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batsythoughts · 1 month

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Soulmate Au with Dick Grayson where the last words they specifically say to YOU are on your wrist. THIS IS HURT/NO COMFORT! There will be no happy ending, so suffer with my thoughts!

'I understand.'

Those are the words that have been on Dick Grayson's wrist since the moment he was born

His parents told him it was most likely going to be said at the end of a long and happy life with his soulmate

When he became Robin, he worried it would be a one time interaction with a citizen before he wasn't able to save them

But when he became Nightwing, he stopped worrying about it and began to live his life to be grateful for all his interactions

He had always asked what everyone's words from their soulmate was when he got close enough to them, having deep conversations with each of them

He was always interested by Alfred's the most. He had two different sets of words on his wrist when everyone else only had one

"It appeared after they had died. A small reminder of the time we had together."

Dick had found that amazing, one would have the reminder of who their person was even after death separated them

At some point after Dick leaving to become Nightwing, Bruce had taken in you in

You had been raised by the Joker after he kidnapped you at the age of 9 to take over as the worst villain of Gotham when he ultimately died

Bruce explained that you had openly denounced the Joker and his views before switching sides

With no other place to go, Bruce had taken you in when you had no place of your own

Even after time had passed, Dick noticed that you didn't spend much time around the other. He never saw you leave the manor except for going on patrol

The most peculiar thing was you had a bandage that went around your wrist where your words were supposed to be

Dick tried starting conversations to get to know you, but you always found a way to get out of them

The most personal thing about you that he could seem to get was these little notebooks you would randomly write in

When he asked about them, you shot him down with a glare

"It's personal, wonder bitch. So back off."

Dick didn't understand why Bruce was still putting up with the same attitude for so long without snapping

He was always told to just give you some space and you would come around when you were finally ready to

Dick never took a liking to how you handled the vigilante business. He thought you weren't focused on keeping the citizens safe and only wanted to make the bad guys hurt more than anything

You always told him to get off your back when he pushed on how you should be more cautious about how to do the job

He started to become frustrated by being around you with how much you pushed back with every word he said, but he still tried to be pleasant

More time had passed and you still didn't really warm up to any of them, but you weren't as hostile with your words

You mostly stuck to your room so you didn't actually have much difference in the previous interactions with everyone

Dick still couldn't shake off the frustration though, no matter how hard he tried to be understanding and polite to you

One day when you had told Dick to 'fuck off to the sewers' after he had accidentally walked into and spilled your drink on your shirt, he was very tempted to yell out as you walked away

Jason quickly stepped in and stopped Dick before he could actually blow up over the attitude you kept displaying

"Dick, you don't entirely understand-"

"That shouldn't matter! They keep acting like-!"

"Like The Joker has raised them to think in a way of 'be useful or you will be killed'. We don't know what he could have done for all those years. We don't even know what life was like before Joker forced his way into the picture. Not everyone was born into loving families. Remember that."

Dick had tried to take Jason's words into consideration as the next few months progressed

You never expressed any form of appreciation to what Bruce or Alfred seemed to do for you. You would mostly just spend time alone around the manor, occasionally sitting around with Jason

The only time Dick seemed to see you express any emotion was when you would randomly write in the notebooks before putting it back in your pocket

Frustration and agitation kept getting bottled up the longer Dick watched the whole situation continue on

It was getting close to a big bust on some plan a couple of the villains had joined together for temporarily to make it successful

It was the end of patrol as Bruce was explaining what everyone's job was going to be for the following night so they could prepare themselves throughout the day

Bruce had mentioned that Damian would be working alongside Jason, and you had mumbled some comment about that

Dick had finally had enough as he looked over and asked what the problem was

You rolled your eyes before saying that Damian wouldn't be able to handle himself with the combined strength everyone would be against with everyone stretched so thin

Dick pushed as he argued that Damian had taken care of himself in worst situations and you should mind what you were claiming about them

Bruce tried to to get the both of you to calm down, but Dick kept pushing as he argued you didn't really know them or what they could do

You clenched your fist while arguing that the precious boy wonder didn't even have a full understanding of what the criminals of the city were actually capable of

Dick finally felt his anger reach the boiling point as be finally began yelling at you

It soon became a screaming match as Jason held Dick back while Bruce got between the two of you as Tim guided Damian out of the area

The anger kept getting worse for Dick as he was finally letting out all the pent up feelings from the past few months of watching you push back against everyone

"This way of thinking is going to be what gets you killed! And when it finally catches up to you, I'm not going to feel sorry for you dying!"

You suddenly become very silent as you just stare at Dick with a deep glare as Bruce raises his voice to make Dick calm himself down

"I understand." The venom is in your voice as you turn around and march out of the Batcave

Dick doesn't truly register the words as he and Bruce start to get in it about how Dick went too far and would need to apologize

Dick huffs as he pulled out of Jason's hold before walking off to go to his room to get some rest

As he walked through the manor, Dick saw Tim and Damian both waiting for him with confused look as they asked what happened

Dick assured them it was nothing they needed to worry themselves with before going to his room

Dick was surprised that you hadn't tried making the day hard for him in retaliation of what was all said

Your door had never opened an inch though the whole day after the fight had happened

The day was eerily calm in a way that made Dick slowly begin to regret what was said. He knew Bruce was right about apologizing, but decided the anger might make you focus on getting the job done and would talk to you tomorrow when patrol was done

Night had come and Bruce had changed the groups so Dick was with Tim while you paired up with Jason

Damian had said he didn't want to be on the mission due to an important test the next day he needed to pass, though everyone was certain it was a lie

No one argued as they got ready for the fight that was going to come before going to the streets of Gotham

The bust had gone down at midnight as everyone had fought to take down as many people they could with the minimum getting away

Everyone had a few scratches as they all helped get the criminals in the transport

Bruce was talking with Gordon when Dick noticed you standing a ways off from everyone else looking confused for some reason

He began to slowly walk over with the intention of apologizing with all the anger and adrenaline slowly fading

The ground shook as Killer Croc suddenly appeared while getting between you and everyone else

None of them could stop it as you got hit and went flying in the air

Dick went to try and subdue Killer Croc before getting hit back into the wall

He felt a pain in his wrist as his arm hit the bricks as the sound of shattered glass sounded from the building you got thrown through

Bruce and Jason were able to get Killer Croc subdued as Tim went over to Dick to make sure he was fine

Dick quickly brushed off the pain in his arm, saying he was fine as he went to the building with the shattered window to go and check on you

He saw you at the far end of the room with your back to him. Dick called out asking if you were okay as he cautiously stepped inside

He thought you were in a daze when you didn't respond. Being mindful of the glass, Dick kneeled down as he placed his hand on your shoulder

"I know you're mad, but this isn't fun-"

The words escape him as he gently pulled you onto your back. Your head still facing the direction you had landed in as the rest only turned slightly with the effort

Dick could only stare for a minute before his hand went to hold the cheek pressed against the floor

The small cracking of your neck that came when he turned your head made Dick's stomach churn

Small pieces of glass stuck out of your skin as your unfocused eyes stared at the ceiling now. A trail of blood flowing down your cheek from your barely parted lips

Dick had to stop himself from throwing up as he got back up and walked into the street

Dick held Tim back when he tried to go in and check on you. When asked what was wrong, Dick could only shake his head as Bruce came up to them

Dick could barely register anything as he watched them put the gurney you were on in the back of the medical examiner's van

They all got promised your body would be treated with the upmost respect until the time for your burial

The journey back was quiet as everyone processed what happened to you when they had thought it was safe

Dick had went to go take a shower to wash of the pressure he felt in his hands from where he had touched your body

He noticed the blood on his wrist when he had removed his shirt in the bathroom

He rinsed a rag with cold water before wiping the blood away to find a sight that made his blood run cold

'This way of thinking is going to be what gets you killed! And when it finally catches up to you, I'm not going to feel sorry for you dying!'

'I understand.'

The words looked like they had just been carved into his wrist with how fresh the new words appeared and the small bit of blood still seeping out of his skin

His thoughts went back to the fight when he had hit the wall. His arm didn't hurt because he was smacked into the wall

It had hurt because that was the moment you had died

Dick couldn't think of who he could confide in with this sudden news. Especially because he had been so cruel to you when you last spoke to one another

How could he have been so cruel to not even think of apologizing before the mission? The last think he said was how he wouldn't care if you died

But you had always known it would be that cruel. You were born with those careless shouts as a mockery on your skin since the first cry

While he grew up with thoughts of comfort over what he might have with his soulmate, you never got that when you saw those words

You had grown up in a world of torture by the hands of one of the cruelest men in all of Gotham, and his words couldn't even give you a sense of comfort over the torturous treatment you went through

It had been a couple of weeks since you had tragically passed away, and Dick found himself in the doorway of your room

He didn't know why he was even here, what he would even try to find, but he was there

The room didn't have too many decorations around as he went in, as if you never tried to find your own style

The clothes in the drawers and closet were like taunts as he touched the fabric (most were soft, so he figured that was a texture you liked)

A candle in your nightstand drawer had never been lit, but the cap had been repeatedly removed (he found that it smelled like flowers during a rainstorm. You must have liked that kind of smell)

There were a few books on the small desk you had with a handful of notes and letters scattered around (it looked like you had been trying to catch up on the education you missed out on)

After some time of looking around, Dick sat at the foot of the bed. He quickly realized something was wrong when his weight pressed on the mattress

He untucked the covers (why would you have been so neat with making the bed?) to find that a small section of the padding had been cut out from a small hole in the bottom

Dick reached his hand in to find the hiding spot of all the small notebook you had written in

He slowly flipped through the pages as he read the neat handwriting that you had

Alfred made a different kind of cookie today. I really like this kind

Jason and I watched a documentary on dinosaurs. The raptors seem the coolest

I glanced at the moon during patrol last night. It was the cresent phase. I think I like that one most

The more Dick looked through them, the more he realized you were distant because you were realizing things about yourself. You were figuring out years of information in such short time, you were probably getting overwhelmed with all this information you were learning

His eyes stop on one small bit you had written, his eyes softening as he kept rereading the words

Dick randomly started laughing today. It sounds nice

You had thought his laugh was nice? Dick didn't even think you paid attention to anything he had done while living in the manor

He kept flipping through each different notebook before he stop on the latest one you had written in

His fingers flipped through to the last pages, expecting to see words of anger and hatred on the paper before him

Dick's my soulmate. I felt my wrist burn when he yelled at me and I just knew without having to seeing what I said appear on my skin. I know I'm going to die tonight.

Dick swallowed the lump in his throat as he thought of what could have went through your mind the exact moment it happened. His fingers carefully flipping to the next page as he kept reading

I don't know what's going to happen with the mission tonight, but I know it's going to be my last. Who knows? Maybe I'll be careless just like Dick always said.

Tears began to form in his eyes as he remembered the confused look on your face after the fight had ended. You had died when everyone was supposed to have been okay and you were confused you were alive after the main fight

I hope to whatever type of god that is out there at Dick never finds these before someone else. I know he had every right to say those things, but I don't want him knowing that I knew I was going to be killed. I was an ass and was given nothing but patience from everyone else. I know he will figure out what we were when I die, but I hope that he doesn't blame himself for what will happen. He had no way of knowing just how much it had hurt to actually hear those words. I hope he lives his life like he always had before.

The tears spilled own his cheeks as he closed the book and held it to his head

Everything after that was just blank pages. You still had over half the pages to keep writing in

Dick felt broken as he took in the feeling you had written out clear as day

He had caused so much hurt in your life before even knowing you

His hands clenched around the cover as he allowed himself to cry. In all the realities of how the end could have happened, this was the worst

The was never a mutual understanding, no form of chemistry like he hoped, not even a split second meeting

All that was there was frustration and hurtful words that could never be taken back

But what hurt the most was that your words to him had never been more truthful compared to anything said to him. You didn't blame him for the anger or even lash back out at him

Because deep down, that was the person that you truly were despite everything

You understood

#batman #dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson angst #nightwing x reader #nightwing x you

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blondedmuse · 1 year

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WHAT MEETS THE EYE

finnick odair x reader

part I of pure heroin.

synopsis. ꩜ on your way to the capitol, you run into the capitol’s so called prince and he's not who you think he is. he's worse.

author's note. ∿ chapter 1 of pure heroin!! decided i needed to start writing again and what better way than with finnick!! drug themes/use will get more prevalent throughout the series; if that makes you uncomfortable I suggest you don't read it. angst!

word count. ⨾ 1.5k

Only in such a vain society could the word for a person you have yet to meet be a “stranger.” Their label in your mind plants their roots in the word “strange” with a remote emotional predisposition towards rejection. But you lived in this society and everyone you had met, had their strange; strangers or not.

You weren’t fond of meeting people but you had to pretend to be. Just like you pretended to be a lot of things. You pretend to be a persona, the one Caesar had given you since you first hunger games interview. Beloved, bewitching, tantalizing, tempting, and almost precarious. Those were the words that any citizen of the nation would use to describe you—not solely exclusive to the capital. Those were the words you'd been deemed the moment you'd won the 70th hunger games.

You pretended to be a lover, adored since they'd announced your victory, lusted after since you stepped foot out of the arena. You woke up in different bed every so often, desired by many but loved by few. You were merely a trophy wife for the capitol to show off time and time again.

You pretended to be happy.

You had to be all of these things because who were you if you weren’t? You’d be dead, one way or another.

But pretend isn’t reality. There were moments when you had decide what was and wasn’t—when to be their darling and when you could turn it off like a switch and the facade of sincerity would fade away like sea foam on a shoreline.

The facade crumbled the moment you settled on the train heading for the capitol. The peace and quiet gave you more than a few moments to yourself, allowing you revel in reality. You could do what you wanted for a few hours without eyes watching in judgement. But mostly you thought about the dread that consumed you, the dread whose culprit was no other than the capitol.

You made trips to the capitol more than often and more than you wanted to. You had to make appearances—you had to pretend.

The dread that filled your travel was interrupted once the train arrived and you quickly gathered your belongings. Late to a meeting with you stylist, you were haphazard in getting yourself together. So haphazard in fact, you’d almost left your watch behind. Almost. You went back to grab it before leaving the train car. People complimented the object like they seemed to know whose it was, the stories it held. It was like a glimpse into you life; a piece of reality.

It rested in your hand along with the handle of your bags along with a few other items, having no time to put it back on you wrist while rushing out of the train car.

Once you made your exit, you were met with a sea of people you were sure you could drown in. You caught the eyes of most no doubt, you were one of their many beloved victors—it was inevitable.

Making your way through the station, a woman and her daughter approached you, asking you to sign her notebook. Her mother stood by, easing her excitement as she watched you interact.

"Sure," you said accepting the book and pen, smiling as you did so; the facade was back once again.

"I want to be like you when you grow up!" The girl exclaimed. Your stomach dropped. You laughed. You played pretend.

"Why's that?" You asked handing the book to her.

"You're so pretty and cool, I wanna win the games like you did."

No she didn't. You thought.

If only she knew the truth. But she didn't. She knew you for what the capitol made you to be, ever since your very first interview with Caesar Flickerman. He provided you with the impression, the character, the place you'd be stuck in for the rest of your existence. You charmed him, and to your demise you'd from then on be known as district one’s Belladonna; beautiful, but he believed you to be just as deadly. And your victory only confirmed that.

If only she knew you fought tooth and nail to survive. That you've killed. That you can escape the arena but never the games. That there are no winners, only survivors.

You looked in her eyes, making sure she understood your sentiment. "Good luck." Your words were genuine.

You greeted them goodbye, checking the time and you were running even later than before. You picked up your pace, strides getting longer—only to be cut short. You ran into somebody, the strong figure knocking your belongings out of your hand. Your bags dropped and your watch flew to the ground, immediately stepped on by the foot of a passerby. Abandoning your bags you picked it up and the glass was cracked, but it was still working. Barely.

You were already upset, now you were sure your blood was boiling. Tapped on the shoulder, you were met with the man you had run into and he was handing your bags back to you. He was Finnick Odair.

Finnick Odair was the nation's golden boy, the capitol's prince so to speak. He was wholly and utterly charming; you hated it. His reputation spoke for itself: numerous lovers, a flirty personality paired with power and skill, and that movie star smile. Repulsive. But he was like you. A victor with an image to maintain, however, you didn't know him. You didn't know what parts of him were real and what were a part of a made up fantasy.

And right now you didn't have time to dwell on it. Right now your watch was broken, you were still late to your meeting, and Finnick decided to make it all the more worse telling you to, Watch where you're going, sweetheart. With those renowned white teeth and famed dimples.

"You should take your own advice," You retorted, not missing a beat and taking your bags back from his hands.

“Don’t deflect this to me now, i’m just the messenger,” He smirked, holding his hands up as if he’d been caught red handed.

“I’m not deflecting, I’m telling you the truth since it’s something I know you don’t hear that often.”

He feigned hurt, clutching at his chest as if you stabbed him in the heart.

“You really live up to the title, Belladonna. Keep going and my ego will be dead in minutes.”

You scoffed. “I think you need more than a hurt ego.”

He cocked his head, playing along. “Like what?” He asked.

“A reality check.”

“Oh, honey, what’s got you riled up?” His tone is phony you can hear it in his voice, it's almost condescending. Patronizing. You could try and make it to your meeting sure, but taking the golden boy down a peg seems much more enticing.

“You made me drop my watch. Now, thanks to you, it’s one crack away from broken.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t make you do anything, honey. You ran into me.”

“Call it what you want. You were in my way, it's your fault.”

“And it’s just a watch.” He’s not teasing now, not even a hint of charm left in his demeanor. Not any that meets the eye. You choose the second option.

“Of course you’d think that, I mean, what would you know anyway?” You see a flash of affliction in his expression before it was gone in a heartbeat, lost completely.

“All beauty, no brains. It must be so hard being nothing more than pretty face. Someone to spend the night with.” You laugh pleased with yourself. You words cut deep and you know it because you’d practically been told the same thing, it was ad nauseam.

You could tell he wanted to say something, whether to express his hurt or defend himself, he held back and bit his tongue.

You quirked your head to the side, your pride taking over. “What is you head hallow?”

You laughed once again to yourself, happy with your accomplishment. You feet start to move from under you but Finnick grabs your arm before you can get much farther.

You turn around and he pulls you towards him, his lips at your ear.

“I’m going to whisper this since there’s camera’s all around us and I want to save you the humiliation. It’s going to look flirty, intriguing even, but I hope you know it’s anything but,” He told you.

“You and I, we’re the same. But right now I have something you don’t. Humility. You’re upset and you can go for blood because I broke your stupid watch, sure, but I could eat you alive. I know things you don’t. Secrets. So I’d be careful about what you say.”

You pulled away from his ear so that your faces were merely inches apart.

“I guess you act entitled enough to be a prince if that’s what the capitol calls you,” You remarked looking in his green eyes. It was a shame they were so beautiful.

