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nahisummerhold · 22 days

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Not All Losses Are The Same

Wiping sweat from her face, Nahi made her way back to the camp. It was no wonder she got odd reactions from the people of Dornogal, she was the crazy woman running up and down stairs late at night. Sleeping was a luxury that had yet to grace the performer, so exhaustion was the next best thing, at least exhausted she could relax, trying to make herself sleep was an impossibility. Not only was she used to keeping bar hours but her life was turned on its head, and only bats could sleep upside down.

The evening had offered her a chance to connect finally with Fio, Dice and Kai, it made her feel a little less alone. It was odd, feeling alone, she spent years cultivating a lifestyle that had her excluding most people, and yet it was now that she was in a group of mostly strangers that she was experiencing the sensation of isolation. Meeting Stellan had been interesting, there was an edge of dark humor to him that made her a little uncomfortable considering the subject, yet she didn’t really mind it. Life around her wasn’t exactly comfortable in any way so it fit right in with all she was feeling.

Dalaran had been discussed, but she wasn’t really sure how to work through all the losses in her life, so the topic was like a bee circling around her and she was standing perfectly still hoping it would just go away and spare her the sting. She was glad that at least some people she knew, like this group, were alive, the thought of all those she would never see again, or the things she would never see again, made a knot form in her throat that felt like she couldn’t swallow past iit. This had been a constant companion since Dalaran was lost. If she was honest with herself, she wasn’t sure she would feel comfortable for a very long time. The decision to join the mercenaries was probably good for her, when the ground shifts under your feet sometimes it was best to just dance along with it. Everything was moving in her life and this was just another shift in trying to find the tempo of this new chaos. Maybe that was why she had latched onto those text exchanges with Pathyn, it was a bit of comfort, he had been a constant in her life for a couple of years, even if the relationship had shifted so very recently.

When she talked about settling the score in her mind and Fio had questioned it Nahi had stumbled in her thoughts. How do you explain that music was so much of your life that you thought in it? The score was the flow of it in her thoughts, right now it sounded like an orchestra of children on their first week of practice, and Nahi needed to begin to mold that into a piece that might not be beautiful, but it would be ordered at least.

Once she was settled in and finished stretching she picked up her comm and made a nightly check in. Nahi to Iren: How is my favorite step-father?

Iren: Missing his favorite daughter. Nahi: When mother is more settled. Is that going any better? Iren: Losing home has made her swings more drastic. I don’t know how she sensed the fall but… Everything is safe, right? Nahi: Yes, I got everything out that I could. Wish I could have taken the house itself for you.

Iren: You did what you could Nahi. Stop feeling guilty about this, you didn’t cause the fall.You got us into a new home and have taken care of all you could prepare for, except the fall itself. Have you found some new places to work? How is the apartment?

There, there was separation she was trying to avoid in her life, except this time she was hiding her family from what she was doing. Maybe she would never be able to really reconcile who she was.

Nahi: The apartment is great, I got everything tucked in that I could. Little pieces of home, you know? Found some work, but not much for me to do yet. It is hard, war and all but I am sure everything will settle into a new pattern. You should get some sleep.

It was so much easier to obfuscate through text.

Iren: Your mother is struggling with a day to night schedule, so I am up with her as it is Ysoli’s night off.

Nahi: I am sorry Iren. I would be there if I could.

Iren: Stop it. You can’t fix this and we all agreed this was the best for her. Once you reconcile that in your heart you will probably admit this will be good for you too. Nahi: I should get some sleep, I want to work on some dance practice in the morning. Iren: Go daughter, I love you. I miss you, make us proud. Nahi: I love you too. Give mom a kiss from me, just don’t tell her it was.

Some losses were not from the fall.

( @fio-renze @dicenne @kaisinasunblade @inistellan for mentions @themercenaries )

#nahilvi #nahisummerhold #warcraft rp #the war within #tww rp

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heavy-is-the-crown-if · 1 year

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Summer at the Manor has a torturous air about it, and this afternoon you and Gawain had escaped the sun by sheltering within the Manor's walls.

You wander aimlessly through the corridors, Gawain talking enthusiastically about the latest films he's been watching in secret, and of course, the music that sets the pace. He's always loved music. His steps are no longer as slow and cautious as when you returned to your family's land at the end of the school year, your muscle memory guiding you with ease having greatly relieved him.

You never liked that he had to slow down because of your eyes. Gawain is all about action and movement. Passivity doesn't suit him and you hate feeling like you're holding him back. Not that he thinks that you are, no. But no one should have to restrain themselves for you, that's how you function.

"And then what happens?" You inquire politely, enjoying the coolness on your skin as you turn a corner.

He laughs and your brain immediately associates the sound with music. "And then comes the final scene…" he continues as he moves closer to you, a citrus scent wafting up to your nostrils.

You love being with Gawain, he always makes things simple, joyful.

"On your left," he indicates without further ado, and you immediately shift to avoid anything that might get in the way.

You've got it all worked out, like a machine and its machinist; you and your cousin learned to work together long ago. You turn again and the smell of parchment and ink, at first distant, grows stronger. "The library? Aren't you afraid we'll be discovered? It's not a place that frightens Lancelot," you tease your cousin.

"Why would I want to avoid Lancelot?"

Perhaps because more than the sun, it's the diabolically drastic training held by your first Sword that you're both trying to avoid. The corner of your lips straightens, as does your eyebrow. "True, why would we want to avoid Lancelot? Maybe I should open a window and tell him where we are?"

"Please don't."

You chuckle and Gawain shoves you gently before linking his arm with yours. "You're terrible."

"But you love me, don't you?"

Your fingers slide down to his wrist and stop at his pulse point. Ready to detect any lie, the slightest acceleration of his pulse and it doesn't miss, his heart speeds up but there's no trace of pretense in his voice as he holds you. "Yes, with all my heart."

You smile and slip an arm around his waist, your steps had taken on almost sing-song tones. "I know."

#heavy is the crown #Gawain Key #Mc

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wesleyss · 1 year

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tyler lawrence gray + he/him + cis male – have you seen wesley ‘wes’ lafleur around los angeles? the twenty two year old is usually jamming to hysteria by muse. word around the city is that they’re adventurous, yet, they can also be reckless, but you didn’t hear that from me. they’re currently an influencer, model and trust fund baby and are typically seen walking the streets of los angeles with a joint tucked behind his ear. when i think of them, i think of saying ‘fuck it’ before making the stupidest decisions known to man, tired hazel eyes rimmed with smudged black eyeliner as he does the walk of shame at 5 am, snorting lines off his cellphone as his agent urgently calls him. let’s hope the city treats them good!

subplot #3

muse d and muse e have been best friends, ride or dies, the ultimate friendship goals since they met in their freshman year of high school, instantly clicking right off the bat. sleepovers, vacations together, stories and posts of one another, it seemed like the bond these two had was absolutely unbreakable, envied rich kids by most people and a relationship you only find once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky. that all drastically changed one day when muse e’s mother and father file for a divorce without further explanation, only for a few days later, the news that muse d had slept with both muse e’s parents manages to surface through an anonymous blog, which resulted in the divorce of muse e’s parents. the bond they once had shatters, and despite muse d’s consistent apologies and explanations that what happened wasn’t only on them, that they were roped into it all, well, muse e refuses to believe that their parents are guilty in this, even if they may or may not know that they are. muse e’s family is now destroyed thanks to muse d, and aside from losing their family, they also lost their best friend in the process. will muse d and muse e ever manage to get through this? or has this ended their lifelong friendship for good? muse d - taken by wesley lafleur ( tyler lawrence gray fc ) muse e - open

basic stats ;

⟶ full name: wesley frederique lafleur kapone ⟶ nicknames: usually just goes by wesley or wes ⟶ three things he likes: people who smell good and have general good hygiene, profiteroles, making fun of people from reality tv shows ⟶ three things he dislikes: dirty fingernails, being alone with his thoughts, instigators ⟶ gender: cis male ⟶ height: 5 ‘ 10 ⟶ age: 22 ⟶ birthday: august 18, 2001 ⟶ zodiac: leo sun, aries moon, capricorn ascendant ⟶ right handed or left handed: left handed ⟶ eye color: emerald green, looks light hazel depending on the lighting ⟶ hair color: light brown ⟶ piercings and tattoos: a cartilage piercing on his left ear, usually covered by his hair, earlobe piercing on that same ear, no tattoos ⟶ languages spoken: french ( native tongue ) and english ⟶ sexuality / romantic orientation: homosexual / homoromantic ⟶ place of birth: marseille, france ⟶ last five songs listened to: trust in you by the offspring, if i’m james dean, you’re audrey hepburn by sleeping with sirens, shadow moses by bring me the horizon, i’m not okay ( i promise ) by my chemical romance, faint by linkin park ⟶ five aesthetics: black nail polish and golden rings, the loud banging of the drums at ungodly hours, a flirtatious smile, turning up your music loud emo music to drown out your heavy thoughts, smudged eyeliner and dilated pupils after a crazy night ⟶ character inspo: harlan briggs from wolf pack, ian gallagher from shameless, patrick blanco from elite

background story ;

✘ wesley was born in the french city marseille to french parents lisa kapone and alain lafleur, five minutes after his twin sister ( wanted connection ). his father was heir of lafleur lounges ( basically hotel resorts and lounges similar to a french version of hilton hotels ), while his mother was miss france in 1999 and a well known fashion designer ( the vera wang of europe, if you must ). him and his sister were born into a lot of money, practically a golden spoon in his mouth, spoiled to the core. anything he wanted, he received, and shortly after the twins were born, his parents got married, basically those parents that are head over heels for each other, an envy worthy love story with golden twins – they were the it family in europe, that rich, opulent family in the public eye that everyone wanted to know

✘ his childhood was anyone’s wet dream. he was rich, he was spoiled, and his parents loved him more than anything in this world, that much was evident, and for the first few years of his life, wesley was a happy kid. around the time he actually began school however, it was clear that something was off

✘ he couldn’t read as well as the other kids. in fact, he had a problem with reading in general. he was also a very hyperactive kid with an inability to sit still, did things impulsively without much thought. his teachers labeled him as the kid who didn’t want to pay attention or didn’t care, and this is all anyone ever saw from him. he didn’t know why everyone understood things, and he just… didn’t. this made wesley feel like he was stupid compared to his classmates, which, just resulted in him acting out even more

✘ the following years are uneventful. it’s mostly him, his sister and his mother, or him, his sister and his nanny whenever his mother couldn’t be around, considering her job. his father however, is barely present. by the time wesley is nine is when he unintentionally catches his father cheating through listening in on a phone call. not sure what to do with this information, he doesn’t know if he should tell his mother or not. really, he doesn’t have to decide, because soon enough, his mother catches his father in the act and it just turns into a huge argument

✘ that happy, perfect family they once were is no longer there. his mother forgives his father, but things are never the same again. wesley didn’t understand why she forgave him for what he did, but really, it was just for the appearance, for the sake of keeping the family together and, because she had too much to lose. by the time he’s ten, they move to the states in an attempt to patch things up, but it only gets worse from that point on

✘ wesley’s father is never around, and, as a way to cope, his mother turns into one of those wine moms that spends her days day drinking with her group of friends and taking valium and xanax, quitting fashion altogether and living off the fortune they’ve already created. it’s like his mother is there, but it’s like she’s also not really there. wesley’s form of coping is through music, mostly the drums

✘ school in a new country, where he doesn’t speak the language, is incredibly hard for him. he couldn’t read well in french, so learning to read in english was just hell for him. learning to speak english was also proven to be difficult. there were days where he would cry in the middle of class and out of all the kids in the class, only one of them wouldn’t laugh at him. it was evident that there was an underlying issue, and thankfully, this time around, wesley had a teacher that actually did care about his well being

✘ several check ups and tests later, and wesley is diagnosed with dyslexia and adhd. suddenly, things make a ton of sense for him. he understood why he struggled so much in school, and while he hated this diagnosis, it felt relieving to know why he had such a difficult time with things kids his age picked up on. with a personal tutor just for him and being put in a special ed class, he began understanding things a lot more, finally dealing with teachers who taught him the way he needed to be taught

✘ while it took him longer than most kids to catch up on things, it felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders whenever he had a breakthrough. things begin looking up for him at school, but at home, everything just seems to worsen. wesley learns to take care of himself, as his mother grows more and more detached from his life. in a mansion filled with fast cars, work staff and anything anyone could ever dream of, wesley has never felt more alone

✘ ! tws for suicide, drug abuse, self mutilation and hospitalization ! things take a toll for the worst by the time he’s twelve. one day, when he comes back from school, his sister is at a friends house, so he does his usual routine but his mother never comes out of her room, clearly drunk to ask him how his day was. when entering her room, he notices she’s sound asleep, or at least, this is what he thinks. fast forward a good five hours and wesley decides to try and wake her up. finding her unresponsive, he immediately calls 911, only to learn that his mother passed away from a successful suicide attempt, a mixture of pills enough to put a horse to sleep, according to doctors. with the amount of pills and alcohol that she mixed together, her body just couldn’t take it. obviously, wesley’s father, and his sister, rush back home, the first time he’s seen his father in over three weeks. they just mourn together. that day, wesley was never really the same person again

✘ the day of her funeral, right after, wesley finds himself in the bathroom, angry with himself. why didn’t he walk in sooner? why did it take him so long to realize? why is it all his fault? his thoughts consume him, one thing leads to another, and he finds himself punching the bathroom mirror, over, and over, and over again. to not get too into detail, his father hears him having a break down, walks in, and immediately calls the police on wesley when he see’s the condition his hand is left in. this is the first, and thankfully the last time he was ever hospitalized. he was involuntarily admitted for five days ! end of tws !

