and laugh. "Sometimes, I still can't tell- do you want me a vampire, or a thrall-" Vem interrupts her by kissing her cheek, laughing along.

They embrace and they laugh for awhile, standing on the balcony, nipped at by the chilly night air. Eventually they stop laughing and just hold each other. Vem tucks her head into the crook of Hestra's neck, and Hestra lets her, and runs a hand through her silky dark hair.

"...You know," Vem softly breaks the silence. "That of course I want you to join me as I am- a vampire, the rightful rulers of the unliving. Because you are a ruler, Hestra, and this drew me to you, for I recognized how great you could be if you could only see what lies beyond your mortality..." One of her pale hands turns to run across the close-cut hair on Hestra's head, and Vem turns to look her in the eye, one side of her head still pressed against her shoulder. Her expression is warm, and not regal. "I do not doubt how far you will go as a mortal. You will be remembered for centuries, for a hundred centuries, your death will be something glorious, remembered in song, you will be indelible... but you will die. And it breaks my heart-" A laugh- or maybe a sob- spills out between words. "I know you could never understand, you are mortal, impermanence is everywhere in your life, to be everlasting is... difficult, to communicate. It's something you need to feel for yourself. I ask... that you allow me to grant you this, Hestra. Please."

She'd never seen Vem posture in such a way. They have been intimate with one another, they've spoken of sadness before, but never has she been so melancholy, so sorrowful as to look up to her with those eyes, dry but full of sadness. "...My love, you know I can't-"

"Why?" Vem asks immediately.

"Because- Because I am Emperor first, divine regent of the One, descendant of the Ascended Saint Alessia, defender of Cyrodiil and the Faith. I am dutybound to destroy the Gray Host... and I cannot accept your power, it would render me an abomination in the eyes of the Order, and all I've worked for would be for naught."

Vem pulls back, Hestra lets open her arms to give her space. She looks at Hestra, fear in her face, steeled by frustration. "They would not have to know. There are ways- many of us disguise our true nature, some get away with it for a century or more. You yourself had no idea before I revealed to you my nature."

"You're right. I didn't," Hestra admits. "But this is because I was young and stupid. The pelates of the Order are older, wiser, many of them savvy to the affronts to the divine. And in any case, I would still need to invade Verkarth."

"No, no you don't. We could- if you'd postpone, delay, we could destroy this Alessian Order-"

"Destroy the Order?" Hestra's brows fly up at this, almost more shocked than insulted.

Vem clenches her fists at her sides. "They are just mortals, Hestra. Mortals can be manipulated, they can be herded and culled by their true masters. If all of the threats to your power were turned, were on our side, would you still deny this?"

"You're speaking in fantasies." The Emperor says, colder than she meant to. She is just as frustrated, not only by Vem's assertions, but by how her mind meanders and considers them.

"Answer me, Hestra!"

"I could not- I could not disgrace my line, my ancestors-"

"Your ancestors were nothing more than cattle!" Vem shouts.

"Your family is nothing but a pack of monsters!" Hestra replies.

Vem, incensed, points a sharp finger at Hestra as she bares her fangs. "We are NOT monsters!" She growls, throwing a hand up. "'Monsters', 'daimons', 'abominations', these are all the labels feeble-minded sheep apply to us, the true masters of Tamriel! And here you are- so different from them, so close to us, and you refuse your rightful place on our Council, your rightful taste of our blood, all because of these vapid mortal commitments to the lives and deeds of mortals, the ways of people who lived and died as nothing more than stupid animals- you let them limit you, hold you back, drag you down to their level!" Snarling, there is a quivering to her frame and face that belies her nerves. "You do not deserve to be another pile of bones in a pasture! You deserve to be Domina, High Emperor of All Tamriel, Immortal Ruler of the weak and impermanent!!"

Hestra stands stock still, shadows cast on her creased face. "I cannot do this. I will not take knee before your king."

"You would not have to! Do you know how few of us respect King Styriche? How fewer revere Lord Bal? To depose him, to usurp him, it would not be difficult, you would only have to delay your invasion!" Vem's composure is all but faded as she pleads for what she wants, the safety of her family, an immortal paramour, and all that she wills be made real, as in true domination of the world. The fact that she screams this hoarsely and with such desperation- the desperation of someone not in control- is not lost on her.

The Emperor hangs her head, heavy with troubles. She grits her teeth as she speaks with attempted finality. "I cannot, Vem, and I'm sorry that I cannot." Her own eyes, still living, well up as she speaks. "It does not mean I don't love you- I do, I give you my word and I mean it: I do, and if I were anyone different... you need to know how much I want to be forever beside you, I truly want this, but..."

Vem suddenly darts forward, pressing herself against her, looking up at her with pleading eyes. "If you want it, you can have it. Let me turn you, forget the Empire, let it fall under someone else's rule- we could make of it that you died in battle, that you were- you were betrayed somehow, sow dissent in the Empire, let it rot and fall. Leave my family alone, let us go together into a new life." Her plan is flimsy, her voice is quickened and shaking, but she bears her soul to Hestra like never before. "Take what you want, Hestra."

She bows her head. Hestra leans down to press her forehead against hers. She wants to take her into her arms, as they used to, like lovers would, but she doesn't.

[musicallisto]

⚔ — 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥; (tyrion lannister x f!reader)

@multifandomfix​​ requested: Hey, for your start of the year event, could I get #44 with Tyrion Lannister, please? Thanks in advance if you end up choosing it. I hope 2021 will be a great year for you. 😊

song: bazzi - beautiful | 𝄞

summary: How could he tell you it was all his fault - that he had loved you to pieces since the stars had taken their first breath, and that Tywin’s revenge on him was to make you suffer while he was powerless?

author notes: I ain’t never seen a fluffy one-shot written by me, always half of it gotta be depressing

word count: 2.7k (what the HELL)

warnings: language + the typical stuff that’s commonplace in GoT

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 younger, young enough to hear her speak freely around you, you’d often heard the illustrious Cersei Lannister, blessed may her reign be, mutter her implacable adage through slit eyes and arrogant teeth; in Westeros, when one played the game of thrones, they were either crowned or buried. Some win and some die, she’d state with a smug grin, ignoring Jaime rolling his eyes right by her. You would always nod in silence; partly because you, lesser Lady of King’s Landing, certainly did not dare to contradict your most redoubtable playmate; but also because, deep down, you believed in her truths. You’d seen it when your father came back from his battles, commanding the Crown’s armies across the Southern seas, or when you heard the whispers at Court of yet another fallen Lord who believed he could play with fire like the Targaryens; there was little more than victors and vanquished, and you, as a lady-in-waiting to the future Queen, could sleep easy at night knowing you were on the right side of the world.

Yet when the rebellion led by your father’s army of mutineers was crushed by the King’s forces, when your brothers all fled into exile across the continent; when your title, name, and lands became those of a traitor to the Crown; you understood that in the game of thrones, death was the only blessing the powerful bestowed when they were clement; for there was far crueler and harrowing a punishment than torture: humiliation and servitude.

King Robert Baratheon, his mercy guided by Tywin Lannister’s murmurs, decided against sending you to death as he would have any of your brothers, despite the abject crimes your name now carried. In all his bonhomie, he had made you a servant of his wife instead, perpetually condemned to following the Lannisters around and never quite catching up to them.

“Why did the King spare my life?” you had asked Jaime one time, in hushed tones, aware that a servant caught talking to the Kingslayer with such familiarity would cause quite the scandal.

“Probably because he knows you were always a dear friend to Cersei and me.”

That was Jaime, as always; believing what he wanted to believe, and damned would be the one who’d change his mind. And to think he still thought, with a disconcerting assurance, that Cersei and you were still dear friends...

You hadn’t asked her why you were still alive. You knew she’d eye you for a moment, then order you to fetch her some water. She savored the sight of you in rugged clothes and immensely exhausted.

The only one who knew was Tyrion.

He always knew everything.

Even more so when it was about you.

“Why did the King spare my life?” you had asked him one evening, in the quiet banquet hall, only illuminated by flickering candles. He had looked up from his chalice of wine and at you, clearing the last dishes from the grand supper, and he swore his heart ruptured. He loved nothing more than staying absurdly late after dinner so he could catch you alone, but when your misty eyes, still too pure and bright for a world so cold, asked such unfathomable questions...

“I don’t know,” he had muttered casually.

Neither of you believed it. There was nothing Tyrion didn’t know.

But how could he tell you it was Tywin’s sick little pleasure, to keep you in chains at an arm’s length from him, from his embarrassment of a son? How could he tell you it was all his fault - that he had loved you to pieces since the stars had taken their first breath, and that Tywin’s revenge on him was to make you suffer while he was powerless?

“Sometimes I wish he had not,” you had confessed with this outrageous beauty of yours, chin up and prosody of a dame despite the greasy plates in your elegant hands.

Tyrion had bitten his tongue hard enough to draw blood. You were not the King’s prisoner, nor the castle’s, nor your family name’s; you were his, and he loved you so ardently, beyond all the words he knew, that he was utterly paralyzed.

The wine and hall were long cold by the time he went to sleep that night.

The following days, inexplicably, Tyrion was the first of the family to retire to his quarters after dinner. A pang of sullenness stung your throat when you brought the usual wine cup to an empty chair. Never before had he gone to bed without wishing you goodnight. Not since the night, so many years before, when you had run out on Cersei and Jaime to stay with their boring and lame little brother and talk the night away with his electric soul...

“Why didn’t Tyrion wait for you?” Jaime had whispered into your ear as you leaned over to pour him more wine.

You froze, almost long enough for Cersei to flair your discomfort. That was Jaime, as always; surprisingly perceptive when he allowed himself to be...

“I don’t know.”

You and Tyrion were so alike. You had the same inflection in the voice when you admitted to not knowing something... frustration and defeat.

“Maybe he’s not feeling well. You should check on him.”

“I’m certain he is f—”

“Y/N, go tend to my brother, please,” he cut, his voice a little louder.

You stopped, looking at Jaime, strong and tall and almost imperturbable. You were a servant of the Lannisters, but Jaime rarely bossed you around. You looked deep into his eyes, looking for a hint, a glimpse... and found it; a remnant of the boy you once knew, the childhood friend you sparred with wooden swords with. The boy with mischief and connivance.

“Yes, of course, my Lord.”

Your footsteps already echoed in the somber halls when you remembered you hadn’t even brought the wine pitcher back to the kitchens.

Before you knew it, you were standing in front of Tyrion’s closed door. Years before, you had run up and down all the castle halls in search of passageways and hiding spots with a giggling Cersei on tow; yet you had never felt as lost and out of place as you did then, knuckles hovering over the wooden panel.

“Lord Tyrion, your brother asks to see you,” you called in one breath after knocking sharply. Calling the twins by their titles was disturbing enough to you; but Tyrion, brilliant and dedicated Tyrion, Tyrion you'd find reading hidden in the library and who'd blush when you asked him what his book was about—Tyrion, a Lord of Casterly Rock?

“No, he does not.”

There was nothing he didn't know. Especially when it came to his brother... and you.

“I...,” you sighed, at a loss for words. So many untold truths jostled in your throat, none eloquent enough for his bright soul. “He insisted I check up on you, sir.”

“Well I'm fine, am I not? You can go now.”

His words echoed in your skull with the strength of a thousand storms. Taking a shaky breath, you prepared to turn around and leave him... but a sudden force rumbled deep in you like a menacing earthquake. You might have been stripped of your lands and rights, you might bear the name of a traitor and a criminal, but he had been a general before he was a corpse and you had been an eldest daughter before you were a plaything. Your foot grazed the door, almost with too much violence, when you turned to face it.

“Truth be told, I wanted to check up on you as well, and to tell you that I’m bewildered at your recent behavior towards me, and that I don’t think I have done anything to deserve this shift in your attitude, and that I esteem you dearly and dared to hope that it was the same for you, and that I am frankly hurt by your sudden coldness, and that if you will not deign to tell me whatever is happening, then I will merely wish you a pleasant night and disturb you no further. Sir.”

Catching your breath, you turned on your heels before you could regret any of the words you’d just said. It would be a miracle if Tyrion managed to catch any of them clearly with how fast you had hammered them; let alone answer to them... yet as you were about to leave, the door was unbolted, and there stood a seemingly somber and preoccupied Tyrion.

“Come on in. And please, we’re alone. Don’t give me any of that “sir” crap, I know you hate it.”

And like so many times, so many years before, you stepped into Tyrion’s quarters like inside a forbidden dungeon, but it all seemed twice as small and dark as it did when you were reckless children.

The both of you remained silent for long moments, even after he had motioned for you to take a seat on the ottoman at the foot of his bed; the shadows from the fireplace projected onto his face made Tyrion’s unmoving silhouette all the more unreadable.

“Is it something I’ve done?”

“Do you wish to know why the King didn’t have your head when your father rebelled? Well — why my father didn’t?”

Your eyes widened for a split second, but your irritation barely subsided. For some reason, despite your never-ending quest for answers, the subject of your family’s treason and fate always prompted you to defensiveness when it was mentioned by others... especially by your best friend. The one who knew too much.

“What does this have to do with anything, Tyrion?”

“Everything, Y/N. It has to do with everything.”

“Enlighten me, then. You always know better than everyone else.”

Tyrion took a deep, interminable breath before continuing. It was only then that you noticed how shaky his hands were; for the first time, you read a disconcerting uncertainty on his face.

“My father knows humiliation is far worse than death, especially among Lords... and he knows how to take the most pleasant acts of revenge on his enemies. Your last name... and myself.”

You kept quiet. The puzzle was starting to piece itself together, spurred by Tyrion’s voice, low and even, albeit a little unsteady — as though the charred logs and crackling fire were confiding in you themselves...

“He’s known you since you were an infant. You were always proud and righteous, a proper Lady and a treasure to your name, but still pure and kind... all the traits I adored in you when I first met you. He knew nothing would hurt you more than stripping you of everything you had - status, respect, poise, and dignity... and your friends. He’s burying your family’s legacy under grime and filth and savoring every second of it...”

His words became progressively spaced, as though he was choosing them carefully. You hadn’t yet noticed your own hands were shaking now, too.

“And he can screw me over as well. Any chance he gets, he takes.”

His shoulders were solid and unmoving, but his words came in ragged breaths and laborious swallowing. He took a step forward, finally breaking free from the backlighting of the fireplace; his eyes were fixated on you, resolute and, despite the nervousness, more tender than ever. You remembered the expression all too well; it was the one he had worn all through the night you had talked until daylight about anything and everything... and seeing the enamored child in the man before you, you started to understand it all.

