#since monday ive set up in front of my paintings everything in hand and maybe get 1 or 2 strokes in and then spiral

[uuuvas]

So tired of my brain sucking all joy out of my already precariously shitty life

[missmonsters2]

About You || Part IX

Gif by: giuliacommissions (please check her out if you’d like to commission her for gifs and other work 💞)

PAIRING: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader/OFC

Summary: Wanda had never known loss like she has until she lost Pietro. It’s debilitating. She can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t even leave her house. Life is fading fast, and she’s not sure if she even wants to hang on. Enter you, a stranger that reconnects her to the daily things that makes life beautiful.

Warnings: Deals with loss & grief and the spectrum of emotions and depression that comes with it. Please note there is no glorification in any of this. Loss, grief, and depression are nothing beautiful. Also, please don’t hesitate or reach out for help if you are in a dark place. Love you, lovelies 💘

Genre: Angst & Romance

NOTE: One more chapter after this. YES I KNOW I’M LATE IN POSTING AHH.

PART I || PART II || PART III || PART IV || PART V || PART VI || PART VII || PART VIII

PART IX of X

Count: 2562

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Moving into the new place is a whirlwind with you.

You let her paint all over the walls for decorations, and Wanda's never had so much fun picking a couch before.

Wanda is currently flushing red as Natasha is over, and she had caught the two of you amorously loving each other.

You had to go to work, so Wanda was left to face the embarrassment alone.

"You certainly have a lot of energy," Natasha comments, and Wanda drops her paintbrush.

"I can't help it," Wanda mumbles.

"Oh, it's fine. At least you're doing it in the name of love. Loudly, but for love."

"You could hear us?"

"We can hear you every time," Natasha deadpans.

"We?" Wanda emphasizes.

"My only advice is that you pick better times to do it if you can. Clint had to wait outside for an hour and a half last time he came over."

Wanda flushes, her ears a hot red while she tries to resume painting.

She can't help it if she wants to have you when she does.

"So, was Clint right?"

"About?" Wanda mumbles.

Natasha stares at her friend and frowns.

"That she's the top?"

Wanda slams her paintbrush down.

"No one is allowed to be friends with Clint anymore."

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You were weird on the phone today.

A little skittish in Wanda's opinion. You said you wanted to take her somewhere after work. 

She couldn't help but worry that maybe you were regretting everything, but then you showed up at home at 7 PM with flowers in your hands.

"Would you go somewhere with me? I have something to tell you."

A look of worry passed over Wanda's face, but she nodded as she grabbed her jacket.

The ride was quiet. You were tense as your hand would grip the steering wheel before relaxing, the cycle repeating.

"Where are we going?" Wanda asked. 

"I wanted to show you the person who made sure I wasn't alone," you tell her. 

Wanda is surprised because she wasn't aware that your friend was in the same town. She thought they were out of your life, as you had indicated.

But then, when you pull up into the cemetery, Wanda's heart dropped.

"Why didn't you say so?" Wanda looks at you, heartbreaking at the sad smile on your face.

"It doesn't change that people do come and go."

Wanda doesn't say anything and lets you lead her. She feels a little on the edge because she knows this cemetery too well by now, and the route is familiar.

The two of you come to a stop, and Wanda looks at the gravestone she's seen many times before. She used to spend hours every day sitting here.

You put flowers down before standing up and looking at Wanda with wet eyes.

"I have something to give you," you quietly say, your hand fishing in your bag before you pull something out and put in Wanda's hands.

Her yearbook. 

Wanda looks back at the gravestone, the words searing on her eyes.

Pietro Maximoff.

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Flashback...

You were in a bit of tizzy. You and your business partner just recently bought the space to open your own psychology clinic. 

You had just hired a marketing firm to help you with your advertising for your grand opening. He would be arriving in a couple of minutes with his advertisement plan.

"Hello?"

You shoot up from your office, putting down the boxes as you rush to the front.

"Hello!" You say breathlessly, feeling a little shame at what a mess you look like.

The guy standing there looked equally of a mess with his blond hair with dark roots in an array. He looked a little breathless, and you guessed he was running late.

The two of you stand there, looking at each other before the two of you start laughing.

"I'm Pietro, your marketing manager."

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"Pietro, the job had been done weeks ago. Why do you keep coming here?" You quirk your brow.

You and Pietro had hit it off quite well, getting to know each other as he helped you with advertising your clinic and services.