✘ unfortunately, his father views this as an act of disobedience and impulsiveness. while he had diagnosed adhd, his mother never wanted to put him on adderall or any other medicine used to treat adhd. his father however, immediately sends him to a psychiatrist and gets him prescribed for the first time ever. adderall, 30 milligrams, which yes, does help him concentrate, but really fucks with his appetite and essentially, makes him feel like a zombie. simply put, wesley doesn’t feel like himself whenever he takes this

✘ when his teenage years come around, as a way to cope, he begins trying just about everything, from narcotics, to alcohol, to first times, you get the idea. he’s quick to realize that he can pull a lot male attention, and he uses that to his advantage. getting high helps him forget that one, he has dyslexia and adhd, and two, it helps him feel like he’s not just that kid. smoking weed calms him down and keeps him steady, and soon enough, he realizes that having an adderall prescription is a huge advantage. despite the fact that he doesn’t need the money, he begins flipping his script, selling to his classmates. he likes the attention it gives him, ever the attention whore, this is also when he starts building his social media platform

✘ it’s funny how easily it comes to him. he posts pictures on instagram and immediately starts gaining attention because of his looks and his last name. this, during the years, opens doors for him. it starts off with modeling gigs, then sponsorships, then a few commercials, until eventually, he’s getting by on his looks. wesley uses this to his advantage completely, because while he knows he isn’t intelligent, one thing he can count on is looking hot

✘ his coping mechanism becomes narcissism and narcotics, or ‘nn’ as he calls it. it’s just so easy to act like he’s better than everyone else when he couldn’t hate himself more, despite the countless thirsty comments on his posts, those people just don’t know him. he manages to make a name for himself in the industry, leaving his past behind him, keeping his dyslexia a secret and avoiding college once high school is over but… it can really only be so long before it all catches up to him

headcanons ;

✘ wesley tends to bury up his childhood traumas. from his cheating father, to his mothers death, to the time he got hospitalized – he keeps this side of himself hidden. in a way, he wants people to believe that he’s perfect in every sense of the word, when he’s actually a crippling mess. that’s why his hair is so big and curly, because it’s full of secrets

✘ he hasn’t taken his adderall prescription in over two years already and he never wants to take it again. it just makes him feel like a damn zombie, he genuinely hates the way that it makes him feel. he also doesn’t sell his prescription anymore, he definitely left that behind in high school

✘ he blames himself for his mother’s death. it’s honestly one of his biggest regrets and childhood trauma’s, knowing that if maybe he had realized sooner, something could have been done. he replays that image over and over again in his head and he hates it, it’s something that genuinely scarred him

✘ he’s like… a whore. anything to get his mind off shit. he loves attention, whether it be negative or positive. maybe it’s the attention he lacked growing up, but he just wants to feel valid in whatever way possible

✘ he went to a special ed class for all of middle school, but began normal classes his freshman year, at another school, with a personal tutor after class, which is where he met his ( ex ) best friend, aka muse e. he feels awful for what happened, deeply regrets it, and isn't even sure why he slept with the mother, considering the fact he isn't physically or romantically attracted to females at all. he just liked the attention from both of them, he just wanted to feel validated... go to therapy but okay

✘ wesley never went to college and has no intentions of ever doing so. to him, high school was enough. truth be told, he can read and he’s certainly gotten better, he just has a harder time than the average person. like, learning english was definitely hell for him. aside from not wanting to further his education, he also has no real reason to. he was born into a rich family and is now a public figure, he really doesn’t need a degree, as money has never been an issue for him

✘ his hobbies ( or job description ) consists of playing the drums, modeling, posting pictures, he’s really just living his best life. he has a youtube account in which he posts drum covers ( literally think like matt mcguire and tobines on youtube ). he’s a good drummer, takes it as a stress reliever, just banging on shit if he’s had a rough day

✘ he has a scar across his knuckles from where he punched the mirror repeatedly that day after his mother’s funeral, but tells people it’s from a fight he got into ages ago, shows off about it and all, but if people really only knew the truth – he’s very much there’s more than meets the eye

✘ he just wants to be loved secretly, but a part of him feels like he’s not worthy of shit, so meaningless sex, flings, and drugs it is. he finds it so much easier to detach himself, loves to party and have a good time, will go to three different parties in one night and won't be back home until the morning

✘ he really enjoys working out. it keeps his mind occupied, he likes the idea of having a nice body. kind of overly obsessed with his looks as well, because secretly, he kind of feels like him being attractive is the only thing he has going for him, hence the influencer status

✘ wesley hates when people want to make him feel stupid. he’s been in the public eye for a while and judged for ages by people he doesn’t even know, so at this point, he has his own way of dealing with trolls and people criticizing him. it takes a lot to make him mad, as he usually takes criticism and people being mean to him as a joke, definitely the type to laugh if he’s being made fun of because he couldn’t care less, so when he does get mad… it’s serious, and a way to make him mad is by making him feel dumb

✘ makes a bunch of really dumb tweets. his entire twitter is just a meme at this point

✘ he can be a jerk for a lot of things, but he definitely takes things like mental illness really seriously, especially after what happened to his mother. it's all fun and jokes, but the second someone is sad, watch him suddenly be like 'are you okay? do you need something?'

✘ he has a pet bunny he named money bunny, he impulsively bought him after getting stoned out of his mind and named him equally as stoned. he loves this bunny with his entire life, definitely his emotional support animal

✘ constantly paints his nails black, doesn’t like any other color, will wear black eyeliner when going out to parties, honestly believes that clothes shouldn’t have a gender, just does whatever he wants

✘ he really loves music that can be considered emo. bands like sleeping with sirens, asking alexandria, my chemical romance, falling in reverse, etc, have gotten him through some really hard times. definitely an emo boy at heart, even if he doesn’t give off the ‘vibe’. essentially though, he listens to everything. if he likes the sound, he’ll listen to it

✘ huge leo energy. you will feel his presence as soon as he walks into a room. loves and hates himself at the same time and has very big goofy vibes. he’s a super fun time to be around, he rarely takes shit seriously and it’s comical

✘ he has freckles all over his face but is actually pretty insecure about this. anytime he’s about to do a photoshoot, he asks the make up artist to cover up his freckles. he doesn’t like them, at all

✘ his next mental breakdown is long overdue, but lets see how long he’s ‘okay’ for. sociopath energy, he will break down crying and then look in the mirror and pose with tears running down his cheeks… like okay psycho

wanted connections ;

i bet i can’t remember you… no, i actually really can’t remember you: this is a messy connection, but give me a guy he drunkenly gave a blowjob to at a party and genuinely cannot recall doing it. your muse probably remembers it but wesley? watch him go damn that’s crazy… who are you again?

work out time: gym buddies! these two met at the gym, could have become friends through working out!

why are we friends? look at the shoes you’re wearing: very very unlikely friends, friends who have no idea how they even ended up becoming friends, but are friends anyways, watch him tell this unfortunate soul all his gay adventures

you’re the most irritating person i’ve ever met: someone who genuinely can’t stand him whatsoever. at all. not even a little bit. it’s very easy to hate him because he’s the worst so i don’t even blame this person

i hate that i don’t hate you: an unrequited crush. an unfortunate soul who likes him but he’s just the worst. he’s also the stupidest person ever, so he would be completely oblivious to this crush as well

let’s talk shit about everyone in the room: besties who trash talk everyone, no one is free from the mouth of these two. watch someone walk in with sweats and get roasted for absolutely no reason at all

or, we can brainstorm!

birthchart ;

#california.intro #suicide tw #learning disability (dyslexia) tw #drug abuse tw #hospitals tw #self mutilation tw #trauma tw #lmk if i am missing one pls asdfghjkl #ohhh #flashing gif tw

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suomeen · 7 months

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Chapter 2: Luck Awaits

It was the road that scared me the most. Since no planes fly out of Ukraine and we had little money, we had to take a bus to Poland at any rate. About 16-hour ride. We might have to then transfer to another bus then, to cross another 3 countries to Helsinki. Another 20+ hour ride. Then take a train there.

I get sick on buses. I thought I might die. With transfers, 2 full days on the road. Thankfully, I discovered that Finair |bless!| still offered a 95% discount to Ukrainians flying to Helsinki. Well, plus the airport fees so about 85%, but still a great deal. So that made the trip a little bit easier and faster, though the transfers would be even more nerve-wrecking.

I stalled and planned for a long time. It was pretty much impossible to comprehend all the contingencies of this decision. It was scary as fuck and the biggest decision I ever had to make in my whole damned life. I knew there would be no turning back. But somehow, I was ready for it.

At that point, I was barely leaving the house, going out only to buy groceries and medicine and basic appointments. I had no proper job and no money and all my friends left to find a better life long before the war. My physical and mental health were always fragile and considerably undermined by 2 years of living in a fucking war. There was little hope of things working out for me. It felt like if I don’t do something drastic, I will likely just wither away, grow old and die in sickness and poverty.

I knew if won’t be easy. I knew that if I took this step, I would be the one doing basically everything. From planning, to securing the tickets, to speaking to all officials, making sure we make it there. And, basically, every official and unofficial business inside Finland, since my mum can’t speak English.

I’ve had bad anxiety all my life. As a kid, I couldn’t even buy stuff without nervously counting my money for approximately 30 minutes. In my 20’s I was terrified of making calls and dealing with unfamiliar situations. But now, after spending most of my life trying to fix myself, I learned to get over it and do stuff. Still, it doesn’t come easy. Asking strangers for help is hard enough, harder when you don’t know their language and they may not know any other, harder still when you’re the stranger in their land.

Of course, we can always go back. We’re allowed to take 2 weeks to leave the country before we lose our dwelling. But it won’t be easy. The road would be very hard and expensive and we can’t fly, since Finair only offers discounts on flights to Finland. That’s a 2-day trip just to get there. And you’re have to plan the route back in advance too, which is hard and uncertain with things going down at the border. You have to have a very good reason for going. And, in the end, I don’t want to.

I don’t miss home. Not really. My heart bleeds for Ukraine. I’ll miss feeling like I’m among my own people. Speaking and being understood. But not my dirty poor destitute neighborhood. I know it by heart by now. In fact, it feels like a part of me is still there. It’s like that bad old movie with Gwyneth Paltrow where she missed the train and her life gets split into two threads.

It’s hard to pack when you only have one medium bag to take with you and you don’t know when you’ll be coming back.

I was very attached to my room but I also knew that, in a way, it has become my prison cell. I’m not young anymore and yet I feel like I lived so little. I needed a change. I needed to try. I had to take this leap of faith.

I didn’t take much with me. We were preparing for cold winter so it was only a bunch of winter clothes, nothing remotely pretty. I also grabbed a few practical and sentimental items, some music and videos. I could have taken more, really. But I suppose that was a conscious choice. I wanted to leave it behind and get a clean slate.

I miss my furniture, my dolls and my books the most. I can’t imagine when I’ll see them again, if ever. But it’s a small price to pay for safety.