“But empty threats don’t look good on you,” You muttered and you swore you saw his eyes flicker to your lips. And so with your last attempt to stick it to him, give Finnick a taste of his own medicine: you winked. He smirked with contempt or sincerity; you couldn’t tell.

“Have a nice day.”

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#finnick odair #finnick x you #finnick x reader #finnick ordair fluff #finnick ordair angst #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x y/n #finnick odair x you #the hunger games #the hunger games catching fire #mockingjay #peeta mellark

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whatthebodygraspsnot · 5 months

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totally random and don't know if you've been asked this before, i've read your fics and drabbles, i absolutely love your voice in them, considering how you write Ian and Mickey so well, i'd give a penny for your thoughts about Mickey's lil bridezilla notebook. do you think it's full of collage pages? mostly text? magazine scraps? does he color code shit? ugh i love him sm 😩

oh my god i forgot the most important thing!!!!!!! did he ever let Ian have a complete sneak peek through it? cause i think he probably skimmed through it with Ian while the planning was on board, but Mickey probably stored it somewhere safe as a keepsake after the wedding....what if one day Ian just happens to find it and looks through it fondly and Mickey catches him on the act, oops, they have a talk about it, idk, Mickey having a lil notebook just does something to my fragile heart 🤧🤧

hello 😌 thank you for asking - i do actually have some thoughts on this, in the way that i think mickey's wedding notebook goes through several stages.

i think at its creation, it's more of a dump-book. mickey's at his stream-of-consciousness, hunting-and-gathering phase. there's no organization - no rhyme or reason - mickey is stressed and overwhelmed and he's just gluing shit right into that motherfucker, filling the pages as quickly as he can turn them. he doesn't really have a Vision yet - he just knows he's gotta prepare for it, especially since ian doesn't seem too interested in making decisions.

come to jesus moment. mickey slaps down a stack of pictures he's cut out and goes to start adding them, only to realize he has no blank pages left. he's filled the whole thing. that can't be right, can it? it's a big notebook, and the stuff he just cut out for it is real good shit so he's gotta make room. gotta start from page one. gotta thumb through it and pull a 'wtf' face because he doesn't even like some of this shit? why'd he put it in here? tulips??? who did that! okay, time to pump the fucking brakes.

paring down. re-evaluation. ian walks into the living room one night and mickey's cross-legged in the middle of a sea of ripped papers. like some sort of hamster. ian thinks perhaps divorce is on the table, only to come closer and realize mickey's cutting shit out and pasting it into a new notebook, the glue stick caught between his teeth like a cigar (Alternate Title: Ian's Come To Jesus Moment.)

notebook 2.0 is born. there's significantly less...everything. the Vision is starting to come together. debbie gives him these little color tab bitches that he can stick between the pages so he knows where to put things. Music. Food. Flowers. etc. mickey sits down with ian again and flips through it, getting his thoughts on different things. out comes the big red marker - circling - crossing out - starring. he can see ian trying to sneak closer looks across the table, but mickey's grown very attached. it's his hopes and dreams in here, motherfucker! ian can look at it later. after he finds the chiavaris.

That Bitch. this baby is in her final form. mickey knows what he wants and knows he's got the power to haggle, secure, or steal it all when he's got his notebook tucked under his arm. she's also good and solid when he smacks lip over the head with her after he makes a passing comment about being a groomzilla. she is everything.

when he does finally see his notebook again after many years, it's because ian is thumbing through it, this teary, fond look in his eyes as he sits in a sea of boxes. mickey doesn't know if he should be embarrassed or proud or what. a lot of their wedding day ended up shifting on its axis for a ton of fucked up reasons, so as gorgeous as she is, a lot of her didn't actually get to see the light of day.

but ian is innnn lovvvve (aaaaat laaaaast my looove has come alonnnggg). so much so that for their ten year anniversary, mickey walks into their little get-together and immediately recognizes a ton of the details. like they've jumped out of the pages of his notebook and into reality ten years later. ian is a sneaky fucker! and mickey has excellent taste.

and he's just really glad that he cut out that disgusting tulip arrangement in his first notebook purge.

#asks #gallavich #one thing about mickey is he needs a plan

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silverynight · 7 months

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A charming witch

Part I (of 3)

When he was a little kid, Izuku summoned a demon by accident; he's not sure how it happened and his mother never explained it in detail, but all he knows is that the demon looked like a kid too and that he tried to bite Izuku's neck.

Fortunately, he didn't, but it made Izuku chose a more peaceful path when it came to practicing sorcery and magic.

Now he practices green magic and he has a little store in the middle of the village where he sells potions for all kinds of trouble and illnesses. The good thing is that flowers and plants are a very safe way to do magic. No demons involved.

There are other types of witches who deal with dark magic and summon demons (or banish them) for all kinds of purposes.

Izuku is happy with his potions and herbs; he certainly doesn't need anything else.

But that doesn't mean that trouble doesn't find his way to his doorstep anyways.

***

Izuku has a friend named Uraraka, she's a witch too, but she deals with more powerful magic; however, sometimes she needs a couple of potions and that's how she ends up in Izuku's little shop most of the time when she finds herself in the village.

That particular day she walks in with a demon; the demon is all pink and keeps smiling and looking around in awe like a very curious child.

Izuku knows not all demons are dangerous or seek to eradicate human kind and yet he gets a little bit startled when he finally sees her.

"Sorry!" He blushes when the demon squeaks in delight; she's bonded to Uraraka by magic so she has to go wherever the witch goes, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"You were right," the demon grins at Uraraka, staring at Izuku with interest. "He's such a cutie."

Uraraka rolls her eyes, but looks mostly amused.

"This is Ashido Mina, the demon I summoned to assist me for a while. In exchange, she gets to see our world because for some reason she likes it."

"I do!" Ashido smiles, prompting Izuku to finally relax around her. "It's like being on vacation! And trust me it's better here at the moment because Blasty has been insufferable for the last few years... He's pining..."

"Blasty?" Izuku mumbles in confusion, not entirely sure he wants the answer to that question.

"My boss, the demon king," Ashido explains, like it's not a big deal.

Izuku nods and offers them both a cup of tea; the shop is quiet that day so he can spend time with his friend and her demon.

"I don't smell other demons on you," Ashido observes after a while.

"I don't summon demons," Izuku says calmly, a little bit amused by Ashido's surprised expression. It's fair since most of the witches have summoned one at least once in their lives.

His own mother did once and it ended up with her having a baby and being abandoned years later, which was not a good experience. But Izuku doesn't like to talk about that and he doesn't think any of them are interested in that.

"Why not?"

"His blood can only summon very powerful demons apparently," Uraraka says, surprising Izuku who looks at her in confusion. "Your mother explained it to me once. No matter the symbol he writes, his blood immediately summons another completely different."

Ashido puts a hand under her chin, like she's deep in thought; Izuku gets a little bit distracted by her horns and wonders if it'd be rude of him to get out his notebook and start taking notes about her.

"That's... interesting," she comments after a while. "Are you an omega?"

"A what?"

"Mina, I told you humans are not like that," Uraraka says, like she's had that conversation before. "We don't have a second gender."

"Like betas?"

"No... well, yes, just like them."

"What are you talking about?" The green haired witch asks, as curiosity and excitement make him forget about politeness.

"Demons have secondary genders," Uraraka tells him, chuckling when Izuku's eyes glimmering with curiosity and excitement. She's never seen another witch so hungry for knowledge.

"We can be alphas, omegas or betas," Ashido cuts in, happy to talk about her kind. "Alphas and omegas usually make good couples, but there are all kinds of them."

Izuku listens with undivided attention and finally makes his notebook appear because that's just so fascinating to miss.

"Wait," he cuts her off, immediately feeling terrible about interrupting, knowing he's probably blushing to the tip of his ears at the moment. "You mentioned something about bites earlier, what did you mean?"

"Instead of getting married, like humans do," Ashido says. "Demons mark their partners with a mating bite; it has to be done on the scent glands, which are on our necks."

The information unlocks a couple of memories in Izuku's brain that he didn't know he had up until now.

There's a blond demon with red horns and red eyes that looks like a kid and is telling Izuku that he needs to bite his neck immediately.

"The demon I summoned tried to bite my neck, that's why my mom got scared..."

"Was he a pup when that happened?" Ashido moves closer, eyes shining with excitement. "I mean the demon, was he a pup?"

"A pup?"

"She means a little kid."

"Oh. Yeah."

"A blond gremlin with piercing red eyes? Very bossy for his age?"

"Uhh... something like that," Izuku mumbles, having a very bad feeling about where the conversation is heading already.

"Are you Deku?" She says excitedly. "I can't believe I found the famous Deku!"

"My name is Midoriya Izuku actually," he corrects her, having the feeling that he has heard someone else call him that before.

"This is amazing!" Ashido squeaks in delight. "Blasty's ridiculous longing will finally come to an end! We need to summon him!"

"Blasty as in the king of the demons?" Uraraka quirks up a brow at her demon friend.

"Yes!"

"No," Uraraka and Izuku utter at the same time, shaking their heads. The pink demon starts pouting.

"Why not?"

"That's a very powerful demon, I won't be able to control him if he decides to do something," Uraraka replies, earning another pout from Ashido.

The demon even rolls her eyes at them.

"Alright, listen. I know he looks like a gremlin who's constantly angry at his own existence, but he'd never harm his Deku."

"My name is Izuku," he corrects her again. Suddenly, another one of his memories unlocks. "Are you talking about Kacchan?"

Both girls (the demon and the witch) stare at him like he just said something in another language.

"His name is Bakugo Katsuki, but I think I heard him mention something like that to Kiri... you used to call him that, right?"

"I..." Izuku starts feeling weird out of the sudden. He's dizzy. "I don't know."

He gets closer to the main cabinet behind the counter and takes one of the potions he makes for himself. Ashido grabs one of his arms to get his attention and Izuku gets a glimpse of a very tall and muscular blond demon sitting on a throne with a permanent scowl upon his face.

He doesn't have visions like his grandmother did, so it's weird for him to see things like that and it's even more puzzling and confusing when he gets the impression that the demon stares back at him for a brief moment.

"Deku?"

Instinctively, he shakes Ashido's hand away and takes a few steps back.

"Alright, that's enough," Uraraka takes the pink demon's hand to lead her towards the exit. "It's time to go."

"Wait! At least give him a chance!" Ashido pleads. "He won't hurt you, I promise!"

"It's a dangerous practice for someone who has never done that before, like me," Izuku explains, besides, he can't believe the demon king is the same as the little bossy demon who tried to bite him once. She must be mistaken.

He gives Uraraka the potions she had commissioned a couple of weeks ago and decides to close the shop early that day because he feels so very tired suddenly.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Ashido."

"Same, cutie." She sighs, before waving at him. "Although I still believe you should summon him."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

***

Next--->

Patreon

#bnha #mha #my hero academia #bkdk #bakudeku #bakugou katsuki #izuku midoriya

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thelampisaflashlight · 6 months

Text

Sentimental

[A ficlet feat. Ifrit and a newly... a new Dew. Very short read.] Below the cut.

It's hard to say what ghouls are exactly.

To some, they are monsters; Creatures summoned forth from the pit to do the dark lord's bidding in his stead.

And to others, they are nothing more than figments, ghosts in the corners of rooms, half imagined, mostly unseen.

But the reality is... much harder to accept.

Dew rummages through the shoebox of trinkets in his lap.

Filled up with old photographs and knickknacks he thinks -no, knows- should hold meaning to him.

Memories even.

Instead, he feels... not nothing.

Not nothing, but...

He picks up a notebook, runs his fingers along the bent metal spirals holding it together -probably flattened from being squished into the box- and opens it.

Song lyrics.

Bits of commentary on the weather.

An interaction the author had.

Dew absorbs this information into himself with a strange familiarity.

Finds himself tracing the indents on the page where a name was written and then erased.

His name.

The name he had before.

He sets the notebook off to the side and digs deeper.

Guitar picks, ticket stubs, more pictures.

Like an artist, his mind begins to sketch out the rough details of the life the man he once was lived.

But he can only make broad strokes and assumptions.

The finer details elude him, and what does surface obscures itself like the bleeding of paint when too much water is applied to the brush.

The image it creates... is too abstract.

Any deeper meaning is lost on him.

He lacks context.

Dew thumbs over the worn lip of the shoebox.

"So," Ifrit asks from where he's leaning against the wall, "what do you want to do?"

A hum.

"We should cremate him." Dew replies after a moment's thought, "The man in this box."

"Not the sentimental type then?" the fire ghoul laughs, watching Dew close the lid.

Dew stands and extends the box out towards the larger man.

"That sort of thing... I don't really understand it."

Ifrit takes the box from him shifting the contents back and forth.

"Maybe not." he smiles somberly, "But you will one day."

It's hard to say what ghouls are exactly.

"You think so?" Dew questions.

"That sort of thing is normal for us." Ifrit says clapping Dew on the shoulder, "Humans are very emotional creatures."

But the reality is much harder to accept.

"Mn... then I look forward to knowing what it's like."

Ifrit tussles his hair.

"I give you a week before you cry for the first time."

"Oi-"

"It will be the first cries of your new humanity." he teases, "You know, babies cry a lot when they're first born, so be sure to do it freely whenever the feeling strikes you."

"I'm not going to cry."

"A week."

"Shut up-"

"Mn, three days actually-"

"HEY-"

#lamp writes #shitghosting #nameless ghouls #dewdrop ghoul #ifrit ghoul #ghost band #the band ghost #ghost bc #ghost band fanfic

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not-a-space-alien · 1 month

Text

Tinytopia Chapter 5: Endless Rebirth (Part 1)

Story Masterpost

On AO3

Thanks to my beta/sensitivity reader @appelsiinilight!

In this chapter: Marcy starts to refocus her efforts on life at home, just in time to receive yet another visitor.

Warning: This chapter features a dog mauling that goes slightly above the intensity usual for this story.

***

Out in the park, a young borrower wobbled through the grass. Dirt stuck to his fur and under his fingernails, and he wandered around lost until a tree nearby turned and bent over to scrutinize him through the knots in its trunk.

“Oh, hello?” the borrower said, backing up nervously.

You seem lost, whispered a voice like wind creaking through branches. What are you doing here?

“I don't really know,” the borrower said. “Sorry. I'm all alone, though. Hey, what are you? You're the only talking tree here, I think.”

The tree creaked and swayed for a moment. Then: I am a dryad, and I think I know where you should go.

***

Marcy’s first act as a full-time housekeeper was to take stock of everyone who was already in the house. They’d been managing mostly fine without her, but Moon was right. There were more little creatures running around, and if this was going to be Marcy’s main focus, she could spend her time thinking of ways to make life here better for them.

Thistle had always known Marcy was smart, but he was awed to see her in action. She was a bundle of nerves, of course–she always was–but now that her attention was fully on things here at home, it became obvious just how passionate she was and how hard and quickly she worked. It seemed like her failed PhD program was forgotten almost instantly.

The first step was to help Thistle, who also seemed similarly overwhelmed by everyone new showing up, make his guest book. It was a large book for Thistle’s standards, but small for Marcy–the size that a human could write in it, albeit with some difficulty, and allow plenty of room for denizens with tinier hands to write without being overwhelmed. It was a good compromise–and Marcy got something from the craft store that would be a bit sturdier than a notebook, a bound book with blank pages and a cover ready for decorating. Thistle put off ramping up his sellable art projects for just a bit to decorate it. It didn’t take too long.

Then he went around and made an entry for everyone. Marcy at the same time made a note of their wants, needs, and habits, in case she could spot anything that could be coordinated or made better for everyone.

Thistle insisted Marcy be on the first page. Then the other humans: Teddy and Colin. They were here first, so might as well go in chronological order.

Teddy and Colin were the owners of the house, so it was important to make sure they were okay with everything going on. Well, Colin was the owner of the house, but he mostly cared about using the house to make Teddy happy. Both of them had been pretty gracious about everything, but Marcy would still need to ask permission for major changes. They worked alternating schedules, sometimes on the weekends and sometimes off on weekdays.

Mochi was put in the basement when none of the humans were home–that was just for safety. Marcy’s continual presence there would be good for her, too–the cat would have to spend less time locked away meowing mournfully to be let out, since Marcy could make sure she didn’t pose a threat to any of the tiny creatures.

Then there was Thistle, of course. He was the star of the show, in Marcy’s opinion. He was usually awake at 9 or 10AM until about midnight. He slept either in Marcy’s hand or, more recently, he’d taken to sleeping with Moon on the desk or nightstand in Marcy’s room. He alternated, wanting to sleep with them both but knowing Moon wasn’t comfortable sleeping on top of Marcy yet. He spent most of his days in the living room: his art supplies were on the floor, his little painted castle with his clothes and knickknacks was there, and he could hop up on the couch to watch TV when he wanted to. He made paintings and drawings and clay figurines and sold them all online. He had his silkworms there, too, for petting and taking their silk and the occasional snack. He would practice flying when he had someone to help him–which would be a lot more often now that Marcy would be home basically full-time.

Jewel, of course, spent all his time in the fish tank. He’s been warming up to socializing more, albeit slowly–very slowly. He was free to keep his own schedule, although he was mostly limited to sleeping at night when no one was in the living room with him to keep him awake. Sometimes Colin would talk him into letting himself be scooped up and taken out for various social activities–Colin was really the only one he trusted to do that, although he was starting to open up to Marcy and Teddy a bit more, too.

Violet and Petunia had been given permission from the humans to live in the walls and very rarely came out–they were by the far the most introverted members of the household. When Thistle wanted to get ahold of them, he usually walked over to this little crevice in the dining room baseboard, stuck his head in, and yelled for them. If he did that for long enough, it would summon Violet eventually. He had managed to get them to come to a few social gatherings, but never for very long at a time. Violet always acted like she had places to be and important things to be doing, although maybe that was just because she was jittery, in more or less constant motion. Petunia always loved coming out, although even she would start to obviously lose her stamina for socializing after two or three hours and start to nod off.

Severa spent most of her time occupied with whatever activity Thistle was doing, seeing him as her main source of nourishment now that she no longer hunted and relied on their bond to sustain herself. She didn’t seem to have any strong preferences about socializing or activities, just sort of letting herself be subjected to whatever everyone else around her wanted to do. The only exception was when Petunia came out, because she prioritized fawning over the baby above everything else. She spent most of her time in the wooden house Thistle had helped her put together and decorate, which was on the living room floor beside his own. Every time anyone gave her a gift she did not know how to properly use, she simply put it in there, so that she had a sort of miniature treasure hoard that she slept in like a dragon. But she’d also stuffed the wooden house full of fluff and blankets to make it a proper nest. Thistle could tell it was because she was half-hoping it would host an egg or a child someday, but for now it made it very cozy for Thistle to sit in with her when he felt like it. He was getting more comfortable around her–he wasn’t scared to sit in her coils anymore, having complete confidence she wouldn’t attack him.