“He’s always known how much I care about you. How your presence never fails to lighten my mood and ease my worries, or how I’ve always looked for excuses to talk to you alone and catch your eye at supper. Most of all, how you’ve always given me exactly what I wanted... a chance. And he always thought it was the ultimate example of my weakness. To kick you around like an animal when I can’t do anything about it and know it’s all partly because of me is his favorite game...”

You clasped your hands together on your lap to curb your agitation. He had taken another step towards you, and you couldn’t break away from his gaze. Each of his features held more love than you’d ever known; more than when your father would ruffle your hair, or when you’d share your family tart with your brothers and smeared all the jam on their cheeks; and you couldn’t fathom how long it had taken you to discover this warm and fuzzy feeling you got whenever Tyrion was around had a simple name: home.

“Tyrion,” you spoke before the tears invaded your eyes. “Are you saying you fancy me?”

“Ah, to hell with it.”

Eyes entirely bathed in light now, he responded almost immediately and clearer than before.

“I’m saying I love you, Y/N, and that I have loved you for as long as I can remember. I first thought that I only liked your company, and admired your grace — that you were just the sister I wish I’d had, but I’ve had to face the fact that your face and voice set me afire in a way that nothing else can. I’m light and naive when you’re around... and you make me believe I have the strength they all won’t stop blabbering about. But I thought that if I could convince my father I saw nothing more in you than a whore like all the others, he would maybe let you go... maybe set you free.”

And the last confession seemed to hurt him more than everything else he had admitted that night, because it cut him right in his pride.

“I was wrong.”

An impossible soreness had taken over your throat during Tyrion's tirade, leaving you struck and mute. For a few seconds, all you could hear was the gentle hooting of the wind outside and the rapid and disjointed thumping of your heart... when you spoke eventually, it was but a hoarse whisper.

“All these years...”

“Yes.”

“And all those girls I had to see you with...”

“None of them mattered. None of them were you.”

“Why didn't you tell me, Tyrion?”

“Why would I?” he puffed with an acerbic laugh, gesturing at his frame, his scars, his cynicism and selfishness, and his wit and brilliant mind and feverish eloquence and golden eyes...

And suddenly your father's voice echoed in your head, unmistakable yet so distant, as he had spoken to you one day when you were little; he had said that angels existed in this world, closer than one might expect, and more often than not they took on unexpected forms, but once could always recognize them as they were the shiniest forces in the world around when everything was grim and black.

Maybe it was the dim lighting of the fire and moonlight that cast abstract shadows on the walls, or maybe your eyes and heart playing tricks on you, but you swore Tyrion was veiled by a pulsating halo, gold and black, that got even more radiant as he half-smiled.

When you leaned over and kissed him, you did not doubt that he truly was the angel your family tales had told you about, and maybe the only remaining angel in Westeros — because kissing him was like every star in the sky falling into place and forming new constellations, and when he grabbed your face to deepen the kiss, you were certain you felt his wings rustle.

“You have the most beautiful soul in this damn city, Tyrion,” you breathed when you finally pulled back.

Had he always looked at you with this unshakeable air of triumph and delight, or was it another trick of the light?

“If you knew how long I've waited to tell you how beautiful you are...”

“Tell me. Over and over.”

There was a smile on his face, the first genuine and devilishly charming one you'd seen in weeks when he stepped back and closed the velvet curtains.

He told you all night.

tagging; @fives-cup-of-coffee ​ @softeninglooks ​(all my writing)

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Crown For Two {4}

Henry Cavill AU x OFC Xari Thornton AU

Warning: Plot, Mild Cursing, Cheesy Christmas Themes, Slow Burn, Dialogue Heavy, PLENTY OF WORDS

Words: 6.6k

Summary: Xari Thornton is a travel photographer with a blog and social media that garners some heavy-duty traffic. People tune in to see where she is and what she’s doing there, all in hopes of either living vicariously through her or to plan their next vacation.  

Her slogan; “Traveling the path to the most off-beaten places, so you don’t have to.”  

Her next stop on her four destination travel itinerary of “Places You May Never Have Heard Of” is Sandvell, a small European country. When her plane makes an impromptu stop due to bad weather, she has no idea where she is. It feels like she’s stepped inside of a snow globe and back in time in a modern way. It leaves her fascinated.

This bad weather forces her to stay at an Inn, The Beaux, for the night. Rather than letting the hours tick by in her room, she explores and meets the friendly locals. While taking photographs, one local in particular captures her lens with eyes as blue as the ocean and a jaw that was chiseled from stone. They strike up conversation during their time drinking at one of the local bars, Ickles. Once they separate, she gets herself into a harrowing situation.  

As soon as she awakens, she realizes she’s not in some fever dream, but a palace and the owner of the palace is none other than the local she met before with the piercing blue eyes, His Royal Highness Henry Wellington Leopold Danglishton, First of his name, Crown Prince of Brexendor.

Note: All right, all right people, the ride continues. I really, really hope you enjoy this. As a reminder, it’s going to be fast-paced a bit, and I am gonna overload you with pictures because why the hell not, it’s a Christmas Fic. 😁 Feel free to come by and tell me what you guys think.

As always, thank you all for reading, I appreciate each and every one of you.

If you enjoyed this, please, LIKE, COMMENT, REBLOG!!! ❤️❤️

***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

***Interactive***

***Picture Heavy***

Previous Chapters: {1} | {2} | {3} | 

-Five Days Later-

-Henry-

“Before we get to cut this ribbon, I want to say something. My father—your king.”

 He paused, swallowed, and bowed his head slightly, trying to gather his thoughts and reign in his emotions. This was one of the first times he’d spoken about his father since his death, especially in front of the entire country. This unveiling was televised all around Brexendor and probably in neighboring sister countries, which meant he was probably speaking in front of over four million people. Clearing his throat, he tried to continue.

 “Eh-em, my father, and your king loved this project. He spent so many nights coming through every detail of it. He particularly wanted to be hands-on with this because he felt this endeavor would bring many people together.”

 He looked from face to face in the crowd, making eye contact and giving reassuring smiles—a tactic he’d learned long ago that made speeches more effective.

 “He believed though we are individual countries filled with many different races, ethnicities, beliefs, and cultures, he believed we are all one people. He believed that one of the most universal things was connection.”

The crowd murmured their agreement as several heads nodded. He felt the hand of his mother on his shoulder, gently reassuring him and giving him some of her strength.

 “As humans, we all crave connection. We all want to make connections in our lives that are worthwhile. That is what this endeavor is, a bridge for our connection across the world beginning with our finances, and he would be so incredibly proud to see it today.”

 The crowd before him erupted with applause, giving him a reprieve to bring himself back to his stoic image. He waited for them to quiet down before he continued.

 “Without further ado.”

 He walked over to the shimmering blue ribbon that was aesthetically tied in front of the bank's doors. Once before them, one of the men handed him giant scissors, and he got into place. The crowd counted down from three. Each second that passed, he could sense the excitement increasing. Once “one” was yelled, he cut the ribbon signaling the crowd to explode with applause and cheers. The camera snapped pictures of him from every angle as he shook hands, waved, and posed with everyone on the bank’s council and the finance commission’s office.

 The next hour was spent walking through the location, explaining all the details that his father had put so much time, thought, and energy into. As he pointed things out, he remembered the various conversations they had together about the items and specifications. This was a project just as close to his heart as it was to his father’s. from the corner of his eye, he saw his mother standing in front of the giant grandfather style clock that his father had chosen special. He loved clocks and had collected quite a few in his years. She placed her hand on it, then dipped her head down. He knew her pain.

 The following few hours passed with him answering questions and doing his duties as head of the country, never breaking away from the status quo. He could do this in his sleep. That was how well trained he was for this. In a matter of weeks, his duties would be tripled or even quadrupled when he went through his coronation. At that time, he’d really put all that grooming to use. It was an event he’d imagined differently his whole life. For one, he’d always expected to look out to his mother and father’s faces as they’d passed the duties on to him. This future was one he was not prepared for.

 “Mother.”

 She hummed and spun her head to him with a solemn smile on her lips.

 “Are you well?”

 She smiled brightly, and any evidence of her previous sadness was only visible in her pale blue eyes, but just a smidge.

 “Of course, I am. What about you, my darling boy?”

 He smiled. She’d been calling him that since he was, in fact, just a boy.

 “Glad to have gotten through that.”

 His mother nodded before she looped her arm through his.

 “You did beautifully. Your father would be incredibly proud of you, Henry, so incredibly proud.”

 The tears welled in her eyes before she kissed his cheekbone.

 “I have only ever wanted to make him proud,” he admitted.

 “He has been proud of you every single day since you were born. Every day.”

 She turned her face away, and he knew it was to hide the tears that had rolled down her cheek. He pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her, allowing her to dab at her eyes. Several moments passed in silence as he looked out the window at the passing snow-covered hills. After a minute or two, his mother cleared her throat.

 “So, what is this I hear of a house guest?”

 He smiled to himself, thinking of you, your smile, your tenaciousness, and stubbornness. Since his mother had been away in Sandvell on Queen duties, she’d been absent for the excitement from the last near two weeks. He explained it to her in the vaguest of terms and finished stating you would be remaining at the palace most likely for the duration of the month. He spoke it so flippantly that he hoped it sounded to her ears that it was not a big deal.

 “Mm-hm. Well, I am pleased you are showing your charming side rather than your scrooge one.”

 He gasped, then snapped his head to her to see her amused eyes dancing with laughter.

 “I do not think it is right for a mother to call her son a scrooge.”

 She did not look as if she regretted it at all. “It is right for a mother to let her son know how he is perceived or has been for the last seven months.”

 “Mother, I do not mean to—I have tried--,” he sighed. “It has only been seven months since--.”

 “I know darling, believe me, I know. One of the tragedies of our roles, we are expected to carry on as if we are not human. We are seen as figurines, and we must ever be pristine. The human emotion of grief cannot hold us bad. Oh, how I wish it were different.”

 They sat quietly again for a few turns on the drive back to the palace.

 “I assume you have taken the necessary precautions with our house guest?”

 “Yes.”

 “Have you spoken to her?”

 “I have.”

 “Was it my son the scrooge or my charming son who did the talking?”

 He scoffed, then shook his head. “I am always charming.”

 His mother giggled before she rested her head on his shoulder.

Once they reached the palace and walked inside, the staff swarmed his mother, giving her details for the preparations for the opening ball that was taking place within the coming days for the beginning of the festive month. It was the tradition for a ball to be thrown the first weekend of the month to usher in the month-long festivities. That also meant that many would come to the palace to stay and join in on the jam-packed month of celebration.

 “Yes, Carolina, I know we have much to plan in a short amount of time.”

 Carolina, his mother’s personal royal assistant, nodded her strawberry blonde head as she gripped the stack of papers and folders in her arms tighter.

 “Welcome home, your majesty,” she began. “Shall we begin right away?”

 His mother, now free of her coat and outside garments, shook her head. “No. Prepare the necessary details, and we will meet in the pink tea room in thirty minutes.”

 “As you wish, your majesty,” Carolina replied with a head bow and curtsy.

 “Oh, Carolina, for tonight’s supper, please tell the kitchen I am feeling quite festive and maybe a roast. I hear we have a house guest, and I would like to welcome her properly.”

 “Mother, do you really think that I have been anything but absolutely hospitable?”

 She smiled and looped her arm through his again as they began ascending the stairs.

 “Of course, I am sure you instructed the staff to be hospitable and tend to her needs,” she clarified.

 She knew him too well. If only she knew that he himself had been the most hospitable of all, he thought to himself. He reminisced on the last few days. He hadn’t been able to have dinner with you for the last five days because the closer the event got, the more work he had to do. You’d exchanged emails about his speech with you leaving notes on what he’d prepared or even giving him suggestions on where to carry other thoughts he’d begun. He liked all your additions and suggestions. It was your suggestion to bring up something personal about his father, especially since it was his passion project. He’d had every intention to disregard it, but in the end, he’d listened to you, and he still hadn’t regretted it.

 Though you were maybe a six-minute distance from his own bedroom and under the same roof, he hadn’t physically seen you in those five days. He did get information from Dr. Alphonsi and even details from McArthur about how you looked, who had been to see you to extend his apologies for getting you into this predicament. McArthur was now your greatest fan. You hadn’t chastised him or belittled him for hitting you with the car. You said it wasn’t his fault, accepted his apology, and even thanked him because you would have probably had a health crisis sooner rather than later with your other ailments.

 Everyone in the palace seemed to have grown to like you. When he saw Jemma, his sister, she often sang your praises and chattered on about something you or your sister had told her. It was easy to see that even she’d been captivated by you, just as he had.

 “Were you listening to me?”

 Shaking his head, he glanced at his mother with a raised brow. “I am sorry, mother. What were you saying?”

 “What has got your head so far away? work?”

 He sighed, shrugged, and looked forward, realizing they were in the hall leading to your bedroom.

 “Where are you leading me, mother?”

 “It is you who is leading me, son.”

 He scoffed. Even his feet seemed to want to go to you. he made a swift left turn away from your hall.

 “Mother, I have some work to attend to before supper tonight.”

 “All right, do not work too hard. Supper is at seven…promptly, Henry.”

 He smiled and kissed her cheek. “Promptly,” he repeated before continuing on his way.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  -Y/N-

“I am quite happy with your improvement, Xari.”

 You smiled.

 “I do feel a lot better today than I have in weeks.”

 Dr. Alphonsi smiled and began closing his doctor bag.

 “That is wonderful news. The direct infusion through IV usually does work better than capsules or any other treatments. You have been a sample patient. If only my other patients would give me this little trouble.”

 You snorted, then shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve always been a teacher’s pet.”

 Dr. Alphonsi smiled again before he walked around to the IV rod to disconnect you. You watched as he slowly removed the needle from your forearm, only flinching slightly. He pressed down on the puncture hole for a few moments then plastered a band-aid across your arm.

 “There. So as our plan goes. A week IV, a week injections, then repeat,” Dr. Alphonsi reiterated.

 “Sounds good.”

 Dr. Alphonsi walked over to the stainless steel trey resting on the side table and placed the needle on it, then began taking the emptied IV bag off the pole. Once the items were arranged on the trey, he walked back over to his doctor’s bag.

 “Any questions for me?”

 You thought for a moment, then began. “Not really since I already know you’re going to say no traveling.”

 “You are not a prisoner here, Xari. If you are feeling strong enough, you can go anywhere you choose. The palace has plenty of rooms that would interest you. When it comes to venturing outdoors, I would say be careful, pace yourself, and do not overexert. There have been many who thought they could walk a block only to find they could not make it more than fifteen meters.”

 You nodded again.

 “Would you like me to speak to the prince about assigning you a lady’s maid?”

 “Oh my goodness, no. that is not at all necessary.”