But it was professional. Except Pietro had kept coming even after everything was finished.

Monday it was coffee, Tuesday was lunch, Wednesday was dropping off a coffee and a bagel, and now it was Thursday, and he had come on his lunchtime again.

"I just wanted to see if you wanted to go for dinner," he smiles. 

You stand there, brow still quirked as you assessed him.

"Alright."

"Cool, how about 8 PM?"

You nod, and Pietro smiles and runs out the building again.

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Dinner is a pleasant affair. 

He is flirty but respectful. He holds doors and chairs open for you but doesn't make a move to grab your hand or try to get closer.

Pietro is talking about his plans to see his sister next weekend when you interrupt him.

"Do you keep coming by my office because you're interested in me?"

It's blunt, but you rather be straight forward about it.

Pietro stops his story, mouth still open before closes it sheepishly.

"No," he admits, "I actually wanted to set you up with my sister."

"Pass," you say immediately.

"What!" Pietro says. "C'mon, you guys would be a perfect match."

"Not interested in dating," you tell him as you eat your food, more relaxed that it's not a date.

Pietro groans and you laugh a bit before he starts eating again.

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Even after your blunt rejection, Pietro still comes by the office to pester you into getting lunch.

He lectures you that you can't skip it even if you're busy and lists all the things that could happen to you if you don't eat.

"Cancer? Really?" You say to him.

"Everything causes cancer," he tells you seriously.

"Wouldn't that mean that even eating can cause cancer?" You argue back at him.

"Exactly," he says seriously, "If we're all going to get cancer regardless, you should eat and have a full stomach at least."

You laugh, a weird familial warmth filling the pit of your stomach.

"You seriously haven't changed," you tell him.

"What do you mean?" He asks you.

You roll your eyes, but you don't expect him to remember.

"Pietro Maximoff, track and field captain, while also the student council president. The guy everyone wants to be friends with."

Pietro's mouth dropped.

"We went to the same university?" He says excitedly. "You do know my sister too then!"

"Yeah, she's really nice," you say while you look down at the ground with your hands shoved in your pocket.

"Nice?" Pietro snorts. "No one ever says that about her."

You chuckle.

"She beats up bullies, so she's automatically nice even if she seems like the equivalent to a cactus."

"So, you're saying you will go on a date with her!" Pietro says excitedly.

"Are you deaf? Nowhere in what I said says I'll go on a date with her."

"But you just said she's nice!" Pietro whines. 

"I also said she's the equivalent to a cactus."

"Wanda's really wonderful, trust me."

You merely hum.

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It's a little weird, you admit. Having someone like Pietro who goes out of his way to spend time with you.

People ask all the time if you're dating, but Pietro always laughs it off and says that you're like family to each other.

"I'm her big brother!" 

"You're only two months older," you would always say in response.

"God, you're like Wanda. Older is older," Pietro would joke. 

He talks about Wanda a lot. You can tell he clearly adores her. You're not sure you really understand sibling bonds because of your own brother.

But Pietro talks as if he would move mountains for her, and talks like Wanda wouldn't hesitate to take a bullet for him.

"Is that piece of shit calling you again?" 

You look away from your phone screen to Pietro's scowling face. 

He knows everything about you.

He knows that your brother has been trying to get back in touch with you.

"Yeah," you sigh as you put your phone down and sit back in your chair. You have 30 minutes to relax before your next patient comes.

Your brother had seen you in an online advertisement and has been calling your workplace. You picked up the phone one, talked to him briefly before he started saying how he needed cash.

You haven't picked up the phone since.

"You should just let me pick up the phone and tell him to fuck off," Pietro glares at the offending phone.

"You have a lot of free time," you say to him in response. 

"I'm a director now, hell yeah, I have lots of time," Pietro laughs. 

The two of you banter some more when the receptionist tells you your appointment is here.

Pietro smiles at you before he walks out of the office with you following him.

Except, at the front desk, you see your brother standing there.

"What the hell," you mutter under your breath.

"What are you doing here?" You say to him.

"Miss, that's your appointment," the receptionist tells you. 

"My appointment is supposed to be with a Leon--" You groan because he used a fake name to book the appointment.

"You need to get the hell out of here, Jake," you glare at him.

"I just need 5 minutes to talk, don't you want to talk after all this time?" Jake frowns at you.

You want to make a scene, but this is your workplace, so you drag Jake into your office with Pietro right on your heels.