The town we were heading for is called Tuuri, which means “luck” in Finnish. When I was ordering the tickers to our final destination, my automatic translation startled me because after I booked the tickets, on the screen it said “Luck Awaits”. I took it as a good sign.

Once I finally booked all the tickets and the trip was locked in, I got calmer. I knew no matter how much I prepared for it, I wouldn’t be ready for what’s to come and somehow, it was liberating.

It’s just for a few months, we told ourselves. Just to pass the winter. We almost believed it.

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wheretheresaway-theresawilliam · 8 months

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Chapter 16: Hiding Behind Glass

Word Count: 1163

TWs: Food mentions, identity theft, obsessive behaviour, discussions of murder

/) /) ( • ༝•)

The next time Vanita saw William was when he invited her to stay the night. He had baked a cake and dusted off a number of old VHS tapes that he remembered Vanessa enjoying as a child, and had even put pastel pink sheets on the bed in the guest room- her favourite colour. Vanita had blindly and gladly accepted the invitation, eager to settle deeper into her fantasy, bringing it closer to reality with every interaction.

“I suppose your tastes have probably matured a little,” William mentioned as he showed her the VHS tapes he had selected. “If you’re not up for any of these I’m sure I’ve something else instead.”

All Dogs Go To Heaven, The Little Mermaid, The Princess Bride, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off…

“Got any horror movies, dad?” Vanita asked innocently after only a glance.

“Horror movies?” William asked, completely taken off guard. “My, you really have changed…”

“Yeah, well… now I know they can’t hurt me.” She grinned. Of course Vanessa couldn’t handle horror movies.

“Well, I hate to put a damper on your newfound tolerance, but frankly I think it’s all repetitive drivel. The best I can do for you is this obscure crime thriller Henry lent to me years ago…” He pulled a tape labelled The Wounded Thumb from the box. “It’s decent.”

Vanita shrugged, slightly disappointed. “I’ll give it a go, sure.”

He handed it to her. “Why don’t you put it in the VCR while I pop some popcorn?”

She nodded and did as she was told while William left the room. She hadn’t used a VCR or even held a VHS tape since she was a kid, but she still remembered how they worked. With everything set up, she settled onto the blue suede couch, tucking her legs up underneath her. Today she wore a t-shirt featuring her DJ friend’s logo and a pair of Vanessa’s skinny jeans. William had asked about the shirt and she had said she’d gotten it from Sawyer. She didn’t know what kind of music Vanessa liked. William returned with a large bowl of popcorn to share between the two of them and pressed play on the film’s menu screen. Vanita found that William’s simple assessment of the film was right… it was decent. They had talked a little while it played in the background but mostly watched in silence. When it was done, William took the bowl to the kitchen and Vanita went upstairs to change into her pyjamas.

She had only taken a single matching set from Vanessa that consisted of a white cotton shirt and pants with faint cream stripes. She went back downstairs to get a slice of the raspberry red velvet cake. William stood at the sink. Everything was peaceful until he opened his mouth.

“I know you’re not my daughter.”

Vanita’s heart skipped a beat as she dropped the fork she was using to move a slice of cake onto a plate. It clattered loudly against the countertop, scattering crumbs in every direction.

“What did you say?”

“It was a very clever ploy. You obviously put a lot of effort into it,” William turned toward her, his expression subtle, and yet it was able to make her feel as if she were being threatened on the narrowest edge of a very high cliff. “But my daughter has hazel eyes, not brown. My daughter’s a natural blonde, her roots do not get dark over time. And most of all, if my daughter had really wanted to talk to me again, she would’ve been sobbing over that fluffy little rabbit, ecstatic to be reunited with her precious Lufa. It’d be much appreciated if you returned it to me at the next opportune moment.”

She began to hyperventilate, gripping the edge of the counter. “Mr. Afton… I-I can explain…”

“Yes, I’d like to know exactly what drove you to this point, Miss Whicker.”

“H-how do you…?”

“I looked into the employment record at the PizzaPlex. I’m not so entirely senile that I can’t use a computer, you know, and the staff list is incredibly easy to find. How drastically you’ve changed yourself to become something so… mediocre.”

Her grip tightened, her knuckles paling. “I’m not mediocre.” She launched into rambling about how she had come into the online community surrounding the Fazbear Entertainment Company, her months of research, her theories, the conclusions she’d reached, the obsessions and fascinations she’d formed. She insisted on what a good, perfect daughter she’d be. She felt warm, light-headed, terrified, and exhausted, all at once. Everything was crashing down around her. William listened, his expression unchanging.

“It takes a special kind of sick to put all your faith in a murderer whom you don’t even know personally,” he said when she had finished, trembling violently in front of him, like a newborn deer in a windstorm. “Do you want to know why I did it?”

She stared at him with big, glossy eyes. When she didn’t answer, he continued. “When Michael and Laurie, my second and third children, died, it was because of my own negligence. If I had not been so obsessed with perfection, well, they could’ve been Vanessa’s half-siblings. In my grief and self-loathing, I had an epiphany. The only way I could right my wrongs was by forcing my feelings onto others. So, I paid attention to the lonely children of Freddy’s, and their easily distracted parents… and I took them away.”

“But what about the ghosts…?” She finally asked when she regained her voice, gaze unwavering from William.

“Vanessa told you about that, eh? It was reckless of me to hide that first body in an animatronic out for repairs, but I was inexperienced then. It wasn’t planned and I didn’t believe in ghosts before that night. I did it over and over again so the first wouldn’t be lonely… I wonder what happened to them after they tore everything up… either way, I showed Vanessa because I thought she’d at least try and understand. I knew I didn’t have much time with her left, anyhow. Nica had been gunning for full custody since Laurie’s death, and she got it soon after that incident.”

“Did she know?”

“Nica? I don’t think Vanessa ever told her, at least not fully. How could she believe her that the animatronics were haunted?” He shook his head. “But that’s the past. What’s done is done. You’ve got potential, kid.”

Vanita was beginning to relax again, forgetting all about the cake. “I-I’m flattered, Mr. Afton, but what do you mean…?”

“Oh, and please drop the voice. I know you can’t possibly sound like that… you really did do the most you could to be like her, didn’t you?”

“Sorry…”

“That’s better. What I mean is,” he placed his hands on her shoulders, “I’d like to honour you as my daughter, anyway…” He then removed a knife from his knife block and offered it to her. “If you’ll take up the mantle.”

#fnaf #fnaf au #fnaf fic #vanny fnaf #vanessa fnaf #william afton #Doppelgänger! au

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vincentteetsovjournal · 1 year

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Vivo Sonhando (“I Spend My Life Dreaming”)

A note from the author: This story is a drastic departure from what I usually write. It depicts a brutal setting and a distressing scenario without much hope for the protagonist. Or for the reader. Something to bear in mind before reading.

Why write something so different? Part of the reason is that it’s a challenge. On one hand, the occasionally frustrating path of a musician is an element of this story that I know well. On the other hand, the experience of being imprisoned, of interrogation, of facing serious consequences for what one says or creates; these are totally unfathomable situations that I had to try to feel from the outside and place within the dejected main character, Rodrigo Carvalho.

Writing this also required inhabiting a time and place I am aware of, but far removed from: Brazil in the year 1969. Four years into the military dictatorship, one that would continue until 1985.

I was born in the United States, but I grew up with a sense of my paternal Estonian and maternal Brazilian ancestry. With regard to the latter, I’ve been able to connect with the culture through music, food, traditions, and language to an extent. I had a general idea of what life in Brazil was like for my family prior to the mid 60s, too. But coming to understand this history, this culture, and this side of me on a deeper level is something that I’ve poured myself into in the last few years. In a few ways, this has solved personal mysteries. I love that I have grown up in North America and England. I have a fondness for English-speaking culture, there is no doubt about that. But there are times when you must swim back upstream, so to speak, to understand and accept who you are. Sometimes, it’s necessary to do this from afar as well.

In this way, I took inspiration from Kazuo Ishiguro, who describes how, from the time he emigrated from Japan at five-years-old to when he wrote his first novel, he had built in his head “a kind of fictional Japan.” In comparison, I wondered if the Brazil I had built in my head was something that could be written about credibly.

Moreover, maybe a story like this was something that could examine themes such as fear of failure, politics, censorship, intergenerational misunderstanding, and shame. If the story could be informed by history, all the better. History contains many truths that can make better sense of the present day.

—————

Ato Institucional Número Cinco. AI-5. This was the most unexpected roadblock that came in between me realizing my dreams and turning out as another humiliating failure to my family. A starving artist. Although, in some ways, that might have been preferable as a state of being than what lay ahead of me. Unknown, struggling, but not under assault.

I applied the damp towel to my face where the bruises still shined. It stung every time I moved the towel, even just a bit. The previous night was the worst beating I had received so far, and it was a relief to know that the bed above was empty. The next day would be frightening. It always was when I decided to fight back. But for that very moment, that fleeting moment, I had peace. I had time to dream and to reassess.

I stared out of the prison cell, flicking my eyes between the cynical white light by the lock and the darkness straight ahead. It was my way of anticipating an incoming threat. For a half hour or so I would sleep, and the slightest tremor would wake me up again. I was sleeping like a mother seagull, watching with one eye. I wanted to take whatever was coming with both of my feet on the ground should it ever approach me: a furious guard, a visit from one of the many gangs—the ones who left people like me particularly thrashed and bruised—out and about among the crowd of prisoners unleashed for exercise in the yard, meals, shower time, and labour. It made it better when I could at least anticipate the attacks. It had taken me a few of them to prepare myself. I'm scrawny after all. Each hit takes me down more than usual.

Which brings me back to why this was all a surprise. Why it was hard to adjust to this captivity. I was never on a path to prison. I grew up with a fear of the law. I did well in school. My demeanour was, and perhaps still is, people-pleasing. I had everything provided to me so as to pretty much guarantee a comfortable future: a home, food, water, an education, the support of people around me. Provided I did what everyone told me to do, that is. If you took one look at me—my tall, lanky composure, the greasy mop of hair that once dangled from my head—you wouldn’t believe I was wanted by the government. Considering everything that's happened now, the only flaw in my upbringing was that I wasn’t physically restrained when I decided to break off, to think and do as I pleased. There was just intense disapproval.

In my early years, I was encouraged to learn. I was taught to read and to express myself eloquently. It didn’t matter if I was a child, my parents said that was the way it should be for everyone, it was what would decide whether people treated me with respect or not. Eventually, when those values turned me into a social outcast at school, because it was a threat to know too much, I discovered records. I turned to them for refuge. I listened obsessively, with big headphones on in the living room, devouring the words and the mythical heroes printed on the jackets: singers, guitarists, percussionists. They represented something outside of my own world, people who had original things to say and knew other people who had things to say. They were poets, thinkers, dreamers, and there was a scene where being like that was celebrated. Not only that, they were so well dressed.

I leaned back into my bed and imagined all that I could have been if I hadn’t deviated further: awards, packed concert halls, radio interviews, wealth. If I had just stuck to that style, that easy-going approach, I could have been a pop singer or an actor if fame and image remained my concerns.

It wasn’t easy to do because a child only has so much in the way of their own money, but I tried to look like these musicians I admired. I wanted to sing like them, write songs like them, stand like them. I wanted to make people dance, and I wanted to dance, too. I was totally swept up by these records, which crashed into my life like a wave. First came the soaring voice of Agostinho dos Santos in '56. Then the syncopated plucking of João Gilberto in ‘58. In ‘63 there was Jorge Ben and those rumbling drums.

It sounded like the drums were right in my room. The sound was huge and relentless. I had drifted back to sleep once again, long enough to be awoken by the guards knocking their clubs on the bars of the prison cells. It was our block’s turn for a morning shower and everyone was leaving their cells.

I guarded my sore head from the low metal frame of the bunk bed and put my shoes on, wrung the remaining water out of my towel into the sink, took the soap, and walked out into the corridor where the guards watched. “Carvalho, não faça nenhuma gracinha. Don’t try anything funny,” one of them called out when I walked past. He pointed his club at me, a warning of what would happen if I dared to defend myself again. I was thinking about it, for sure.

“Não vou, senhor. I won’t.” One had to be polite to get by with the guards.