Moon kind of wandered around. They were sure to always keep a window cracked open for him, so he could visit without feeling trapped in the house. He vanished into the night outside sometimes, but he spent a lot of time bathing in the moonlight on a windowsill or roof. Thistle kept asking him not to go out and seduce anyone else and Moon assured him he wouldn’t, just that he was often seized by wanderlust that he needed to get out of his system. He complained endlessly about the light during the day, but he’d shifted to more of a half-diurnal, half-nocturnal schedule to spend more time with Thistle. He made himself at home wherever he happened to be–and spent more time than not hanging around Thistle–but apparently felt no need for a house or nest to call his own. He had his magical shrinking wardrobe that seemed to carry every possession he thought worth keeping.

And now Marigold and Córva were here. Marigold was healthy enough that it was probably okay to leave him alone, but Thistle was still loath to leave him for any long amount of time. He spent most of his time in the living room next to Thistle’s house, passing his time doing the exercises the vets recommended for him, writing in Pixish or drawing, watching TV, or reading on Thistle’s phone–Thistle had convinced him to start learning English, although he didn’t seem to be very excited for it. They’d set up a baby gate to keep Mochi out of the room–Marigold was clearly afraid of her, although she’d shown no major signs of aggression around him. Córva hung around outside, mostly in and around the lovely little birdhouse Colin had built for her, and she would swoop down to meet Marigold whenever Thistle wheeled him outside. Teddy brought birdseed out for her, which she always ate happily, though she didn’t seem dependent on it, thankfully, since she was still a wild bird and could come and go as she pleased.

That just left Trilloras, the social-phobic dryad. Planted out in the yard. Thistle had stood by her sapling and begged and pleaded for her to come out over and over again, but nobody ever got any response from her. Marcy was starting to think maybe she’d imagined the whole thing, but Thistle and Moon always confirmed they’d seen Trilloras, too.

He really wanted her to sign the guest book, though.

“Come on,” he whined, lying out in the grass. “Just for five minutes. I won’t tell anyone!”

No response.

“You’re living in our yard, you know!”

No response.

Thistle groaned and rolled over. Marcy retrieved the guest book from where it lay in the grass beside him. “We could just try again tomorrow, hm?”

Thistle kicked his feet. “Why won’t she just come out, though? Ugh!”

Marcy scooped him up. “Come on, if she doesn’t want to sign it, she won’t sign it. It’s not the end of the world.”

Thistle crossed his arms and let himself be ferried back towards the porch.

Marcy smiled at him.

“What?”

“I just think you’re cute.”

Thistle blushed to the tips of his ears. “What am I doing that’s cute?”

“You have so many friends back in the house, but you’re stuck on making one more out here.”

Thistle crossed his arms. “It’s just not right that she’s in our yard and won’t talk to me. Right?”

“Just be patient.”

Marcy stopped. There was a borrower on the steps. Looking up at Marcy with ears twitching and tail lashing. He was young, fresh, and bright-eyed.

“Oh, hello!” Marcy said, keeping her voice low. He must be new. She'd never seen him. That was a different one, right? “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. Do you know Violet and Petunia?”

The borrower rubbed his hands nervously.

Thistle leaned over Marcy’s hand, peering at the unknown borrower curiously. “Do you speak English?”

His mouth struggled to form words, then he nodded. “Yes,” he said bashfully. “I’m just shy. Sor-sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Marcy knelt down, letting Thistle off into the soft grass. “It’s great to meet you. What’s your name? I’m Marcy, and this is Thistle.”

The borrower clambered down the stairs, hoisting himself with his strong arms. “My name’s Jax.”

“It’s great to meet you. Do you need something?” Obviously it would be fine if he didn’t–Marcy would be excited about any magical creature staying here for any reason at all–but since borrowers seemed so shy, it felt… odd to see one approach so openly and directly, and with no apparent goal, as a complete stranger.

Jax stopped by Marcy’s shoe. Thistle gave little jumps of excitement but said nothing.

“A dryad told me this is a place where lots of different magical creatures live in peace,” Jax said. “Even predators. Is that true?”

“Yes!” Thistle shouted, excited. “Yes, it’s so true! You can come live here, too!”

Marcy turned back towards Trilloras’s tree. “A dryad told you that?”

Jax followed her gaze. “A dryad far away. Is that a dryad too?” His tail swished excitedly.

“Yeah, but she doesn’t want to come out and talk,” Thistle said sourly. “You talked to a different dryad?’

Jax nodded. “And she said everyone lives in peace here, even predators! I wanted to see it for myself. A bunch of different kinds of creatures living together! Even predators!”

How would a second dryad have known about their house, and why would it have told this random borrower to come here? It was... strange. Confusion overtook Marcy's excitement briefly.

“You’re welcome to see it!” Thistle cheered. He didn't seem to care about the details much at all, too excited about the paradise they were building. “Yes, yes! Come on inside!”

“Er, we just met Jax,” Marcy interjected, noting Jax’s demeanor. “I don’t know if he’d be comfortable coming inside just yet.” And this whole thing felt...fishy.

Jax nervously swished his tail.

“We could bring someone out here to meet you,” Marcy said. She had all day, after all. She could bring Severa and Moon and Jewel and Violet out one at a time and just watch them all talk. The thought made her giddy. This was so much better than a PhD program. “Did you want to meet… A predator?” He’d sounded so excited about it.

Jax nodded. “That sounds lovely!”

“Okay. Wait right there. Thistle, wanna come so you can translate?” There was still a bit of a language barrier between Marcy and Severa, although they’d both been working to close it. But best not to have any misunderstandings.

Thistle nodded, and Marcy picked him up. “Okay. Wait right there, Jax. We’ll be right back.”

Marcy went inside and found Severa upstairs, looking out the second-story window. “Who were you talking to?” she asked.

“There’s a new friend!” Thistle said. “Another borrower! Do you want to meet him?”

Severa flicked her tongue out. “Yes, as long as he also wants to meet me.”

“He does!” Marcy said. “He…”

She trailed off, because something caught her eye out the window behind Severa. Oh no. Oh, no. Buster, the neighbor’s dog, was trotting right towards their front yard.

“Shit!” Marcy dashed away immediately, leaving Thistle and Severa in the dust. She leapt down the stairs as fast as humanly possible, nearly falling if not for the bannister. She threw the front door open just as Buster started to bark.

Jax was standing in front of the dryad sapling, examining it while biting his finger. His ears swiveled as he heard the dog rapidly approaching.

Apparently Jax did not possess very good survival instincts, because he turned to face the dog barreling towards him with its mouth open and teeth exposed–and did nothing.

“Shit!” Marcy shouted, sprinting over. “Jax, run!”

It was too late. Buster reached the borrower and snapped his jaws around him. The tiny, furry body disappeared with a pained, high-pitch squeak.

“Buster!” Marcy shouted. “Drop it! Fuck! Drop it!”

She tried to reach out to grab his collar, but he dashed away from her like they were playing a fun game. “Drop it!” Marcy screamed. The image of Jax’s body disappearing into that maw was burned into her brain.

After an agonizing minute of chasing him in circles as his tail wagged, Marcy finally managed to catch his collar. “Drop it! Drop it!” Tears streamed down her cheeks, blurring her vision, but she refused to let go or give up. She forced Buster’s head towards the ground.

Buster finally opened his mouth and let the drool-covered bundle drop into the grass.

“Shit!” Marcy said, seizing Jax immediately. His body ragdolled in her hand, and oh God, there was so much blood.

She clutched him to her chest and went back inside, slamming the door.

***

They made an emergency call to Lalitha and Jaden, but it was obvious Jax was dead on arrival. Thistle tearfully pressed his ear to Jax’s chest to listen for a heartbeat. Severa checked his pulse and smelled him over for signs of life. Moon tried what healing magic he had, but the borrower’s body was so ravaged by the dog’s enormous teeth that he’d probably died more or less instantly.

Colin blew his lid when he found out what’d happened. He stormed to the neighbor’s house immediately, and the volume of his shouting at her could be heard even all the way from Marcy’s bedroom. He couldn’t very well say that Buster had murdered someone, though–so he settled for saying Buster had killed a small animal Marcy had been fond of, which wasn’t exactly a lie, and that this was the last straw and if he saw Buster loose on the lawn again, he was going to call animal control.

The neighbor promised to keep a closer eye on the dog, then got away from him as quickly as possible. Colin was still fuming when he got back to the house.

He decided it was finally time to put up a fence. Their property was big enough that they couldn't really fence in the whole thing, but Colin had enough handyman know-how to put up a fence at least around the immediate vicinity of the house. Chainlink was the perfect option, since it'd allow small creatures to slip through but block bigger ones. The humans all had to pool together their money to get the funds for it, but they all agreed it needed to be an immediate priority. Marcy still walked around looking shellshocked, and she constantly stayed in the same room as Thistle, hovering protectively.

Not even Violet had any success getting ahold of Jax’s family or friends, so they buried his body in the backyard and had a little funeral themselves. Marcy set up a little grave with a headstone, and they all stood around looking very solemn.

“A damn shame,” Teddy said. “No little critter deserves that.”

“Yeah…” Thistle said. He was crying mightily.

“Does anyone want to say anything else?” Marcy said.

“Um,” said a small, unknown voice. “I could. Who are we mourning?”

All eyes fell on the new voice–which was–

It was Jax. Just standing there at his own funeral. He looked just as fresh and bright-eyed as a few hours ago before he’d been mauled to death. Not even a tear in his clothes, or a hair out of place.

Marcy blinked at him. “Uhhh-” She looked from the grave to the new Jax, as though trying to figure out how he might have crawled out of the little shoebox coffin they’d made him. But no. He’d clearly come from a different direction, approaching while they were all looking at the grave.

“You're dead,” Severa said bluntly.

Jax blushed. “Um, no, I'm just fine. See?” He did a handstand, tail wiggling in the air.

“Hey, uh, Jax…” Thistle said. “You're not… actually a borrower, are you?”

Jax inverted himself upright sheepishly.

***

@static-stars

@cloudwatchingtoday @theepiccreatorofmagic-blog-blog @waitisthatgt @itssmoltime @ratcatcher0325 @crazytinygirl @bittykimmy13 @whumpsday @theroyaleemily @kitn-underfoot

@tinyguy42069

@jewel-fan-wys

@cheeseybeans8

@whumpshaped

@lucentbliss

@alilbitlesbian

@aceouttatime

@alarcomet

@becca-but-bitty

@tiny--pineapple

@bittykimmy13

@whumpsday

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@whumpdreamz

@honeycollectswhump

@imber-rose

#g/t #gt #gianttiny #fairy #giant/tiny #size difference

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miitarashi · 3 months

Note

Hello~

So I've been thinking about some fluff with Tintin (he lives in my mind rent-free).

I would like to request Tintin with a fem reader who likes to be praised. Just like, she tries hard to work well during the day and does everything quietly. So at the end of the day she likes someone to pat her on the head and just tell her that she did a good job. She doesn't say she likes it, but Tintin notices.

Only do this if you can and want to, thank you! And forgive me if this seems a little confusing, English is not my first language.

Owww,this is so cute tho. Such a cute thing need to be writed! And don't worry,english is not my first language either and i understood pretty well,you're doing a good job so far at learning! I'm proud of you unknow person. 😌❤️

[Name] = reader (female)

Warnings: none,just cuteness

Prompt: You're a hardworking person who loves headpats.

When you met Tintin for the first time, you we're working on the local library taking this opportunity to study on your breaks because you wanted to apply for a position as an assistant to a local historian you greatly admired. Because of it, the subject you were studying was something that Tintin was needing more informations of,so he asked for your help, becoming friends ever since.

Consequently, he ended up watching your dedication for the position you was applying for. He saw your eyes focused on your notebooks and books, the post-it notes on your wall to help you remember important things when he come to a quick visit, even finding it cute when you turned up your nose when you saw something you didn't understand or pressed your lips together when you tried to put the pieces together to help him with his new article.

But the top 1 was definitely the happy smile and light blush that covered your cheeks when someone pats you on the head. Even if you didn't say it, it was pretty obvious when you did, you kept quiet because you didn't want to draw so much attention. However the journalist discovered it and waited for the right moment to do so, which was precisely when you applied to be an assistant to this historian who you greatly admired.

The day of the decision came and went, Tintin found it a little strange not having a reaction from you about the result so he decided to stop by your apartement when he was free and after a few minutes of conversation about that new article, he casually asked:

"Oh,[Name],did you already got the results of your application?"

"Hm? Oh yes,i got it yesterday and will be working with him by tomorrow" — his eyes widen a bit in surprise,mostly by the nonchalant tone you tried to say it,but still feeling that animated subtone.

"Well,by how much you worked hard for it,i would be surprised if you didn't get it" — he chuckle a bit,letting a small sigh and finally he could do it.

His hand reach the top of your head giving some pats in a caring way,smilling when that cute smirk appeared on your lips along with the tiny blush he adore so much to see,he would even hug and kiss your forehead if he could because you deserve it and even more,however he didn't want to cross any bondaries or end up making things awkaward by this sudden act.

"I'm really proud of you [Name],you worked really hard for it"

"Thank you Tintin" — you said looking back at him,smilling happily. His eyes soften,taking his time to just look at you cute face before looking away a bit.

"Your welcome and from now on,i guess i'll be having an even more capable help on my researchs."

"Yes,i'm really looking forward for it"

"..Me too" — he said in a light,careful dreamy tone almost, watching your little excited squirm making sure to keep this memory in his heart.

You both smiled,quite excited as you will start your dream job and Tintin will keep his little excuse to stay close and having your help on his cases. A win is a win.

————————————————————————

A/N: there it is,a cute request fresh out of the oven! (Yes i know,it's a bit short) And sorry for the delay,i literally forgot to post on the last sunday :( but! I already have some good ideas and some special things being prepared~ so just wait a little,i promise y'all will not disappointed! Hope you liked unknow person! Thanks for reading!

#the adventures of tintin #tintin #tintin movie #tintin x reader #tintin 2011 #the adventures of tintin 2011 #tintin movie 2011

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shurisneakers · 2 years

Text

bridges break (i)

Summary: steve shuts himself away. you pull him along on a trip of a lifetime in an attempt to reconnect. great plan! except there's one big secret he's keeping from you that could change the course of your entire relationship, and there's no greasy stack of diner pancakes in the country big enough to hide behind.

(road trip!au, best friends to lovers)

Warnings: angst, mentions of death and violence, nightmares (?), mental health issues and disorientation, ptsd, swearing. lemme know if i missed anything and I'll tag it.

A/N: TAKE 2 MFS. a tarot reader lady on youtube told me to stop pushing and finally publish this fic lol. to my beloveds: tanya, ayesha, and chips ahoy traitor. thank you. ily.

pls know that this is my lil fic in my lil corner of the internet don't come at me if you don't like it, just block me <3

Steve’s legs dangle languidly off the concrete shore. His palm should be pressed to the ground, keeping his balance, but they instead defiantly clasp around an old worn-out sketchbook. His fingers nimbly capture ships on the horizon, waves lapping at the wall several feet below him and the orange of the evening reflecting off of rusted metal.

He looks up for a moment when a horn blares, loud and good. A smile slips past as he snaps his notebook shut and places it beside him, clenching his eyes shut and deeply inhaling the saltiness in the air.

Life is warm. Life is stripped down to its bare essence and still, life is good.

Steve jerks awake.

For months he expected nightmares to drag him out of his sleep, heaving and wide-eyed.

For months they never arrive, leaving him with the saccharine sweetness of the sun’s heat on his skin and legs stretched over the harbour.

Decidedly, it is worse.

____

He's seen those apartments in the catalogues, on TV shows and more. Grey, with furniture placed methodically only where it was required. A fake plant to spruce it up, one painting adding just one colour-- maybe a yellow, or an orange-- amidst the whites and blacks.

He's always thought it looked too sanitised. Like an office, or the boardrooms he spent most of daylight in. You couldn't possibly live in a home where everything felt like a touch away from being corrupted; too clean, like no one had ever lived in it.

But mostly, he always thought it looked lonely.

His apartment was filled- and remained in the process of it, too- with knick-knacks. Posters of movies he hadn't yet seen and of ones from the past that he had, paintings from local artists selling on the street, stuff he'd wrestled back from the museums. They'd called it artefacts, Steve had always just called it his old notebooks and his mother's clay sculptures. Those rested on the mantle.

Nothing had been added to the house in months.

"Captain."

Steve blinks, long.

He lifts his eyes to the person opposite to him, dark tailored suit and pinned back hair, greying prematurely.

"Yes?" he asks, ring finger still covering his mouth as his palm holds up the weight of his jaw.

"You haven't said a word since you got here," she replies with a poisonously sweet smile.

"Was just listening to what everyone had to say," Steve lies, and it's the first of many he'll tell today.

A panel. Steve’s on a panel of experts. Security experts. He doesn't even fucking know why-- he's never been very good at predicting which new being was going to fall out of the sky and try to kill all his friends.

"Nothing to add?" Though her tone is friendly, her eyes unsettlingly held no emotion.

"Have a feelin' you all know what I'm gonna say," he replies.

There's a sigh at the end of the long table, clearing one's throat from the other. Steve's stare remains steadfast.

“Captain Rogers. Steve," she-- Councilwoman Murray, he suddenly remembers-- says with a tick in her voice, pleasantly. "What we're proposing-"

"I know. I heard you," he says, calm as ever. "You want to set up a base in space with weapons of mass destruction in case an event like the Blip were to happen again. While I appreciate your patience, Councilwoman, here's where you're going to have to put up with me because I'm gonna tell you what I've been sayin' every single time we've met: it doesn't make sense."

"It is for international peace," she sighs.

It became very clear in the first meeting that his beliefs don’t align with the rest of them, but they've committed and so has he. No matter how many people slid him deals under the table or offered him positions like president, his opinion wasn't going to shift.

"A base that falls under American jurisdiction, run by American soldiers, using American produced weapons, serving under the orders of an American government, serving on the basis of, and I'm quoting your proposal here, threats against the citizens of the United States of America." Steve arches a brow. "Doesn't sound real international to me, especially when you're planning on vetoing anyone who doesn't agree. Just a scare tactic to the rest of the world."

Another suffering sigh. He can see a smile threaten to creep up on Mona’s face.

"Besides, it's quite the budget you've allocated to this project," he continues, pushing forward the document. "I think it'd be better spent on the millions of people you say you're glad are back. Last I heard, they’re still waiting on the resources you've promised."

With the last word, there's a faint sense of deja vu warm in his chest. He's sure he's brought this up elsewhere, but he can't pinpoint where. It’s hard to remember how he gets from one place to another. Or is it hard to pay attention? He can’t tell the difference anymore, it didn’t matter much.

Years, he has to correct himself.