 “All right. Well, you have my telephone number if you need me, as does the staff. I have instructed someone to inform you every time you are to take an injection. I have a trained professional here at the palace who can administer it if you are not confident enough to do it yourself. If you feel confident, remember every six hours one vial. I’ve combined them to decrease the number of needle pricks.”

 “Thank you very much, Dr. Alphonsi.”

 He nodded, then prepared himself to leave. As he walked to the door, it opened, and in came Anika.

 “Does she have a clean bill of health?”

 “Cleaner, but we still have quite a way to go. Slow and steady, says the tortoise to the hare,” Dr. Alphonsi said before walking out of your room.

 “Oooh, look who doesn’t have a pole attached to them anymore. How do you feel?”

 You took a deep breath and thought about it for a moment, then smiled. “A lot better than a did.”

 Anika smiled with you, then dropped on the bed beside you. “Does that mean you can finally leave this room and go exploring with me?”

 “Nika.”

 “Don’t Nika mean, you know you’re curious and want to look behind every door of this place.”

 She had a point. You were curious. You’d been in a few palaces from around the world before, but you’d never been in a palace as a guest. At the thought of “guest,” you began to wonder if that was what you were. Patient yes, unexpected and unwanted temporary responsibility, maybe. The look Anika was giving you said she was impatiently waiting for a response.

 “Ugggh, fine. Yes, let’s get our Dora on,” you said, slowly getting out of the bed.

 A shower took you longer than usual, mostly in part because you couldn't help but marvel at your surroundings. There was marble and porcelain everywhere. The amount of luxury that surrounded you made your jaw dropped. You sampled everything, beginning with the twelve jets in the shower to the heated bidet. The shower even had a switch that you could change the water from fresh to sea saltwater. That part tripped you up because you didn’t know why anyone would want that. Even the sink had buttons you could use to change the water pressure.

 By the time you’d showered and changed, an hour had passed.

 “What’d you think of the sea salt option in the shower?”

 You snorted, then busted out laughing. “Oh my god, I almost lost my shit. Did you try it?”

 “You know I did. Then I immediately regretted it when I forgot and began really getting into crevices to wash and rinse. Ouch.”

 That only made you laugh harder. The whole time Anika protested and pouted. When you stepped out of the room into the adjoining one, you felt like you saw it in a new light. The first or even second time you’d been in it, nothing registered. Now, you could appreciate the art on the wall, the décor, and color choices. It screamed elegance but also comfort.

“I asked around, and this particular room is called a sitting room. All of the bedrooms have one,” Anika informed.

 “Yeah. When I went and toured Versailles, the sitting room was where visitors were entertained. Marie Antoinette loved to also have tea and cake there before turning in for bed,” you added as you walked around, touching different materials and snapping pictures from a few different angles. It was all super high class. You didn’t expect anything less.

 You and Anika stepped into the hall, and your jaw dropped.

 “Holy Shit!”

 The people in the hall stopped what they were doing and looked back at you while Anika tried to stifle her laugh.

 “Sorry, sorry. Please carry on.”

 They slowly continued what they were doing while you and Anika made your getaway. The halls were gorgeous. The white and gold complemented each other so well you just knew that this was just the beginning. Then when you looked up to the ceiling at the Sistine Chapel worthy mural, you could hear a heavenly hymn in your ears.

 “The Sistine Chapel could never,” you muttered while walking and snapping pictures.

 It was so beautiful you almost didn’t want to move. Anika’s arm looped through yours was the directing force. She pulled you down the stairs that were on the same level of grandeur as the Russian opera house’s. The carpet that lined them was blue instead of the red that bathed other royal abodes. It even looked like it was silk. When the two of you finally descended the stairs to the main floor, you went down one of the halls on the right.

 The first door you both walked into, Anika whistled loudly. “Well, fuck!”

 It was the largest dining room you’d been inside in a long while. The table looked like it could seat at least seventy. As you walked around the room, you took pictures from different angles until you got to the window, then you gaped at what you saw.

 “Wow.”

 “Like a winter wonderland, right.”

 “Have you gone out?”

 “Heck no. You know me and winter don’t agree. There is a reason I live in Georgia.”

 You shook your head and snapped two pictures before you walked off in search of more. Once you and Anika finished looking around the dining room, you walked into a large parlor with several places to sit. You wondered what the room was used for. Your imagination said it could have been where smoking parties happened, or maybe a lounge area before dinners. It honestly could be used to anything.

 A library followed that you knew you could get lost in for days and days and lost you got. You touched titles you were familiar with and others you’d never heard of before, making a mental note to come back and have a closer look. The ones you couldn’t pass up, you took from the shelves and took with you. You didn’t know how long you spent in the library. It was hard to tell because you hadn't looked through the whole thing even with all the time you spent there.

 Somehow, you found yourself pushing open intricate golden doors and walking into an ornate room filled with gold, marble, and that same blue carpet lining. From the ceilings hung low hanging crystal chandeliers and an even more awe-inspiring mural. At the end of the carpet, you saw a pair of thrones. Immediately you knew you’d happened upon the throne room. You walked the length of it, taking a picture every few steps. When you reached them, you stopped in front and stared.

 You could imagine him sitting in the one on the right. You imagined him with perfect posture, a stern face, and tightly clenched jaws with the most regal of crowns. You wondered if this monarchy was as ostentatious as others. Maybe he usually held a scepter and golden orb while being draped with royal furs. At that thought, you imagined him sitting on that throne completely naked with nothing but the royal furs draped over his shoulders. It was a damn inviting vision, one you wouldn’t mind seeing.

 A loud sound behind you made you spin around to find a cleaning crew. Quickly you walked back down the carpet and out the room apologizing for intruding. Once back in the hall, you spun around, unsure when you’d lost Anika. You called her name a few times, but there was no answer. It was then you regretted not bringing your cellphone. You walked a little further down the hall then made a left as the scent of flowers captured your attention.

 When you stepped through glass French doors, you felt as if you’d walked into some country garden. The room was bathed in soft amber and purples, no doubt from the sunset. Thanks to the glass room, you were able to see peeks of its glory through the fluffy looking white snow resting on it. The more you walked around, the more the exterior contradicted the interior. You knew it being the dead of winter made it impossible for the sight before you. There were flowers of all different kinds. It was a sea of blues, reds, yellows, pinks, and even purples.

“Holy Shit!”

 “I will take that as a compliment.”

 You spun around, looking for the owner of the voice, but there was no one there.

 “Uh--.”

 You walked around cautiously.

 “A few more steps.”

 After three steps, you found a woman sitting at a table decked out with every piece of a tea set you could imagine, along with a few pastries.

 “Found me.”

 She looked up at you, then looked back down to your feet until she met your eyes again.

 “Uh—hi,” said.

 “Hello.”

 The smile on her face was pleasant, and it matched the kindness in her blue eyes. They were eyes you felt like you’d seen before, only on someone else. Slowly it hit you who she could be.

 “Oh my god, your majesty.”

 You dropped down to your best curtesy, hoping it would distract her from your potty mouth. She softly chuckled.

 “You are quite all right, dear. Stand up, please.”

 You stood and tried not to give away that you were slightly unnerved.

 “I’m sorry about the cursing. It’s a horrible habit and probably not—dignified,” you expressed.

 She laughed again, then took a sip from her golden rose printed porcelain cup. It looked fancy and antique. “No need to apologize. Believe me; cursing is not the worst thing in the world. I have said quite a few in my day.”

 You smiled, even though you found it hard to believe, especially with how prime and proper she looked sitting there.

 “I have to know, though. How did you know who I was?”

 “Um—your eyes.”

 She looked even more curious. “My eyes?”

 You swallowed and avoided her gaze. “They’re—they’re the same as Henry’s—eh-em, I mean his highness.”

 The way she looked at you made you slightly uncomfortable. She looked like she was assessing you. Before she could speak, another woman walked into the room, one with strawberry blonde hair.

 “Your majesty,” she began stopping instantly when she saw you.

 You cleared your throat and turned to walk away. “I’m sorry to intrude.”

 “No intrusion. Carolina, I think that will be all for today. I would like to finish my tea and possibly get to know our new houseguest.”

 “As you wish, your majesty.” She curtsied then walked back out of the room, leaving you alone once again.

 “Please, have a seat,” the queen said.

 Before you sat, you actually thought to dart out of the room but quickly changed your mind. When you sat down across from her, you took note of the open binders and folders sprawled out on the table. Out of nowhere, someone walked into the solarium, took up the matching teapot, and poured it into a new teacup to your right.

 “Will there be anything else, your majesty?”

 “Thank you, Edie.”

 The woman walked back out of the room, and it got silent for a few moments.

 “Please, have some. It is a Darjeeling blend that is grown right here in Brexendor. I drink at least a cup a day. I promise you it is delicious.”

 She took another sip, but she didn’t look at all worried that you wouldn’t sample it. You placed the books on top of the table and took up the teacup instead, and sipped. Lavender, mint, honey, and rose filled your mouth. A moan escaped you.

 “Good, right.”

 Nodding, you took another mouthful.

 “How are you?”

 After swallowing, you placed the cup down. “I am feeling a lot better, your majesty.”

 “Please, every time I am called that, it makes it impossible to forget. Call me, Cecelia, please.”

 You didn’t know what to say to that, and it must have shown because she smiled then giggled.

 “O—kay.”

 “I promise. I am not trying to trick you in any way. I just want you to be comfortable. I can imagine what it feels like to come here and be surrounded by all of this. It is—overwhelming…intimidating even. I just want to make your time here peaceful and enjoyable.”

 She didn’t look like she was lying or trying to cover something. She came off as genuinely kind, like she truly meant what she said.

 “Thank you, your—Ce—Ms. Cecelia.”

 She smiled, then nodded. “Alright. I understand.”

 “I’m Xari.”

 “A beautiful name. It is wonderful to meet you, dear. I do hope your stay has been a good one so far.”

 “Yes, yes, everyone has been nothing but kind and hospitable. I appreciate your kindness,” you expressed.

 Cecelia nodded and took another sip from her cup. Her eyes landed on something on the table.

 “Of Vice and Virtue and Clandestine. Two wonderful selections.”

 “I hope it’s alright. I took them. I promise I will put them back,” you began.

 Cecelia reached her hand out and placed it on top of yours. “Xari, I could not care less if you kept them. You are free to anything in the palace.”

 You slowly nodded and took another sip of tea. As you did, the photos on the table caught your eye. They were of a decorated room. It looked like a mock-up of a ballroom of some sort. The colors of the flowers were orange, and they didn’t look like they belonged with the pastel green that surrounded them.

 “This color scheme is all wrong. You shouldn’t pair orange and green. You have to pick one or the other. I’d recommend the green; it’s very pretty.”

 She looked curious, most likely wondering who the hell you were to say half of what you did.

 “Are you a decorator?”

 “Not officially. I took some classes, got some certificates in event planning and interior design,” you admitted.

 “Oh, so you design for a living.”

 “No, no. It—I am a travel photographer and blogger. It’s not what I planned, but I fell into it. Event planning and design are more of hobbies.”

 “Well, this might just be serendipitous. I am in the middle of planning the ball for the opening of the festivities,” Cecelia began adjusting herself in her seat. “I just got back in Brexendor, and the trip was longer than I anticipated. That means I have two days to put together our annual ball that is supposed to open Brexenavid. That is our month-long celebration of what every Brexdorian prides themselves on—our holiday time.”

 “What exactly is Brexenavid?”

 “It is our month-long holiday celebration that we go all out for. There are tens of events, sometimes games, balls, dinners, and dignitaries within Brexendor and our neighboring countries who will begin arriving to stay with us here,” Cecelia explained.

 You were impressed. It all sounded like a lot of work.

 “And you’re the one to plan all of it?”

 “Yes. That is my role as the matriarchal head of the royal family. It is one of my many roles.”

 You released a breath, then finished your cup of tea. Before you spoke, you poured another.

 “So tell me, if you were planning this, how would it look?”

 You took a few moments to sip your tea and think about how you would do it. Closing your eyes, you tried to visualize the space, but you’d seen so many spaces that you couldn’t really picture it.

 “Where will it be? What room? Can you describe it to me?”

 Cecelia smiled, then stood. “I can do better. Let me show you.”

 Cecelia walked out of the room, leaving you to hurry behind her. she led you through the hall you’d just walked down until you went down another hall you hadn’t before. About a minute later, you followed her into a large ballroom that looked like it belonged in Versailles. The walls dripped gold, and the ceiling housed so many chandeliers you didn’t bother to count past five.

“Wow. What a room.”

 “One of my favorites. It is the usual one I use. What do you think?”

 “Nice room. I would say with the amount of light that comes in and the views; I’d play that up. since it is December and I’ve seen several of your streets, Christmas is huge here.”

 “If you only knew,” Cecelia confirmed.

 “Then play it up. Christmas trees, poinsettias, tree lights, tinsel, everything that everyone loves about Christmas. Give your guests what they really love about this country, the beauty, the splendor,” you suggested.

 She looked around the room as if she were trying to picture it. “I like it.”

 Her smile was bright. “I more than like it. I love it. Carolina thought floral.”

 “Floral isn’t a bad idea. You can add some in. Roses are subtle, lilies, even Dahlias, and Tulips.”

 Cecelia approached you and took your hand. “I love your ideas, Xari. I have one of my own. How would you feel about taking point on this? I know you are still recovering, but you would have every staff member at your disposal. You would not be doing too much. You give the design orders, and everyone else will execute it.”

 You were speechless and couldn’t believe the queen had just asked you to deck out her palace for a ball. “Obviously, you do not have to if you do not want to.”

 “Do what?”

Henry’s voice brought your attention to him. he wore a simple white button-down shirt and grey dress pants. While it wasn’t as formal, he still looked put together.

 “I have just asked Xari if she would put together the ball.”

 “Mother. She is supposed to be resting and recuperating. Dr. Alphonsi has left very strict orders, and work was on the list of prohibited actions.”

 His mother looped her arm with his with a smile. “Oh, darling, I am not talking about manual labor. She has quite an eye for design and event planning. I thought it would be fun.”

 “Mother--,” Henry began again.

 “Plus, what are you doing here?”

 “You said supper was promptly at seven.”

 “Heavens, is it seven already? All right, Xari, you do not have to answer right away. You can take the night to think about it. we should all go to supper.”

 “Uh—I’ll go back to my room,” you began.

 “Nonsense, looking at you, you are well enough to dine with the rest of us. Come,” Cecelia pressed as she released Henry to loop her other arm with yours and led you closer to her son.

 Henry smirked, and when he realized he was in the middle, he softly scoffed and held out his arm for you. Your eyes locked for a few seconds, and you picked up a hint of amusement behind his blue orbs. You slowly looped your arm through his, allowing him to led the two of you out of the ballroom and down the long hall.