Hundreds of prisoners walked single file down the long corridors, going several floors up, in their dark shirts and grey trousers, treading slowly and carefully. It seemed that maybe, for once, I had made an impression on the people around me. While turning the corner and going down the stairs I noticed “O Chefe”, as they called him, laughing. “Eh, look who it is! Rodrigo Carvalho, O Magrinho. Ol’ skin and bones. Getting all confident now…”

The inmate behind him egged him on, seeking his favour, “You see this kid? You better watch out, or he’s gonna hit you.” Chefe continued to laugh mockingly. I would have taken a swing and knocked his lights out, but kept my hands to myself and nodded quietly.

Rafael was his real name, but everyone called him Chefe because he ran the show at the Casa de Detenção de São Paulo—itself possessing the moniker Carandiru. More than the guards, and second to the authorities who ran the place, there was Chefe. Again, I had learned to be diplomatic, to minimize the pain of being there. Even though bullies like him deserved it. The psychological torment you go through in a place like that is bad enough, without throwing in needless fights.

For quite some time before ending up here, I was held by the Polícia Militar in an unknown facility in the city for questioning. They wanted to know who I was and what I was trying to say with my songs. As though I was something more than a low-rate, discontent artist with only a bit of publicity. Did I have accomplices? No, just a few thousand curious listeners, something that I had struggled to gain for years. Was I trying to stage a revolution against the President? No, I’m not popular enough to pull off something like that. I was simply writing critically about the norms and expectations we live by. Maybe you have noticed it, but there are ideas we must believe in. A single idea of this nation we must all rally behind. There is a control of thought. There are ways we can and cannot dress ourselves. And, depending on who’s asking, you could say that there is a leader in this country we cannot say anything negatively about at the risk of being locked away. At the same time, though, I’m at odds with the opposing radicals and revolutionaries. I don’t like their vision of the future, or their methods. They’re just as rigid. Just as macho. They disapprove of my loud guitar and theatrics. They call me an American puppet. At best, I’m a meaningless, unformed piece of clay. Stuck in the middle. But I’d seen some of my own friends and peers caught up in the heat and fury of it all, only to end up dead or to disappear. Some people who disappeared ended up coming out the other side, floating down the Pinheiros River. So how could I choose?

For years now, my goal was to establish myself as a voice of this generation. I started on the fledgling rock and roll scene of São Paulo. But audiences weren’t so receptive to my introspective approach. They wanted something they could dance to more easily. It was only when I teamed up with a drummer, Sérgio, and set out onto more edgy ground that people started to notice. AI-5 was a big, honking question mark, then, on what a performer like me could get away with.

So no, I was not one to stage a revolution. I just spoke my mind and didn’t quite fit in. I was just vague enough in what I created. A bit confusing. Troubling. Those songs were recorded, then made their way onto a few pieces of vinyl, before being played by some radio stations, which, in turn, attracted the attention of listeners, censors, and the anxious government.

And so these plainclothes officers, who tore me off the street in a car, pried me for non-existent answers for weeks. All the while, myself and what sounded like a few others—I can’t be sure as I had a hood over my head the whole time—were steadily drained of our will to continue. Our clothes were taken away. We were tossed scraps of food through a squeaky slot in the door once a week. They stored us in rooms which alternated in scorching heat and startling cold. An infernal, constant noise perforated our cells from speakers. Currents of electricity shot through the floor at irregular intervals, jolts of searing pain running through my body in the middle of the long nights. We were made to stand for hours at a time as they screamed at us. My heart is beating, but all I have left is the husk of who I was before.

Eventually, when they realized there was nothing they could get out of me, they had uncovered the fact that I had been avoiding military service. Cumulatively, that was enough to sentence me to three years in jail. Circumstances couldn’t have piled on in a more unfortunate manner.

So I got a bit of fame with my song. “Perfeccionista” was its name. “Perfectionist.” Did you hear it? It got airtime for a few weeks on some of the underground stations around the city. Musically, I had never done better. And this was the result of that “fame.”

The guards divided up the prisoners into groups of 10 once we reached the other end of the building where the showers were. Mine had nine, accounting for my cellmate, Samuel, who was in solitary confinement after our fight the day before. We waited calmly at the door of the shower room as each cohort went in, cleaned up, and left. The steam escaped the room, the condensation clinging to our skin.

When it was our turn to go in, I took my uniform off and placed it on a shelf and just stood under the warm water for a moment. Water is something from heaven. It eases your mind no matter how badly you feel. It cleans you up, heals you, and puts you back on the right track. I saw the water, discoloured from my wounds, rushing down the drain. I felt it wash away the mess I had made. What a complete mess everything had become. A total waste.

Why did I have to be so enamoured with pointless songs, stage lights, melodies, and rhythm? Why did I have to crave something so impractical and so unattainable? If I had taken a more conventional route like everyone had told me to, followed my father’s footsteps and became a lawyer, applied my brain to that and given my time wholeheartedly to that, I could have been unstoppable. I could have a home and maybe a family. I wouldn’t have been tortured or thrown in prison. Never mind that, though, there was no changing the past. I took my rag and some soap, and scrubbed away at the memory of disapproving cousins, aunts, uncles, parents. It was time to leave that behind.

I took the soap and lathered it in my hands to clean my hair as well as I could. It was like washing your hair in the kitchen sink. I had to do it quickly and get the soap out of my eyes and face so I limited the amount of time I couldn’t see around me. With the sound of water getting higher in pitch as it filled my cupped left hand, I splashed my face. It wasn’t enough. I did it again, and halfway through my cupped hand being filled, a hard clanging noise rang out to my surprise. I jumped at the thought of someone seizing the opportunity to attack, but when I splashed my eyes and turned around, I saw three of the other prisoners kicking in a pipe that came out from a large, cylindrical metal boiler. One of them got down and loosened something on the pipe and then signalled the other two to kick again. This time, the pipe dislodged and hot steam blasted back at them. They yelped out and fumbled on their backs to the wall behind, one of them calling to the other “Grab the pipe! Take it!”

The prisoner closest to the boiler, an older, greying man with a sunburnt back, reached forward with two hands and stomped at the loose pipe repeatedly until it came off, clattering to the tile floor. The noise had alerted the guards outside the shower room and down the corridor, but by the time they ran inside, it was too late. The tall, furious ringleader of the three wrapped his towel around the end of the hot pipe and began swinging at the guards, bludgeoning one in the neck. Upon impact, he crumpled to the floor and slipped onto his face. And then another swing—knocking the next guard out cold. The waiting prisoners rushed in and kicked mercilessly, crying out for backup, as a multitude of bystanders seized the moment, stealing a key and opening up the gate that separated living quarters from the showers and the dining hall. In a total reverse movement, the flow of prisoners going through their morning routine came back through and rushed up to their cells, grabbing anything lethal they could wield.

What could have been a mass organized escape dissolved into terror as prisoners, catching sight of their enemies, launched into ruthless attacks. Realizing the knife’s edge I was walking on, I decided not to return to my cell, lest I be cornered by Samuel breaking out of solitary confinement and returning to the same cell with his allies. I would be leaving behind everything I had written during my time behind bars, certain trinkets I had collected and made in the exceptionally long, dreadful months I had been here. There wasn’t even enough time to put my clothes on properly. I slipped on my trousers and shoes, tied the shirt around my waist and fumbled through the walls of thrashing arms until I reached the yard. There was no one to stop us. Presumably all of the guards were underneath piles of inmates, trapped. I consciously shifted my mind from the horror that was within metres of me and hit the dusty clay of the open yard, my shoelaces flopping from side to side as I searched for a passage out.

Across a gap between the humidity-stained stone prison buildings, inmates still in their cells were waving laundry, towels, rags, and protruding odds and ends out of the bars to get my attention. They called for me to look up, to do something, to get them out. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I stared down, and moved ahead, shutting out the deepest curses that fell upon me from above. It’s something that still haunts me.

What helps me sleep at night is that, even if some of those people shouldn’t have been there, there were enough that were there for good reason. That’s how I live with burdens like these, I outweigh my guilt with some kind of desperate, half-prepared counter-argument. Anyway, I had to move fast, and I was lucky that, seemingly, all of the guards were sent to secure the uprising in our cell block. As I turned a corner, I saw the gates opening up, and three trucks of police poured into the prison, armed, tense and gazing concertedly ahead in my direction. Seeking protection, I sprinted and dove around the next corner, huddling against the walls that hid from the sun. Seeing an opening, only a few seconds long, where I could slip past another stream of trucks, this time covered vehicles, I ran low to the ground into a cluster of trees that surrounded the west exit of Carandiru. Here, the air was cool and sweet. It struck me that I hadn’t spent much time around trees since I was a child, playing in the fruit garden of my avô and avó’s country house. I caught my breath, savouring the distinct lack of a mouldy stench.

Sitting in darkness, I fastened the buttons of my shirt methodically as I sought the direction of my next move. I wondered if perhaps the way I was dressed, especially in this neighbourhood, would create the wrong kind of attention. And how long would it be before everyone on the outside knew what had happened?

I didn’t have very long, so with as much restraint as I could muster, I walked slowly to the side of the road. Looking up, I could see a signpost that read “Avenida General Ataliba Leonel.” The name was familiar from history lessons years before; he was somehow involved in the Revolution of 1932 if I remember correctly. How often our struggles come to combat. Who knows how many more times it will come to that in our world.

I saw a truck idling briefly in front of a bakery and, sure that no one was looking, climbed under the tarp that covered its flatbed and nestled myself into the back by the cab. I held tightly to a sack of flour, baking powder, something like that, while I heard the driver bid farewell and get back behind the wheel. Unaware, the driver shifted into first gear and continued down the road. When I could, I gazed out at my city from under the truck’s cover. We continued unabated, around a bend, past houses and businesses, rising apartment blocks, and a waking crowd of free people. I suppose I could have gone the other direction, to see my family one more time. They don’t know where I am, and I don’t think they would want to see me now in this condition. I left the idea alone.

After what must have been 20 minutes, the buildings thinned out and were replaced by forests, vine covered shacks, and high walls, the ones covered with pieces of broken glass to keep burglars out. The morning smog gradually formed a blanket over everything we passed, giving way to higher elevation and cleaner air. As the driver with a truckload of baking supplies slowed down on the dirt tracks, I climbed out and hit the ground. The truck carried on with a tail of stirred up gravel behind it.

The January heat scorched the grass and sides of the road, leaving me exposed to everyone’s view. So, I crossed the road and followed another track into the protection of the forest. And that’s where I’ve come from, probably 50 kilometres in that direction, on the other side of Rio Juqueri.

If what I have just told you makes you at all consider allowing me to stay here, I’d like to add that I can make myself useful. I will even sleep in the shed, so I don’t take up too much space. Please, I beg of you. I don’t know what’s next.

#short story #historical fiction #brasil #author #são paulo #brazil #story

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june-of-earth · 2 years

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Feb 05th, 23

1. I was out and about sorta traveling around from bar to bar. It felt like I was alone and had my night sorta planned just getting lost from tavern to tavern. Until I walked into a dive bar where I knew practically everyone. It wasn’t till I ran into someone I knew that my night would be taken a drastic turn. I was conversing where I thought the level of energy from this person was in a positive/neutral level, but it wasn’t. It’s like I crossed them and now I’m hearing it finally. To make the dream more of a guilt trip the bartender sorta gave me the same interaction. I can’t I’ve met her in my waking life. She’s a little older and has some stories to share. She comes off as someone’s opinions you’d respect. So I let her tell me what I did. I don’t feel to great about it. The bar lights turn on and she tells me to get out, and don’t ever come back here.

(I’ve been getting stuck in loops, and honestly its my drinking that’s a problem. I forgive my transgressions and move on without really looking at myself and getting myself help. Or actually stopping myself from putting up with this over and over again. It’s caused me some troubles along the way throughout the years, and I feel the bad is now equally weighed to the good times I’ve had. Lately I’ve been looking at myself and if i ever would be able to put this aside for a partner. Like actually settle down and just be at home. The last thing I wanna be is toxic to someone that loves me.)

2. I’m staying with a friend. It’s not the best of places but it’ll do. Time slowly passes and the water-n-tear are slowly making its appearance throughout the place. Eventually enough is enough and I decide to leave the place.

(This dream I can relate to in my waking life. Honestly because I’ve done it. I squandered some time not to long ago. I wasn’t living in the best of places, but it was a free bed. Not my best VH1 behind the music story, but I was unemployed and didn’t really have a lot going on in my life. Eventually some time passed and enough was enough. I had to get myself out of there. Took a lot of hurdles and some waiting but I’m getting myself back together. Just gotta be patient a little longer till I’m back to where I was at, and be more now than I was then.)