"No, I don't want to talk or catch up. Why would I want to catch up with someone who left me at an orphanage?" You hiss at him.

"I was 18!" Jake defends himself. "I couldn't even take care of myself, let alone you. I left you for the best."

You scoff at the response.

"And what? You want to catch up now? Or is this about the cash you said you needed."

Jake is quiet.

"I just need a loan," he says instead.

There's a scoff in the background.

The two of you look over to see Pietro there looking at Jake in disgust.

"What's your problem?" Jake glares at him. "Get out of here, this is family business."

"I am family," Pietro says in return.

"With family like me, she doesn't need your ass around here," Pietro pulls out his checkbook from the inner chest pocket of his suit jacket.

"Take this, and get the fuck out of here. If you ever come back around here without her wanting you around, I'll sue you," Pietro threatens, ripping out a cheque and shoving it into Jake's hand.

You catch the numbers as your eyes widen.

It was $10,000.

Jake's eyes are wide too, but he looks at Pietro once more before looking at you.

"Deal," Jake says and leaves.

"Fucking dick," Pietro mutters as Jake leaves the building.

"What the hell, Pietro!" You yell at him.

"Why did you give him $10,000?"

"Because jerks like that will keep coming around until they get what they want. Or until their legs are broken, but I don't know anyone who can do that for me. Yet."

You stare at him in disbelief, but he just laughs and pulls you in for a hug.

"$10,000 is nothing to make sure my little sister isn't hurt."

You denied it when Pietro asked you later if you were crying.

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"You should show up here. At 7 PM."

You look at Pietro.

"Are you trying to set me up with your sister again?"

"No. Yes. Maybe," Pietro answers.

"Give it up, man," you shake your head at him.

He talks about Wanda all the time. You admit you're a little intrigued by her. But only because Pietro spins her in such a wonderful light, even when he tells you stories of when she's being an asshole.

"My sister is going to die alone with a cat, have some sympathy, and meet her. I guarantee you'll want to lock her down. I'm convinced she's your soulmate," Pietro determinedly keeps going.

"Why are you convinced of that?" You quirk your brow.

"Because she's prickly, you're super nice and patient, and I can't explain it anymore, just meet her!" Pietro whines.

You laugh.

"Well, I'll actually be traveling to Europe next month for a volunteer experience there for some less fortunate kids who need counseling. But, I'm not opposed to meeting her when I'm back. No guarantees, though, and on one condition."

"What's that?" He asks you excitedly.

"I want her yearbook, and when I meet her, I'll give it back," you tell him.

"Why do you want her yearbook?" He asked confusedly.

"I never got to write in it," you tell him.

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"That was the last time I got to see him. He died while I was in Europe."

Wanda knows because she was in the car accident too.

She opens her yearbook and sees an added message on the back, the only other writing in it other than Pietro's.

Wanda,

You may not recognize me, but I wanted to say thank you, for all those years ago, for sticking up for me and getting my things back.

Sincerely,

The girl you saved.

There was a picture there, and Wanda flipped it over. She sees a picture of you back in university, with a familiar dirty backpack.

"When I saw you at the bridge...I just couldn't let you die. You were someone Pietro loved so much. I--"

"Did you blame me?"

Wanda saw a flash of guilt through your eyes.

"I did at first. I hated you at first. You were his family. He loved you so much, he loved me like family, and now he's gone."

Small things over the past few months pass through Wanda's head. Like how you talked as if you new Pietro, trying to get her to not blame herself.

She listened to the words, a dull ache in her chest because the truth felt like you had blamed her too, and she deserved it.

"But...Pietro was right. I met you, got to know you, and everything Pietro told me about you was right. I couldn't blame him for trying to set me up with you."

What a small word, Wanda thought. 

And you were begging.

"Please don't hate me."

But Wanda merely closed the yearbook and opened her arms so you could dive into her comfort.

Because even though you had blamed her, hated her at first, you still saved Wanda. You still stuck around, cleaned her mess up, loved her even when she was awful to you. 

You took in all her imperfections, loved her, and let her love you.

"You are my soulmate," you confess her to, lips quivering.

"Pietro always had a way of taking care of his family. I asked him at the funeral for help, and he gave me you," Wanda whispered.

Your tears stopped at Wanda's calming words. She pulled back, cupping your face as her thumb wiped your tears.

"I love you," she insists. "I'm never letting this hand go."