Everything looked the same as it did six years ago. The last thing that he remembers adding to the decor was a framed picture of you and him at a baseball game before it all went to shit in Germany. That sat on the mantle, too.

He walks past it every morning, diverting his eyes to the kitchen before he catches sight of it and the pit forms in his stomach again. Still, he can't find it in himself to remove it.

Steve drags a razor across his cheek. It cleanly wipes away the foam, leaving behind clear skin, neat. Some days he just used soap when he couldn't open the shelf and reach for the shaving cream.

He turns his head down to slosh the razor around in the water. He remembers when he used to like the sound, thought it was fun.

There is red when he lifts his head back up to the mirror. Piercing red.

“It’s not that easy, Rogers.”

“Isn’t it?” Steve shoots a glance at the head of the table. "Seems pretty damn easy to me to decide what the money should go towards, and it's not the next tax write-off for the megalomaniac who's funded the doughnuts for this meeting."

The member’s jaw tightens and he sinks back into his seat again. The room’s quiet, an amalgamation of awkward stares and rolling eyes.

Because of course, Steve didn’t understand the problem. Steve didn’t understand the politics of it all.

Steve's just there 'cause Captain America has to be.

There's a thin line of blood when he lifts his head back up to the mirror. It races from about half his cheek down to his jaw, bright crimson changing to a dull red as it dilutes.

Steve stares at it for several moments. His watch ticks, reminding him that he may be frozen but the world was still spinning around him. But it was 5am and he's got nowhere to be for at least three hours.

When he drags his stare away from the nick and to his eyes in the mirror, he remember how the air used to get sucked out of the room. The same clocks used to stop ticking.

There was nothing there. He was not there. It was empty and he looked back at himself, tired eyes and glowing skin.

But now everything goes on as it did before. There is still nothing there, not even him. The air is still heavy in the bathroom and the watch keeps ticking.

Steve uses his thumb to wipe away the blood, and keeps going.

“Coffee, Captain Rogers?”

It’s a steady little routine they’ve fallen into. Mona asks him, always at precisely the right time, whether he would like a cup as they walk towards one of the many assigned conference rooms that day.

He told her yes once, and she committed his order to heart. It wasn't a big feat-- black, with no sugar and no cream-- but he appreciated it all the same. He carelessly downed it like a shot, ignoring the s as it goes down his throat.

Steve gently turns her down today, however. She quickly rats off a list of people he has to meet, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose in the process. He nods dimly, knowing that she'd send him a text with all the details anyway.

“You have to meet with Mr Langstaff at 12, and Mr Estrada at 1:30 to decide your press release. Y/N demands that you pick up the phone, and you have dinner with Mrs Madron at 8 at the Ritz about the ambassadorship.”

Steve's ears perk up, head snapping towards her. “What was that?”

“You have dinner at 8 with Mrs Madron at the Ritz,” Mona repeats slowly, deliberately.

“No, before that.”

She flips a page back on her notepad before reciting, “Y/N demands that you pick up the phone.”

Christ.

Steve swiftly skims through his phone, brows furrowing when he finds nothing. It takes a second to hit that if you were to call him, it probably wouldn't be to his work number. The work phone had a few texts and missed calls he hadn't responded to yet. He would be meeting them in the next few days anyway, what was the damn hurry?

From Y/N

Been a few days, you around?

From Y/N

Mona says you're busy so I'm not gonna call, but I left a message with her. Don't feel pressured to respond immediately, it was mostly a joke

Fuck.

From Y/N

Just lemme know if you're good

He curses softly under his breath, before pressing a button and holding the phone up to his ear.

He ignores the people walking past, some doing a double take when they see him standing in the middle of the hallway on a random weekday.

“Y/N,” he says in greeting the second you pick up. "Hey."

“Steve,” you reply equally as quick. “You all right?”`

“'M sorry, it's been a while since I checked this phone. I‘m fine.”

He can hear you exhale slightly at the other end, and the snap of elastic on your skin. He waits patiently outside the conference room for the people to start filing in, but he estimates another ten minutes before they do.

“Sorry, Stevie, didn’t mean to worry you,” you say, prying the gloves away from your hand, “It's just-- the last time you missed a couple'a calls, I had to find out you’re enemy of the state from the receptionist.”

“No, I get it. I forgot to respond, it's my bad.” He keeps his phone on silent these days. The only communication he really responds to with urgency is what Mona deems critical.

“We still meeting up for coffee today?”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose hard. Of all the things to slip his mind in the middle of all the legal jargon and fundraising efforts.

He sneaks a glance at his watch, and then back at the meeting room where an assistant was placing glasses of water in front of seats, and back at his watch.

“We don’t have to, if you’re not up for it,” you remind him in the lingering silence. “I know your schedule is busy these days.”

He had conferences, and dinners, and calls to ignore, and people to scorn, because if he wasn't fighting, then he's gotta be doing more to be helping people out, right?

“4pm, at Whole Latte Love, wasn't it?” His eye catches Mona’s, who swiftly flips through several pages of her notebook to write down his new plan. “I’ll be there.”

“You sure?”

“‘Course.” The corners of his mouth lift softly. "Can't wait."

“All right.” He can hear the smile in your voice. It’d been a while. “See you there.”

The call ends with a soft click. His posture immediately stiffens again.

Mona’s attention is still on the notepad when she says, “Guess that cancels the video call with Jepsen at 4:15.”

______

He pulls the brim of his cap even lower, if that was possible, fully intending to cover up his untrimmed hair. It didn't work very well; whatever was too long for the cap just stuck up in strange angles given how tight the hat was.

The smell of roasting coffee beans was intense, and a little hard to take in. He had been here loads of times before, but those visits had thinned out and the gaps in between each had increased exponentially over the last few years.

When he scours the area, all he sees are booths occupied with people speaking in hushed tones. It serves to remind him again that the world seemed a lot quieter now.

Six years ago, he couldn't take a step down a street without hearing cries for missing sons, aunts, friends. Then, of course, there was silence. Almost deafening, as people slowly picked themselves up, tried to make sense of the life they were living now.

It continued even when the Snapped were back. The parades were loud and the parties even louder but everything seemed muted. Almost like they expected the returned to leave again, cautious about how much energy they spent celebrating something that could disappear in an instant.

The chair scrapes against the linoleum floor, pulling his attention away from his lap.

He doesn't even know when he sat down.

“Please, don’t look so surprised.” You don’t go for a greeting, instead, taking note of the slightly dilated eyes. “Only you would wear a cap indoors and think it’s a good disguise.”

Steve glances around discreetly. “No one else noticed.”

“What, that you look like you want to hide?” You snort, laying all your stuff on the table after taking a seat. “Yeah, they did. Hi, by the way.”

If they did, they didn’t say anything.

"Hi," he says back. "You look good."

You narrow your eyes at him, before your face breaks into a small smile. "I didn't realise disarray and chaos was pleasing to you."

He shrugs. "You make it work."

Your head ducks with a smile and a small shake. “Did you order anything?”

"Not yet."

“Do you want to?” You pour over the menu in front of you even though you’ve been here before with him so many times you know exactly what you want. “Coffee, black, no sugar, no cream?”

Even though he declined Mona on the same offer, he takes you up on yours. It's always been hard to say no to you.

You quickly flag down the waitress, giving her your orders and a big smile and revert back to Steve.

“Haven’t heard from you in a while,” you say, leaning forward on your elbows. “How’s everything going?”

It hasn’t been on purpose-- well, it was-- but no one had really heard from him in a while.

“You know,” he draws out, “a lot of conversations with a lot of… interesting people.”

“Snobs?" you offer. "Uptight?”

“That's one way to put it.” There’s humour in his words but only a wisp of it on his face. “They’re thinkin’ of holding another carnival in a month.”

“What, like one obnoxious parade wasn’t enough already?”

“That’s what I told ‘em. But elections are coming up and the guy wants as much publicity as they can afford.” He restrains himself from rolling his eyes. “Tell me you're doing better on your side.”

“It’s like middle school all over again, Stevie.” The corner of your lip stretches thin in annoyance. “Ever since the return, everyone’s been fightin’ over desks and projects that we completed while they were gone.”

One of the most reputed labs in the world, some of the most formidable brains of nature and endless arguments over whose table gets to face the window, and who gets to sit nearest to the water cooler for better access to office gossip.

"Jesus," he says, before a familiar voice pinches him. Don't take the Lord's name in vain.

"Gets better."

Steve quirks an eyebrow.

The conversation gets cut short when the waitress sets down a cup in front of him and fills it nearly to the brim. It already smells better than the garbage they serve at the town hall, and he certainly could use a cup to make up for the fifty hours he'd spent awake so far.

"Thank you," he tells her before turning his attention to you. "Better how?"

“Well-- better is actually pretty subjective. Positions are shuffling around, people are moving.” You bite your lip. “They offered me a new job.”

He smiles for the first time that day, a big-toothed grin. "They did?"

"New title. Just fancier words for a person that runs that joint." You blow gently at your beverage, shoulders rising and falling nonchalantly. "Pays real well. Lot more access to resources, grants. Everything."

"Sounds like a dream," he says carefully, noting the lack of eye contact.

“I’m not sure if I’m gonna take it, though."

There it is. “Why?”

“Don't know if I want to." You shrug. "They only floated it by me a while ago, and it's pretty under wraps, so I have time. Don't have to answer 'em right away."

"Is there something going on?" If he'd somehow managed to miss it while doing God knows what, he'd never let himself forget it.

"No, there's nothing," you reassure. "I just don't know if I wanna do it."

Steve inclines his head. You expertly dodge it with a clearing of your throat.

“Sam told me the new compound’s been coming up okay.” God, he hadn’t seen Sam since the time he came back from returning the stones to their rightful place and that had been a few months ago.

“Yeah, almost done, actually. Most of the stuff’s been moved already.”

All the way across the country, far away from New York and its bi-annual alien attacks. Pepper had had enough after the compound got wrecked again, ordering for a complete shift to preserve whatever was left from the destruction.

“Do you think I can score a designated parking spot?”

“You can try."

"Or you can." You grin at him. "Put in a word for me."

Steve clicks his tongue. “Don't think it'd do any good. No special privileges, even for employees.”

“Damn it,” you curse under your breath and he lets out a small chuckle. “You think they’d throw free parking in with the healthcare.”

"Did you get yourself checked up?" She eyes him, top to bottom.

"Bucky had a look."

"So, that's a no, then," she says flatly. "When was this?"

"Two days ago."

"And you're completely all right?"

"Steve?"

He forcefully zeroes his focus back on you. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Your head quirks, but you let go of it a second later.

"I asked how you were." You twirl a stirring rod around your hot chocolate, letting its warmth seep into your palms through the cup as you hold it up. “If you were holdin’ up okay.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been good," he says, lips stretched into a tight smile. “Keeping myself occupied.”

Steve purposely takes a long sip of his coffee, avoiding the furrow of your eyebrows. It makes his stomach lurch a little, and he raises his cup to his lips again to avoid thinking about it too much.

“You get any time off at all?”

“Sometimes.” Before you can question, he counters, "Do you?”

"I've had vacation days buildin' up for years now. Got nowhere to use 'em." Your eyes dart about the shop before landing on him. "Which is actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

Steve peers back in question, setting the cup down.

“What if I were to ask you-” you begin casually “-if you’d wanna maybe get away for a while.”

He only waits for you to continue.

“I was thinking we could take a road trip.”

A road trip?

Steve voices exactly that.

“We’ll get a car, drive it down to wherever you wanna go. Texas, Washington-” you speak a little faster, leaning forward to take his hand in yours “-hell, even fuckin’ Florida, I don’t care. I’ll plan it out, I’ll take care of everything."

His eyes flit down your hand on his, swallowing thickly. A break. A break. The idea makes his head spin and a laugh bubble out of him incredulously. But as soon as it arrives, it dissipates, leaving in its wake hesitancy and 'I'm sorry, I don't know if I can'.

“Why?” he asks instead, to squander any outright denial.

Why? He wants to smack himself in the head. Because best friends do that. Best friends take road trips together and host dinner parties and tell each other what’s on their minds and don't hide things, life-changing things.

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze softening. “I miss you.”

Steve feels the familiar sickness in his stomach, the same pit that forms every time he walks past the framed picture of you both in the morning.

“A road trip,” he repeats, testing it out for himself.

“A month, you and me. We're not leaving tomorrow or something, don't worry. Still gotta apply for leave and take care of some stuff, it'll take a while." Your eyes brighten when he doesn't immediately shoot it down. “I’ll even let you pick the music.”

“My taste isn’t that bad," he deflects offhandedly.

You give him a half-smile in response. “What d’ya say, Stevie?”

“A month?” Steve asks again, knowing that he was about to send Mona into an absolute panic.

“Just one," you swear.

A road trip. Across a country he was named after, one that he had never seen, save for in a state of destruction and despair.

"I'll have to check," he says. "Can I let you know?"

It's like you deflate, only by a minuscule amount but he catches it.

"Of course. No pressure, okay? It was just an idea."

"I know," Steve says quickly, flipping his hand so that it covers yours instead. "I promise I'll see what I can do."

You nod, a little uncertain before a smile overtakes your face.

It isn't a no. It isn't a flat-out refusal but he knows. He’s been pulling away and this is another attempt atit.

A cruel part of his mind says that it’s easy, it makes it easier for him and you later on.

"Something to eat?" you query, settling back into your seat. "I could go for some food."

The logical part says it’s because he’s a damn coward.

__________

Day slips into night and night slips into early morning faster than he anticipates.

If he didn't sleep, he didn't have to relive it all over again and the choice, therefore, was glaringly simple.

His phone shudders to let him know there's only 15 percent of battery left. Only then, when his neck cranes to reach around for his charger does he notice the time.

4:13am.

Steve stares at the phone for a while.

The light hadn't even come in yet, but with all the blinds in his house closed, he doubts they would have.

He blinks when he feels the familiar burn in his eyes.

4:15am.

Then he's made slowly aware of the dull ache in his neck he can easily attribute to sitting in the wrong position for too long.

Did he eat dinner?

4:18am.

Steve stares at the lock screen. An urge suddenly tugs at his brain.

Change it, or change his phone, or remove the cover. Or throw it at a wall.

By the time he locks it again, it reads 4:21am.

He thinks it's good enough to get a shower in.

__________

"A road trip?"

"Yeah." Steve rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

"Thought you left that life behind with your plastic dinner plate."

Steve winces at the thought of his ill-fitting velcro suit. “Shut up.”

"Suppose your metal dinner plate deserves the same honour," Bucky muses, looking down at something off-screen. "Are you getting a tour bus?"

"Just a car, m'afraid," Steve says wearily. "Maybe on the European leg."

"Tell Y/N it broke my whole heart when I didn't receive an invite in the mail for this trip."

Steve sighs. "Might wanna hold onto your tissues. I'm not even sure I'm going."

"And why the hell not?"

"I don't know." He squints when Bucky ducks out of view, leaving him open to the attack of bright daylight through the phone. "I'm not sure."

"About what?" Bucky yells to be heard from off-screen.

"Got work to do."

Steve chews on his lip, letting his eyes close for a second in the silence.

There's a loud thud, and Steve opens his eyes to Bucky dropping a stack of files on the table in front of him. Brown, some sealed and others with corners softened from overuse.

"You're avoiding it," Bucky says flatly.

Steve's eyebrows furrow, more so in indignation than anything. "I am not."

"Shut the fuck up, Rogers," his best friend of many-- almost too many, he's beginning to think-- years tells him without even thinking twice. "What's your excuse this time, huh? Back pain? Senior's night at the country club?"

"Jesus Christ, Bucky."

"When's the last time you took a vacation?" Bucky's image is clear through the phone with no pixelation whatsoever. Steve can't imagine it's the same from his end, what with the crappy WiFi and sitting in the darkness of his bedroom.

He blows out a breath. "Well, if you count th-"

"If you say the time you were frozen, I'm gonna hang up."

Steve shuts his mouth.

Bucky pauses to read something and Steve takes the opportunity to kick off the shoes he hadn't bothered removing before laying down.

Bucky peers up at the screen for a second. "D'you know where the-"

"Manila folder. Under the testimonials list," Steve completes.

He doesn't even look surprised, just nods and picks up the correct file before flipping through it.

"Have you gone through them all?"

"Should I?" Bucky asks wearily. "I mean, I lived through them, y'know."

Steve sighs, scratching his cheek, wincing when he comes across the tiny scab. "You need to go through the files, Bucky."

"I'm kidding," Bucky clarifies with a roll of his eyes. "You'd think people would cut me some slack after being imprisoned for sixty years, but no. Can't joke about torture, can't joke about forgetting what I had for breakfast."

Steve stares at him through the phone.

"It was eggs," he says slowly. "I had eggs. And juice. Orange."

The thin sheets rustle under Steve as he sits up straight. "This is why I'm not going on that trip."

Bucky drops the file he was holding with a loud scoff. "Now hold on there, Rogers. Don't you fuckin' act like you've got babysitting duty.."

It should be too early there for Bucky to be this confrontational and it was definitely too late for Steve to argue back. He makes a mental note to call him at midnight next time, but the bastard would probably be up and about then too. He wonders if Bucky ever sleeps.

"I'm not." Steve exhales. "I'm not. I'm just not going to leave you in the middle of your trial prep, Buck."

"In the middle of?" Bucky voices back incredulously. "There isn't even a trial yet and there is nothing more left to prep."

"There's gotta be more-"

"But there isn't," Bucky cuts him off. "Steve, we’ve been at this for years. We've gone through everything. Murdock's done it thrice, Nelson's done it, like, six times, bless his soul. Look at this file, Rogers. I've been through it twice since last night."

Steve's own copy of all the material sat at his desk, highlighted and annotated. The way the case was being dealt with was unusual, but the case itself was unusual. He didn't really know enough about the legal system to argue either.

"The only reason we're waiting is so that I can take some time off before we let the government know I'm here," he reminds. "Otherwise we're done, we just gotta get my ass back to the States and we're ready to go."

Steve bites the inside of his lip, out of Bucky's sight. The angle isn't very flattering. He's long given up on trying to look presentable.

"It's not right."

"Look, Steve." Bucky picks up a file again. "You've done enough. I can handle a month."

"A month and a half, maybe."

"Even better." He gives him a sly smile. "Shuri says if she has to see your dumb face moping around here anymore she's gonna get you banned from entering the country."

Steve rolls his eyes. "I don't mope."

"Sure ya don't. Gettin' sick of it m'self, gotta tell you," Bucky says blankly. "T'Challa's got all these people working on the case. Figuring out a timeline. Once we tell the authorities I'm here, I either gotta surrender myself or get extradited. Either way, I won't be back for another few months at least."

Steve says nothing.

"Go on your little road trip. Stop worrying 'bout me." Bucky shifts in his seat. "Technically I'm on vacation, too."