 As you walked, his mother chattered on about something that you paid no mind to. All you could focus on was the smell of Henry’s cologne and his towering presence beside you. Your hand rested on his forearm, and the heat radiating off of him tempted you to flex your fingers against him. The minute your fingers moved, you felt his bicep tense. It was an action that brought your eyes to him. You lost your breath when you found his were already on you. Goodness, you thought to yourself, slowly trailing your eyes over the details of his face until they landed on his lips.

 “Eh-em.”

 Snapping your head forward, you saw that you’d arrived in the dining room. You pulled your arm free and walked away from Henry flashing them out, trying to cool them from his heat and gain some control over your wayward thoughts. This dining room was a different one from before. It looked more intimate.

 “This is the dining room we prefer to eat in as a family,” Cecelia explained the closer you got to the table.

 Taking your place beside Anika, Henry took his at the head of the table while his mother across from you beside a beaming Jemma. Once everyone was seated, the staff walked in carrying trays of food toward you. Once yours was put down, the silver cover was taken off to reveal a pot roast of some kind.

 “I hope you are not a vegetarian,” Cecelia began.

 “Oh no, my sister and I love all kinds of meat, Anika blurted out, making you give her a harsh eye.

 “Wonderful. Please, dig in.”

 Dinner went on uneventfully. Jemma talked about her plans to include a local orphanage in the planned festivities for the month. Everyone seemed to think it was an excellent idea. Then the conversation turned to Anika as the Queen tried to get to know her better. The only ones who remained relatively quiet were you and Henry. Every so often, your eyes met and lingered. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words never manifested. That was when your eyes drifted to some part of him, either it was his lips, or his hands, or even those sprigs of black hair that teased the bounty that laid under his shirt just waiting to be played with.

 By the time dinner was finished, and after dinner, coffee and tea were served, things had moved to one of the sitting rooms you’d walked through earlier in the day. After your first cup of chamomile and lavender tea, the queen said her goodnights and left you, Anika, and Jemma to your own devices. It allowed you to crack open one of the books you’d picked earlier. By the time you finished your second cup of tea, exhaustion had caught up with you. When you looked up, it was just you and Henry sitting there. Once again, Anika had disappeared, this time taking Jemma with her.

His nose was buried in a book. Before you could admire the view of him sitting there with one leg crossed over the other, his eyes drifted to you; then he lowered his book to reveal a soft smile. Neither of you spoke. It was a comfortable silence that didn’t need to be filled with words. A yawn sprang from you, making him snort.

 “This can’t be regular chamomile or lavender.”

 “You are probably right. I do know it is farmed straight from the field and brought here,” he answered.

 “Wow, so literally from the earth to your stomach.”

 Henry smiled again.

 “I um—I think I should probably turn in,” you said.

 Henry placed his book aside, then stood. “Allow me to walk you back to your room.”

 “Thank you, your highness.”

 He smiled, came closer, and held his arm out to you.

 “Are you always such a gentleman?”

 “I try to be. It is what I was raised to be,” he replied.

 “So—always. There isn’t a time of day where you say fuck it and let it all fall away?”

 He smiled and stepped a little closer. It was as close as he was the first night in the bar before you parted ways. His eyes bore into you from his towering height, and you decided you wanted to see what he would do.

 “There is about an hour in the morning when I first wake. No one has come in to give me news or updates. It is quiet, and my mind is clear. Then there are those few minutes at night before I fall asleep where I can let everything fall off me. In those two moments—I—I feel like myself.”

 There was a pained look in his eyes that you wanted to know more about.

 “And what does it feel like to be yourself?”

 Henry gave you a melancholy smile. “Lonely.”

 A full minute passed then Henry held out his arm again. “Shall we?”

 You looped your arm and let him lead the way out of the sitting room, down the long corridor, and up the grand steps. The walk was quiet, but you didn’t feel weird being close to him like this. It felt normal. Halfway to your room, Henry spoke.

 “My father told me before he died, the more people that want a piece of you, the less you have for yourself and the lonelier it is at the top.”

 “Sounds like the words of a wise man.”

 “He was very wise.”

 Silence. You’d heard the sadness in his voice the first time he mentioned his father.

 “Do you miss him?”

 “Every single second of every single day,” Henry answered.

 As you turned down the hall that would lead to your room, the silence returned.

 “Your speech was amazing.”

 “You’re saying that because you helped write it.”

 You couldn’t help but laugh. “It doesn’t matter who helped write it. Words are nothing without the conviction to back them up. You made the speech.”

 You could feel his eyes on you, so you met them right before you stopped in front of your door.

 “Thank you,” he whispered. He then took a step to you, closing the wide gap between you.

 “Do you usually have to approve the plans for big events?”

 His crinkled brow said he was confused. “I guess it depends. Why?”

 “Well, since you are so busy being his highness and all, the only way we’d ever see each other the next few days would be for me to accept your mother’s offer and plan this ball seeing how his highness would get the final say-so on all plans. Right?”

 Henry slowly began smiling then he licked his lips. “That sounds about right, but that would mean one thing and one thing only.”

 You leaned against your door and smiled innocently. “And what’s that?”

 “That you want to see me almost as much as I want to see you.”

 Your heart pounded faster and faster. “Almost as much?”

 Henry rested his arm on the door jamb, sort of boxing you in. “You have to know, Xari.”

 “Know what, your highness?”

“Henry,” he whispered quite breathlessly as he stared into your eyes.

The tension between you was palpable. It felt like any second one or both of you were going to do something that neither of you could take back. The loud crack of thunder boomed outside, bringing you both to realize your surroundings. Henry cleared his throat and took two steps back.

 “Good night, Xari. I look forward to seeing those plans at every decision,” he said with a stern face and plenty of humor in his eyes.

 “Your highness.”

 He sighed, then walked back down the hall, leaving you to admire the sway of his hips and the plump but firm state of his ass. God help you, you thought to yourself before you stepped back into your room. You’d never been good at fighting off temptation. You liked to put up a fight but eventually, you always gave in. 

You knew that it was only a matter of time before you did just that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[ledbiantastic]

Okay, it's time for my Harrow The Ninth read through post. Spoilers, obviously. Thanks to @shakespearerants, @irascibubble, and @mayasaura for encouraging me to keep going. Enjoy!

I am on page 33 of Harrow the Ninth and I am making a prediction. I initially thought the Body referred to the dead girl in the locked tomb, but now I think it's Gideon. We'll see if I'm right.

Page 44 says it is the dead girl in the tomb, but I'm not convinced it isn't also Gideon

Gideon must be important to have to be erased from Harrow's mind like that, right?

Did Ortus the First kill/try to kill Gideon's mom? The timeline adds up, they said he messed something up nineteen years ago, Gideon was 18 in the last book and time has passed

In the weird retconned memories, after every death, or during, someone says "is this how it happens" which makes me think it's, like, Harrow's brain asking that

Who are those notes from and to? What's up with that?

I love seeing Harrow spend time with Magnus and Abigail. I liked them

If Harrow is haunted, but this is not the real version of the past, is her mind creating the ghost? Is it Gideon? I don't think Gideon would write notes like that though...

Page 291 is Ortus talking to her like she's Gideon's mother? IS HE ASKING WHY SHE BROUGHT ALONG THE BABY?

Is Ortus' cavalier more active or something? Like he doesn't remember because she takes control?

Page 315 "he had seen me" who is he and who is me? Who is narrating this to Harrowhark? Is. It. Gideon? (Later I decide it's Palamedes seeing the Sleeper, who is also narrating and is possibly Gideon. We'll see if that's right.)

Is the poster on page 318 Gideon? Is It? IS IT? But Gideon's hair didn't go down to her shoulders. Is it her mom?

Are Camilla and Coronabeth on the side of the rebellion? BOE? Is old Harrow? I KNEW IT! But I'm sad they're on different sides.

Is Ianthe the spy? Is that how she knew Coronabeth was alive?

Does the Sleeper represent the part of Harrow and/or her brain that erased her memories and it's cleaning up the debris in her psyche? OR IS IT GIDEON? AKA the DORMANT part of Harrow-as-Lyctor? When the Sleeper is unmasked, will we see Harrow or Gideon?

Did Gideon's mother start the rebellion or something? Is that why they had a poster of her? Was she Eden?

So, Canaan house was on earth then?

Did Harrow (old Harrow) tamper with her own temporal lobe? Did Mercymorn? Ianthe?

Whose idea was it for Ortus to kill her then? John? Augustine? Mercymorn? Someone else?

Did Harrow break into the locked tomb? I want to believe she did, because I support her. But if not, who is the Body?

Shit, I can't remember what color Gideon's eyes were. Page 363 when Harrow's eyes are two different colors, black and gold

Ianthe wants to marry Harrow? Weird. I don't ship it. But I'm kind of stuck on Gideon and if I wasn't, maybe.

See a man about a queen? What does it mean? What is Ianthe doing? Also love that she cursed Harrow's hair to grow extra, just to be petty.

I'm so confused by chapter 40. What the hell is going on? Why is Harrow trying to be a cavalier? The fuck? Role swapped false memory? What is even happening?

Is Harrowhark's brain just, like, randomly spit-balling while she's dying or something? Love that Abigail and Magnus seem to be aware that it's not real.

OH OH OH THAT WAS GIDEON! SERVING THE COFFEE AND MAKING HARROW BLUSH IN THE THIRD(?) FALSE MEMORY OR DREAM OR WHATEVER! I love that Abigail is NOT having this, like, no I'm not gonna watch your romance novel version unfold.

I think I've noticed that the ones who have speaking roles the weird memories are the ones who died in the last book.

Are they all taking active part in these false scenarios? All the dead from Canaan house?

Oh my god oh my god here it is she remembers and she's so sad!

So she erased Gideon to save her soul. Nope nope nope nope nope I can't. I can't deal with these feelings. Y.Y

Who the fuck is the angry spirit?!?!

Who fucking stabbed her?

IS GIDEON DRIVING HARROW'S FUCKING BODY AROUND DURING A FIGHT? HELL YES! AND THAT MEANS I WAS RIGHT THAT SHE'S NARRATING!

OH AND I PREDICT THE GHOST IS CYTHERIA!

I'm still thinking about what Harrow did. It's so sweet and so sad and she's so lonely and she didn't even know how lonely she was.

Also I'm already excited to reread this series.

Oh yeah, this is GIDEON in here, swearing up a storm and trying to use a sword.

Okay, first I'm getting emotional just from heading Gideon's voice, then I'm emotional about what it was like for her to be in Harrow's body/mind, then I'm emotional about all the things she wanted to say but didn't have time, AND THEN I'M EMOTIONAL when Gideon says why she thinks Harrow did it and I'm like baby nooooooo it was because she loved you, not because she didn't want to rely on you! Honey, baby, no!

"Harrowhark, I gave you my whole life and you didn't even want it." HARROWHARK, I GAVE YOU MY WHOLE LIFE AND YOU DIDN'T EVEN WANT IT. 💔💔💔😟😟😟😭😭😭 Excuse me while my heart breaks.

Oh, also a bigger issue in this book is the whole concept of the afterlife? And it's messed up because of the emperor? I don't know why I wasn't prepared for that but I wasn't.

Ortus holding Harrow and pointing out that she and Gideon were neglected children is making my therapist soul ascend.

I'm such an idiot. His name wasn't Ortus, it was Gideon. He did kill Gideon's mother, that's why she shouted his name. Or they were in love? One or the other... Or both?

Harrow did a find and replace in her brain and it had unexpected consequences.

I've been leaning more and more towards the Sleeper and ghost being Cytheria.

Oh my sweet sword lesbian himbo, how I've missed you. "The sword I had to hold overhead in one hand as I used the other to keep everything inside you; stuff was coming out, Harrow, I don't know precisely what stuff because I'm not a goddamn necromancer."

Gideon is OCCUPYING HARROW'S BODY during a deadly invasion and is like, 'I'm gonna shut my eyes to reach under the shirt and get rid of encumbrances. I tried not to touch you, so don't get mad.' I feel like Harrow would be the first one to say 'do whatever you have to do to stay alive, you imbecile!'

So Mercymorn stabbed Harrow... So the heralds would eat her as a way to buy time? Was that the plan? Gideon calling her "my necromancer" made my heart do a thing.

I want to understand what she's saying about Gideon's mother. Was Gideon a science experiment? Like Kipo?

Where. THE FUCK did Cytheria get the gun?

Dulcie is *horny for revenge* Abigail is a BAMF and my new (and final?) prediction is that the Sleeper is Gideon's mom.

Gideon and Ianthe is a fun dynamic. I love how protective Gideon is, that she's mad at Ianthe for hurting Harrow's heart.

Gideon must have her mother's eyes to be freaking all the lyctors the fuck out.

"I wanted you to use me... I wanted you to live and not die... Harrow. I already gave my flesh to you, and I already gave you my end. I gave you my sword. I gave you myself. I did it while knowing I'd do it all again, without hesitation, because all I ever wanted you to do was eat me." Why am I crying? 😭😭😭😭😭 Why is this the most romantic thing when it's also full of insults and curses and is followed by a your mom joke? What a Gideon thing to do, be so romantic and gross and sassy all at once. I love her, I want to be her. Gideon forever.

Love that Ianthe also thinks Harrow got rid of Gideon because she didn't want her. /s I'm starting to worry that it's silly for me to hold onto the 'because she can't live without Gideon' explanation.'

"But Nonagesimus, you hating me always meant more than anyone else in this hot and stupid universe loving me. At least I'd had your full attention." That's why indifference is the opposite of love, hate is still passionate attention. But this also makes me feel so bad for Gideon because she deserves to be loved, dammit!

Okay, "gall on gall" is pretty hilarious. Good job Ianthe.

Love that the ghost of Matthias Nonius speaks in meter because he's been so deified by the Ninth house, and he's confused by it. It's like people in a musical being aware they're in a musical, like, why am I singing?

Ortus' poem was important after all!

Is it the sword? Does Harrow have to destroy Gideon's sword? Because that would break my heart a little.

"It bewildered her, back at Canaan House, how the whole of her always seemed to come back to Gideon. For one brief and beautiful space of time, she has welcomed it: that microcosm of eternity between forgiveness and the slow uncomprehending agony of the fall. Gideon rolling up her shirt sleeves. Gideon dappled in shadow, breaking promises. One idiot with a sword and an asymmetrical smile had proved to be Harrow's end." I just... This is so beautifully written. And describing Gideon as one idiot with a sword is so perfect and right and I just... 🖤🖤🖤😭😭😭

No no no I hate this either/or bullshit! I know I'm a sappy optimist, but I want both of them to survive, damnit! I want Harrow to be able to go back to her body without losing Gideon's soul. I want Gideon to keep existing.