She holds up your hand, pressing her lips to the painted red string around your wrist.

"I was lost, but you found me. I'm never letting you go."

PART X

[bastillewolf]

Midnight In Sheffield (IV)

Pairing: Alex Turner/Reader

Summary: When a soon-to-be-wedded insomniac author heads back home to visit her parents, she comes across the likes of a mysterious musician whilst on her sleepless escapade in the AM.

Notes: So, since I’m posting this one quite late on a Sunday night, maybe we’ll call the schedule day Midnight In Sheffield Mondays? I hope you enjoy, and feedback is always appreciated!

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list!

@alexbandguy86​​​​​​ @bettyschwallocksyee​​​​​​ @fookingsummertime​​​​​​ @juicebox-baby​​​​@darksydork7​​​​​ @edgythought​​​​ @toolateformcrtooearlytoleaveemo​ 

Chapter IV - I Want It All

Isn’t this nice?” Mark asked. “I can’t remember the last time we went out for lunch with just the two of us.”

She nodded, feeling a bit calmer since she’d woken up after getting a decent night’s rest, even if it was a bit shorter. She’d gotten back not a minute late last night, for Mark had arrived when she was about to cover herself under the bedsheets, asking what she was still doing up. It ended with her in tears, mostly because of the pure confusion the day had brought her, but also because she’d felt like she needed it.

It was apparent that Mark was feeling a bit concerned, and was doing his best attempt to cheer her up a bit.

“I had an idea, please hear me out for a bit,” he started.

She pulled up her nose, because whenever he said those words, they were usually followed by some notion she wouldn’t like.

“What if we got married at the church back home?”

She paused. Not what she had expected, but certainly not something she favoured. “I thought we were going to get married in France?”

“I know, but… James and Rachel just told me they wouldn’t be able to make it around the time we’d planned to have it. If we just got married at home, I’m sure that would work out better for a lot of people on the guest list.”

“Mark, we’ve discussed this, and the invitations are already printed. If James and Rachel don’t think our wedding is important enough to make time for it, then I suppose they’re not coming.”

“Sweetheart, you know how much they’d want to come. It’s just…”

“What? Spit it out, will you?”

“I’m afraid my parents might get the wrong idea with us getting married in France.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, they think it’s a bit dramatic, for starters. And they know how much you enjoy it there; their guess is that you might want to stay there forever after all is said and done.”

She gave him a look. “So, your parents are afraid I’m going to chain you to a tree in a French vineyard so they can’t ever see you again? Do they think I’m drugging you into agreeing to everything I do?”

He huffed in amusement. “No, sweetheart. But they… they just want to make sure this marriage is going to work. And the first step in their eyes would be to hold a wedding at home. Think of it as nothing more than insurance that you’ll have a pleasant day with your family-in-law.”

“And I wouldn’t have that in France?”

“You’ll most likely be met with the sour faces of both my mother and my sister. And you haven’t even encountered my aunt’s death glare yet. That one’s a real deal-breaker.”

She sighed, fumbling with her hands in her lap. Her engagement ring was starting to feel incredibly heavy, as if the diamond had multiplied its amount of carats.

 She had tea with her mum later that day. Her dad was off to work.

“I… Uh, I don’t think we’ll be holding the wedding in France after all.”

Her mother lifted her chin to meet her eyes, gently setting her teacup back on its saucer. “And why is that?”

“Well, you know. I think it would be a lot easier for people to get to the venue because of work and all that. They wouldn’t have to go through all the traveling business, and it would save me and Mark quite a bit of money.”

Her mother hummed in response, but the look she gave her was critical. “I don’t think I remember ever hearing you talk about other people’s expense when you were little and showed me your wedding plans in your binder. That girl would tell everyone to sod off if they couldn’t make time for her special day, let alone think about saving money.”

She didn’t know how to respond.

“Darling, I love you. I would travel the world and back if it meant seeing you walk down the aisle. Please don’t let anyone ruin the dreams you have. I raised you better than that.”

 It was nearing midnight, and Alex had lit himself a cigarette in front of the old church. It was going to be a quiet one, due to the fact that Monday was the only day of the week the pub was closed. That didn’t mean the lads wouldn’t go out, but the singer just didn’t feel like it for some reason.

A few ladies dressed in shimmery dresses with feathers in their hair walked past him and sent a wink his way, but he barely paid them any mind. His mind was elsewhere, and the empty alleyway he walked through next was illuminated only by the stars and the moon, which shone like fireballs in the dark blue abyss.