3. She looks like someone I know in my waking life. Not someone I fully know, where we can call ourselves friends. In this dream we know each other pretty well and it’s becoming pretty intimate. She really has a thing for me and it’s not until I meet someone else that this is finally starting to happen. I’m nervous, I wanna say it’s friends or bad timing that these two women are getting more closer and closer to meeting one another. It’s like I’m stuck between who to choose. The girl that I’m friends with finally confesses herself to me and I’m finally happy that this is happening. She starts telling me about how she feels and wants to take things to the next level with our relationship. She starts talking about this trip she was going with her friends and how she was wondering that if I would like to go. As soon has I come to speak out loud “yes!” For a brief second.. I look up to see that other girl across the way, I don’t speak out yes. She starts thinking I’m ignoring her, or if I heard what she just asked. And as soon as this happens the she looks at the other girl appears and looks back at me and her eyes are filled with rage. She starts shouting, thunder starts clapping in the background. She voices herself on how she wants nothing to do with me. I try to explain myself, how I’m committed to her, and want her and only her, but she wants me gone. I try to argue back..I say it’s not what you think… she starts screaming go away…I buckle…I don’t wanna fight this rage. I walk away a couple steps… I turned back but she started her car and without a second look…leaves. It starts to rain, and I walk home not knowing where the tears truly began, before or during the storm.

(I woke up pretty angry from this one. I didn’t really have a thought. Just anger. It’s just how I felt during that walk in my dream..in the rain. It’s like I walked until all my sadness left me…and as that sadness left me anger took its place until I was numb. It’s as a person who lost everything feels…empty..then after I don’t know how long of walking…I finally woke up, and I just felt so empty. So angry.)

—I found that if I just have something of the lines of a subject title for my dreams. I can slowly dial back on what occurred at times. Not all the details but the grit of it all. As long I have a subject title or something of an idea of main occurrence I can voice it out.

—I’ll try to post these more often. It’s been awhile. It really makes me think a lot in my waking life. How I wanna be better, and just need a push, and I feel that it’s my dreams that give me a push.

-Rico

#self #dreams

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confinedinthisflesh · 4 years

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i’m calling it now, next year’s spotify wrapped top artists:

1/2. YUNGBLUD or Bastille

3. MGK

4. Alec Benjamin

and based on the pattern of the last 5 years of my life:

5. Black Veil Brides

#my music has taken a drastic turn this year #oldformatremmie #remmierambles #bandthatmustnotbenamed #alecbenjie #bastilletriangle

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shima-draws · 3 years

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Some thoughts about Legends Arceus!

Okay okay okay I’m REALLY enjoying this game so far holy shit. I did not expect it to be so fun especially the Pokemon catching mechanic but that’s turning out to be a total blast.

-The music is so so so pretty and I love how there’s multiple tracks that take direct inspiration/are subtle remixes from DPP (looking at you Eterna Forest)

-THE INTRO??? It’s really a lot like a classic Pokemon game intro with a professor but instead it’s just Arceus going. Hey. Sup fam. Need your help with smth ;) Also Arceus talking in like fancy old speech like using thee and thou cndnfnnd

-Love how it’s confirmed from the start that you’re a time traveler. My question tho is is this the same Dawn/Lucas from Sinnoh as we know it now?? Is this pre-DPP before they became a trainer or post after they become Champion…real questions

-REI REI REI MY BELOVED. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH. This has made me ship Dawn/Lucas even harder. I love that they have a bigger role in this game since they’re barely around in DPP. We lost Barry but we gained a rival and friend in Rei/Akari 🥺 But Nintendo WHY did you make their partner Pokemon Pikachu I’m going to fucking throat punch you you could have picked literally ANY OTHER Pokemon and it would have been better. Please.

-I LOVE THAT WE GOT A CONFIRMED AGE AND WE’RE ACTUALLY A TEENAGER IN THIS GAME. That feels WAY more appropriate than going out on a Pokemon journey as a baby 10 year old. This is the age I headcanon most of the Pokemon protags at so I was thrilled to see we’re actually getting it canonically confirmed this time 😤

-The fact that they literally tell you multiple times “Oh yeah you’ll most likely get attacked and die from a wild Pokemon” LIKE XNANGMSNSN BRO??? THIS SHIT GOT SO DARK ALL OF A SUDDEN. “A lot of people are too scared to even leave the village” “Some of our members got MAULED by a wild Pokemon and had to be taken to the medic” “Your chances of survival are super low” WHAT KIND OF BATSHIT INSANE WORLD IS THIS LMAO. How did the world change so drastically from “Pokemon are awful and evil and want to hunt you for sport” to “Pokemon are wonderful and amazing and are our friends! 😘” I need to see this transition in this game I expect it

-THE AMOUNT OF ANCESTORS I’VE RUN INTO HOLY SHIT. I’m absolutely loving it tbh. So far I’ve found Marley, Cynthia, Mira, Flint, Karen, Darach, Cyrus, Rowan, and Saturn’s ancestors, and those are just the ones off the top of my head, I am SURE there are more and I can’t wait to find them all

-WYRDEER 😭

-I’m so used to playing Genshin that I keep accidentally trying to do Genshin things since the open world mechanics are so similar and then I get sad when I realize I can’t jump lmao

-AAA THE OUTFITSSSSS I unlocked the Oshawott kimono and almost cried it’s so CUTE. I hope we get more options tho bc what you start with is p limited? I want to wear leggings with my other tops and not baggy pants please 🙏

-Idk if it’s just me but while the battle system in itself is fine WHY do your Pokemon take so much fucking damage holy shit. The amount of potions I’ve had to use is ridiculous. My level 12 Oshawott should not have lost over half its HP against a level 7 Buizel get out

Aaaaa I can’t wait to play more this game is ADDICTING and I mean that in the best way. It’s absolutely fantastic so far!! And while I’ve been spoiled to open world games with way higher quality graphics (coughGenshincough) the environments in this game are pretty decent and it’s not enough to detract from the overall experience.

Also again Rei I’d die for you

#Shima speaks #Pokemon #Pokemon Legends Arceus #Legends Arceus #Pokemon Legends Arceus spoilers

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lezziemanville · 2 years

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work wives prompt - melissa and barbara go away for the weekend together

(This one got a little longer. In fact I had to stop myself from turning it into a full length fic. Ugh I love them. Also not looking for praise but can someone tell me if these are in character? I’d hate to be writing all of them horribly wrong and I’m new here!)

The annual teaching conference in New York City is one of Barbara’s favorite times of year. It’s early summer and school has let out, so the stress of the curriculum has eased.

Usually she goes alone but this year Melissa is joining her and they decide to drive the 2 hours into the city together.

The drive is uneventful and relaxed, Melissa driving with Barbara’s directions, music they both enjoy underscoring the trip. Barbara smiles to herself during a stretch of silence, let’s herself enjoy how much more enjoyable it is with her friend alongside her.

At the hotel, there’s a mixup. Shockingly, and completed unexpected, the double queen room reservation has become a single. It’s a little awkward when the concierge let’s them know but Melissa waves her hand, “It’s not a problem. It’s two nights. It’ll be like a slumber party.”

When they arrive in the room, Melissa is the first to lay down on the bed, red hair cascading over the white pillow case. Barbara watches her, feels her heart suddenly speed up, despite having taken the elevator.

Melissa’s eyelashes drop seductively low over her eyes and she strokes the bed linens, “Are you going to join me, Miss Howard?”

Barbara knows she’s blushing, knows her body is reacting absurdly to the way Melissa looks and sounds laying in the bed they’ll be sharing. Even though there’s a twinkle in Melissa’s eye that suggests she’s just being funny and playful, Barbara feels like the temperature in the room has suddenly risen.

She finally does join Melissa, laying next to her on the bed as they both look up at the ceiling in comfortable silence.

The first night is a casual meet and greet for conference attendees. Barbara knows many of the people there, it’s mostly the same faces each year. Melissa being new to the whole thing has meant a million introductions. Barbara watches her across the room, surrounded by a small circle of men. She’s beautiful. Of course this isn’t new information, Barbara’s always known how attractive she is. Tonight, however, it feels different.

Melissa is wearing a pencil skirt and a tight fitting black top that shows off parts of the younger woman that she had only seen alluded to in her teaching clothes. Her hair is styled impeccably as usual, but she’s gone with a shade of dark red lipstick that reminds Barbara of glamorous Old Hollywood.

She realizes she’s staring when Barbara locks eyes with her. There’s something in the other woman’s gaze that doesn’t look quite right and it’s only seconds before Barbara is at her side, touching her elbow and handing her a drink.

“I’d love to introduce you boys to my wife, Miss Barbara Howard.”

Barbara’s eyes widen and she almost chokes on a sip of champagne but manages to swallow just in time.

The man — Paul she thinks? — looks confused at first. Not half as confused as she is.

“Oh, Barbara I thought — god all these years, I thought you were married to a man.”

Barbara tries to be as smooth as possible, tries not to look too pale-knuckled at this sudden drastic ruse she’s been pulled into, “Well, that’s what you get for assuming.”

“Good point, sensitivity training. I should know better,” Paul chuckles.

“Anyways,” Melissa changes the topic, tells the gentlemen she’d love to stay and chat but they were hoping to have a quiet night together after a long week.

Barbara can feel the men watching them as they depart and Melissa takes Barbara’s hand, her hip brushing against the seem of her tailored suit.

Out of earshot, Melissa squeezes her hand and leans in to whisper in her ear, “I’m sorry I did that, I panicked. There were four of them and I could tell not one was interested in what school I taught at.”

Barbara squeezes back reassuringly, “Don’t be sorry. I’m happy to help out. Some people don’t know how to take a hint.”

They step into the elevator and they’re up to floor 12 before Barbara remembers to let go of Melissa’s hand.

“I can’t blame them you know,” Barbara hears herself saying, “You look truly stunning tonight.”

“Oh?” Melissa looks down the front of her blouse, brushes her hand over the curve of her skirt, “Thanks. It’s nice to be able to dress like a hot-blooded adult for a change.”

Barbara clears her throat, tries not to give thought to the unmistakable feeling of arousal that she tries but fails to will away.

“You know you don’t look half bad yourself,” Melissa says conversationally but something in the redhead’s voice hints that it’s not quite as casual a remark as she plays it off to be.

Melissa’s fingers touch the collar of her blouse that has tucked itself beneath the the fold of her suit jacket and she gently runs her fingers over it to flatten it back into place.

The proximity is too much for Barbara. She feels like she’s having a hot flash, feels a little light headed.

The elevator pinging is like a small mist of cold water, enough to change the atmosphere and help Barbara get ahold of herself but it’s short lived because when they’re back in the room, Melissa comes out of the bathroom wearing an oversized Philadelphia Phillies t-shirt that barely reaches the tops of her thighs.

It takes great willpower not to stare at Melissa’s bare legs. In fact it takes everything she has just to get to the bathroom herself to change into her pajamas.

She uses a cloth under the cold water to press to her forehead and cheeks, but it’s really no use. All she can think about is the woman in her bed and how this is only night one of two and if things are already this bad, how is she going to make it through the weekend?

She moves the cloth to her chest even though it dampens the collar of her silk pajamas. Then, she sets it aside and let’s out the breath she’s been holding. She flattens her hand against the closed bathroom door a moment to collect herself, pressing her other hand against the throbbing ache between her legs.

Finally, she clears her throat, opens the door and switches off the bathroom light knowing it’s going to be the longest night of her life.

[Part 2 here]

#abbott elementary #Barbara Howard #Melissa Schemmenti #work wives #my fic

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diaryofasupergroupie · 2 years

Text

Stop ignoring abuse - pt.1

**TRIGGER WARNING - DISCUSSION OF UNDERAGE S** AND ABUSE** This might be the end of my blog, but I have some things to say. This is a long post so it will be in 3 pts, this pt 1 which focuses on abuse while underage. Pt 2 and 3 are about things over the age of 18 and things which are damaging but often overlooked. I want to also put an extreme trigger warning on this and although nothing is graphic this walks about underage girls being used when they cannot consent. If you think this isn’t good for you to read, please skip this one.