What does Dulcinea know?!?!

Commander? That's Gideon's mom, right? Awake Remembrance of These Valiant Dead Kia Hua Ko Te Pai Snap Back to Reality Oops There Goes Gravity

What does that all mean? Are those Eminem lyrics? What other language is in there?

WHAT'S ALL COME OUT?

I knew she was in the sword.

Oh my god, if you need John to get in the tomb, and she was trying to get in the tomb and had something, a tool... Samples... She was armed with the baby... Is Gideon's father John? Is Gideon the fucking child of God?

She named the baby Bomb... This whole series could have been Bomb the Ninth... Bomb Nav...

Yep yep called it, child of God. The first time they put that plan in action was to get sperm to make Gideon. The second time was so Harrow could kill the first Gideon.

A dad joke?! A DAD JOKE?!

Gideon and Harrow were so cruel to each other as kids. It just makes me so sad.

Was Harrow able to get into the tomb because she made Gideon bleed?

So is Alecto John's cavalier? Annabel and Alecto... Are the same person? I'm so confused. She's the body in the locked tomb? But how is that related to her eyes being in his genes?

Wait, the eyes switched? I continue to be confused. Did he do the lyctor thing but also put a part of both him and his cavalier into the cavalier's body? But she was never human? What's going on? Why do they think she never had genes?

Oh cool, Mercy killed God and now everyone's gonna die... ... ... Ooooor not.

I love that beating up Harrow is Gideon's job AND saving Harrow is Gideon's job. Very cute.

Sooooo Gideon the OG and Pyrrha both fucked Gideon's mom... With the same body...

Gideon, such a romantic, wishing she had Harrow's name on her lips as she died. "I mean, yeah, I was thinking about you too; if I could've turned that off I would've turned it off years ago" HAHAHAHAHA You can't stop thinking about Harrow even if you want to! God, what a sweet himbo.

"Yes, well, jail for mother" says Gideon... Is she referencing Miette? Jail for mother for one thousand years!

Okay, so we have definitely confirmed that the Body is Alecto/Annabel/God's cavalier.

What did Dulcinea tell her? That Gideon is moving her body around? Doesn't she know that? Shouldn't that not be a surprise?

Okay, so, wait, what happened to Harrowhark?

ARRRRRGH I'm not smart enough for this book! Or I'm not visual enough! I know I should recognize the description of bobbed hair and "lambent" eyes but I have no idea who it is and also WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO GIDEON AND HARROWHARK?! UGH NOW I HAVE TO WAIT FOR THE NEXT BOOK AND I'M GONNA BE SO IMPATIENT AND CONFUSED!

Well that was fun to reread. Impressed I got some things right, but mostly I was very wrong.

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: Teen Audiences

Words: 2.2K~

Summary: A series of shorts detailing what might’ve happened in the moments after I Am My Monster, told from six different points of view.

Greg apparently had a LOT on his mind, because this was supposed to be short and instead it’s over 2000 words, ahah. Final chapter!

If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3. Thank you! <3

Chapter warning: Allusions to past non-canon character suicide.

____

Chapter 6: Greg

Hours pass.

Bismuth makes quick and quiet work of replacing the cracked slider door in Steven’s room while he sleeps, and secures a thick tarp over the open front of the house to keep the coastal breeze somewhat at bay until she can finish her repairs to the windows and siding. She warns that might take a day or two. Garnet, meanwhile, busies herself the rest of the afternoon and evening fielding all of the Diamonds’ frazzled calls, and reassuring them of the boy’s current stability. Pooling their knowledge, Dr. Maheswaran and Peridot make sure to confirm that. Beyond some minor scarring, neither his organic or Gem half seems to exhibit any serious physical health conditions in consequence of what happened today, news which works to ever so slightly lift the air of the household. With no other concrete tasks to complete, Pearl, Amethyst, Lapis, Connie, and Greg all rotate between sweeping debris off the floor, wandering the beach to mentally recuperate, and dutifully sitting at Steven’s side as he rests. It may not sound like a lot, but alas the level of emotional labor demanded by such a situation is immense.

All in all, the sun’s long since dipped below the horizon by the time Greg finally collapses onto the mattress laid out in the back of his van, craving if but a moment of privacy and respite from all the chaos. It’s been... an insufferably long day, to put it lightly. Busy. Tons of cleaning, and intercepting nosy neighbors, and bedside monitoring...

He offered to take the first night shift watching Steven a few minutes ago, but Pearl must’ve noticed the dark circles creeping ever wider under his eyes, because she proceeded to gently overturn his offer and remind him of humanity’s daily sleep requirement. And she’s right, of course. He can’t stay up as long as he used to in his twenties anymore. Plus, he probably deserves some time to himself after everything that’s transpired. There’s plenty of Gems left in the house who can keep watch, after all. Steven will be fine for a few hours. Surely nothing else can happen when he’s asleep, right?

 Right??

Exhaustedly slumping against the side wall, Greg offers a glassy, vacant stare at the contacts list of his phone, roughly wiping the damp from his cheeks with his other hand as his thumb hovers over one of the numbers. Does he dare drag someone else into this whole situation? Surely the kinder solution would be to refrain from widening the circle any more, from letting anyone else learn about today’s harrowing events. And yet if he fails to find a proper outlet for the raw emotions all of this has violently hauled to the surface, he fears he just may suffer a mental break himself, repressed memories bursting like a vicious flood through the dam he desperately tried to seal them behind all those years back. Much of this is just... far too familiar.

His phone slips right through his trembling hands as the cruel reality of what he witnessed today finally begins to carve its indelible presence in his mind. A strained sob leaking from between his tightly pursed lips, he buries his head between his knees, clutching at the worn bottom hem of his jean shorts like an infant to a parent’s finger. Small. Vulnerable.

Helpless.

His son... oh stars, his only son, he—

He can’t talk about any of this to the Gems; they wouldn’t wholly grasp the uniquely human nature of his concerns. And he doesn’t feel comfortable discussing these matters with Dr. Maheswaran, especially not after the stern words she dealt to him back at the hospital. He’s burdened her enough already, by this point. No, there’s only one fellow human he feels close enough with to engage in this sort of conversation.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he reaches for the phone he dropped on the mattress. Turns it on. Nervously clamps down on his bottom lip as he selects his cousin’s contact and dials.

The passing heartbeats slamming against his ribs are almost nauseating in their needy clamor as he waits, his calloused fingers tapping against the thick rubber of his phone case. Andy’s never been a particularly tech savvy guy, so honestly, it’s well within reason he might not even carry his phone on his person to answer. And that’d be fine, really. In fact, he might even prefer it, since he’s still not confident he’s emotionally prepared to discuss any of this at this precise moment, anyways. But just as he’s beginning to undergo mental preparations for what on Earth he might leave as a voicemail message, his older family member finally picks up.

“Greg?” Andy’s gravelly voice rings through, sounding somewhat tinny through their connection. “Hey, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? How’s the ol’ Universe family unit doin’?”

“Not great, honestly,” he narrowly manages in response, his throat constricting tight. “That’s kinda why I’m calling, if you have the time to listen?”

“Heh. I’m a drifter, you know I ain’t got no schedule. Carry on.”

“Well... geeze, how do I put this. There was, uh... a bit of an incident today. With Steven.”

“An incident?” his cousin questions, marked worry immediately painting his tone. “The kid okay??”

He falls silent for a few seconds upon this question, threading his hyperactive digits through the split ends in his hair on automatic, a stress-induced habit. “Unclear,” he says, a slight quiver making itself intimately known in his words. “I mean, physically, at the moment, yes, but—“

He cuts off once more. It suddenly occurs to him that little of today’s events would make sense to Andy without providing the appropriate context. Or, at least, what little context he’s capable of giving as a father. It’s still terrifying to admit the truth to himself— that he doesn’t possess the full story. That he hasn’t been paying close enough attention. That, in many ways, he willfully blinded himself to all the troubling events transpiring around his son throughout the years, foolishly believing that if he didn’t involve himself... that if he simply stayed out of the Gems’ hair... everything would go to plan, and Steven would finally receive the training he needed. He didn’t expect things would grow so complicated.

He didn’t expect that his teenage son would have to march into battle carrying nothing but his wits and a shield time and time again.

With a weary sigh and a quick apology, to which Andy brushes off, Greg begins to weave a verbal picture of everything that’s transpired across the last few days. First, the hospital call. Rushing home from tour, only to find his son giant and flushed pink, literally filling an entire room with the sheer volume of his trauma. The shattered x-ray in his chart, hinting towards hidden hurts that— before all this— even Steven seemingly hadn’t processed or quantified. Then, the road trip. The unwanted reminders of his childhood. That blasted CD. His expression sobers as he describes the fateful argument they had on the road home, one which lead to his son accidentally breaking the steering wheel and flipping the van. Next... his disappearance. No texts for four whole days, which is so unlike him. He was worried sick. And the next time he saw him, he was eight feet tall, glowing, and painfully manic in behavior, with each new sentence spilling from his mouth revealing an even more heartbreaking picture of the sort of poor mental state he’d spiraled into. It was nothing short of a father’s worst nightmare, propelled into horrifying, vivid reality.

Nothing in this corner of the galaxy could’ve prepared him for the primal surge of terror and anguish he was engulfed within when that nightmare distorted and transformed even further.  

His only son... colossal and coated in thick scales and spines, sclera black as night... roughly clawing at this unfamiliar form, smashing his skull against the cliffside, roaring with an inner pain so primal that the sound now haunts the depths of his very soul—

“I- you remember what happened with cousin Jo, back when we were young?” Greg says softly once he’s caught Andy up with the details of situation, his voice frail and unsteady, the tone of a man helplessly marooned amidst his anxieties. “Before she was sent to that mental rehab place? Well, I’m... with the addition of Gem magic, it almost felt like that. I mean, h-he’s fine for now, we have him resting, but... but I’m just so scared he won’t come out of this, like her, a-a-and that one day he’ll—“

A mewling sob bubbles up in his throat, swiftly severing that train of thought. N-no. No, he refuses to even utter that horrible idea out loud! After all, a world without Steven in it isn’t worth envisioning.

Andy’s eventual response— albeit tinged with a justified shade of awkwardness, given the emotionally charged nature of this conversation— is filled with genuine compassion, and for that he’s dearly thankful.

“Aw, hell... Greg, I’m- I’m so sorry. I, uh- I could fly over, if any of ya’ need me? For emotional support, or whatever?”

Upon this kind offer, he inhales deep to steady his breath, and wipes away dewy beads of moisture from the corner of his eyes, desperately hoping that he can mitigate the pitiful wavering of his voice over the phone. He’s gotta fight to reliably keep some form of composure in front of other people, damnit. His kid can’t have his dad breaking down around him too, of course.

“No, you’ve got places to be,” he replies evenly, pressing his thumb and pointer against one of his aching temples. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You ain’t asking,” he retorts, the eye-roll evident in his tone. “I’m offering. Listen- family takes care of family, y’hear? And I’m only about a day’s flight away, anyways. It’s really the least I could do.”

He sighs. Absentmindedly tugs at a thick strand of his hair. Offers a long, contemplative stare at the rickety age-worn handle affixed to the inside of the van’s back doors. Truth be told— ignoring his deep-seated guilt at dragging Andy into all this to begin with— he’d love having another family member around to embrace, especially a human one who can more deeply understand the crux of his anxieties about this delicate situation. But in the end, he shouldn’t be prioritizing his own feelings and comfort. He’s not the one in crisis, his son is.

Desperately hoping he’s making the right choice, Greg flexes his fingers, and acquiesces to the offer, on one condition: only if Steven consents to having visitors, once he’s awake.

Andy hums in approval. “Understood. Don’t wanna overload the poor guy with any surprise visits, or whatever.”

“Yeah. The last thing I want to do is push him too hard, too fast.”

He pauses, braving waves of parental grief to spend a moment to reflect on Steven’s emotional progression over the past few months... a stray negative comment here, an unusually forlorn mannerism there... All of them events that, in isolation, wouldn’t point to anything more than your standard ‘teenage angst,’ but when observed in strong, unceasing patterns, begin to reveal deeply harrowing truths about the state of an individual’s self-image. How did he never notice? Why wasn’t he there to catch him in his fall?

“I think he hates himself,” he says quietly, his voice hitching up at the end. “He didn’t say so directly, but- but I can sense it. And I don’t know how to help him, I-I... I don’t know if I can.”

“Nonsense,” his cousin scoffs, “‘course ya’ know what to do! What does any good father worth their salt give their sons?”

Unable to evade the momentary temptation of feeling miserable and sorry for himself, he slumps back against the wall, giving a weak shrug that his current audience would never see.

“I dunno, maybe a stable, safe childhood? Not growing up poor as dirt in a van?”

“No, you numbskull,” Andy immediately cuts back, “you love on ‘em and support ‘em just as much as you always have! Y’ show him that you’re always gonna be there for him, and that he can trust you with anything.”

“But I haven’t always been there for him,” he exclaims petulantly. “That’s the whole problem! That’s one of the reasons he ended up like this.”

“Greg,” he says, his voice softer this time. “Listen to me, ain’t nobody perfect, okay? We’ve all made our mistakes with people. Me? More than most. But what we can’t do is let those mistakes cloud what’s happening right now. Y’know, that’s one of the hard lessons I’ve had to learn over the past two years, that you can’t always make things about you. Because right now, it’s about him. He’s dealin’ with some hard feelings, and he needs all of our help. So, let’s help him. Together. We’ll start with one foot in front of us, and we can take it from there. All right?”

Closing his weary, exhausted eyes and pressing his thumb firm against his still-aching temple, Greg Universe gives a long sigh and finally concedes to the reality that— just as he’s not solely responsible for the decline of his son’s mental state— no man should be an island when it comes to the task of supporting one’s journey towards recovery. As with everything, the extended Universe family unit will face the future together, hand-in-hand. Step-by-step.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I think that’s do-able.”