He wandered back into a main street, but it was quiet there, too.

Until he heard the muffled noises coming from a figure hunched against one of the streetlights.

It was a girl, obviously, and she was crying. But it didn’t turn out to be just any girl.

His Arabella.

“Are you all right, love?” he asked. He’d crouched down next to her, attempting to move the hair soaked by her tears away from her face. He noticed she was shivering, and shrugged his jacket off, draping it over her shoulders. “I’m afraid the pawnshops are all closed by now. You’re going to have to find another way to get your money’s worth out of that engagement ring if you want to rid of it tonight.”

She sniffled a laugh, which he was pleased to receive from her. “I really don’t mean to show up crying every night. This is so embarrassing.”

Alex recalled Miles telling about the night you’d met. “Not embarrassing at all. Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head.

“Alright. Then let’s get you somewhere warmer. Also, I’m famished. Are you hungry?”

 “Alphonse, how are you this evening?”

The bell had chimed as they’d walked into the small restaurant, and though the lights were dimmed, she could make out the quaint interior quite well. Round tables, probably meant for no more than two, with a small red tablecloth draped over a larger white one on each of them. They were adorned with clean sets of dinnerware, as well as a simple candle as a centrepiece.

There were grapevines hanging across the wooden beams across the ceiling, and the walls had various paintings of landscape upon them.

In the back of the room, sat the head chef, - she supposed, as he wore the biggest hat of them all – playing a game of cards with his employees.

“Not any worse than any other evening, mister Turner. How are you?” The chef called Alphonse replied heartily. She noted a hint of a French accent in his speech.

“Quite alright, as I’m surrounded by good company.”

“I see, and who might your lady friend be?”

She introduced herself politely, to which all of the cooks took their hats off.

“A friend of mister Turner’s is a friend of ours, Cherie.”

“I told you to call me Alex a long time ago,” came his protest. “Say, you wouldn’t have anything left sitting in the kitchen, would you?”

Alphonse chuckled as he stood, tucking his deck of cards in his shirt’s pocket after giving his fellow players a suspicious look. “I’ll see what we have left after your band of misfits came to raid the place.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

“I wouldn’t be complaining, if I were you. They’re your best customers, after all,” Alex called after him.

The chef grumbled something about empty pantries as he returned with a basket in hand. “And I advise you to take the lady out to dinner here at a more appropriate time instead of sneaking of into the night with a basket full of goodies.”

“Now, you know I never come here that early.”

 It turns out he’d packed them an entire cheese platter, with bread, butter, and a nice bottle of wine to make the basket complete. The singer had been gallant enough to carry it and pour her a glass of wine as they walked, to a location he would not yet disclose.

“It seems like you’re known around these parts as a night owl,” she deducted.

He looked at her for a moment, and hummed as an invitation for her to continue.

“Is that just the way you go about? Or does it have a deeper meaning behind it all?”

“Doesn’t people’s behaviour always have a deeper meaning behind it?”

“I suppose so. Something you’re not willing to talk about, then?”

“Perhaps when you decide to tell me why I found you crying on the curb,” he replied curiously.

She smirked, “Well, I’m not sure what you were doing parading the streets, but you were walking, and then you found me. Coincidence, I suppose.”

He shot her a look. “You know what I mean.”

She sighed, but as she was figuring out the right words to say, it appeared that they had already reached their ‘secret location’.

 It was a small square, tucked into the corner of town, with a big round fountain in the middle. Sculpted fish were spraying water onto the levels below, and the stream was a soothing noise against the silent street. The buildings surrounding it had their shutters closed, and the way they towered over the small space made it seem like they had walked into a private garden.

But the odd thing was, is that she recognized that fountain, very clearly.

“I…”

“Yes?” Alex asked.

“I… I thought they’d tore down that fountain when I was younger. The whole street, in fact.”

The man next to her seemed to tense. “Well, it seems not.”

“…It seems not.” She had kind of wanted to question him further on the matter, but as the pieces were slowly connecting in her head, she decided to wait until the conclusion she was drawing was entirely certain.

Alex set down the basket, and sat on the stone bench facing the sculpture. “So, how’s the wedding planning going?”

Just the thought of it made tears well up in her eyes again, which he quickly took notice of.

“All right, you could’ve just told me to fuck right off when I opened my mouth.”