There was a point where I was absolutely taken with the scene, it was my life and I wasted a decade on it. I loved the bands and the music and the whole lifestyle of it. How much I loved and gave to it is obvious from my early posts. But there is a problem in the music industry, more specifically in the groupie scene I was in. It’s hard to name a band I associated with who haven’t had some kind of scandal. My opinion has changed drastically for a number of reasons. I’ll get into that but right now I think there is an issue when so many girls have the same story of grown men getting into relationships with minors, sleeping with minors, sending explicit photos and messages to minors, flirting with minors and making creepy comments to minors. Let me stress this, doing these things with women is not always okay but when I say minors I mean girls under consenting age - children. Let me stress that grown men SA, r***ing and demeaning women is disgusting. Grown men making creepy remarks to women can get labelled as misogynistic. That is something I will get into but I want to start where I started - a child.

There’s a lot to unpack here so let me first get into the reasons why my thinking has changed. First of all I am now 27, I’m very old and that makes you reflect on yourself when you are fully grown. Secondly, my baby sister turned 14 which some of you might remember was my age when I entered the scene. Finally, the accusations about the bands I personally went to bed with are now so many I cannot pass it off anymore. Its easy to pretend the accusations made by 2 or 3 girls are fake and for attention, I am now in the hundreds. I will no longer make excuses for these men. I will share some of my experiences of things that should never have been allowed to happen to me.

The first story I ever shared was my first time in the scene. It took place in 2009 - I was 14. I don’t need to say this but the age of consent in my country is 16. Laughable when you can’t even vote until 18. But another note, the men who did this come from a country where 18 is consenting age. This experience wasn’t technically abuse per say but it is still entirely unacceptable and that band also have some hefty accusations to their name. I used to count one of them as my big brother. I can’t deny he supported and cared for me. But now I have said I will no longer stand for their abuse - he hasn’t spoken to me in over a year. I have made the decision to not name people now but that may change. Even writing this is a big step for me.

Their tour manager at the time asked me if I wanted to meet the band. It was obvious I was underage. In my opinion he facilitated the abuse and picked girls out. They asked my age and I said 17 - still underage. Someone in the band told me he knew I wasn’t 17 and yet this continued. I got into their tour van, they let me - a 14 year old girl - to come back to where they were staying. When I did he kissed me. For years I excused this by saying he was only in his early 20s. But an adult man in his early 20’s knows it is not acceptable to kiss a 14 year old girl all evening. I went to their next gig and despite their being a room full of people who saw this man kiss me, no one did anything. That is when you know there has been a problem for a lot longer than when I found this scene. This grown man attempted to feel me under my shirt and then sat me on his lap all evening. In my diary I describe this as him having ownership over me - this is in no way okay. He also took my number.

The same year a band took me back to their van and touched me under my clothes. They offered to take me on the road with them. I made it clear I was underage. One of them pulled out his dick to show me. Again, not acceptable. That band never blew up, probably for the best.

Another band who blew up spent time with me. They also have accusations against them. But personally I think the press have fixated on the wrong band member. Here I want to include some direct quotes, or as direct as possible considering they’re coming from my diary when I was 14. For reference all of these men I’m talking about were in their late 20’s when his happened. For a long time I thought it was okay but I am their age and I have no desire to sleep with a 14 year old child. “You look like the type of girl to get me in trouble.” “All American’s want an English girl under their belt.” One of them kissed me, felt under my dress and wrapped his arm around me in ownership like they do. He put his drumsticks in between my breasts. But the worst is his bandmate who after the gig got a roadie to pull me into a side room. In that room this man over a decade older than me had s** with me - except it wasn’t s** because I was too young to consent. After he carried on like it was nothing, saved my number and left. I’m not sure about everyone else, but I don’t find 14 year olds attractive, never mind have any desire to sleep with them. The thought actually disgusts me and it should you. Two members of that band deserve to not have a career but no one talks about the one who actually slept with me.

I want to stress this all happened when I was underage and weren’t the only things that happened. These are just some of the worst in my eyes considering it kick started them having relationships with me in some cases for over ten years. There were other men too while I was underage, most also have accusations against them unsurprisingly but they never tried to maintain any contact after so even though they are disgusting for doing that, I feel less anger towards them. The man I mentioned in the first post though was arguably the worst, carrying it on and sleeping with me 6 times while I was underage, sending me nudes, insisting I did the same, sexting me, getting me drunk, giving me drugs and manipulating me. This was still continuing when I started this blog. This isn’t just my opinion, there are so many girls who think the same. I have not included the men who were generally just creepy, telling me I was pretty, they liked my boobs or ass, they wished they could keep me in their van, told me I should drop out to stay with them because it was the best shot I would get. None of these things are okay either, but I think sometimes that gets lost in the accusations. I am not diminishing the trauma of people, but I think it is also a good indication of character when so many musicians claim this to be a moment of misjudgement or even blame the girls. I will be talking about this more.

As I said this is only one part, I felt it right to address things which occurred when I was underage first. Next in pt 2 I will address abuse which happened once I was over 18 which may not be illegal but it is still abuse and manipulation. I believe that all of these experiences are important. In pt 3 I will discuss the overall issues in the scene and the things which are often not talked about when we talk about abuse. To repeat, nothing I talk about is okay and if you are or have experienced this do not make excuses for it.

If you need to talk get in touch with helplines, reach out to those around you or you can message or DM me, anon or not - I will not share any details unless you would like me to. Sending love xoxo - K

#groupie #diary of a super groupie #bands #diary #rock bands #abuse #accusations #trauma #groupie scene #music industry

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yoonpobs · 3 years

Text

we don't talk together | myg

pairing: min yoongi x oc

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, growth! exes that remain exes

words: 2, 842

summary: it's hard to say it's over

What they don't tell you about goodbyes is that it isn't the end.

It's far from the closing of a book. Goodbyes are the itch that urges you to pick up an old book from the shelf just to feel what you first felt when you re-read certain parts of a book; the same remorse you felt when a character you grew attached to didn't get the ending they deserved. Or, maybe it was the villain that was misunderstood—your own heart wishing to reach out to the sad soul that couldn't even be recognised when all they do is speak.

But some books will end up dusty, forgotten, tucked away in the corner of your shelf; or in the most drastic of cases: lost.

"The park looks ... different," Yoongi speaks up for a lack of a better conversation starter.

You hum. What would you say? That it wasn't the same from when we used to spend our Spring's blended into Summer's until it got too hot for us to lay in each other's embrace?

It was still too fresh even though it's been nearly a year.

"There are more dogs," You point out the moment a tan pomeranian runs past the two of you, the owner an old couple laughing away under the cherry blossoms.

He nods, fingers stuffed in his trench coat. You note that it's the same one he wore on your anniversary, plans abandoned when there was a mix-up with the reservations until the two of you stumbled across a hidden gem that soon became your go-to date place.

You will yourself to look away so no more memories can resurface. It seems like every part of your life has somehow seamlessly intertwined itself with traces of Yoongi that it was impossible for you to exist as just yourself.

"How are things at the firm?" He asks after the two of you walked side-by-side in complete silence as more and more chatter fill your ears.

"It's ... going," You chuckle dryly.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow at you, shooting you a brief glance over until the two of you reach a bench. You dare say it's muscle memory that dragged your heavy feet into the direction of the only bench that you've known in the park. The compressed reminder of the initials of your names that you carved as teenagers likely still staining the years old wood. It was meant to be an emblem for wisdom, the ring of growth that meant to be the endgame for the two of you.

You almost laugh in bitterness and how literal the metaphor was.

"Everything okay?"

Yoongi takes the first step to sit on the bench because he always did. Ever the gentlemen when he opened doors for you, let you into the car first, waited until you stepped ahead of him to trail behind like a shield.

The first date, first kiss, first confession.

The first one to decide that it was over.

"My boss is just being sexist, as usual. I thought I'd get used to it after spending two years there but ... there are some things that you just stay unfamiliar, you know?"

It was very like you to speak in double-entendres without intending to. But it was also like Yoongi to pick up on it, especially after years of learning all the best and worst parts of you; he was and probably will be one of the few people in your lives that will always foresee your next move.

The two of you sit a fair distance apart on the bench even if it was a battle for space anyway. You didn't have the liberty to lean into his embrace anymore and he wasn't in the position to say that it was okay for you to breathe, to relax.

"You shouldn't get used to those remarks. There are times where you learn to grow used to constructive criticism but if what he's saying makes you question your worth because of very arbitrary reasons like your gender then that isn't criticism, nor is it constructive. It's bigoted and chauvinistic."

You look down to your thumbs as you fiddle with it, his words comforting you. It was woeful that you still chased validation from him even after learning to be that person to yourself.

"Yeah, I guess."

Then how did you get used to things?

If time didn't make things familiar then what did? Was it not the five years with Yoongi that led you to see him build an empire for himself all the while destroying the relationship that you had? Or was it because he was the person that you thought of doing the most minuscule things?

"By the way," He clears his throat, eyes still set forward, "Namjoon says hi."

You raise an eyebrow, surprised to hear the name of a mutual friend—or more appropriately, friend by association and acquaintance when that link was broken.

"He knows that you're with me?"

Yoongi nods his head.

"I needed to let someone at the studio know and ... well, he's the only one that knew of our situation."

You chuckle bitterly.

Of course. The suggestion of his work only made your heart drop because as much as you wanted to be supportive of him, even after the break-up, the name of his studio or songs only reminded you of the battle that you helplessly lost.

"You can tell him that I'm still a text or phone call away. No need to play messenger," You return.

The atmosphere is more reflective than awkward. You know that the two of you had your pieces to say, your own narrative to tell but neither brave enough to break the calm that you were settled in. It was a nice difference from the way that things ended, and you supposed that you were similar enough to believe in a mirage than the inevitable truth.

But you didn't call him out after six months to sit in silence to walk away with your heart feeling heavier, nor did you invite him out just to remember what it feels like to have him next to you—even in complete silence.

"Would you have really quit?"

This time, you gather all the bravery that you've built over the past few months to ask the question that has been mulling in your mind since the night you decided that it was officially over.

It was a painful break-up. Even if you expected it when Yoongi came home earlier one night with bags under his eyes and his keys that he usually left at the studio because he knew you'd always be home to open the door for him.

"I'm sorry?" He seems taken aback.

You don't blame him. You've always been more passive in dealing with confrontation due to your conflict-averse nature—but that didn't mean you didn't get angry or annoyed—or hurt. But if you learned anything, it was to stop asking yourself questions that you'll never have the answer to.

"Would you really have left the company to save our relationship?"

You chose your words carefully. Instead of saying to be with you, knowing that he lost the love, he had for you somewhere along the way—you point out the one hole that he held on to for the sake of stability. The one thing that was constant in his life with how unpredictable the music industry was.

"Yes."

Somehow, the answer doesn't make you feel better because even with time apart you knew he was lying to save your face.

"You don't owe me anything to lie to my face, Yoongi." You frown.

Yoongi sighs, rubbing his hands across his face as he leaves your statement hanging in the air to mull over his answer.

You prefer the silence that way. It showed that he was at least listening, or cared enough to decide his next set of words. Nothing like how much it pained you to acknowledge the responses you got from him when you were crying were just out of obligation than sincerity.

"No, I wouldn't have."

You nod your head, expectant of the answer but you needed to hear him say it himself rather than drowning yourself in ruminating thoughts of how there was still a semblance of hope that he would've given it up for you, for your relationship—or the life that you were meant to build.

"I wouldn't have asked you to, anyway." You confess.

Yoongi turns his head to look at you and for the first time since you've met at the park, he notices the absence of a necklace around your neck. The necklace that you never took off. He wants to comment on it, ask where it went or if you've pawned it off out of pettiness but he held no remorse towards you. You were tolerant with the break-up even as you sucked in your tears when he knew that it killed you on the inside. Yoongi didn't have the heart in him to ask you.

"Oh."

"You were the one that said you'd quit so we could stay together," You say softly.

Yoongi doesn't respond as he looks back to the night where the two of you sat down to talk about the standing of your relationship. It was a rollercoaster of emotions that started off with an amicable discussion that eventually led to the two of you yelling until you surrendered to your tears and just left the battle completely.

He said a lot of things that night. From things that he's been bottling up for months, to things that he's always wanted to tell you and things that he didn't remotely mean, and things that he's regretted the moment it left his lips.