[bettsfic]

You may have answered this before, but what happened your experience been like writing for/getting traffic to fics for dead or old fandoms? Eg breaking bad or the secret history. I always find myself thinking it’s not worth writing for an old fandom even if i have ideas but i’ve never actually done it so idk if that’s accurate

i love writing for small/old fandoms and rare pairs. my westworld fic is the only one in the caleb/dolores tag somehow, even though i shipped it so hard it launched me into breaking bad. i spent nearly all of last year hopping around in old/nonexistent fandoms and i had a really great time. if you look at the comments on my small fandom fics, they’re amazing. they’re so thoughtful and insightful and personal. i really love them. 

i’m not going to sit here and tell you traffic doesn’t matter. it matters to all of us to some degree, although possibly in different ways and for different reasons. it’s hard not to see traffic as a metric of belonging. you put yourself into something, you give it a platform, and perhaps its reception allows you to feel accepted or loved, or less alone, or briefly reassured that your existence has meaning. there’s nothing wrong with that. there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be seen. 

when i started writing fic, traffic and comments meant everything to me. i was absolutely in it for the attention, because i’d never received good attention before. i’d been accused all my life of “attention-seeking behavior” like it was a bad thing, like the solution to that often destructive behavior was to just ignore me until i suddenly grew a sense of self-acceptance and existential security all on my own, like getting mad at a plant for dying without any sunlight. a plant can only stretch toward a window so far.

my relationship with traffic was not a healthy one. for a long time i couldn’t separate myself from the work, so negative comments hurt me and positive comments defined me. i mistakenly believed that people who liked my writing liked me, when that’s the very opposite of the purpose of pseudonymous community writing. it took me a long, long time to realize and accept that nothing is about me. but that’s probably a post for another time.

after a few years of writing and posting fic, and attending workshops and receiving good mentorship, a very unexpected thing happened: i got enough attention. i didn’t think it was possible. i thought i’d just spend my life wanting more and more and never being satisfied. i couldn’t conceive of what “enough” of anything looked like. enough time, enough money, enough love. some of us spend so much of our lives hungry that we don’t know what fullness feels like. we don’t know what it means to be able to bear moments of emptiness because we know the things we need will always be in our reach. many of us, maybe even most of us, do not know what it means to trust that all our needs will be met on any given day, at any given time. 

something similar happened with sleep. i’d lived most of my life in a state of extreme sleep deficiency. waking up was the hardest part of every day of my life. then when i was 23 i was finally in a position where i could sleep as much as i needed to. for months i slept for 10 to 12 hours a day, and then slowly as i made up for all those lost hours of sleep, it slipped down to 9 and then 8. i fell asleep when i was tired; i woke up when i was ready. i let myself nap, but i found that i no longer needed to. i’d never known a life without fatigue, and then finally i was awake.

once i’d received enough attention, i started to see everything differently. whenever i wrote something, i started seeing it, not in terms of fearing its failure, but readying for its potential success. because i’ve found success is much, much harder to deal with than failure. once you separate yourself from failure, once you don’t let it affect your self-perception, success becomes terrifying. i have never met a single person who is emotionally prepared for the harrowing fallout of success. 

whenever i post anything, a tweet, a text post, a fic, i ask myself, “what if this goes viral?” what happens if i post a multi-chap fic in a new fandom that ends up becoming the next juggernaut? what happens if that fic gets 10k kudos and a thousand comments? 

a viral tweet or post eats up your activity feed for days. you don’t get anything for it, except every once in a while you might see yourself on a buzzfeed listicle. once, a student showed me a screencap of one of my own tweets that she’d seen on facebook. writing a popular fic is fun but it’s also, for me anyway, overwhelming, because i don’t see writing fic as a content/consumer situation. i see myself as a member of a community, and when you’re placed too high on a pedestal, you’re no longer a member of that community. you’re a content creator. it’s the difference between telling a story to your friends over drinks and acting on stage. when you’re done telling the story to your friends, they speak back to you. when you bow at the end of a play, all you can hear is applause. both are good things, but conflating the two is a bad idea. you’ll never be happy if you’re seeking applause but getting conversation, and you’ll never be happy if you’re seeking conversation but getting applause.

there are plenty of people well-suited to entertaining, who thrive on popularity and strive for fame. i’ve learned that i am not one of them. nor am i one of those people with a billion sock accounts, who hates attention so much they drop fics anonymously, or maybe don’t post them at all. i’m in a place where no matter what i post, i’m content with the reception i get. if i post a fic that gets 10 kudos and 2 comments, i’m grateful to those people who kudosed and commented. if i post the kind of wip that, when it updates, people tweet “X JUST UPDATED” and drop everything they’re doing to read it, and each chapter gets 50-100 comments, i’m grateful for that too. it’s very fun, waking up to lots of excited and kind comments. either way, i’m doing the work i enjoy: helping people, or myself, feel something, or escape, or believe in love and kindness and beauty if they’re in a dark enough place to doubt it. to me it doesn’t matter if that’s for me and two other people, or two thousand, or twenty thousand. it’s all good and worthwhile work to be doing.

[thesameasbe4]

Hunting the White Wolf

What Bucky might have been up to in Wakanda.

I hadn’t noticed the sun going down. And that didn’t happen often. Always, I was thinking about logistics, how to get places, could I do it before dark, how much would it cost to travel that far out of the town? It was good to see Sarah and her kids. They were growing up so fast and I was glad to see her husband was still around. It may have been my jaded expectations of so many men from this village, but I had not expected him to remain long. But Sarah is one of the smartest people I know, of course she chose well.

Besides catching up, we had also laid out a plan for a visit to a neighboring village. She kept calling it a favor to her, but I would have done it no matter what. That was my job, I trained local nurses in psycho-social recovery from war traumas. And there were folks in every village that needed this recovery. Wakanda’s strategic decision to open up to the world may have been a political win but the sacrifice was the wellness of their own people, a proud people unused to talking about their emotions. I hadn’t been in Wakanda long, having been transferred from my long-term position in Northern Zambia at the request of the UN. Wakanda seemed to have all of the resources it needed to provide in-country care, but I didn’t have much choice about the move, so I went.

This village I was to go to next was in the shadow of the capitol city and many of its locals had lost family or become paraplegic after the battle for the infinity stones. Much of Sarah’s family was from there and she knew how badly they were hurting.

…

The journey had not been as harrowing as many I had undertaken. I had taken a motorbike all the way there, but the roads got better, widened and paved smooth the closer we came to the capitol. A great big woman clad in a bright pink kitenge rushed over to my motorbike as we pulled into the stand. She helped me with my bags as I paid my driver. There was much hand shaking and hugging as I followed Mama Hassan down a footpath. In the next several hours I learned Mama was much like Sarah, or rather that Sarah was much like her aunt. She was smart as a whip and also very gentle. I ate well, doing my best to at least taste all the dishes she put in front of me while we spoke of those hurting. We discussed who to visit and I explained that my aid model was to offer guidance to local medical professionals or traditional healers on how to care for emotional trauma. This ensures that the knowledge empowers those who are already trusted and have a good sense of community already.

“And there is of course the White Wolf.” Mama said feigning indifference. I cocked my head to one side, pausing over the basin in which I was washing the dishes outside of her small mud brick home. That name sounded familiar, but I was not sure why.

“What is the White Wolf, Mama?” I asked.

“It is a who. He fought in the battle with our king and army. It is said that he has lived many lives, and many of those lives were spent killing.”

“He is Wakandan?”

“Oh no, he is like you, a Mzungu.” I nodded, smiling inside, people in this part of the world were not shy about noticing skin color, and I couldn’t blame them. For many, I was the only white skinned person they had e er seen.

“This Mzungu lives in the village?”

“Sometimes, he often goes off for many months, but he always returns, and he carries back with him this look of weariness. The children started calling him White Wolf,” she chuckled to herself. “They say it is because he is white and has hair on his face like a wolf, but when I look at him I see a hunger in his eyes that is really terrifying.”

…

We visited ten families the next day, and the day after, and the day after that. We listened to many many stories of loss and hardship. I did not hear a resounding pride for Wakanda, like their leadership was projecting to the outside, no I heard frustration that after remaining a protected and sacred place for so many years, Wakanda had the same stories of wartime that many of their poorer and poorly led neighbors experienced. And in all of this, I witnessed Mama Hassan soothe, cry with them, and love them all. These people didn’t need me, and I got the sense they tolerated me only because of Mama Hassan. And she was who they needed.

After a few weeks, this is what I told her, and she hesitantly agreed to become the trauma healer for her village. We worked side by side. We continued visiting together in the mornings, I would listen mostly, and we would return to her home in the afternoons and work in her crop fields and discuss the techniques she used and some other things she might try.

One evening, in the light of a coal fire, she spoke his name again. “It is time you visited him. I heard he returned last week.”

“Ok, sure, we can go tomorrow, unless his home is far, we may have to wait a few days.” Mama shook her head.

“No, I will not go with you. I have enough work here with my own people. As you say, healing must come from within a community. He lives in peace with us here, but his is not one of our own.”

“Are you saying that Mzungus must take care of one another?” I asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“No Maggie, I am saying you are the professional, so I give you the difficult case and I will stick to what I know.” I chuckled, trying to shrug off the discomfort of her sudden seriousness.

“Okay Mama, I will go while you do the regular visits. How will I find him.”

“He is far, he has a hut on the bank of the lake. If you get lost, just ask the children, they all know where he stays.”

…

So I departed in the opposite direction of mama the next morning, hunting the White Wolf. This was beautiful land, and I hadn’t ventured in this direction often since arriving, so I relished the far reaching view of the green mountains. Few clouds were in the sky today and as the sun rose higher, I drew my kitenge up over my head hoping I wouldn’t burn badly. I also did this in areas where I hoped not to be so quickly identified as white. The closer I drew to the lake, the tighter I pulled my wrap, unsettled by what Mama had told me of this man, unsure of what I would find.

I could see a hut about half way around the lake, it stood alone, and from my distance, I saw no movement. I called to two small children playing on a rock close by and asked if they knew where White Wolf lived. They nodded wide eyed at me.

“Are you the wife of White Wolf Mama?” One of the children asked me.

I rolled my eyes a little while I dug in my bag for sweets. Handing each of them one, I shook my head, “No, I am a friend.” Well, I hoped he would receive me as a friend.

I slowed my pace as I drew closer, not wanting to surprise him or be caught off guard myself. But as I finally reached the hut, there was no one around. He was likely out making a living, or hunting, or at the market. I poked around as much as I dared, noticing a small stack of wood on one side of his hut as well as a clothes line strung from his roof to a pole a few meters away with a fluttering row of garments hanging there. I was surprised the homestead was so traditional, many of the Mzungus I knew sought walled in compounds with running water and electricity.

I wandered close to the lake and saw a three legged stool placed there. I wondered if he fished with a rod? Finally beginning to feel the long journey in my feet, I took a seat on the low stool, letting my bag fall next to me.

The sun drew higher and then began to lower again and my stomach rumbled. I pulled out a bottle of water and the chapati Mama had packed for me.

As I began to eat, three figures appeared around a corner out of the trees at the far end of the lake. One was tall and muscular and the other two were children who ran ahead and played with each other. All three were still in the shadow of the tree line and I could not make out their faces, but the man wore a blanket in the traditional way, tied around one shoulder so I thought it might be a hunter or farmer heading home for a meal.

Finally, the light fell on the man’s face and I swallowed. It was the White Wolf. I stood quickly, giving them long notice of my presence. Finally they reached me, the two children first. They ran over to me, unafraid and greeted me respectfully. I returned their greeting and then offered them the rest of my lunch, which they ate excitedly. Then I looked up, preparing myself to meet the White Wolf.

He stopped several feet from me, favoring his right side slightly. But he was not frightening, in fact his presence was calm, yes it was a concentrated, intense calm, but fierceness was not the same thing as dangerous. Wanting to show my good will, I removed the kitenge that had been covering my head and torso. I nodded at him, “You are the one they call the White Wolf?” His brow furrowed and I wondered if I had misspoken.

“Who is seeking the White Wolf?” He made a half circle around me, placing his body between me and his home.

“The people here call me Maggie, at home they call me Margaret.” There is silence between us still so I continue, “I seek the White Wolf in good faith. I am living with Mama Hassan in the village.”

His face did not change, but he stepped closer, “The people here call me the White Wolf.” He sighed as he glanced toward something behind me. “You have lost my helpers.”

I turned around to see that the two boys had discovered the sweets I had packed for the children and were already busy shoving them all in their mouths. “Oh dear,” I laughed.

“Their mother is not going to be happy with me,” he muttered. “I hope you came ready to work.” He held up a cord that was tied to his waist on which two wild birds, each about the size of a chicken, dangled. The man definitely didn’t speak very much.

I shrugged at him. “Shall I pluck them or start the fire?” I asked gamely.

It was strange to work side by side with this mysterious person, each of us foreigners in this place, yet even more foreign to each other without it. We prepared food from Wakanda, I brought rice and sugar as is traditional in Wakanda when visiting. Some of what we spoke was even in the language of these people.

I had finished washing the rice and handed the pot to him to place on the fire. I noticed he reached across with his right arm, odd since he had to put down a knife to take it from me. I watched him closer for a few minutes, my eyes finally clearing when I realized he only had one arm. I had assumed his left arm was obscured by the tribal blanked that he wore, not that it was concealing a lost limb.

The two boys ran by me and the Wolf spoke loudly to them in their own language to play somewhere else, that the fire would burn them and their mother would be very upset.

“Are they your boys?” I asked.

“They wouldn’t be so dark if they were mine,” he said.

“I know, but their mother, is she-”

“She is my neighbor,” he gestured to the direction they had come from earlier, where a small collection of huts stood. “When I was first placed here they would dare each other to see who would come the closest. Finally, one of them came close enough for me to offer him breakfast and now it seems like they never leave. And their mother is kind, she helped me learn how to live here.”

He set the rice on the coal stove and sat back on another short three footed stool. “So you like it here?” I asked.

“I like that it is simple.”

When the food was ready I called the boys to come eat, though they were already fairly full from the sweets. I took a bite from on e of the boys plates, putting the rice and meat into my mouth with my fingers in the traditional way, trying to entice the child to eat.

After the meal that was mostly eaten by me and my mysterious host, the Wolf sent the boys away to play. “So what is it you came for, Maggie, certainly not my cooking.” I noticed he had drawn a veil over his eyes again, he stood emotionless. So I rose to meet him as best I could.

“I am seeking to help my neighbor.”

“How?” He growled, for the first time showing a glint of feralness.

“Perhaps I should say that you are helping me, you see I am working with Mama Hassan on healing the spirit of this village after the battle. You know well how different it is now.” I paused, waiting for a glint of recognition in his eyes but they hardened further.

“I do not want your healing.”

“You misunderstand.” My mind raced for words that would set him at ease. “It’s only that these people don’t need me, they don’t want to talk to me, and why should they. They need people like Mama Hassan to listen and comfort them, not Wazungu.”

“So what do you want from me?”

I thought for a second, “Company, companionship.”

He laughed bitterly. “No.”

“You are an outsider. You see these people differently than they see each other. You can help them heal.” He had turned his back to me and gazed out at the water and I watched as a dry breeze that swept at his shoulder length hair, pulling it into is face. Feeling a bit like we were in uncharted waters, I continued, “You know deeply what it means to be wounded by violence, I know that you see it in these people.”