Steve says nothing.

"Once I'm back, you can help me move into my jail cell, how about that?"

Steve's silence only intensifies.

"You're a ray of sunshine," Bucky says. "Love how you can take a joke."

"Bucky."

"Steve," he mocks, voice low. "I've been on my own since '45. I can handle it."

Even if he doesn't mean it like that, Steve feels an ache shoot through him in embarrassment. Bucky doesn't notice; he probably didn't even realise what he said.

"Plus, it's not the stone ages. I'll call you if I need anything, but I'm tellin' you, there's nothing. You've seen all the evidence. Only thing that's left is prepping for the stand, and they're only doing it after the therapist gives them the go-ahead to start poking in there." His index finger points to his temple.

Bucky's hair had grown long enough to curl lightly at his shoulder blades. He usually kept it tied up and out of his face but it hung loose today, forcing him to push back strands that kept covering his eyes as he read. Even through the phone, Steve could tell he looked better, dark circles faded significantly.

"They'll call you too. Grill your ass 'bout how much you love me."

"I don't."

"Should be easy then," he replies breezily, leafing through a folder. “Did you know I was apparently in Paris at some point? You’d think I'd remember the tower, but no. Turns out I just got stabbed.”

“Buck,” Steve says sternly.

“Sorry, sorry.” He holds up the file. “I got shot too.”

"Bucky."

"Just go." Bucky grins. "You can come back here and look at all these fun numbers.”

Steve shakes his head, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes. The last two times he'd been to Wakanda, he had nothing to do. He met Bucky's goats. Ate a tomato he grew (it was still a little green but Bucky was damn proud of it. Best tomato Steve’d ever eaten). The rest was the same as the last few visits.

"If you don't wanna go for some other reason-" Bucky sneaks him a glance -"then don't. But don't let it be 'cause of me. Hell, I'd join too if I wasn't across an ocean. And gotten an invite."

He thinks it’s something to consider once Bucky can walk freely.

“You’re not doing a bad thing, Rogers," Bucky adds, tone a little more gentle this time. “You’re not a bad person. Stop beating yourself up about this and just go.”

Wasn’t he? He wasn’t a good person, that’s for sure.

Who the fuck even is he anymore?

"You sure?" Steve asks warily, the unease still lapping at him.

"Get me a souvenir," Bucky says. "Bet it'd look great next to my prison bed."

___

"Captain?"

Steve's eyes snap towards the person in front of him. Dark suit, hair brushed back.

"Yes?" he asks again and ignores the feeling that he's done this before.

"I asked if you'd gotten the email for the fundraiser."

Steve's eyes glance towards his left. It's almost like Mona reads his mind because she's already halfway through pulling out a folder from an even bigger folder.

"We did," she confirms. "We'll let you know about his availability. June is a tough month."

Steve looks down at his glass of water, determined to not let it show on his face that he's got no fucking idea what she's talking about.

The water ripples as Steve lifts it, but if someone were to ask, he isn't sure he ever drank it or not.

___

Steve stares at the red on his skin, wondering where it came from. It stretches down his skin like a long, raw scar before diluting at his jaw.

God, didn't that happen yesterday? Did he cut himself again? Or--wait, was it the day before yesterday?

Where was the fucking shaving cream– why was he shaving without shaving cream?

His phone chimes with a text alert from Mona. He sees from the home screen that it's a schedule for today. It started the same as always, with her cheerful 'Good morning. Here's the plan for the day'. And usually, it could be boiled down to meeting people he couldn't stand, people he was still treading the fence about, and lunch.

When he looks up at the mirror, the red has begun to dry, forming little crusts that cracked when he opened his mouth.

Steve blinks and it's gone, and there's a wet towel on the sink.

Dinner is something. Chicken. Rice. Something healthy, there's some greens in there. He watches some sitcoms and laughs when the laugh track plays even when the joke isn't all that funny.

He eats his chicken and wonders whether 2am is too early to take a shower.

"You got any food in you or is that all you’ve been taking in all day?” He makes a mention to the cigarette that was almost halfway done.

“Jeanie managed to get us some soup. Should last us a few days if we divide it up real nice.”

“We got some extra bread.”

“Nah, Rogers.” The teen flicks the tail end of the smoke, getting rid of the extra ash. “We’ll be all right. Save that for another day.”

Steve jolts up when the familiar feeling of falling hits him. But the couch is still underneath him and the TV's moved on to another late-night rerun. The laugh track is mundane but feels like it's directed at him.

The plate clangs on the ground-- he's glad he's invested in metal ones after the first few times it happened.

He rubs his eyes, hand reaching out for his phone.

3:30am.

Steve pulls on a jacket and some well worn sneakers. It can't be too early for a run.

___

“Captain?”

Steve snaps back. “Yes?”

___

Dinner is lunch? Pasta?

No, he ate rice for lunch.

2:00am.

Why the fuck is he eating dinner at 2am?

___

“Rogers?”

“Please, it’s Steve,” he repeats, shaking hands with a polite smile.

“Steve. Thank you for the advertisement you did for us. Sales really rocketed.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Steve feels the scab on his skin. Scraped again?

___

5:20am.

Steve laughs with the laugh track.

Was this who he was? Laughing at some joke he wouldn’t be able to remember even with a gun to his head?

He shovels another soon of cereal into his mouth and discards the rest in the sink.

___

“Captain?”

“He’s not available, sorry,” Mona cuts in curtly as she walks swiftly beside him. “You can schedule a meeting with me, though.”

Steve looks at her when they round a corner. “Who was that?”

“Um–” Mona scrolls through her tablet. “Senator–”

___

“5am is not too early for a run,” he repeats to himself in assurance under his breath, tugging his shoes on.

He stops to look in the mirror and it is empty. There should be dark circles and stubble and pale skin from not seeing the light of day. His skin glows. There is hardly a line on his face.

“Shave when you get back,” he says aloud, and his voice is hoarse from hours of unuse.

He swaps out the elevator for the stairs, bounding down quietly. 5am was still early for his neighbours.

He pushes open the door to his apartment and--

It is pitch black.

Steve takes a step outside, head turned up to the sky.

It is dark, cloudy and deafeningly silent.

Steve’s eyebrows pull together.

He digs his phone out of his pocket to check the time.

2am.

He thought it was 5.

___

“Captain–”

“My opinion isn’t going to change, Senator.”

“What?”

Steve’s attention drags him back to harsh fluorescent lighting and the smell of astringent hand sanitiser.

“I said you’re free to go.” The doctor flips the pages on his clipboard. “Good as new.”

“Serum, am I right?” he tries for a joke. It’s not even funny. He feels like a sitcom.

“Miracle of science.” The doctor graces him with a smile that seems almost pitiful. “Just try to get some sunlight. Your vitamin D’s a little low, but you’re cleared.”

“Great,” he says. Cleared for what, exactly?

___

“Mona.” Steve rubs his temples.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

___

Steve watches his food spin around in the microwave.

It goes on endlessly, for ages and ages. He's mesmerised.

It finally beeps and he yanks it out.

He takes a bite. The center is still cold.

___

“Captain–”

“Senator.”

“It’s Councilwoman,” Mona whispers from beside him.

“Councilwoman,” Steve corrects. “My apologies. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“We’ve all been there.” She smiles kindly at him. He thinks she’s one of the only people he likes. “Now about your tweets, we’d really appreciate if you didn’t go against the organization that’s been, you know–”

He thinks he doesn’t like her.

Steve’s attention returns to his phone as she rattles on about why he should lend his public support to some fucking businessman who had stakes in some place for some reason. If he tweeted against him, it was probably for good reason.

You’ve sent him a meme.

The corners of his mouth curl up slightly.

“So we believe it’s in everybody’s best interest that you–”

“No,” Steve says resolutely, gaze rising up again. “My condolences, but I don’t think I’ll be doing that. Now can we continue to more important issues?”

___

Steve tries a drama for once, instead of a comedy.

Three episodes in and he has no idea what the hell has happened so far.

He checks his phone.

12:43am.

Too early for a run.

He gets ready for a shower.

___

Steve walks out, towel around his waist and hoodie covering his chest. His hair is slicked back, still dripping water down his back.

His phone chimes with another notification.

1:40am

Steve waits for it to download, one hand on his waist.

From Y/N

(image attached)

From Y/N

Why on earth are you awake this late?

From Steve:

Could ask you the same thing. Don’t you have work tomorrow?

From Y/N:

Don’t you have an interview with CNN tomorrow?

From Steve:

Steve’s eyebrows furrow as he looks up, racking his brain to remember if he did have something lined up.

How do you know my schedule better than me?

From Y/N:

They tweeted about it, Steve

He smiles, barely listening to his dinner spin around in the microwave.

From Y/N:

Why are you up?

From Steve:

Got in late.

From Y/N:

Go to sleep

From Steve:

You first.

From Y/N:

What are you, my dad?

From Y/N:

Kidding, I’m going. Have fun in your lil interview. Give me a shoutout

From Steve:

Keep your ears peeled.

From Steve:

Goodnight.

From Y/N:

Better not see you awake after this, Rogers

Steve pulls his eyes away from his phone when the microwave beeps dramatically.

From Y/N:

Goodnight. Talk to you tomorrow ily

He pulls his food out carefully. It’s the worst looking slice of pizza he’d ever seen, but he drops it onto a plate anyway and walks toward his couch.

2:00am.

He’s seen these reruns before. Twice, actually.

Steve takes a bite. It’s stone cold.

The laugh track plays again. His lip twitches.

Steve takes another bite and swallows it down without thinking too much.

He switches the channel. Someone advertises something he doesn’t want.

He switches the channel. His face. The channel changes faster.

Steve takes a bite. Winces and chews slowly, purposefully. The channel switches.

Laugh track. Steve bites the crust. His face.

3am?

The plate’s discarded. He’s got a box of cereal. The channel switches.

Steve takes a spoonful. Advertisement.

Interview today. Fuck.

He takes a bite. Parade promo.

___

“Captain?”

“Yes?”

___

Channel switches. CNN? Who the fuck was he talking to?

Steve chews on muesli.

Laugh track.

He swallows. Advertisement. Laugh track. He laughs.

Muesli. Interview at 9.

____

Steve drags the razor over his chin.

He swishes it around in the water, and there is red that mixes with dissolving foam.

____

He checks his phone. Muesli. Steve laughs.

It’s been half an hour. It’s still 3am.

Steve chews. Advertisement.

He laughs. Muesli. He laughs. Swallows.

Laugh track. Spoonful.

____

“Captain?”

“Yes?”

___

Dry pizza.

Steve laughs.

Steve pulls on his shoes and checks the time.

___

Something suddenly flips in him. He doesn't have a name for it.

Laugh track.

___

Fuck.

___

Steve exhales, tucking his phone into his pocket before he could send a retraction.

To Y/N:

Let's do it. Road trip. I'm in.

It was done now.

He couldn't go back.

___

It hardly takes a few seconds for the notification to ring out in an empty apartment.

____

From Y/N:

Fuck yes. You won’t regret this.

As much as he wishes this trip is for you and for the two of you only, he knows it is simply one small part of it.

Steve stares down at the phone, knowing he will.

Mostly, it drags him out of he darkness and into a spotlight. There was no turning back now, he couldn’t hide it behind absence.

There is still time, though. To somehow conjure up a way to tell you about the dreams and the docks and the sun on his face. Of dog tags and disinfectant on his torn skin and toffee from corner stores.

It gives him time to tell you he’s thinking of going back to the past.

Next part

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #captain america x reader #captain america x you #mcu fic #marvel fic #steve rogers fic #captain america fic

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aesethewitch · 2 days

Note

Hey friend 👋 I just stumbled across your ghost analysis post and was intrigued, and saw that you do tarot readings?

I recently began looking into tarot, but the two decks I have aren't traditional ones, but I've read from a lot of people that traditional tarot decks are the (only?) way to go. I'm curious about your journey in learn to interpret the deck(s) you have, since I'm also struggling with that.

I also see that you have a free tarot reading Friday, and since it IS Friday, I'd like to ask- how can I overcome the political and religious obstacles that force me to hide?

(if this is a question that isn't so suited for tarot, that's my bad)

-SC

Hey there! (:

So, anyone who tells you there's only One Right Way to do something is full of shit. Folks just like to feel superior for doing things More Correctly Than You.

You can use whatever for divination and get solid results. You could make a functioning system out of coupons. Hell, you could doodle on printer paper, cut it into squares, and then use it as a tarot deck. That would probably work, as long as you understood what the pictures meant.

Some folks have an easier time with traditional decks, others don't. I tend to vibe with decks that are a little funky. Extra cards, different suits, interesting presentations, etc.

The deck I use most often, the Alleyman's Tarot, is technically not a tarot deck at all -- it's an oracle deck, since it doesn't follow the "traditional" composition of a tarot deck (major arcana + minor arcana). But I still call it a tarot deck because I can and I use it like one. It works great.

I do have the Deviant Moon Tarot, which is based on the Rider-Waite-Smith, and it would be considered a "traditional" kind of deck. It's a great deck, and it's the one I taught myself to read with many years ago.

When I got that deck, I believed that someone else had to buy tarot decks for you; it was "selfish" and would "taint" the deck's power if you bought it yourself. Also bullshit, by the way, but I had that belief in me. A kind lady overheard me lamenting and pining for the Deviant Moon in a bookstore, bought me a gift card, and gave it to me with a note telling me to buy the deck for myself. It was a life-defining moment for me, to be sure, and one that sticks with me today. I strive to live up to that kindness.

Learning was an interesting thing. I didn't look up any spreads, and I barely used the book. Mostly, I just wanted to look like I knew what I was doing right out the gate (I didn't; I was 18 and had self-image issues, lmao). So I taught myself to interpret based on vibes and imagery, then went back to reference the book when I really needed to. It helped that I had a spirit ally hanging around that was looking for a vessel; it's still attached to those cards to this day, and it helped me learn how to hone my abilities. For a long time, the act of pretending I knew what I was talking about prevented me from actually learning much at all.

It isn't... well, it isn't great advice. I wouldn't recommend "learning" tarot the way I did. I figured it out after a while, but there was no real system to it. If I could go back and relearn it the way I would do it now, I absolutely would. Here's what I've learned is a fairly good method for learning any new tarot deck:

Shuffle the cards and lay the pile face-down.

Draw the top card.

In a notebook, write down your immediate, knee-jerk impressions of the card. I recommend just key words or single sentences.

Then, take a closer look at it. Note the colors, positioning of figures, background imagery, and other details. Write down what you see, not how you would interpret it.

Now interpret. Take your time writing down how the card's specific imagery makes you feel. What does it remind you of?

Jot down an example question and how you would apply the card to the answer. For example, the question "What do I need to know right now?" answered by Temperance could be something like: "Patience is a virtue. Take your time." Or however you would interpret that.

Set the card aside. Repeat until the entire deck is done.

Congrats! Now, you have a general idea of the entire deck's meanings and a handy guide to help you remember what they mean to you.

Bonus step: Review periodically. Opinions and interpretations change as you do.

I follow this routine with every new deck I get. I've figured out that the same card in two different decks could have vastly different meanings, depending on how it's depicted. It's really cool!

Also, it's kind of important to note that I'm not really a full animist. I don't think that tarot decks (or other tools) have individual spirits. My Deviant Moon deck has one, but that's because of the ally I mentioned before. The Alleyman's deck doesn't have a spirit as far as I can tell. I've got spirits hanging around that enjoy assisting with divination and magic and such, though.

As for free tarot, it's closed for now! The update reblog was sent to my drafts instead of posting,,, sorry about that!! Your question would definitely be fine for tarot interpretations (though a little shallow with only one card; situations like that are typically better interpreted with more cards I've found). I do open it up every Friday, though, so feel free to stick around and send another next week! (: (Or visit my Ko-Fi linked in my pinned post if you want a more in-depth paid reading! /shilling)

#aese answers #tarot #divination #learning tarot #tarot tips #thank you for the opportunity to ramble about tarot #i love it very much. obviously

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mangoshorthand · 1 year

Text

No Hard Feelings- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch8

SUMMARY: You're Five's latest assassination target, but things don't go to plan and now he wants you as his fuckbuddy. Funny how what we want and what we need are rarely in line. (Five's physically aged up). Obvious smut warning but there's plot too, I swear! Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five- Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve

In this chapter: After a fraught previous evening, it seems like a normal workday.

Work drama and romantic dinners below. Proceed at your own risk.

Chapter 8: Dinner With Miss Jane

Charlie is not, in fact, your superior; you are both Senior Account Managers. Despite this, he has a tendency to behave as if this isn’t the case

This morning, you arrived at the office with a double espresso in hand, trying to stave off the symptoms of the broken sleep you got last night. Your mood was not improved by a message from your boss, Joe.

Hi, Charlie said you wanted to grow your client portfolio so he sent over some of his end-of-lifers for me to pass on: mostly >10k contracts but if you can get them to renew it would be great experience!

Either Joseph is an idiot or doing a very good impression of it. Charlie has essentially dumped his no-hope clients on you so that it doesn’t affect his team’s metrics when they eventually drop off the books at the end of the quarter. You seethe for the barest of moments before an idea strikes: you’ve got the capacity…why not make this backfire? After many false starts, you message him back:

Good morning Joe, thanks for this. I know Charlie can struggle with converting clients so my team can donate capacity and take these on.

Is this petty and passive aggressive? Yes. Yes it is. You get to work, furiously, schmoozing the new clients with a vengeance, hatred for Charlie fuelling your skills. It's a good distraction too- if it were just a normal day, you might spend it brooding over Five. You've kept his note about your TV. You keep scolding yourself for the sentimental weakness but you couldn't bring yourself to dispose of it: something told you it might be the last you see of him.

Mike and the investigator sit in the darkened office, staring at the latter’s laptop.

“That’s the same kid?”

"I'm as sure as I can be.”

Two images are displayed side by side on the screen. Mike squints and leans in: in one, a grainy security cam still, the young man stands smilingly in front of the motel service desk, just seconds before smashing the mirror he’d used to kill his dead brother’s only son. In the other, a picture snapped by the investigator, the man is in motion on the street and about to enter a building.

“Looks like the same fucking suit,” mumbles Mike, tapping his single gold incisor with a stubby fingernail. He sits in his desk chair, leaning forward and scrutinizing the images. He still wears a black armband for Chet. His sister-in-law hasn't left the house since the funeral- when Chet was laid to rest beside his father. Soon the tombstone would read:

ROBERT CHARLES MONROE 01. 01. 1965 - 08. 20. 2018 Beloved Husband, Father, Son and Brother And also his son CHESTER “CHET” MONROE 03. 19. 1999- 10. 19. 2025 Loved and missed by all their family.

Mike sighs as the investigator shows him a completely filled notebook.