She snorted, taking a seat next to him and reaching for a piece of bread. “I’m sorry. I just- That’s the exact thing that has gotten me riled up today.”

“How come?”

The genuine interest was refreshing to her, and it made her feel brave enough to continue. “Well, Mark just thought it would be best to change the venue’s location, since a lot of people would be coming and all that. I kind of ended up agreeing with him, taking into consideration that everyone needed to fly out to France for a singular day. But now my mum is disappointed that I’m not going through with my big wedding plans, and I’ve honestly been doubting every decision I’ve been making since the get-go.”

He nodded with his lips pursed in thought. “I think cheese solves a lot of problems.” He handed her a piece of Gouda. “But if I may ask, what do you want?”

She gave him a confused look.

“I’ve only heard you mention what your fiancée wants, and what your mother wants, and that you don’t want to disappoint either of them. But I haven’t heard you talk about your dream wedding yet. It’s like you care about everyone’s opinions except for your own. And it seems like Mark doesn’t care much for it, either.”

She opened her mouth in protest, “Of course Mark cares! He’s only thinking about practicality, and our future.”

Alex took a languid sip of his glass before replying. “Love, if you want to marry someone, practicality shouldn’t matter if it means you get to hold the wedding your sweetheart has always dreamed about.”

“I don’t need your judgement on my love life.”

“No, but you asked for it anyway. I can’t tell you what to do; it’s your life. All I’m going to say is, make it count. You’re not getting a second shot at it. If you want to go through the rigmarole of a big wedding with a guest list that never ends and a dress that blinds people with the amount of diamonds on it, then you should do it. Not because I told you so, but because you want to do it.”

She knew he was right, but was afraid to admit it. “I… I don’t want a big wedding.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want it to be private. Just family and friends. In a vineyard somewhere in France.”

He threw his hands up. “Then there you have it.”

“It’s not that easy, Alex. This isn’t all about me. Relationships call for compromise, not selfishness.”

He suddenly took her hand, and pulled her along the square until they’d reached the fountain. He took a coin out of his pocket, and held it out to her.

“What?”

He thrust his palm into her direction once more, but seemed quite reluctant to do so. “Take it, make a wish, and throw it into the fountain.”

“Alex-“

“Might as well give it a go. What do you have to lose?”

She sighed. Though reluctantly, she did as told, and closed her eyes. The slight ‘plop’ of the penny falling into the water was barely heard over the stream.

“You can thank me later,” Alex said.

But as he turned his back to her, she was feeling impulsive, and grabbed his shoulders and thrust him backwards.

This time, the splash was heard.

She clasped her hands in front of her mouth to keep herself from laughing at the drenched figure of Alex Turner, sitting awkwardly in a fountain. Oh, and how he looked absolutely pissed. Pissed was an understatement. He looked furious.

“You’re going to regret that.”

“Oh, am I-“

She shrieked, as two cold hands pulled her into the water with him.

[iosihexa]

petals for your efforts

ao3 link

warnings: none

ship: dan / phil

wordcount: 1757

extra stuff: tiny trace of pastel dan, dreaded 2nd person POV but according to a few people i pull it off In A Manner That Is Readable, soft, high school setting (ish), i recommend reading on ao3

You catch your first glimpse of him – the real him, you think, or at least a part of him that is a little more raw – at the far end of an overground station platform. Granted, you’re perhaps a bit more than distracted given the dismal weather, everything feeling blurry and a little too bright against the glary pale grey of the clouds, but. He’s there. And he looks miserable, clutching what looks like a delicately wired flower crown with sad, wet petals between his fingers.

For a brief moment, you’re highly tempted to wax poetic about his hands, because they’re beautiful, but there are other issues at hand.

“Hey,” you begin, and wince because you absolutely did not think this through. “Dan, right? Doing alright?”

He stares back at you, hair curling slightly from the moisture – he must straighten it every day, you muse – and then promptly looks back down to his shoes. “Hello, Phil.”

The two of you aren’t really in the same friendship circles. You have been vaguely aware of Dan since the beginning of the school year, but it’s a whole new experience to see him out of uniform and wearing – well.

“That colour looks nice on you,” you comment, gesturing vaguely towards the pale pink jumper he’s wearing, and squint, leaning closer to the little design in the centre of the shirt. “Is that an egg?”