He spoke no words, though in his silence I heard him ask, “What would you need from me?”

“Let me work along side you, tell me things about the people around us, the things you know are below the surface.”

He dug his heel into the ground. “I’m a soldier, I don’t think deeply, I follow orders.”

“That’s not-“ he held up a hand to silence me.

“No,” he said again and retreated to his hut. I gathered my things and made the long journey back.

…

I recounted my odd exchange to Mama. “You cannot give up on that man, he is too much alone with himself.”

“So what do you think I should do now? He has already said no,” I asked, short of threatening him, I didn’t think he wanted to see me around anymore.

“I know the family he works for, the Mama is raising eight children on her own. She says the White Wolf scared her very much at first, though I don’t think she had ever seen a Mzungu before, but anyway, she said that he shows up every morning and works in her field and then goes home for his lunch then returns in the afternoon and tends her sheep. He doesn’t speak but to ask questions about work. She says he can speak well in our language, and two of her boys love him and follow him every where he goes.”

I smiled, “I met them,” and I can’t imagine someone who is a threat would put up with those two.”

“There, you see, his is trying to heal with what he knows, you cannot abandon him even if he doesn’t know its for his own good.”

So I went.

The next day I began my walk in the pre dawn. When I reached the lake, the sun was just coming up and I walked just in the tree line, keeping my distance from the Wolf’s homestead. I arrived as the family was eating breakfast. The two boys from the day before were sat on mats on the ground eating out of communal bowls with their younger siblings. But they called out to me when I stepped into their line of sight. A gaunt, slender woman stood over a hot fire, stirring at a large pot. I made my introductions and my greetings from Mama Hassan and that I was here to work with the White Wolf. Nodding, she motioned up the hill to where her rows of maize began. Half way into this plot was the one armed figure I was here for, the wind tangling in his hair. I shouldered the hoe Mama had lent me and I stepped toward him, hoping I would make it back down the mountain alive at the end of the day.

We worked silently. I stopped every once in a while to take a draw from my bottle of water, but the Wolf didn’t stop. He had maintained a calm exterior though a muscle in his jaw worked all morning. As the sun warmed us, I approached, offering him my bottle of water, though it felt more like a white flag. He glanced up but did not stop. So I lowered my gift and retreated to my side of the field and carried on.

For many days we continued in this way. We would work around one another, never speaking, never interfering. At mid day I would speak with Mama and then begin my journey home to work with Mama Hassan. The days languished and it seemed nothing would change, but Mama said to keep steady, that nothing moved quickly in Wakanda but war. So every day I would go, tiptoeing around the restrained force I sensed bubbling within the White Wolf.

…

I awoke to a persistent shaking of my shoulder one morning. Well, it would be many hours before the sun would rise, I sat up in my pallet on the floor, searching for Mama, feeling the tension in me grow as I realized the presence of several bodies in the room. “Mama,” I called, steeling myself for her distress.

“I am here Maggie, do not worry,” she replied touching my shoulder again. “These people are from the capital.” I rose to my feet and someone flicked on a portable light.

“How can I help?” I asked, the light had exposed the concern on the faces of two visitors.

A young woman spoke up. “You have been working with the The White Wolf?”

I nodded slowly, “Something like that, it is very slow going.”

“Well we need your consult.”

“What has happened to him?” I asked.

“Ma’am, we do not have time to talk, I shall explain on the way.” With that, I was ushered out of Mama’s cottage and into some kind of transporter that hovered over the rocky ground.

Apparently they had been developing an arm for the white wolf to replace an old one he used to have that was part of his time as a brainwashed agent. He had been going up to the capitol most evenings to complete testes to further the process of this new arm. They had just attached it when he seemed to go into some kind of trance. The techs believed that their systems may have been hacked and when they introduce the arm, they reintroduced his programming.

I frowned, “Why do you need me?”

“We have found no breaches in cyber security. So the next logical thing is that it is post traumatic reaction.”

I responded with an interested “hm.”

I was forever fascinated by the duality of Wankadan technological sophistication and how it was valued along side the natural resources of the countryside. I was whisked into a great building on an electromagnetic train to a quiet lab. I peered through the two way glass at the figure of a restrained man. He was still, but tense. I knew it was the Wolf when I felt the rage rolling off of him.

“How long has he been restrained like this?” I asked.

“For several hours ma’am, we started by trying to remove the arm when he became agitated but he would not let us get close enough. This was the best we could do.”

“I would like to go in alone.” After quiet consultation amongst themselves, the guard around me consented, reminding me they would be just on the other side of the door if anything went awry.

So I stepped in. “Hello,” I said cheerfully, “I hear you have had a difficult couple of hours.” I made as much noise with my feet as I could till I was in his line of vision. “I am here just to talk with you,” I continued, searching for recognition in his eyes, though I saw nothing but cold anger. Maintaining a distance, I said, “would you tell me your name?” Silence.

I had become fascinated by this work through witnessing the work of traditional storytellers. I used to watch them weave together stories of great struggle and relieve the stress of violence through recounting not just the harm done to their own people but how they recovered in body and soul. I figured if this storytelling could work for centuries, why would it not work here. So I told him his own story, I told him of a young man that sought to serve his country and did, saving many lives. Yet in saving these lives he was captured and forced to turn against those he had been devoted to saving. I talked about how deeply they had reached inside of this man, and how he had forgotten the person he had been before, how he had forgotten about the good he had done. I could feel the tension and anger as his steely rage pressed against his restraints.

So I took a deep breath and stepped closer, my eyes searching for his and when he glared at me I refused to look away. And I told him of how even though he had forgotten, others did not. That they had gotten him away finally from the clutches of the evil men and that the young, bright hero was still there, even after all of that time.

“What is your name?” I asked him taking yet another step closer.

After a long silence, he spoke, “I am the Winter Soldier.”

I was so close now I could touch him, “no, what is your name?” I reached my hand out and rested it on his forehead. I gently swept the hair out of his face, maintaining my composure as I made contact with his hot skin.

“My name is Maggie, and we have been working together on a farm. You have made friends with two little boys who love to hang around you. What is your name?”

“I- I am the White Wolf,” he stammered, the humanity beginning to return to his tone. I pressed on.

“Many people call you that here, but that is not your name. What is you name Sergeant?” I asked gently, my hands moving from his face to his shoulders, one hot flesh the other cold metal.

“My name is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” he said finally, “but you can call me Bucky.” I smiled and stepped away.

“Welcome back Bucky, we missed you.” As Bucky began to notice his surroundings the recognition of what must have happened registered in his eyes and he sighed, looking toward the window where he knew people were observing him from.

“I am so sorry.” Then he looked at me. “How did you get here?”

“I heard you might need a friend, but the boys were still asleep, so I had to come instead.” I winked at him. And a corner of his mouth turned upward in a very charming way.

…

The next few weeks were slow but I sensed that the first night in the capitol had been a breakthrough for him. I stayed on and helped to observe his progress. Most of his episodes now took the form of dreams. They had been apprehensive about letting him sleep in private, converting the lab to a bedroom instead where he could be observed. After much discussion and advocacy on my part I persuaded them to move him to a suite with two rooms. He would stay in one and a doctor or carer could stay in the other, with guards waiting outside if desired. Bucky seemed okay with this transition so we moved ahead with the plan.

I returned to my quarters a while later only to find guards hauling my things out, worried I had done something wrong I rushed over to find out what was being done. “We were instructed to move your things to the experimental suite with Sergeant Barnes, Ma’am,” the guard replied.

With more questions now, I followed the guards hauling my few belongings down a series of halls. I met the doctors I had been working with outside of the suite they had been outfitting for Sergeant Barnes. After the appropriate greetings were made, I jumped right in, “So whats this about my things being moved?”

“Well, ma’am,” one of the doctors began, “as you have suggested we are trying to make this arrangement as comfortable for sergeant Barnes as we can. Since we will not be surveilling him in these quarters we decided we needed someone to be with him at all hours. We thought you fit the bill.”

“Hmm, I see.” I stammered, “Im sorry but I still don’t understand.”

The doctor looked at me with sympathy. “Well, for several reasons, putting someone else in there is a good will gesture, hopefully the Sergeant will believe us when we tell him we aren’t surveilling him if there is another way of monitoring him that he can see. Furthermore, you have had the most breakthroughs with him, he seems comfortable with your presence and therefore you are the best option for him to establish healthy rest patterns. And none of our people were especially keen to do it.”

Well that was quite an explanation. All I could do was repeat myself, “I see.”

…

I had grown used to living in close quarters with people I didn’t know that well since my stay in Central Africa. People liked to live simply, spending most of their time outdoors and retiring in the evenings to small shelters. But this felt different. The space I shared with Bucky was spacious and much grander than either of us was comfortable with. We each had our own suite with a living space separating them. We were both happy to be out of there during the day. I would return to the village several days a week and continue to work with Mama Hassan and even make a few rounds with her. Those were the times that felt most normal. I would return and receive reports from the doctors and scientists working with Bucky.

He also looked worn out by the end of each day, I was not comfortable with the poking and prodding they did to him, but when I asked him, he was insistent that he trusted them and that he had to develop patience and endurance of mind if he was going to be able to function in the world again.

I supposed he was used to these ultra clean, militarized spaces, but I had first met him as the White Wolf, clad in herder blankets and tanned from the African sun. When I looked at him now, it was as if he had lost his wolf.

I awoke before my alarm one morning, the sun not yet up. I tossed around a bit but soon gave up on the thought of returning to sleep. Pulling on a pair of sweat pants and an undershirt, I shuffled into the living room. I prepared some coffee and was humming to myself. I turned to grab a mug from the cabinet and froze, noticing for the first time the outline of a figure looking out of the great window on the other side of the room. From my distance he looked like a statue, solid, firm, immortal. Cautiously I moved closer.

He was clad in sweat pants similar to the ones I was wearing, but he had no shirt. His metal arm glowed in the soft light beginning to peak above the mountains. I stopped a few feet from him and we watched the sun come up together.

“They say Wakanda has the best sunrises,” Bucky said, breaking our silence, “I have seen a lot of sunrises.” He raised his flesh hand and laid it on the window, like he was trying to touch the sky as it burned gold, and red, and purple. “The sunrises are also beautiful in Siberia. The difference is, you wait and you wait and finally, the sun rises and you are so relieved that it has risen that however it looks, it is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. Here, the sun will rise every day, and yet every day, it is the most beautiful thing.”

“I think you were a poet in another life Sergeant,” I said. He glanced over at me then looked down with an embarrassed smile.

…

That afternoon the reports showed some regression in his responsiveness. I suggested that it may just be fatigue, that before they reattached his arm he did well living in the village, perhaps a return to that environment would encourage him. They were not yet ready to release him, even for a few hours, among civilians, but they consented to a few days of rest.

I delivered this news to him that evening. He nodded and retired to his quarters like he always did. I knew he didn’t often show emotion, but I thought he would be happier, or relieved, or something. I made myself dinner, and continued to think it over, had I overstepped?

Having worked myself into an anxious tizzy, I rose and walked to his quarters, knocking gingerly on the door. I waited a few moments and he did not answer. I knocked again and the door opened quickly, startling me, as did the figure on the other side.

“Ma’am,” said Bucky, a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair still dripping from the shower.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I am disturbing you, I-“

“No it’s fine, hold on.” He closed the door and a few seconds later opened it again, he was now clad in his sweatpants and was pulling a black t shirt over his head. “What’s the problem?”

“Oh, um, no problem, I just wanted to check with you about the next couple of days. It is difficult for me to tell what you are thinking and I hope I didn’t make a call that you are uncomfortable with.”

He shifted his weight so that his metal arm leaned against the door frame above us. “I don’t do well with being idle. That’s all.”

I nodded, “So then I guess we will have to keep ourselves occupied for the next few days.”

His eyes clouded for a moment, “I have to stay here then?” He asked, sounding let down.

I wiped the smile off my face, realizing his frustration, despite how gamely he was taking all of these regulations and precautions. “Im afraid so, but I promise, it will be a break, we will find ways for this to be easy going and un-stressful.”

He nodded, “After all the time I spent avoiding you, I now have to find a way to be with you non stop for two days.” The words caught me by surprise. I had by no means forgotten our early interactions in the village, but our situations had changed. I opened my mouth to speak but I caught his eye and there, in his icy blue stare, was the Wolf again. And I was the one locked in his gaze. I backed away, realizing how big this man really was and how much damage he could do before help came, end even after it came.

“S-sergeant,” I stammered as he moved to close the space between us, but I kept backing up till the back of my legs ran into some piece of furniture. “Sergeant Barnes, tell me, what is it that unsettles you? What am I doing?” He stopped mere inches from me.

“I can deal with the Wakandans, I’m in their home, they keep me here for the sake of their own people. They seek my rehabilitation because of their King. You? I know nothing about you. You insert yourself here, you know more, you have more success, you become indispensable. I’ve dealt with your kind before, you think I don’t know what an invader looks like, the tactics of kindness?” He was leaning over me now, his hands gripping my arms. These last words he whispered into my ear. I had seen many things in my career, but I had not anticipated this.

“I- I’m not indispensable, and if this is success it doesn’t feel like it,” I sob, all pretense of composure gone. He had shaken something loose in me that I hadn’t known was there. “You think we are so different?” I paused, more sobs racking my frame. “Everywhere I go, every country, every situation, there is distress, and it’s my job to discover it, to dig it out of the rubble and ashes of long since faded tragedy. I bring the possibility of healing but only after a journey of pain and sadness.” I gasp a few times, taking in deep gulps of air. “Bucky,” his grip has loosened and I feel dizzy so I raise my hands to his chest to steady myself as he meets my eyes.

Embarrassed by my loss of composure, I step away from him, scrubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Um,” I clear my throat and bravely look up just above his hairline, avoiding his eyes, “I apologize Sergeant, that was very unprofessional of me. I must insist that we continue this conversation tomorrow, I need some time to collect myself.” I turn away from him, striding quickly to my door but I feel a hand close around my arm and I stop again, feeling exactly like the fake he had just called me. All I wanted was to be back in the village with Sarah, with people who know me, where I felt safe.

I could feel him trying to get my attention but I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t look at him, nor could I leave, so I sank to the ground, wrapping my arms around my knees and hiding my face, more tears blurred my eyes. And then I hear shuffling behind me and something sturdy leans against my back. Slowly I calm myself, allowing my muscles to loosen slightly, my back to straighten, and my vision to clear. As I look around me I see that I am seated in front of the great window. I peer at my reflection, blinking a few times as I realize what the pressure is at my back, Bucky has sat down behind me, leaning his broad back against my own.