"I’ll tell you, Mr Monroe. He’s a tough guy to follow. Slippery bastard. Walks into buildings and never walks out. One minute he's beside you and the next he’s halfway down the street. It's the only reason it’s taken this long. I still have no idea where he lives. But he seems to have one reliable pattern."

The investigator flicks through a folder of images. The man is seen strolling into and out of the same apartment block from different angles.

“He seems to go there most Tuesdays, Thursdays and sometimes Monday. He walks in before eight PM and leaves before midnight at the latest. I’ve isolated a specific apartment."

He hands a folded post-it note to his client and continues.

“If we want more information on him, I think that’s where we’ll find it.”

Mike ponders.

“I’ll take it from here.”

Before you left for lunch, you were able to renew one of Charlie's apparently 'no hope' clients, (a firm called Granger Roberts). You’d found the key stakeholder, Mimi, extremely open to your sales patter. From her tone, her problem had been with Charlie himself rather than the company's offerings. Through subtle implicature, you were able to express your own attitude towards him and you'd hit it off extremely quickly.

After that single conversation, you'd been able to persuade her to renew her contract and had a meeting set up with her to discuss a possible move to a higher level of service. When the confirmatory email came through, Joe had paid a visit to your desk and congratulated you while Charlie looked on, trying to look as if he were proud of your 'progress' rather than seething at your success.

Settling back to work after your lunch break, your satisfied glow is interrupted when Christine comes back from the office door holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Delivery for you!” her eyes twinkle, “They said there wasn’t a card but they’re beautiful. Secret admirer?”

“It must be,” you smile, taking the flowers from her.

They are beautiful. It’s a modestly sized bunch but the purple hyacinth, bright white roses and tulips are perfectly arranged.

A few other people comment as you place the flowers on your desk, still wrapped in their own vase. It seems like Five is determined to replace everything he broke last night. Attracted by a slight commotion in which he is not the center of attention, Charlie sidles over, ever ready to ruin a good thing.

“Pretty tragic,” he says, in that joke-but-not-a-joke tone that makes you want to punch him through a wall, “sending yourself flowers.”

He laughs and smiles as if to say ‘just banter’.

Your messaging app pings. It's Christine:

Just ignore the dickhead.

You smile over at her.

Flowers under your arm, you get in the elevator at five-fifteen. Just as the doors have nearly closed, a hand shoots through the gap and they reopen to allow Charlie to enter.

“Hi.” he says, stepping in beside you and re-pressing the first floor button. You offer him a polite smile. As the elevator hums and descends, he says:

“Nice job with Granger Roberts.”

“Thanks,” you say, shortly.

After a few seconds, he speaks again:

“You know. I’ve got nothing better to do tonight. I could take you out.”

You suppress a derisive snort: “No thanks.”

“You're not my usual type but I wouldn’t be ashamed to have you on my arm.”

You scoff in disbelief. Is he negging you? What is this, 2016?

“Honestly, I’d rather pluck out my own eyeballs.”

He laughs incredulously as the doors pull open and you stalk out, trying to put as much distance as possible in between you and him.

As you march across the parking lot, you nearly fall when you crash straight into Five as he steps out from behind a parked car. He instinctively reaches out to steady you.

“Hi.”

“Hi...sorry.” you reply, unsure what else to say.

He’s neat and tidy again. A clean suit, tie and hair immaculate. He’s wearing cologne. He nods at the flowers,

“Do you like them?”

“Y-yes,” you falter slightly.

"The language of flowers”, he explains, trying to inhabit his usual confidence but clearly wrongfooted, “it’s one of those stupid things our Dad made us learn...but I brought this too,” he holds out a wrapped red rose with a half shrug, “the meaning's a little more self-explanatory.”

Your eyes move from the rose to his. They're embarrassed, as vulnerable as they were last night. The hand not held out to you is deep in his jacket pocket. He looks uneasy but oddly determined. As you take it, he opens his mouth to speak.

“More flowers?” comes Charlie’s mocking voice, forestalling Five as he catches up to you. “Aren’t you the lucky girl?” With a look at Five, he winks: “What did you do wrong?”

“Fuck off Charlie”, you say, with emphasis, “I won’t tell you again.”

He laughs, coming to a stop and sizing up Five, who reciprocates, moving towards him casually, slightly hip-shot. He surveys Charlie as if discovering an unpleasant but pathetic-looking insect under a rock. Charlie glances back at you, mocking smile still in place.

“Never had you down as a cougar.”

Before you can respond, Five does it for you, voice deceptively light.

“She told you to fuck off,” though he doesn’t quite square up, he’s clearly ready for however this might turn, body angled to block Charlie's view of you, “I’d suggest you listen to her.”

Charlie just laughs, “Why so defensive, kid? Can't get pussy your own age?”

You know what’s coming. In a fluid, lightning-fast movement, Five's right elbow pulls back and swipes Charlie squarely across the face, knocking him off his feet in the direction of the blow's momentum. On the ground now, he howls with pain and holds his head. You shouldn't be enjoying this.

“My n-nose! My fucking nose!”

Five turns to you, sweeping at his jacket sleeve to dab a fleck of Charlie’s blood from the forearm. He holds out his other arm. Without thinking, you take it and he leads you away, leaving Charlie to writhe.

After a few minutes’ leisurely walk, Five says, “You gave me a lot to think about. May I take you to dinner?”

“It’s Friday,” you say, weakly.

“Yes but, assuming you’re not busy, I was hoping to talk.”

He takes you to a rooftop bar and restaurant in the city. He hasn’t made a reservation, but the concierge, greeting Five with a hearty handshake and a slap on the forearm, promises to fit him in within thirty minutes.This, only a couple of weeks before Christmas, seems like a real favor.

You go to wait in the bar and Five exchanges a friendly nod with the bartender as he pulls out a chair for you. The restaurant is sleek and modern, but not ostentatious. From what you could see on tables as you passed, the food appears good quality: presented nicely but without the smears and garnishings that denote haute cuisine.

Five insists you try the Bordeaux, though he himself sticks to seltzer water throughout the evening. Although he’s clearly still staving off the effects of a monster hangover, he’s attentive, charming and an excellent conversation partner. He’s effortlessly suave; in contrast to last night, his hair sits perfectly in place.

The Bordeaux really is good.

“How do you know so much about picking wine? Didn’t you spend most of your life scavenging canned food?”

“Glad you asked,” he smiles, idly running his index finger around the rim of his glass, “One of the only things to survive an apocalypse? Cellars. And what do you put in a wine cellar? Only the best wine.”

He chuckles reminiscently, “Last night was nothing. We used to drink our way through magnums of the stuff.”

At this passing reference to Dolores, he looks down before abruptly changing the subject.

“So, back in the parking lot, whose nose did I break?”

You regale him with stories about Charlie; his general chauvinism, infuriating attitude and particularly about his antics offloading his clients today.

“So, essentially, I’m stuck with four more clients with about three months left to get them to renew after they’ve already got sick of Charlie.”

“You renewed one though? Not bad for a couple of hours of work. Do you like your job? You seem good at it.”

“Yeah, I like it well enough. I’m good at persuading people.”

Five grins here, as if he knows all too well what you’re talking about.

“It sometimes feels a little empty though. Working for ‘the man’, you know?”

He nods. “Tell me about it. A bureaucratic nightmare?"

“More overly corporate. There are nice people there, don’t misunderstand me, but there’s so much backstabbing and little bits of sex-discrimination that get pushed under the rug.”

He tilts his head and raises a brow, inviting elaboration.

You tell him about the conversation in the elevator and he laughs disbelievingly, shaking his head.

“Want me to go back Monday and break his teeth too?”

As your laughter subsides, he becomes thoughtful. Staring into his glass, he says: “I guess I’ve treated you worse."

You stare at your glass too. You can’t lie to him. You can maybe forgive, but forgetting isn’t within your power.

“Maybe…but at least you know what to do with a clitoris. I wouldn’t trust Charlie to know where it is.”

He smiles but then his mind seems to drift. Absent-mindedly, he removes his jacket. When he resumes speaking, he seems to be on a different train of thought.

“I was…so young. And I knew nothing. Hey, maybe I still don’t. We were home-schooled. That mad old bastard taught me all the quickest ways to kill a woman before I even started noticing them. Can you imagine coming out of that with typical sexual pathology?”

Honestly, you can’t. He leans forward, raising his eyes but lowering his voice.

“For the first few years on my own, I was obsessed. Going through puberty the first time with nobody. No first kiss, no prom night. It was just Dolores and that was before she started talking to me properly.

We lived in a library that was mostly still there. I read anything about sex that I could get my hands on. Everything I could get, thinking about how it would feel to touch a real woman or anyone ever again. It got to the point where I was cross-referencing erotica and old cosmos with medical journals to work out what would actually turn a woman on. It was all I did. If it’s been written about sex pre 2019, I’ve studied it and probably jerked off over it.”

He shakes off some of his intensity, laughs and gives a self-effacing smile.

“But Dolores…she loved romance. One of the first things she recommended was Anna Karenina. It pulled me out of my rut... She always knew what I needed and when. I’ve always loved reading, but romance…I guess it was such a different world from the one I was trapped in.”

He smiles guiltily and checks his watch.

“Our table should be ready soon. If you still want to eat with me? After…that?”

You smile, “Of course I do.”

After you’re seated with food ordered, Five loosens his tie and clears his throat. He reaches for the small basket on your table and grabs a seeded bread roll. Holding it tight, he takes a deep breath.

“After everything that happened, I don’t expect you to want to see me again. Tonight? Just something better to remember me by.”

He doesn’t meet your eye but seems otherwise calm and confident. Only his hands betray great tension. He shreds the bread roll compulsively, crumbs falling onto his side plate.

“Is that what you want?” you ask, full of trembling energy.

“It’s probably for the best,” he says, quietly..

“But is it what you want?” you push.

There was something in his voice: a fraction of regret. You watch him now, as he seeks out a sunflower seed with his nails and rolls it between his fingers for a moment.

“No.” he murmurs, at last.

You stifle a sigh of relief. Neither do you; despite everything. As he continues to decimate the bread roll, you decide:

“Then things have to change,” he looks up, face registering vague surprise, “first off, you need to leave that bread alone. It’s suffered enough.”

He drops it on the side plate, brushing off his hands and flashing a self-conscious smile. As he shifts in his seat and fully meets your eyes, you continue to take the reins.

“Like I said last night, I need more intimacy afterwards.”

“And I’d like to give that to you.”

“-And if you ever make me feel physically threatened again, like last night or when we met, I never want to see you again. No more chances.”

He nods eagerly, “Agreed."

“If you can promise never to make me regret this," you look into his face, hoping you convey your firmness, "then we can carry on pretty much as before.”

Five eyes the bread roll again and makes another attempt at cockiness.

“One problem. I don’t think I can go on as before.”

You wait.

“I think I want more.”

He meets your gaze again. His eyes are especially emerald and clear tonight.

“It's a real bitch, but it turns out I can’t just fuck you without developing feelings," he looks at you softly and reaches his hand across the table. Tentatively, you extend yours and he covers it with his own. "I guess I freaked out last night because part of me knew but didn't want to accept it. I can’t pretend I can bring much to a... relationship -you know what I am- but I can promise to listen to you and learn.”

At this point, your appetizers arrive, clearly to Five’s annoyance. The server seems to take forever. Five tries, with strained politeness, to dismiss him as quickly as possible. After he finally leaves, you say:

"What about Dolores?"

He sighs, "I got two ways of thinking on it. First, you were kind of right. She didn't challenge me like a real woman could and…continuing to stay faithful to her, especially when I've lost her, is just...it's just hiding from real life."

He takes a sip of his drink, steadying himself, "And second, I think that plenty of people move on after having long relationships. It doesn't make what we had any lesser. She'd want me to be happy."

He swipes at his head, sweeping at neat hair that isn't in his eyes.

You nod your understanding before continuing, still in slight disbelief.

“So..." you begin, fingering your fork nervously, "what would this look like?”

“More like…this,” he says, gesturing between the two of you. “if you want. Dates, romance, exclusivity, just hanging out. You know, properly courting.”

You stop, the first forkful of food part way to your mouth.

“…courting?”

Immediately, he clamors to take the word back but you talk over him, laughing hard.

“Well, who knew I had the honor of fingerblasting Miss Jane Austen herself?”

He stops talking. One eyebrow raises. Then he smiles. And now he laughs, at first in contained barks and then fully. Soon he's leaning back in the chair, reddening face screwed into painful lines. It wasn’t the funniest joke, but it broke the tension and he’s laughing harder than you’ve ever seen him. This is surely him at his cutest and your heart swells. His helpless laughter is infectious and now you laugh because he can’t stop.

You’re starting to attract the attention of other diners. With difficulty, you gain control of yourselves and subside into sniggers.

After dinner, you’re out on the street. He holds the bouquet and you the rose. His other arm is draped comfortably around your waist.

He leans his head into yours, “Are you sure about this? I don’t think I would be in your position.”

“Maybe you don’t give people enough credit.”

“Perhaps.”

He stops, guiding you to the inner sidewalk. He tucks the bouquet under his arm, brings one hand fully to your cheek and the other to your neck, fingers on your chin and jaw.

"Can I kiss you?" he murmurs.

You nod.

He brings his face towards you until you can see his every eyelash. His smallest finger traces over your lips. It gives you an unexpected frisson. There's no cockiness or cynicism now; only earnestness. His lips part and he sighs as he brings his lips to yours. At first, they're dry but, as his tension breaks, they become soft with your shared tenderness. The kiss is chaste, his hunger there, but controlled. It's not like any other he's given you. He's not possessing you, or trying to take you, he's cherishing.

Breaking the kiss, he leans his forehead against yours, eyes still closed. When he speaks, his voice is just above a whisper.

“I think we should say goodbye for tonight.”

"No. Come home with me.”

"God, I want to..."

"Then do."

He takes a few moments, his cheek turning to rub yours.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

"Then my place is nearer.”

He takes your hand and leads you away.

Tag list: (lmk if you want to join) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh,@nevbrooke-555

Masterpost

Alternatively, join me on A03. Here is a link to the whole series

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my-autism-adhd-blog · 10 months

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Hi there, and thanks for giving me a lifetime of validation and confidence in my neurotype to keep pushing through it all.

I'm a writer. I always have been. I love writing, and it's the only thing I consider myself to be legitimately good at. Linguistics is one of my special interests. I love the flow of a grammatically correct English sentence.

Anyway, I have major executive function issues. Specifically with starting tasks. So I already find it hard to sit down and write. But I find it even harder to continue the progress I make in anything. After enough minimal effort, my brain decides it hates this activity and everything related to it, and inside a single hour I'll go from obsessing over a creative task to being indifferent or repulsed by it. But the *feeling* of knowing I had just been so passionate about it a second ago remains. I end up putting myself into a depressive episode every time I try to be creative in any regard.

I've played D&D with my friend group for years, and I've wanted to run my own campaign for a while. But not only does my inability to start completely destroy my progress in worldbuilding and planning, but I can't organize my thoughts at all. I've tried mindmapping and charting and notebooks and binders. When I'm trying to organize my campaign in any way, I revert into this dramatically incapable person. My brain just instantly fogs and clouds, and I don't know how to visually plot my system and lore that helps me in any actual way. But I *love* worldbuilding with a passion. Even when I don't want to engage in it, I am still absolutely fascinated at creating a world from my own brain. Especially one my friends can play in. Yet in this moment, I can't mentally be bothered to do any of it, and I'm subsequently depressed.

I never saw myself ADHD since I aligned with autism so intensely. I still don't find myself relating to ADHD very often. It's also hard enough for me to accept I'm autistic because I feel like an imposter every other hour. My question for you is, how do I overcome this? How do I overcome myself? How can I enjoy an activity I literally love, and continue to enjoy it? These are loaded questions, and of course you'd have to know me personally to answer this the right way. But I just want to know if there's anything I can do about myself. How do I ignite a flame in myself that doesn't burn out in 10 minutes? Moreover, are there any tools available online that help autistic or ADHD or just neurodivergent people focus, plot, plan, and organize in a very visual way? My latest attempt was to find an AI assistant that I can verbally speak with or text, who would do the plotting for me, and ask the questions for me, and I'd just insert my thoughts and ideas. I can't find what I'm looking for. It all feels so hopeless. I can't even amount to a personal desire. I feel this has to do more with depression than anything else, but I'm new to the neurodivergent community at large, as I've mostly dealt with my struggles on my own accord, and learned through books. Maybe there's a billion tools and strategies I've never heard of before. My mind was blown 80 trillion times since downloading Tumblr regarding my mental health, so it's worth asking a profound community member like yourself.

Sorry for the essay, I'm incapable of shortening my thoughts. If I don't type it all out the way I see it in my head, it'll be an itch I can't scratch for the rest of the day. If you do have any advice or recommendations, I would be so grateful. But I'm grateful for your engagement with the community already. You're just awesome.

Thanks for the empowerment and understanding you give me every time I open this app. You're changing people's lives, and that's real.

Cheers ❤️

Hi there,

This was somewhat hard to digest, but I’ll do my best to help.

I couldn’t find much. But I did find one article that lists some ways that might help with executive dysfunction and writing. This excerpt is going to be long, so I apologize in advance:

Executive dysfunction is a term used to describe weaknesses in the cognitive process that organizes thoughts and activities, prioritizes tasks, manages time efficiently, and makes decisions. It’s common in certain disorders, such as Depression, ADHD, and autism. Executive function skills are used to establish structures and strategies and to determine the actions required to move a project forward. So for those of us who struggle with executive dysfunction, dedicating ourselves to a project could get quite overwhelming. Here are some little tips and tricks I’ve compiled throughout my experience.

How to start:

Task initiation is one of the biggest struggles when dealing with executive dysfunction. This is especially hard with writing, since you need time to muster the energy needed to jump into your story. Here are some tips:

1. Start a 1-3 minute timer and force yourself to write something, anything, before it ends. The words that come out don’t matter. You can just write, “I don’t know.” The point is to force yourself into the writing zone.

2. Leave bread crumbs for yourself at the end of each writing session to make picking up where you left off easier. For example, stop in the middle of a sentence or thought, so the next time you write you won’t have to tackle something completely new. You just have to finish that incomplete thought and continue from there. You could also leave some notes about what happens next, cutting down thinking time in your next session.

3. Try free writing. This is a great way to get those creative juices flowing with minimal effort. Free writing alleviates the pressure of writing something good. Spend a few minutes writing about anything, like your day or a frustrated ramble about your story. It’s like a warm up before your writing session.

How to keep going:

So you’ve started your writing session. How do you keep writing? Most importantly, how do you keep working on your project? When struggling with executive dysfunction, the regular “set a schedule” approach doesn’t tend to work.

1. Scale down your goal if your big, overarching goal for your project is overwhelming. Try changing your goal to something more manageable and short term. For example, try writing 500 words a day. This might make it less likely for you to lose steam half way through.