"I guess I did."

You sigh, leaning back into the bench as you observe a couple walking in front of you, passing your bench as they share an ice cream on a cone; bickering on who'd get the first lick. To anyone, you and Yoongi would've looked just like a couple that has reached a comfortable point in your relationship where intimacy was just sitting next to one another.

But you admit, there was something oddly intimate and heart-breaking about sitting next to someone you've loved with your whole heart and feel nothing but ... weightlessness. Like the burden of your concerns was lifted ever so slightly just being here.

"I wouldn't have made you choose between your relationship or your dream, Yoongi. I would never have done that to you."

Yoongi knew you would never have made him do something as abhorrent as that. You were far too understanding. But you had wanted from him too, that he wasn't willing to provide just yet. He didn't know if it was because of the expiration date to your relationship or because of the stress he was under at work—but he convinced himself that it was you that was asking for too much instead of him compromising too little.

"I ... I know," He whispers, "I'm sorry."

You purse your lips. You try not to let your emotions appear on your sleeve. You were tired of allowing your face to speak before you did. You needed to use the voice you had.

"I loved you so much, Yoongi," You murmur, "I loved you so much that I would have taken anything I could've gotten with you just so I could be with you."

Yoongi stays silent at this.

"I didn't mind if you spent more time at work than at our home. I just wanted to know if I was ever in the picture when you were talking about the future. I know how much you love music and I supported you through every audition and failure ... and to know that I was just—" You swallow, the words still painful to say. But you needed to make your peace with it, "—that I was just someone that would wait for you instead of your partner. That's when I knew that you didn't love me the way I loved you."

Yoongi chokes to speak up but you shake your head.

"No, Yoongi. You loved me, you did. But somewhere along the way you stopped and you just pretended that we were okay even when I was trying my best to fix the seams. I wasn't your girlfriend anymore, I was just someone familiar to you and I didn't deserve to feel that way." You tell him sternly.

Yoongi surrenders to his silence as you take a deep breath to continue.

"Maybe I loved you too much in a way that you couldn't understand."

"_______, don't say that—" His eyes widen when he tries to reach a hand to yours to comfort you, but your body language remains stoic as you keep your hands in your lap.

"—and that's okay Yoongi. I loved you but not in the way you needed. I'm not here to make you feel bad about what I chose to do on my own because it wasn't my fault that I couldn't be what you need." You say sadly, but a small smile on your face as you finally say the words that have been eating at you for months.

"... okay," Yoongi accepts.

"We all have different ways to love and be loved. I loved you and that was enough for you at one point but love isn't all a relationship needs. You loved me too, in your own way and I accepted that but just because it was enough for me doesn't mean it was enough for us." You glance over at him to see him staring at you intently.

"I'm sorry that things turned out this way," Yoongi says softly, eyes gentle.

You wave him off.

"I don't think I'll ever love someone as much as I loved you, though," He confesses, eyes returning to the scene in front of him filled with different colours of life that seemed to look vibrant under the Spring sunset.

You shake your head and chuckle softly.

"You say that now but you'll meet someone one day and you'll remember all the reasons why you love in the first place. And it'll be enough for you, and them."

He shrugs, a small smile itching on his face.

"I really did love you," He says, "But I'm sorry for not being honest with you. I owe you that much of an apology."

"We're not here to forgive or forget, Yoongi," You look at him kindly, "We're here to move on."

He purses his lips and hums, nodding his head.

"I hope you get that promotion at work you were talking about months ago, ______." Yoongi offers, a gentle grin marring his face.

"I did," You shrug.

It feels liberating to have achieved something and only feeling content by acknowledging it yourself. Months ago, you would've hurt at the fact that Yoongi didn't know. But the change you welcomed after the end only showed you that there was a new path for you to walk on.

His eyes widen, but eventually, he chuckles and shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded a lot like knew it.

You push yourself off the bench, dusting your hands on your pants as you offer him one last smile before you say goodbye for the second time.

"I hope you find someone who you'll love more than you ever did with me." You tease.

He rolls his eyes.

"Impossible," The grin on his face is easy, and your heart still clenches at the nonchalance, but you don't expect the feeling to go away so easily—nor do you mind. It just shows that you needed to wait and that you were willing to do it.

"Of course you will. You're a musician, Yoongi. You need a muse," You smirk at him as you turn around, a small wave on your hand to say goodbye.

As you walk away and his body gets smaller and smaller from your vision, you turn around to say:

"We don't talk together is a beautiful song."

Yoongi's smile is genuine, and so is his goodbye. A gentle acknowledgment of his hand as he stands up himself, walking to the other direction of where you were headed.

You still had a love for Yoongi, and you suppose you always will. Just like how you would feel pleasant when rediscovering a childhood hobby that triggers a fond memory, or how you love different things in your life in different ways. Whether or not you love someone more than you've ever loved Yoongi isn't your concern, because when love comes in one form, it goes in another.

When you still take the same route you'd usually take with Yoongi after your walks back home, you pass the cafe you used to frequent to see that it's replaced with a new bar. You smile fondly to yourself, shaking your head.

You loved that place.

But eventually, you'll find another cafe with a beautiful interior and a latte to match, and you'll love it too.

#bts fic #bts imagine #bts fics #bts imagines #bts yoongi #bts fluff #bts angst #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #yoongi exes #yoongi imagine #yoongi fic #yoongi breakup #angst #fluff #yoongi #min yoongi x reader

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dorotharry · 3 years

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i want to write you a song

pairing: modern!bucky x singer!reader

warnings: nothing i don’t think just fluff eeeek (maybe mention of parents that have passed away) (ignore lack of capitals i wrote this on my phone)

blurb: where bucky has trouble dealing with his past and constantly feels he’s not good enough for reader. so her being a musician/singer she writes him a song.

a/n: i thought of this a little while ago but i decided to write it while i was bored on the plane. hope you enjoy :)

MY MASTERLIST

it had been a year for bucky. a year since losing steve and a year since the final battle.

after everything bucky was still plagued with nightmares. shuri had removed all the awful things hydra had put in his brain, but he still constantly felt shame and guilt for his past.

so when he met you 6 months after thanos, and coming back after the snap it had been hard for him to accept your love. and to realise that even through the nightmares and mental torture you still loved him.

unlike bucky you weren’t one of the lost. you had to live in a world for 5 years without many of the people you cared about.

you had always had a passion for music but in a time where the world was broken you turned to music even more. and even though it was a sad and hard time you had 3.5 billion less people that could want to be a musician and so people started to actually hear your music. most people turning to it for comfort.

you had always felt pain, even before the snap; having lost your family years beforehand. and so when anyone you had considered close left there was nothing left for you besides music.

when people actually listened, it made you feel like finally you had a purpose in the world.

in those 5 years you became a house hold name. so many people listening to your music which sang the words impossible to speak when most felt numb.

5 awful years went by, and finally the rest of the world came back after the final battle. you became even more of a well known name then as familys and friends shared your music with those they had lost to tell them what exactly had gotten them through. your music.

you felt honoured. and yet there was still a hole within you. a hole that had been there even before everything.

it was one day 6 months after everyone had returned when you had left your apartment in new york to get a coffee at your favourite local cafe. you had your usual cap and sunglasses on, in an attempt to disguise yourself.

without paying attention you swung the cafe door open hitting another customer with two coffees in hand, sending his drinks flying. like you he had a cap and sunglasses on.

“oh fuck, i’m so sorry” you rambled pulling your sunglasses off in hope he could see your sincerity. by now he’d removed his sunglasses himself but he was looking nervously at the ground.

“no it’s okay i shouldn’t have these on insid-“ his voice cut off as he looked up at you. “you’re (y/n).”

you sent him an apologetic look, but it quickly turned to a smirk. “that i am. and your bucky barnes. but no it’s my fault, i wasn’t paying attention.”

his gaze suddenly seemed more nervous again. “your one of the few people that hasn’t referred to me as the winter soldier” he spoke letting out a small smile.

you smiled back at his response. “why would i? anyway please let me buy you some new coffees” by now the staff had started cleaning up the mess sending you both glares.

“no you don’t have to i can get some new ones.” he responded shrugging.

“no no, it’s the least i can do bucky.” you responded giving him a big grin.

“fine” he finally sighed. “if you you insist,” his poker face turning to a smile.

you both walked over to the counter walking around the now clean but wet floor. you ordered yours and his drinks giving the cafe a $50 tip as an apology for messing up their morning.

while you were both waiting for your drinks you continued your conversation. “so how does the bucky barnes know who i am?” you asked wiggling your eyebrows as you emphasised his name.

his face blushed as he laughed at your expressions. “well my best friend steve listened to your music a lot when half the world was gone. myself included. and so he showed me it once i came back. thought i might enjoy the sadness of the music.”

you jaw dropped as you gasped. “you mean to tell me the captain america knew who i was?! that’s way more cool than you knowing who i am”

it was buckys turn to gasp. he placed his hand over his heart in a dramatic manner, “i’m hurt doll, truly hurt.”

your heart fluttered at the pet name he had just given you but instead of showing it you just stuck out your tongue in cheeky manner.

more chatting went on between the two of you until finally you got your order. unfortunately the perks of going to a very busy cafe.

you exited the warm cafe and were met with the cool winter air of new york. pulling you jacket in closer to yourself. your sunglasses already back on.

“now i don’t really know how to do this anymore. the last time i flirted was in the 1940s but i was wondering if i could get your number?” bucky asked cautiously. you could tell he was nervous.

your heart fluttered again. he wanted your number? you fumbled with your words. “y-yeah of course!”

his face fell slightly noticing your nervousness. “if you don’t want to give it to me don’t feel like you have to” he replied.

“no no it’s not that bucky. i just would never have thought someone as attractive as yourself would want my number.” your eyes fell the ground in embarrassment.

it was buckys turn to be surprised. “if anything it’s the other way around doll” he replied as he handed you his flip phone.

after you had given him your number you had continued to walk with him to the avengers compound. (for once not having anything on this morning). you had resisted the urge the entire time to make fun of his flip phone.

it didn’t take long for you to become attached to bucky as the months went on. much like he did with you.

you had begun dating a month in and would see each other as often as both your schedules would let you.

you had tried to keep the relationship hidden for a while. but it didn’t take long for the public to notice that ‘the winter soldier’ was dating the worlds beloved ‘(y/n) (y/l/n)’.

of course rumours spread and though both of you had anxieties that neither of you were good enough for the other. it was bucky who it affected more. constantly acting as if you would just disappear one day and he’d be left an empty shell of a person like he once was.

after around six months you had become so comfortable with one another. and so his insecurities were something you could never understand, having never endured what he had. to you he was the strongest person. to him you were the strongest person he knew.

it was your 5 month anniversary of dating coming up and though it was drastically important it meant a lot to you so you wanted to do something special. something to ease his insecurities so you did what you did best. make music.

you were in your apartment the only light around you being the glow of candles. just having finished dinner as you snuggled up to him on your couch.

you looked up to the beautiful man you felt honoured to call your own.

“i have a gift for you.” you spoke softly.

“oh yeah?” he smiled giving you a kiss on the nose causing you to blush.

“yep” you replied, “but i’m gonna have to go get it.” you jumped up out of his arms and he pouted as you ran off.

seconds later you returned with your guitar sitting back down next to him. he raised an eyebrow at this.

you gave him a kiss on the cheek and then leaned back again, “i wrote you a song to tell you just what i see from my eyes when i look at you.”

this caused bucky to blush but he stayed silent, encouraging you to begin.

and so you began to pick a simple and soft melody.

i want to write you song

one as beautiful as you are sweet

with just a hint of pain

for the feeling that i get when you are gone

i want to write you song

i wanna lend you my coat

one that’s as soft as your cheek

so when the world gets cold

you will having a hiding place you can go

i wanna lend you my coat

oh, everything i need i get from you

oh, and giving back is all i wanna do

i wanna build you boat

one that’s a strong as you are free

so every time you think

that your heart is gonna sink

you know it won’t

i wanna build you a boat

oh, everything i need i get from you

oh, and giving back is all i wanna do

you began to play a little interlude and bucky took that as his time to speak finally grinning, “i like the part about boats.”

you rolled your eyes. “shut up bucky i’m not finished” causing you to giggle as you began to sing again.

oh, everything i need i get from you

oh, and giving back is all i wanna do

i wanna write you a song

one to make your heart remember me

so anytime i’m gone

you can listen to my voice and sing along

i wanna write you a song

as you finished the end of the song you suddenly felt very vulnerable. but once you looked at bucky all you saw in his eyes was admiration.