Neither of us speaks as we stay there, staring out into the darkness of night.

…

I blink in the morning light, disoriented at first as I remember the events of the night before. I couldn’t remember going to bed, I wondered how I got here. Even more curious was the smell coming from the kitchen. Tentatively, I crept out of bed and cracked the door to my suite, breathing deeply the smell of bacon. It had been a long time since I had eaten food from America. Where did it come from? I hadn’t ordered anything and the Sergeant usually ate special nutrient rich food prepared for him.

But drawing closer, I saw he was there over the stove, also still in his clothes from the night before. I kept my distance, my hand not straying far from my door knob. The tension of the night before seemed to have dissipated, but I had been working with PTS too long to trust that feeling.

“Good Morning,” Bucky called to me as he turned off the burners and dished up two plates of eggs, bacon and toast. He placed them across from each other at the table, then walked towards me. He looked tensely at the floor for a moment before he spoke, “Food from home always helps with my bad days, I thought you might like a little reminder of your home this morning.” He gave me one of those rare lopsided smiles. Then not waiting for me, he returned to the table, letting me make my own way there if I wanted.

I followed at a distance, finally taking a seat after he had settled in. He was a very good cook.

The food was good, the conversation not so much. I still felt tense and was worried about our argument the night before.

I had cleared my schedule for the next two days so that I could be present for the Sergeants two days off. I thought it might be nice to stay in for a weekend, but now I was petrified of rattling around this space with him.

After breakfast I pulled out my laptop, deciding that if this wasn’t going to be relaxing I could at least get some work done. This particular soldier came with a lot of paper work so I retrieved my laptop and settled in on the couch. It wasn’t long before some slow jazz began to float out of the speakers. I looked up and Bucky was walking toward me. “Maggie, would you dance with me?” Confused, I closed my computer and stood, taking the hand he offered me.

He drew me into his chest, his metal hand holding mine and his other hand on my lower back. “It turns out that I haven’t done much apologizing in the last fifty years,” he said quietly, his words vibrating his chest. “So now is as good a time as any,” he persisted, stepping away from me for a moment. “I was out of line last night, I’m sorry.”

I sighed, “Unfortunately, you must not have been, I think you hit a nerve, I usually have thicker skin than that, and I knew you were agitated, thats why I pushed.” He shook his head.

“That is not an excuse for my actions, and don’t think I haven’t noticed that despite how scared you were, you didn’t call for the guards.”

I could think of nothing to say, so we just moved together, swaying with the whims of the horn in the background.

…

The first day was quiet, we each kept to ourselves, Bucky doing some exercises in one corner while I continued my work. In the early evening my stomach rumbled and I swear the super soldier must have heard it because not a minute later he came over and asked if he should cook dinner. I suggested I might since he had cooked earlier, and he countered that we should do it together.

Rattling around in a kitchen with a huge man was not something I was used to and this particular man took up a lot of space. Many times he reached over me to grab things out of the high cabinets, his torso brushing my back ever so slightly, the clean scent of him cutting through the smells of the food cooking.

Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and I suggested we watch a movie while we ate and Bucky agreed. So I readied the screen as Bucky finished up in the kitchen. He joined me on the couch a few minutes later. I had no idea what kind of films he would like but was surprised when he continued to point out the horror movies.

“Um, are you sure? They are pretty intense, I don’t want you to be set off by something in one of them,” I said hoping that wouldn’t offend him.

“Oh, are they?” He asked, “they are so bad, they get everything wrong.”

“I see,” I reply. Sighing, I decide they must not make much of an impression on him so I made my plate and sat on the side of the couch as far away as I could. I wasn’t afraid of him, but I kept getting this feeling when he was close to me. I couldn’t place it, and while I was too scientific to always go by my instinct, I had done this job too long to ignore it.

I lost my appetite a few minutes into the movie, distracted by the suspense on screen. At the first jump scare, I did just that, flinching and letting out an “oh.” Bucky tilted his head towards me and cocked an eyebrow. Was he laughing? I rose and gathered our dishes, trying to collect myself before returning to the film.

“Hey, we don’t have to watch this if it’s scaring you,” Bucky called over to me pausing the screen.

“No its okay, thats the point right?” I said as I returned to my seat on the couch. The light was fading outside and the room grew darker. At the next scene I reached out searching for something to hold on to in my frightened panic. The closest thing was Bucky’s metal arm. Realizing I may have really invaded his space I released it quickly, apologizing. To my surprise he rose and moved to the other side of me, offering up his other arm. Touched by the gesture I wound my hand around his arm, very conscious of the rippled muscles that moved under his skin.

The sound system was top notch and effectively immersed us in the scenes. Bucky loved it, but I was at my wits end, and by the time the credits rolled I was practically sitting in Bucky’s lap, my head pushed into his chest, avoiding the images on the screen. “Hey,” he said, gently placing his metal arm on my back, laughing again, “Its over you can look up.”

“Turn the lights on first,” I mumbled into his shirt. So he shifted my weight back onto the couch and rose to find the light switch. Once the room brightened I uncurled, looking around me nervously. “Great, now I’m going to be sneaking around every mirror and window till I can forget I ever saw this movie.

“You could have told me you were such a light weight,” he said shaking his head in mock shame.

“Well, its your vacation. I figured you deserved to pick your own damned movie. But don’t worry, I won’t make that mistake again,” I said. I glanced at my phone, it was barely eight, too early to make my excuses and go to bed. So now what?

“Well then,” Bucky said as he stretched up to a high cabinet in the kitchen, “Since I stressed you out with my movie choice, I guess it’s my job to relax you again,” he said, holding up a bottle of red wine. Too emotionally drained to object, I moved closer.

“Fine, but officially this didn’t happen.” He winked at me as he uncorked the bottle.

…

We had just emptied the first bottle and I was feeling good, having throughly forgotten the terrors of Hollywood proportions that had so disturbed me an hour ago. “You want to dance again?” I asked, feeling looser and a little flushed. “I doubt two glasses of this has helped my moves, but I know it feels like it has,” I gave Bucky a winky smile. He had put the slow jazz back on and the bawdy rhythms made me antsy.

He came closer to me and held out his hand. “Dancing to jazz is still the most transgressive act a person and do,” he said as he pulled me into a turn. I smiled at this.

“I think you are showing your age a bit grandpa,” I replied.

“Nonsense, I’m as timeless as this music.” I looked up at him intending to say something smart but stopped, transfixed by his intense grey blue eyes. They were kind, and deep, and loving. I couldn’t fathom how a man with such kindness in him could have been such a killing machine. And that was it, he couldn’t be both. That was his burden and what got him out in the end, the kindness in those eyes.

I placed my hands on the sides of his face, running my fingers in the scruff on his cheeks. His arms brought me closer till we were pressed against each other. Letting my fingers run through his dark hair, I pulled him down to my eye level. I wanted to let him know I understood, that I saw the great effort and care and loss he has endured. But I couldn’t do that. So instead I brought my lips up, gently pressing them to his forehead.

Instead of releasing me, he stayed close to me, our breath mingling until I felt soft hesitant lips tenderly brush against mine. I felt lit up on the inside, I reached up for more but he pulled away. “You have had a couple drinks, this can wait till morning.”

He ushered me to my bedroom door, making sure I made it there all right, but he stopped there, the ex assassin held back by the flimsy boundary that was my door frame.

“Will you stay with me tonight? I- I just don’t want to be alone in this big space.”

“You know for a woman who travels the world seeking out war zones, theres a lot of things that scare you.”

I smiled tiredly, “I know, thats why I’m good at it.” Turning from him I flopped on my bed, getting comfortable, and waiting for him to make the next move. I heard rustling at the foot of my bed and then the mattress dipped behind me and the warm bare skin of the White Wolf settled at my back. I curled my legs up and guided his hand to rest just below my bottom. He nestled into the back of me, his scratchy cheeks resting on the bare skin of my neck.

…

I awoke to movement under me. Disoriented for the second night in a row I opened my eyes, remaining still as I waited to see what the rustling was. My eyes widened as the thing beneath me grunted in a low voice and circled my back with his metal arm. I recalled the strange events of the night before and balked at all the possible consequences of my actions. But then Bucky shifted again and I became aware of how big he really was. His barrel chest was broad and slightly damp with sweat, and he gripped me to him with real intensity, even in his sleep, and I couldn’t help but think all the possible HR issues would be worth this sweet moment.

“Are you also pretending to still be asleep?” A scratchy voice vibrated in my ear. Bucky peered up at me with one eye open, the other still closed.

I laughed a little, “not exactly, I think I’m paying a heavier toll than you for our night cap.”

“Yea I can’t get drunk.”

“Well fuck,” I replied, “thanks for the warning. I’m not going to worry about keeping up with you anymore then.” He laughed and squeezed my middle as I propped myself up to look at him, an elbow on either side of his chest.

His eyes were the same as they were last night, the wine hadn’t lied to me. In the cloudy morning light they almost seemed to glow.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, bringing his hand up to my face and running his thumb over my eyebrow and down to my ear. I looked down, uncomfortable with the compliment. I had been living a life of simplicity and necessity here. My hair was shorn, my face and arms tanned darker than the rest of me, I hadn’t worn makeup in several years. I was not particularly self effacing, I didn’t think I was ugly nor did I struggle with self loathing, I just hadn’t realized how apart from my physical body I had become. I chewed on my lip as I looked at Bucky.

“Thanks,” I said. Then I rolled off of him, sliding to the edge of the bed and sitting up. The sky was heavy with dark clouds and I could already hear the thunder rumbling from the far side of the mountain. Bucky sat up and scooted next to me.

“Well I won’t miss getting caught in heavy rains this season,” he said and I chuckled and nodded in agreement.

…

I hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to avoid Bucky on this second day of rest. Besides being stuck in the same space with him, the torrential rain and deafening thunder made me want to do nothing more than cuddle up with one particular heat producing ex-assassin. I compromised and settled into the couch with a cup of coffee and a book instead.

Behind me I could almost hear the pattern of Bucky’s feet wearing into the floor so intense was his pacing. A few times I managed to catch onto the plot of my book and let it absorb me, but I was drawn out of it again and again by the little sounds he would make, a cough, a loud sniff, a squeak of his shoe. Finally I shut my book and pinched the skin between my eyes, trying to keep my composure.

“Bucky,” I said in a measured tone, “is there something on your mind?”

The pacing stopped. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” I began, “you are acting a little bit like a lion in a cage.”

“Oh, sorry, I just- I guess I’m not used to having all of these hours to myself. I feel like I’m rattling around in here.” I stood, casting off the layers I had been nesting in.

“Well, is there something we can do together? You have missed a lot while you were… you know,” I paused uncomfortably, but he said noting so I soldiered on. “There are movies, books, games, that are incredibly important to the social world that you should become aware of.”

“Just not horror movies?” He asked with a hint of a crooked smile on his face. “Yea, maybe save those for some of your super friends, I don’t have the strength for them.” I felt my face grow hot as I recalled the intimacy of the previous evening and how I would gladly do it again. “Well, what are you reading?” He asked, calling my attention back to the present.

“Ah, a decidedly not hip novel,” I said waving the book in his direction, “it’s Thomas Hardy.”

“Well I was never much of a reader in my younger years,” he said taking the book from me and flipping through the first few pages. “Read it to me?”

So there we were again, piled onto a couch that was way too small to offer us adequate distance apart. I leaned my back against one arm with my legs pulled up, perhaps I thought they would serve as an extra barrier between the two of us. Bucky sat on the other end and nodded at me to begin, so I did.

I loved reading, and Bucky was an attentive listener, he would interrupt every so often to ask a question and we would discuss together what we thought the imagery might mean or what a particular character trait indicated about the plot. I hadn’t noticed that we moved closer together or that I had stuck my feet under his leg when they got cold, or when he pulled them on his lap.

I had been reading for so long that I was beginning to lose my voice. Looking up I was going to suggest we break for dinner when I was startled by the same intense gaze he had given me the night before. “Maggie,” he said, “I want you to know that I hold you in the greatest professional regard. I think you do incredible work and are an excellent leader.”

“Uh, thanks?” I replied.

“I need you to hear this from me now because I don’t want you to question it later.” He said cryptically.

“What is happening later?” And like I weighed nothing he pulled me into his lap.

“Well,” he murmured into my ear, his muscular arms pulling me into his chest, “if you are okay with it, maybe more of this?”

He sounded so nervous, like a teenage boy even, not the capable and controlled man I was coming to respect greatly. Moved by his vulnerability I sat up straighter, pulling his face into my neck, feeling like I wanted to cover him completely with my body. His lips pressed against the hollow below my neck and I sighed, enjoying the contrast of soft lips and his scratchy beard. I pulled my hands through his hair listening to him growl deeply. The wolf contented for the moment.

I shifted my weight so that I was straddling his lap, a knee on either side of him. His hands began to explore under my shirt as I lowered my head to kiss him. He was intoxicating and maddening, insisting on doing everything slow. Sensing my frustration he spoke, “You have no idea how long it’s been since I have held a woman, and I’v never held a woman like you. So I have to take it all in.” But he flipped us in the same breath so that he was laying above me, his solid weight a comforting pressure and I needed him closer. We pulled layers off of one another till we were in our underwear. It was at this crucial moment that I felt him stop, his movements becoming stiff and tentative again.

“Bucky?” I asked, he sat up, scooting out from under me he sat with his arms against his knees. I felt a wall thicken between us again and I knew I had to get through to him or we would lose this connection. So gently, slowly I reached out to the closest part of him, his metal arm. I ran a finger from his shoulder to his wrist. He didn’t react, so I scooted till my leg was up against his.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “I just don’t think I’m ready for- for that yet.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I never would have guessed this solid, quiet man would be so honest and sweet. I reached my hand up to the back of his neck and let my fingers tangle in his hair. “Hey, thats okay,” I turned his head so that he had to look at me, “Really. What I want from you is whatever you have to offer.” I looked around the room at the grand space around us, “Bucky all of this is about helping you offer more to the world. Don’t wast your time with what you think you should be doing, do what you can, because you are different than any other man, any other person I have ever met.”

…

I was up before the dawn again, yawning I gathered what I would need in my small bag and headed up the mountain towards the lake. The walk seemed shorter each time I took it, and I arrived at the edge of the water just as the sun was peaking up, casting gold light into the reflective water.

“Came for the view?” I turned and smiled at the figure that was lumbering toward me. He looked at ease here, his shuka wrapped tightly around him.

“Well if it isn’t the White Wolf,” I said welcoming his embrace. He stood behind me, his strong figure leaning comfortably on me, his arms wrapped around me.

“Just call me Bucky,” he said into my ear before planting a kiss on my cheek.