2. Try writing sprints if daily goals aren’t working. Instead of hitting a certain word count, you’re setting a timer and writing for its entire duration

3. Don’t feel bad for needing external motivation. Will promising yourself a pizza after you hit your goal motivate you to write? By all means, do so. Maybe you just need a friend to ask you if you’ve written at the end of the day. Find out what motivates you.

4. Find a writing buddy. This can be someone who can sit down and write at the same time to hold you accountable. Or it can be a critique partner that expects you to turn in something by a certain deadline.

5. Try something new. This is one of the best ways to combat how constraining and overwhelming your writing might feel. It’s okay to lose interest in your project for awhile and try something new. Unless you’re racing to meet a deadline, you have no obligation to keep working on a project that isn’t working for you. Setting a project aside doesn’t mean giving up on it. You might only need some time away from it before you are able to finish it.

Trying something new could also mean changing where or how you write. Usually write at home? Try a coffee shop. Do you usually type? Try hand writing. It might or might not work for you. But change could be quite refreshing for your mind.

6. Write whenever you can. Sometimes the urge to write comes while you’re waiting for lunch to heat up, or right before you go to bed. Motivation can be hard to find with executive dysfunction, and designated writing times don’t always work. Have something on hand you can easily pull out to write with to take advantage of these moments. Jotting down a hundred words as you’re waiting for dinner to cool might not seem like much, but it’s still words contributed to your word count.

Some of these tips might work for you. Some might not. Writing successfully is mostly about finding what works and running with it. These are things I found helpful when I embarked on my first novel and I hope it would at least give you some ideas.

The link to the full article will be below:

If that doesn’t help, I did find this Reddit thread that might have some helpful tips.

Reddit Post

I’m sorry that I couldn’t find anyone else or anything visual. Many sources focused on younger children. So it hard to find resources for older teens and adults.

Maybe some of my followers can give some tips/advice?

If you’d like, we can talk personally so I can try to help. I have an associates degree in English if that means anything. Lol.

Anyway, thank you for the inbox. I hope you have a wonderful day/night. ❤️

#inbox #inbox reply #inbox is open

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sammy-a-87 · 4 months

Text

Bathilda Bagshot nee Grindelwald

It had been a week since Gellert’s arrival at Godric’s Hallow, time which he had spent mostly locked up in his old room, only coming out to eat and use the bathroom. The realization of this not being a dream, nor memories, or some obscure circle of hell, was hard to digest at best and mind-numbingly confusing at worst. After that talk and crying session, which he wasn't proud of in the slightest, he didn't sleep at all, and for three days all he could do was stare bewildered at the ceiling, sitting sprawled out on the small bed in the small room he called now his own. It was just as bland as he remembered it, but this time the sight was actually comforting- simple white walls, a big window, a wooden desk right under it, a bed big enough for two scrawny teens, a dresser, and a small bookshelf. He had shoved his trunk under the bed before plopping on the soft mattress. Once his mind finally caught up with his situation, he began writing in an empty notebook. Wrote everything he remembered from his ‘old’ life, as he called it now, then everything he was supposed to know in this ‘new’ one; stuff like don't do magic away from Tilly’s house or the twelve uses of dragon blood haven't been discovered yet. He noted down all the small things he could think of that would make him look odd if he let them slip. It took him another three days to accomplish this. At some point, he thought about starting a diary as well, but he swiftly rejected the idea.

On the seventh day since his arrival, he finally ventured into the living room, picking up books to read. Mostly books written by his aunt. Writing in that little notebook made him realize just how little he knew about her- he had never shown interest in her work or her life but he supposed he could start now, new chance and all that. That’s where Bathilda found him later that day, curled up on the couch, completely engrossed in her latest edition of “Hogwarts: A History”.

“Found anything interesting to read?” she sat down next to him, smiling softly. She was starting to like this new side of him, even if his little self-isolation had worried her.

“Ah, ist nur… it's just … you have a nice writing style. It's a shame to have a writer around and not read their stuff, right?” Gellert smiled at her sheepishly, waving the book in the air.

“Interesting style, you say…. I'm glad you like what I write. Where did you get at?”

“Uh…. currently there’s a passage about a…room of requirement? Why does this place sound so much better than Durmstrang?”

Bathilda laughed. He loved it when she did it, she instantly appeared several decades younger, more carefree, and happy. Suddenly he remembered the photographs. “Actually, scratch that. Uh….” He was stuttering again. “Ah, I wanted to…I wanted to ask you. When I came here. Um- weißt du… ja, yeah-” Why can't I talk like a normal person, for fuck’s sake?!

“What’s on your mind, Schatz?” she looked at him expectantly, but without any judgment.

“I-I don't want to overstep but…..but, um,” he took a deep breath. “Why aren’t you married? You're brilliant- surely you could've found someone…?” He instantly regretted ever speaking as Bathilda's face darkened. Her gaze fell down to her hands, fidgeting with her empty ring finger. For a long moment, they just stood in silence, neither daring to speak first. Gellert looked at her with concern and slight fear- was she gonna explode on him? Yell? Throw him out? He didn't know what he would do if the one person in his life who loved him unconditionally, suddenly hated him just because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

“I…don't like to think about it, but i was married once. It was a long time ago though, surely you ain’t interested in some old woman’s tales.” her tone was grave, like he'd never heard before, and without thinking about it, reached his hand to hold hers.

“I…am interested in knowing you , Tante. If you're comfortable sharing, that is.” The boy’s soft voice caught her off guard and a small smile broke the tension on her face.

“What do you say if I were to tell you over some tea?” He nodded and they got up, changing the scenery to that of the quaint kitchen. Gellert sat at the table while Bathilda turned the stove on. Doing such simple things the muggle way…it seemed so strange to the young wizard. He was about to comment on it but she might as well have read his mind, for she spoke first.

“Doing stuff with your own hands might seem pointless, but there's a certain satisfaction coming from it…and a sense of peace. It's never good to be overly dependent on magic, mark my words.”

“I see,” he answered quietly, observing her hands rapidly preparing everything for the perfect tea: mincing mint leaves- she always said it helped get the flavor out- adding sugar to the boiling water, grounding cinnamon.

“I was 15. My father wasn't satisfied with having a still-maiden daughter that old. It just didn't look good, you know? Others my age already had children, but i was more interested in books. One day he had enough of me ‘wasting away’ and convinced a random British gentleman that I would be perfect for him. I knew no word in English at the time, couldn't understand what they were talking. Next thing I knew I was…I was in a wedding dress. Beautiful it was, extravagant and imposant. Almost fit for royalty. Father had never given out so much gold for me before.”

Gellert listened carefully, half wanting to feel sorry for her, half wanting to be utterly disgusted with his grandfather. Perhaps it was alright to feel both. “What about Vater?”

“Your father didn't give two shits, to be blunt. He was glad to have me gone and all the gold and prestige promised to him. He always harbored a deep hatred for me, even as children. How much of it was our father’s influence, however, I don't know nor care anymore.” She dropped everything in the boiling water.

“The man brought me to England. Had a pretty mansion right in London. He didn't care for me, at least not enough. I was in a foreign land, surrounded by people speaking a language I could understand….and take this- he had been married once already, and still lived with his ex. To say she hated me was an understatement. Apparently, she thought he left her for me when really he took me on a whim. I spent the next 3 years with them until she left with another man. Then it was just the two of us and the house elves. The moment she left he seemed to have forgotten all about my existence. Wouldn't even greet me, avoided me even.”

“That’s just horrible…he was a total arse.” Bathilda chuckled at the boy's remark.

“Indeed he was. After another two years, I couldn't stand it anymore. I managed to learn the language on my own as best as I could but never spoke to anyone- he always kept me inside. I killed him.” His eyes threatened to jump out of their sockets. How can she speak so casually about this? Tante Tilly killed someone in cold blood…

“No way… w-what did you do then?” he couldn't help his curiosity, even faced with this morbid truth- hadn't he killed thousands? Why did it feel so much more taboo to have his aunt do it too? Maybe because she was always so sweet and kind and gave the impression that she could never hurt a fly…

“I ran away. Got all his gold and took the first carriage I saw. The ministry only saw me as a poor scared widow…gave me everything he owned since I was, by marriage, his only family. The carriage left me here, in this little town that was still a village back then.”

She poured the tea into the cups. As if sensing his next question, she continued: “They never check for muggle poisons.”

She handed him the steaming cup.

#gellert grindelwald #ggad #bsads #bathilda bagshot #ch4 #forced marriage #bathilda lore

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sussoro · 9 months

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hi, we have questions for indi and yourself! for indi: 3, 30, 38. and for you: e, g, h. <3

hi, ri! i hope you're doing well 💖 i've said it to you already but, once again, sorry for the late reply (tumblr stop-eating-notifications challenge, lol).

ohohoh these are all such good questions! 👀 here you go:

3. "how do they put themselves to bed at night (reading, singing, thinking)?"

fun fact #1: indigo has always been a night owl, first and foremost, so she tends to go to sleep at ungodly hours (much to orion's dismay, sjksjk) if she ever goes to sleep at all. right after the breakup with seven and all that media shitstorm, she used to lull herself to sleep after spending the night at some club dancing, drinking, doing drugs, hooking up with strangers and trying to drunk text/call seven (not a great spectacle, tbh). i headcanoned that rowan — after witnessing a particularly bad rock-bottom moment — decided to help her in blocking seven's number and social media accounts. at present time, though, i'd say that indigo puts herself to sleep in a couple of ways: a) if she's not tired at all, she will take her notebook to write songs and whatever is going through her mind at that moment; b) fun fact #2: aside from singing, indigo loves dancing as well (she literally doesn't know how to stand still and how to not be a menace) so, when she is so tired that her brain is all fuzzy, she likes to watch dance practice videos on youtube to relax;

30. "who do they most regret meeting?"

her parents, lmao. jokes aside, i don't think she ever regretted meeting anyone (yep, not even seven). indi is a social butterfly and a very flirty gal by nature, so it's really easy for her to make friends and having one-night stands, the real problem is who will still be at her side through the good and the bad. as i said, she doesn't regret meeting seven but, if given the chance to do things differently, she probably would fight for him more/relish their relationship more before everything went down the drain (she won't take back the fact that she voted him out of the lead singer spot because, to this day, she feels like it was the right choice, marketing-wise).

38. "what memory do they revisit the most often?"

i think it's the night where her and seven got each other's initials inked on their inner wrists. it was the first of many tattoos for her and it was a very special moment (despite everything that happened, and the fact that indi is really petty, she didn't remove/conceal the tattoo).

e. "are they someone you would get along with? would they get along with you?"

honestly? i don't think so, sjkjsk. i am an introvert person, who literally has to psyche herself up in order to talk to people i don't know that well, and i usually prefer to listen to others instead of commanding a crowd with my talking. i genuinely believe that we could get along if we really wanted to, but we have very different lives and interests so it won't be an ever-lasting friendship, i'm afraid *squeaky noises*

g. "what trait of theirs bothers you the most?"

oh, the childishness for sure. i literally cannot stand people that are actual adults on paper, and then act like five years old children. i'd also say the unhealthy coping mechanisms (drugs + alcohol).

h. "what trait do you admire the most?"

indigo's social butterfly skills are something that i wish i'd have most of the times (i made my peace with being an introvert a long time ago, so no worries. it's mostly a "what's this? silence? c'mon brain, get your shit together and come up with some hilarious conversation topic!" type of thing, sjksjk). i'll throw in the "she can actually sing" bit too, lmao.

again, the gift of summary skipped me completely when i was born and, if you reached the end of this, i will be eternally grateful.

#thank you again ri ♥️#interactive fiction #infamous #🎤#oc: indigo crowe #tw: alcohol #tw: drugs

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meryton-etc · 1 year

Text

Rest on Your Oar (and See) Commentary Track

It’s been two years, nearly, since I published Rest on Your Oar (and See). According to AO3, it is my 6th most popular fic by hits, and my 4th most kudos’ed. By Popular demand (twitter poll) here is some commentary about politics and references in the text! It may be THE MOST PRETENTIOUS THING i've ever written

Read this with the fic (here) open beside you, I guess? I don't know how to do this kind of thing

Content Warnings: Discussions of the holocaust / Shoah, mass death on the Mediterranean and English Channel, depression, suicidality, parental abuse

Rest on Your Oar began life in my green notebook, which also contains fan favourites such as every Silmarillion fic I’ve ever posted, and ‘An Ebb, a Wave, a Soft Crash.’ I write most things longhand first, and then type up the second draft. If something strikes me as having potential i’ll polish the second draft into a third, but not always.

Rest on Your Oar wasn’t so much something that I wrote as much as something that created itself. It felt like it was in my hands already as I began to put it on the page, although that’s not to say I didn’t put a large amount of work into it. The longhand version follows the same structure as the published one, although it’s about half as long and it’s not as good. I don’t spend much time thinking about law in draft one, which is funny, because I think that’s the most important element of the entire thing.

If there’s one thing this fic is about about, it’s Modernity, and more specifically the space that law currently fills in our lives (one that might once have been filled by something else [God]). It is also about Europe, History-with-capital-H, [both of which are really just Modernity again] abuse, queerness, and depression. Modernity was when the disenchantment started: the scientific method and bureaucratisation came in - both forms of systematisation - as a result racism became codified by science instead of Religion, the individual conscience became king, and the King lost his head. And more!!

Why yes, I have read Angels in America, thank you for asking.

This commentary will explain some of my thinking on this, as well as things that I would change, now. As I said, it’s been nearly two years, and they’ve been personally eventful. This is especially true of the focus on Europe.

I should have been clearer: the [ongoing] colonialism that has endured for the last six centuries and the current focus on borders, borders, borders make this place, at this moment, an Evil one. At this moment, we would rather maintain an absurdly expensive and brutal system of social murder, rather than deal with problems we ourselves have caused. If you’re looking for a cause to throw €5 to over the next few months - and God knows you probably aren’t, given the cost of living these days - consider organisations that come under the banner of the Calais Appeal (you can find it on instagram). Over 300 people have died in Northern Europe (France and Belgium mostly) trying to get into the UK. In 2021, according to the UN, 3,231 people lost their lives crossing the Mediterranean sea. These are people with beating hearts, inner lives, families and friends that love them dearly.It is international law that you can claim asylum in any country you want. The EU and the UK are breaking international law. There are NO LEGAL ROUTES into this place unless you are already a member of a privileged minority. The EU knows that this is the case and persists in these brutal policies regardless.

A final note before starting - Edgeworth is deeply depressed during this fic, and surprise! I was deeply depressed when I was writing it. Depression is very difficult to measure when it gets that bad, because your perceptions of everything, including time, are skewed and sometimes unreliable. I know now that I was deep into it, and this comes through occasionally in the writing and the language used. I want to say that I appreciate every comment - some of the loveliest, most gracious, best-written comments I have ever received are on this fic - and would like to let people know that I’m doing better now. In case you were wondering!

The title comes from an Eileen Ní Chuilleanáin (pronounced Eye-leen Nee Quill-en-awn) poem, “The Second Voyage.” It’s about Odsseus deciding that he hates the sea and must leave it, and then realising that he can’t, and must go back. I love Ní Chuilleanáin so much - she writes with an acute eye for detail. Can’t recommend enough. Anyway, you should read the poem alongside the piece, and bear in mind the ending. Is it happy?

Is fanfiction literature? I’m going to ruffle a few feathers here and say that I’ve been reading fic for a good deal more than half my life, and I think the answer is usually not, or at least it’s not usually good literature. I’ve published more than 33 fics, which is quite a few, and even then, I think there are maybe three that I could possibly, possibly, with a lot of work, spend a few months editing and send off to a magazine. I write in the fanfiction genre and mostly, for me, generally, that precludes analysis or deep themes. Some people treat it differently. I approached Rest on your Oar differently. That’s why the references to the Holocaust and the Second World War are in here. If something is about the Law, and about Europe, then it is for me very important that we mention where the law in Europe can lead. However, generally I think it is absolutely inappropriate and wrong to trivialise the Holocaust by setting a fanfiction there. Like the new trend of novels that treat Auschwitz as a tragic backdrop in which characters can self-actualise, such fics show an absolute misunderstanding of what happened, and what was done. It was important for me to acknowledge, in my fic about a kind-of German lawyer battling with the legacies of his lawyer father(figure), that it was Europe’s celebrated legal and infrastructural machinery that made the murder of roughly 7,000,000 people (of whom 6,000,000 were Jewish) possible.

Anyway.

He’ll disembark at Bordeaux. A big enough city that the police won’t blink twice at an anonymous body in the treacherous river. He won’t upset anyone – he won’t make anyone he knows discover – it’ll be OK once he gets off the train

The fic starts with Edgeworth on the Paris-Hendaye high-speed rail service, in the midst of a full-blown break with reality.

By poetic licence, the carriage is empty. A last-minute ticket for the TGV on this line, in the evening, in first class (of course) would cost you about €173.00, if not more. Provided you could find one. Jesus!! You can get to Greece (by plane) for that!!

Why the Basque country? Firstly, I lived near there for a few months and absolutely adored it. The Sea, the cliffs, the people (the people!!) the towns, winding roads, villages, houses all facing the same direction, Saint Sebastian, the language, the rain, the beaches that attract tourists and the constant wind that disappoints them, and again, above all, from everywhere, the Sea, the Sea, the Sea. I use the water as a metaphor in my writing, which is really original and unique of me. Why the Basque country? It’s old, and not German at all, easy to get to, and the seaside towns are very underpopulated during the Winter. A lot of empty houses, empty apartment blocks, and rain from the Atlantic.

The platform at Biarritz is drab and rain-soaked.

You ever get the impulse to stay on the train you’re on, and get off somewhere nicer? I don’t want to get off at Marne-la-Vallée/Chessy. So rainy and cold. And for what! Disneyland!?!? I’d rather be getting off in Avignon [ ;-) ]. This is not what Edgeworth feels, except for it is. I don’t know! He’s in the middle of a breakdown! Those aren’t coherent thoughts he’s having! I wanted to express here how tar-ry depression can be. All of your brain feels heavier, and whatever thoughts you are having are unclear and move like viscous. I imagine, for quick-on-the-draw person like Edgeworth, who may have spent most of his childhood very alert to his guardian’s moods and potential violences, that state is particularly alien. Does he want to die, or does he want to live? It can be surprising, for those who have not been there, how unclear that demarcation can be.

Corrupt.

Also I don’t forgive him the corruption until he decides that he’s going to fix it. It’s very illegal and absolutely morally repugnant, what Lana did to him. It’s absolutely the kind of thing that could mess you up for life, and I imagine would be fertile grounds for a civil case as well as a criminal one. But he’s still in a position of authority. Prisons are evil places in real life, and in Ace Attorney they seem to be mediaeval dungeons with Victorian hard-labour standards. One imagines Genet thriving in the environment. It’s on the prosecutor to think long and hard about what the truth of the matter is. Can we achieve true justice on Earth? Debatable. But Edgeworth’s approach sure isn’t helping!!!