“bucky everything i sang then i meant, you truly are the strongest person i know. and i love you more than anything.”

he carefully took the guitar from your hands and placed it gently on the ground. grabbing your waist he pulled you close resting his forehead against yours.

“doll, if anyone is to say the words you just sang it should be me. i have lived in darkness for so long. and anytime i have felt the smallest amount of happiness it’s been taken from me.”

a tear fell down your face. you hadn’t known him that long but you knew he was your soulmate.

“i love you.” you whispered looking at his beautiful blue eyes.

“i definitely love you more,” he responded pulling you into a soft but passionate kiss.

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creativeashproductions · 4 years

Text

Lost Time // Luke Patterson

Summary: Things changed since Sunset Curve fell apart literally as three out of four members died before a gig. Leaving a sad girl behind Luke by chance runs into the reader with someone else. Death tore the couple apart, and time can’t fix this.

Warning: Talk of death, depression, angst and fluff

Words: 2.2k

Might as well join the Julie and the Phantoms fan club!

*For the sake of the story the time frame has been altered, it takes place in the mid-2000s. Also! I tried to make the reader as generalized as I could to make sure that everyone can relate. The reader is Alex’s sister, for inclusion that can be biological, adopted, half or stepsiblings. I want to make sure all people can be the reader.

Masterlist

THIS IS FROM MY SECONDARY BLOG! REPOST!!

The 1990s was definitely some of the best years of your life watching your brother grow more comfortable in his identity. Alex had kept his sexuality secret, taking the frustration of the secret by learning how to play the drums. You would often be found curled on the chair listening to his growing talent; Alex was a great brother.

Alex found friends in three local boys Reggie, Bobby and Luke, even a little more than friends with Luke briefly. By 1991 the boys had formed a band Sunset Curve with each other and a loyal fan in you. By mid-1994 the band had a fanbase and some gigs, but playing The Orpheum was the goal.

Luke had admitted to Alex, he had feelings for you, and with a lot of encouragement from Alex, he approached you. Luke had been focused on music since his parents gave him his first guitar, so relationships weren’t even on the backburner.

“Hey.” Luke spoke, pressing a kiss to your cheek backstage, “Missed you.”

His hair tickled your skin, bringing a bright smile from the teenage boy and a deep blush from you, private time wasn’t as often as it once had been. After Luke’s fallout with his parents a few months back, he had couch surfed between Reggie and Alex’s rooms; he wasn’t allowed in yours.

“You saw me last night.”

“A monumental time.” Luke bent his bend to place a lingering kiss on your bare shoulder, his jacket having fallen down, “Three years together and a bright future ahead.”

Last night had been the third anniversary of your relationship and hopefully the previous night worrying on parents walking in, cheap dates Luke often felt guilty about. Luke knew in his bones playing The Orpheum tonight would open the door to a legendary future. A future where money wasn’t tight and he could you on dates he deemed acceptable for the love of his life.

Bobby voiced brought Sunset Curve’s lead singer back to that moment, you dropped from the stage to settle in the empty audience to watch the soundcheck. With a wink from Alex, he started making the beat to Now or Never, you beamed as they poured their souls into the song. The four were talented and made to be in a band together even if you didn’t really like Bobby.

Cringing at the awkward wink Bobby sent you turned on your converse to head to the bar for a glass of water. Thanking the bartender, you tuned out the conversation with the waitress and the band only jumping when arms wrapped around your waist.

“We’re getting street dogs.” Luke spoke, bringing your body to rest on his chest, “Do you want one?”

The thought of those street dogs honestly horrifying given they were cooked in some random guys car. The one time you tried, it had permanently tattooed the taste in your memories forever, and just remembering was vomit-inducing.

“I’ll pass.” You wrinkled your nose, turning to wrap your arms around his neck, “I don’t know how you guys like those.”

“Tradition.” Luke shrugged caressing your cheekbone with the pad of this thumb. Gazing at features he wanted to wake up to for the rest of his life, “Still down with the plan?”

“The minute I’m eighteen, we go to the nearest chapel.” You grinned playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, “I’ll be waiting Rockstar.”

Luke pressed a long passionate kiss on your lips, pulling away to jog over to Alex and Reggie waiting at the door. Bobby having declined the street dog invitation to flirt with the waitress Rose. Alex waved before the door closed. Little did you know that would be the last time you saw them alive.

1995 was the worst year of your life. 1996 was the hardest, especially with the forever reminder of your love. You wouldn’t trade 1996 for the world however, only wishing for one change.

Los Angeles, 2004

Alex, Reggie and Luke had learnt a mere few days away from that life had drastically changed forever. Firstly, the three boys had died from eating the street dogs mere hours before performing on the stage of The Orpheum. Secondly, it was no longer 1995 but instead nearly ten years had past bringing the three ghosts into 2004.

The most jarring wasn’t being able to be heard playing music with a random girl named Julie but that the most constant part of the band no longer was there. You hadn’t died that night, and Alex was pretty sure you were still alive. Luke felt lost waking up without you beside him and the deep regret of not reconciling with his parents.

It would be a week before Luke would swallow his pride enough to orb himself into his unchanged childhood home. Emily, Luke’s mom, was in the well-worn chair knitting a scarf Luke recognized as his favourite colours. Mitch was in the kitchen, putting the groceries away. It was heartbreaking being invisible to his aged parents.

“Hey, Mom.” Luke sniffled sitting on the couch nearby staring at his silent mother, “Sorry for not visiting sooner.”

Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes feeling hopeless, not being able to ease his parents’ pain, the regret and guilt bubbling to the surface.

“How is Y/N? I bet she’s living in New York of London now. We promised to travel the world together. Part of me is guilty of wishing she had eaten a street dog that night so we could be together.” Luke sobbed, wrapping his arms around his midsection reminiscing on the beautiful girl he had unwillingly left.

“Hey.” Mitch spoke, kissing his wife’s forehead. Her eyes closing in contentment.

“I wonder if you know where Reg and Alex’s parents are. Reggie’s neighbourhood was torn down who knows when. It makes me scared to see if Alex and Y/N’s parents still have their place. I don’t think so. They lost their son.”

“Hey Luke.”

Luke glanced over his shoulder to see Alex at the door, reluctant to impose of Luke’s privacy.

“Yeah.”

“We’re rehearsing.” Alex spoke, smiling as the other teenager took one more wistful look at his parents before orbing out of his house to the Molina family’s garage. Minutes later, the front door opening and feet thudding brought the noise to the Patterson home.

“Grandma!”

A four-foot blue of green and black blur covered the room in seconds nearly sprawling Mitch to the floor. Why was that 1996 year difficult? Well, ’95 was when Sunset Curve tragically died, and a stick changed your life. ’96 was spent going through the last five months of pregnancy without Luke.

October 1995

You kept your lips pressed tightly together, unable to look at the smooth, shiny mahogany rectangle surrounded by flowers. Looking up meant the reality kicking in. Funerals sucked. Especially the third funeral in the last handful of days. It was surreal thinking that one week ago you had kissed your boyfriend and hugged your brother and now they were dead. Gone. Not even a goodbye.

“Are you okay?” The broke voice asked, gaining your attention. Swollen red eyes matching yours held unimaginable pain. While the last few months had been icy with your parents, it didn’t mean losing one of their kids didn’t sting.

“I will be.” You whispered clasping your hands over the scratchy black velvet dress, one you had worn three times too many.

The sobs broke out seeing the best picture Alex had taken in his life, it encapsulated his best features; his beaming smile and kind, caring eyes. Alex was gone. Your brother was gone because he ate a bad hot dog with his friends. You would never see your boys again. Never feel Luke’s skin or share a laugh with Alex or complain about things with Reggie. You wouldn’t get to meet in the chapel with Luke wearing second hand ‘fancy’ clothing. In one night, your life changed.

It changed further seeing the two lines on the test later that night. The heartache growing. The baby you carried would never meet his uncles and his Dad. Would never hear them play or learn to play. ’95 and ’96 sucked ass.

You sighed, closing the door to follow the rambunctious ball of energy into the living room where he entertained Mitch and Emily. Some days it was difficult to stare into the green eyes he inherited from his father.

“Benjamin Lucas.” You spoke crossing your arms, meeting the gaze of the eight-year-old boy, “What did I say?”

“To not runoff.” Ben quietly replied, playing with his hands. His messy brown hair, in need of a trim, falling into his eyes, “Sorry Mom.”

“Please don’t do it again.” You gently told the little boy elated as he quickly found the toy box in the corner of the room.

Ben was loved deeply by Mitch and Emily, who had stepped up when your parents made the decision to sell your childhood home. Wanting Ben to know his paternal grandparents, you had struggled to find an apartment and job to say in the neighbourhood. Since the baby was the last part of their son, the Patterson parents’ had welcomed you into the home where you stayed until Ben was two.

“Do you want us to come around for Luke’s birthday?” You questioned sitting on the love seat, the same love seat you had made out on with Luke many times during movies.

The room turned sad at the question and reminded that for the ninth year, you would celebrate Luke’s birthday without him. A day where Ben wouldn’t fully understand. Emily simply nodded her head.

“Have you met anyone?” Mitch asked, leaning over to clasp his hands together. For the last few years, they had been pushing you to date. They wanted your happiness and for Ben to have a father even if Luke couldn’t be it.

“Mama can we stay here tonight?” Ben’s innocent voice cut the tension, saving you from answering the question again. Mitch and Emily each nodded their heads at the question, unable to tell the young boy no.

“Have you ate?” Emily asked, turning to look at you in concern. The chuckle left your mouth at the question she frequently requested, she missed cooking for more than two.

“We had pasta before we came.” You replied, turning to gaze out the window to the dark sky, “I should put Ben to bed.”

The soft whine from your son and denial was a nightly routine and very much a mirror image to Luke’s character as well. With a smile, Emily held out her hand to her grandchild, she was notoriously the only one able to get Ben to sleep fast.

“Come on Bug.”

It seemed the universe was keeping Luke from seeing you and discovering Ben, but when that night came, he was shocked. Emily was curled up on the patio couch, watching Ben in the newly bought sandbox. The patio doors opened. Inside, Mitch had invited a stranger who knew his son into the house.

“I think I heard the doorbell. I’ll be right back.” Emily called out to you. You had found shade under the tree reading a new book.

The soft cry had you up and running to Ben before you even realized, on his knee was a bleeding wound. You had already scooped the boy into your arms to quickly get into the kitchen. The moment your foot stepped into the home, the sound of a familiar voice and song filled the house.

Gently placing Ben on his feet, you followed the sound to the living room. Across the room behind a young girl stood a boy.

“Luke.” You breathed floored at the sight of the teenager who looked exactly like he did back in ’95. The ghost singing widened his eyes at yours, taking in the mature features and change of fashion.

He continued to sing the song Unsaid Emily he had written as an apology to his mom following the last big fight. The song he never got to show her. His voice faded as the ending of the song came around.

“Mama!” Your attention broke from Luke’s when a tiny hand reached for yours. The pain in his voice bringing you back to the most important part of your life, “It hurts Mama.”

Despite being sad, Mitch was the one to cross the room to lift the little boy into his arms. Placing the little boy on the counter, the man gently wet a paper towel to wash the area.

“I think he needs stitches.” Mitch sighed, furrowing his brows.

“Who is that?” Luke asked the Molina girl. The girl shrugged taking in the features she could recognize. Julie asked Emily.

“That’s Ben.” Emily beamed, looking over her shoulder at the little boy that filled the void of Luke’s death. It didn’t fix the wound or erase the pain, but Ben’s existence helped with the loss as he was a precious gift, “When Luke passed away his girlfriend Y/N found out she was pregnant with Luke’s baby.”

The choked sob fell from Luke’s mouth echoed by the thud of his knees, hitting the floor in the pure shock. The heartbreak painted so clear Julie was sure she could feel Luke’s agony.

God, why did Luke have to eat that fucking street dog. Fuck his band dreams. Nothing hurt as bad as finding out about Ben and Y/N having to be a single parent.

“I have a son?” Luke cried, orbing himself as far as he could from the Patterson home and his most tremendous loss.

Part Two

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