And yet, I think it’s pretty obvious that he does, even at his worst, care about Justice.

At least there isn’t anyone they could call. Not one. The thought is freeing. He used to have Von Karma listed, but his office number, not his personal line.

Not having an emergency contact - it’s very difficult to live that way. You don’t realise how much you need one - pretty much for every job application, pretty much for every club you want to join, and certainly for doctors, dentists, and any other place where you may need insurance. For more on this, read the very beautiful How to Be Alone by Lane Moore.

Von Karma had been total

I hate it when people use political theories to describe interpersonal relationships, and vice versa, because it contributes to petty bourgeois philosophy about government spending and the worst excesses of liberal twitter, but here I present my take on parental abuse. Apologies, as ever, to Hannah Arendt.

He stumbles up the street, to the bright neon promise of an open hotel, its windows reflected in the puddles on the ground.

Anyway, I spent an enjoyable three hours looking for a fancy hotel that Edgeworth might check into. I can’t remember the one I picked but it was very white-plaster light-wood beams, healthy food, open all year round. I think to be truly in-character Edgeworth would go with the Hôtel Palace, which is just as baroque and expensive as you can imagine, but he’s not in character here, as also shown by his eschewing of the SUIT.

Where does Edgeworth buy his fancy and boring clothes? There is a shopping centre in Gare Montparnasse, where the Paris-Hendaye service originates. So Levi’s for t-shirts, the Kooples, and so on. Some aspects of this fic are so unbelievably thought out, and some are completely symbolic and not realistic in any way. Don’t think too hard about it.

To skip forward - here is where place Edgeworth visits in Biarritz (Le Rocher de la Vierge):

Places Miles and Franziska were brought as children for educational reasons

And the little village he settles in is one of my favourite places in the entire universe, that is, Guéthary, a little further down the Basque coast.

How gorgeous?!?!? Many a happy cigarette smoked on this harbour. Also a comedically dramatic tumble from a bicycle, ripping the knee of some nice yellow jeans.

For people who aren’t aware, there is ongoing conversation in the Basque country over the topic of independence. The Basque region encompasses some of France’s South-Western coast and also a large amount of Northern Spain. It skewed Republican (good) in the Spanish Civil War (a war so terrible that any amount of reflection upon it will have you pretty much despondent) and as a result suffered heavily when the fascists won. Picasso’s painting Guernica is based on the German bombing of the Basque cultural and market town of the same name.

Up until fairly recently, this was a conflict, with armed group ETA on one side (pro-independence) and the Spanish police and the Guardia Civil [guilty of war crimes for sure, but no charges] on the other. The EU will not tell you this because they like to pretend there hasn’t been war since 1945. When they say this, they mean “literally tanks sent between France and Germany.” (I’m not anti-EU in principle but I am a mostly unemployed leftist so I have things to critique. To be clear this is not a Brexit support blog).

Philadelphia Story had been his favourite. His father had ruffled his hair and laughed when Miles said so. He said, why am I not surprised. My clever little boy.

Katherine Hepburn forever. Gregory Edgeworth in no doubt as to who his son is.

Larry didn’t like it so much – “Mulan’s for girls” he’d said, and Phoenix had looked down at his hands and agreed, albeit far more quietly than usual.

Miles Edgeworth runs up against male socialisation and it hurts. Also Phoenix lives with his aunt - why? Not for this fic to explore.

Past empty campsites, fields full of luxury white cuboids waiting for May.

Anyway I myself was a campsite worker, poisoning the air of the beautiful small town with my shouted English. Shame on me! I know.

But here, on this cliff - he wasn’t expecting this, either – he thought he’d seen the town’s war memorial – but here’s another one, stones turning their faces to the sea, and it’s blunter – it’s -

If your mother did a master’s thesis on French historical memory of the second world war, please hit me up! We can commiserate together. The effects of this thesis on me are manifold, but one is that I MUST find the war memorial in any town I go to and see who EXACTLY is memorialised. Obviously we have the First World War dead, which is as close to neutral remembrance as you can get in this sphere - and it’s important to look at the length of these lists in small villages and reflect!!!! And then more rarely, and always a much shorter list, you’ll have the lists of the Second World War dead. Usually resistants, but sometimes civilians as well, and generally it won’t say whether they were shot on the street or deported.

So in Bidart (this memorial is in Bidart) that is not the case. It’s very stark, hence the flashback. My favourite war memorial is in Biarritz because it goes into a lot of detail about deportees &tc.

And speaking of memorials!!!

This is the memorial to the murdered Jews of Europe on Hannah Arendt Strasse:

And this is the separate memorial across the road to the murdered members of the LGBTQ+ community

Both of these memorials are extremely powerful; Von Karma here weaponises this power to threaten and oppress. Power and aura, for art in everyday life, can be used for both affirmative and negative ends. Memorials to atrocities of this scale are complicated places, and while I think Berlin has done a phenomenal job at limiting the potential for misuse, it is still there. The memorial does not tell you what to think.

Similarly, you have to think about coming into an understanding of your own identity in a world where the visible, public and celebrated elements are monuments to oppression, illness, institutional hatred and . What does it mean to understand your sexuality, religion or gender through displays of public contrition and grief, or as sites of public debate before you understand it as what it means for you and your heart?

To close out this section, consider the words of Primo Levi:

It happened, and therefore it could happen again; this is the core of what we have to say.

This is why we must reflect on the Law, and on current European fascism, and on current European migration policy. I hope at least that there will be memorials to the people we have lost due to the above.

On his mother’s birthday, it rains.

Who is Miles Edgeworth’s mother???? Assumedly just as dead as his father, but why the complete absence from the text? Misogyny, obviously, but why else??? When you think about it it’s a horrifically sad story. Edgeworth wanting to die (more actively than passively at this stage) on her birthday is a detail I added to make it worse!! One imagines she’s buried or memorialised in his hometown. Did they go to her grave? Did Gregory miss her out loud?

She would have been 60. All the terrible people in the world who reached that milestone.

This is a reference to the fact that Henry Kissinger is !!! Still !!!! Alive ?!?!?!?!?

The ocean revolting against itself and the pure rage of its power

The sea is a neutral force. A neutrality that is still very powerful.

His first thought is I like that bicycle, with the pink streamers on the handlebars.

Edgeworth is starting to recognise his inner child. This will be, in the end, what saves his life, and possibly what saves us all. I once had a therapist that called herself an “early childhood development professional, only one that deals with adults.” She was the best therapist I ever had!! Miles Edgeworth needs to start feeling and healing!! And so do I, and dear reader, probably so do you! Also this scene was written two years before I met this person, but falling off a cliff is a real thing that can happen. I had a coworker that fell off TWO separate cliffs. Excessive? She certainly thought so!

A Portuguese nurse asks if he’s alright as he comes in (what a question) and he tells her no.

Because mental illness is actually quite common and I imagine Edgeworth is underplaying his symptoms, they don’t keep him in for observation like I imagine they probably should. In my country the healthcare system is so broken that they don’t have the money to do things like that, but in France it’s generally efficient and well-funded. What’s going on here? Maybe he doesn’t have his EHIC card or something. Anyway, prozac made me much worse! He should be on sertraline. And then, after all of that - all that agony and humiliation - he’s still just as bad as he was before, worse maybe.

He is fourteen and lying on his back. The parquet rubs cold against his legs

There is no worse age to be in the entire world alive than 14. Is the suicidality already latent in young Edgeworth, or is it that he is looking back with poisoned lenses?

“Hello, detective.”

You can’t escape!!!!!!!! You may desperately want to - the love of your friends and family can be the most painful and heavy thing, the most awkward burden to bear - but you can’t escape it. Thankfully.

Ride your bike down to the sea and relish in the breeze blowing the hair back from your face.

“9 out of 10 days are slightly disappointing

But on the tenth, you see that light beckoning”

Annika Norlin, “Silent Night”

Transcendence is rare, but it happens. It will happen to you. You will come to a place where you will recognise the beauty around you and inside you, and you will know that you were supposed to make it here. You will not want the mire of mental illness anymore; you will know that you are better when you are freer.

And then it will go, and you will forget the feeling, but not that you had it. As Elizabeth Bishop says: Somebody loves us all.

The wanting of the bad thing is a strange thing to explain. There’s no such thing as true freedom from it. It is always in the back of your head, there’s always another shoe that can drop, and there will be people and things said to you - Never Quite Free by the Mountain Goats, people, don’t ask me to explain more than that.

In the future, Phoenix Wright will run into the same stretch of sea…

See High Season

he shady tactics (not illegal), the withholding of certain pieces of evidence (not illegal), the decisions on what sentence to push for, and for whom, and when to take a case and when to decide against doing so

Be VERY cautious of prosecutors. I myself am absolutely anti-prison. I don’t see any reason for that kind of barbarity in our world. I can see that not everybody feels that way. But always remember: prosecutors in most of today’s systems are on very good friends with the cops. And the cops are never your friends.

Old man, Edgeworth thinks, old man, I am not ashamed

Edgeworth is gay and now he can say “i am gay” out loud to himself. This kind of brutal repression, that either abusive parents or abusive environments instil, is violence. That is, violence as defined by Johan Galtung: the cause of the difference between the potential and the actual, between what could have been and what is.

Thank you not-Guéthary! We are moving on!

The Cévennes! Beautiful mountains, barely populated, old old old. And I believe a place where the Maquis (part of the French Resistance) tended to congregate. Resistance… potential changes on the horizon for dear M. Edgeworth. The town that I based this town on is Florac, another stunning location. Best avocado of my entire life. I can still remember that salad, all these years later. And a very lovely skirt, silk, in blue-grey!

Oh my GOD I have got to get back there. I forgot how beautiful it was. I wonder how much rent is. I could finally write my masterwork in peace.

The man at the till, tall and dark, smiles at him

When I was there there were no handsome Spanish men selling books but in all fairness I don’t have any use for handsome Spanish men, so maybe there were some I missed?

Unusual for a Catholic church to be so unadorned

Edgeworth does not Find Religion here. Pity! I think there are some themes in Catholicism that could help him! Not Catholicism itself, but a few of the ideas within it. Not the devotion bit - he’s maybe had too much of that already.

He liked the moomins too, although he got the feeling the other children in the class would have the same reaction to that as they did to Mulan

I must admit to taking the shame of loving the Moomins as a homage to Philip Pullman, who wrote sweetly about the same thing in an essay which I cannot find (here’s a different one), but nobody picked up on it in the comments and so now I think it’s just plagiarism??? Help!?!

He has a Spanish accent; more Southern than Northern

Javi García Cortes is from Grenada

Von Karma had slapped him, once, hard, across the face

Von Karma physically assaulting him like this is deeply humiliating, and acts as a threat to Franziska as well, though I don’t think he would do the same to her.

The chasm it will open has been a spectre, his life since he was nine years old. The dark at the centre of the spider’s web.

So the “dark at the centre of the spider’s web” is a serious image that I am using seriously, but I was listening to an improv podcast by Paul F Tomkins where “Hans Christian Anderson” is being interviewed, and HE USES THE SAME IMAGE!! But it’s so funny! Truly one of my favourite jokes ever. This is a coincidence, but it’s ruined this paragraph for me.

He was an omnipresent threat of power and violence, and he shaped Edgeworth, gave him purpose and an appreciation for Handel and Bach.

If someone gives you art, knowledge, understanding and education, feeds you - you’re a real person at least partly in their image, and - it’s unbearable, that the person that was supposed to love you and nurture you not only didn’t care enough to do that, but also hurt you, maybe on purpose and maybe by accident. Apologies would never be enough, and Miles Edgeworth does not even have that. I mean, really put yourself in his shoes: you’ve found out that this man who was responsible for your growth and development and your choice of career actually hated you and wanted to kill you and it wasn’t even for anything he thought you did. (And then it turns out your trusted co-workers were responsible for you sending hundreds of people to prison). And then also you’re in the middle of a nervous breakdown and you can’t stop thinking about the last time you were happy. Which was when you were nine years old.

lying on the shore beside Javi García Cortes, who had just kissed him in full view of the road, the best kiss of his life

I love Javi so much.AO3 user Eggybaguette posted this absolutely incredible comment, which is such a good analysis and you’re so smart for this if you’re reading this, like genuinely you are so intelligent. “[Edgeworth] seeing himself, an anonymous body in a river in the beginning, and then letting himself be recognized and experience intimacy in a river with Javi,” as they point out, is an important character progression. It’s also important in terms of borders - rivers and seas are often sites of division. Here Edgeworth is allowing himself to broaden the horizons of what he thinks his body is for. This is also true of the scene where he goes sea-swimming.

He doesn’t get out of bed except to use the bathroom for three days straight

Oh God I forgot how horrible I am to this poor man in this section. Healing isn’t linear!

He loves this movement. He loves the clarinet.

Ah, Mozart’s Piano Concerto no.23 in A Major (K488). Truly I don’t know where this man got his genius from but he understood how to express light in music! The fête de la musique that Edgeworth is attending is an annual event that has musicians play in towns across France. It’s really great! I don’t know how good an orchestra from a tiny rural town would be, but let’s pretend it’s a good one for this.

And it was not The Law that stood in his way.

IS THIS A WHISPER OF REDEMPTION? I have been a sucker for a redemption arc since I recognised a kindred spirit in Zuko from Avatar, and to be honest I am so obsessed with Ace Attorney deciding that was something Edgeworth would probably undergo, but totally off-screen. So what changed? What was the “true meaning of being a prosector?” Is the system broken beyond repair, or can it be fixed? Choose carefully, because if something can be fixed, you might find you have an obligation to fix it… not that Edgeworth is there yet in his emotional journey.

The next morning, he’s feeling pretty bad, but he gets up anyway

HE IS ABLE TO GET UP IN THE MORNING AND FEED HIMSELF!!!!!!! Just as triumphant a moment as running down to the sea imo. This is the hard work of living.

the teachings he had to impart made a certain amount of sense. They twisted the world around, so that they confirmed your worst fears, and the more you got the more you needed

More Wanting the Bad Thing.

Sometimes the two of them, miserable on the sofa together. Miles went to a lady to talk about it, sometimes, and the way he couldn’t really make friends

It was partly inherited all along :( The thing is sometimes something happens which explains it all, and sometimes it doesn’t, and often it is a combination. Gregory Edgeworth here being an exemplary father, meaning that when he noticed his son was more sad than the usual child he went and tried to sort it out.

Oh God, had nobody – the little boy who would sleep in single bed strewn with books and signal samurai pillowcases – had nobody thought, Manfred Von Karma will damage this child

Where are the child protection systems in Ace Attorney. Mr Phoenix sir I know you care very deeply for Trucy but you can’t just take a child back to your house without some kind of documentation. Von Karma should not have been able to randomly take a child out of his community to a different continent. As John Darnielle of The Mountain Goats says, though, “Take the character seriously.” So if this was the state of the issue - what the Hell would that feel like? Not good! Edgeworth is feeling the grief of realising that childhood and its moral simplicities are over, the fact that he has been forever damaged by his upbringing, and that he will never get to be nurtured by people who loved him. And also there are fifteen years of pain that he has not let himself feel, that are all now demanding their day in court.

Well. Miles has always cared about justice, fairness, truth (whatever those words really mean for adult lives, there is something very clear and beautiful about a child’s perception of the concepts). Edgeworth is in a position to help with that.

Try and build a life that you would be proud to show to your childhood self. It doesn’t have to be the life that they wanted.

Phoenix cried for the whole thing, pretty much

Phoenix is deep in grief!

as the river cuts a gash across the continent more political than physical.

Goodbye, Cévennes! I will miss you dearly!!

But there will be time enough to return. Go on, go on, let the magnets and the engineers carry you forward.

Perhaps there’s something important good and connective about trains, as well? Maybe there is space to redeem ourselves? Maybe if we leave our own interests behind and join in common cause?

I attended the centenary of the 1918 Armistice on a footbridge across the Rhine on the France-Germany border. Then there were lots of jokes about how it was about time for Alsace-Lorraine to go back to Germany, and also tears of relief that such a war hasn’t happened since 1945. If there are no wars between France and Germany for so long then surely more is possible.

Borders are weird places.

“The architecture here is, like, really weird,” Trucy says, eating her solero and looking, unimpressed, at one of the Europe’s greatest achievements. “Is it supposed to look like a spaceship?”

Trucy is right. It is weird. I love it so much. I think Edgeworth is absolutely involved in the European Court of Human Rights. It’s a bit for show, a bit actually effective, and mostly a massive symbol for… something.

While he’s there the law will change, and there will be dancing in the streets.

The Law has enormous power. In the right hands, it promotes human justice, and allows for the truth to be codified. In more mundane light, too, it orders things you hardly think about. A number of years ago, it was revealed that a mix-up on my birth certificate means that I have two available names. It took a while to actually work out what this meant; for a while I thought that I was legally registered under a name that wasn’t mine. It was upsetting! And then for trans people, getting the right name of their birth certs and personal IDs is a concrete affirmation. According to the state and its laws, this is who you are.

Sharp Objects says: I have returned to my childhood, the scene of the crime. This refers to real crime and also a more abstract one.

Anyway I have no way to end this. Let me know if you have any questions?

The Prodigal

The brown enormous odor he lived by was too close, with its breathing and thick hair, for him to judge. The floor was rotten; the sty was plastered halfway up with glass-smooth dung. Light-lashed, self-righteous, above moving snouts, the pigs' eyes followed him, a cheerful stare-- even to the sow that always ate her young-- till, sickening, he leaned to scratch her head. But sometimes mornings after drinking bouts (he hid the pints behind the two-by-fours), the sunrise glazed the barnyard mud with red the burning puddles seemed to reassure. And then he thought he almost might endure his exile yet another year or more.

But evenings the first star came to warn. The farmer whom he worked for came at dark to shut the cows and horses in the barn beneath their overhanging clouds of hay, with pitchforks, faint forked lightnings, catching light, safe and companionable as in the Ark. The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored. The lantern--like the sun, going away-- laid on the mud a pacing aureole. Carrying a bucket along a slimy board, he felt the bats' uncertain staggering flight, his shuddering insights, beyond his control, touching him. But it took him a long time finally to make up his mind to go home

-- Elizabeth Bishop

If you liked this, then you’ll LOVE

A Place of Greater Safety by Hilary Mantel

Elizabeth Bishop’s poems, including: Filling Station, At the Fishhouses

The Seasons Quartet by Ali Smith

Angels in America by Tony Kushner

How to be Alone by Lane Moore

The Vichy Syndrome by Henri Russo

Postwar: A History of Europe since 1945 by Tony Judt

If This is a Man and The Truce by Primo Levi

The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel A. Van Der Kolk

All About Love by bell hooks