He looks at you again, and you’re satisfied to note that he looks happier now, if a little amused. “Yes. Sunny-side up, so the egg’s name has been delegated Sunny. Also, thanks,” he surveys your own attire carefully, “your, uh. Subtle selection of black clothing is pretty neat, I guess.”

A nervous laugh manages to escape you lips as you gesture towards the flower crown still grasped gently between his fingers. “Can I take that? Perhaps it’ll be good to have some colour on me for a little while. I’ll return it on Monday at school?”

He looks surprised, to say the least. You blame the general concept of toxic masculinity and also the fact that he probably thinks you are the strangest, most uncouth person to have ever interacted with him.

Nonetheless, reaches up and places the flowers in your hair, and studies you evenly. “Looking good,” he says, and winks, and you think that you like him a bit.

DAN: look im just saying but you have to get your priorities straight WATCH THE CLASSICS FIRST god I cant believe you havent even watched fmab yet PHIL: Ok, ok, but sometimes I can’t help but go into the weird obscure things my friends recommend me, you know? PHIL: like it’s not like I know any better PHIL: anyways fine!!! I’ll watch your weird animes. But you have to read that novel I recommended to you. DAN: if it’s along the same lines as a john green novel phil i swear to god i’m never trusting your recs again PHIL: hey! John green’s books aren’t that bad. romance isn’t as bad as you make it out to be. PHIL: and it’s a good book, I promise. It’s exactly the kind of hipstery thing you’d like DAN: what on earth are you insinuating DAN: ok one of the protags isn’t straight I can get behind this PHIL: I can’t believe I managed to peg your interests just like that. DAN: hey, now. PHIL: Just read it. Tell me if you cry at the end :D DAN: i wont DAN: we must discuss this book when ive finished reading on saturday

Your mother is probably extremely glad that you’re getting out of the house of your own accord to meet up with friends for once. Or just a friend. Singular. You’re not about to admit it, but you’re very ready to see Dan in soft, colourful, non-school related clothing again.

He’s sitting in the very corner of the café you agreed to meet at, hunched away over what looks like a milkshake, and you take the opportunity to admire the robin’s egg blue of his shirt, and the demeanour of calmness he seems to have cast over himself, still reading the book you lent him. It’s just starting to sprinkle as you make your way into the shop and order.

“Hello,” you say, and he looks up and his smile stretches across his face languidly, dark eyes making contact with yours – he seemed awkward with eye contact the first time you talked to him at the station those few weeks back, but now it’s fine.

You curse the existence of involuntary physical responses as you heart beats a tiny bit faster, because it’s only been a few weeks, but you do like him. You’re not in denial, just frustrated and perhaps wishing that you could have a highschool romance story like any silly romcom film you’ve watched.

“Thought you were going to abandon me, like the terrible person you are,” he says, still grinning as he pats the seat next to him. “Sit down. We have some important themes and subtextual information from within this book we need to discuss.”

He slides the novel over to you, finger tracing a few lines. “Here, see this? And,” he flips a few pages over, “this? They only talk twice in the whole book – yes, I’ve been rereading – and yet everyone is convinced they’re in love. Remind me why, again?”

You smile back, and push his hand off the book. “You’re reading into it wrong,” and from the way his gaze challenges you, you’re willing to bet you’ll have a fun discussion.

Dan leans his head back on your blanket, somehow already at ease. The late afternoon light is filtering in through the windows, casting hazy, shattered beams of sun onto the bed.

“Your room is exactly as nerdy as I thought it would be,” he laughs a bit, and reaches over to examine the cactus you have placed on your desk. “You’re absolutely the type to name your plants, aren’t you? What’s this one’s name?”

You glance over. “Alistaire the Second,” you say. He lets out his soft, quiet laugh, the one that makes you feel a little bit more intimate and as if he trusts you.

“Of course,” he mutters quietly, then stares at you, not for the first time today. “Let’s paint our nails.”

“Our- what?”

He seems almost disappointed. Almost. “My sister let me take her collection of polishes, and I figured since I’m sleeping over, we should do cliche teenager sleepover things. And, since all the stuff boys are probably supposed to do during sleepovers are a lot less interesting than, say, gossiping about dudes and painting nails, we should do this.” He looks nervous for a moment. “Unless you don’t want to. We can put on a movie whilst we do it though, that’d be cool.”

Nodding vigorously, you set up your laptop and he brings out a suspicious number of glass bottles from his bag, looking a little relieved. You examine his array of colours, laughing a little bit. “Fluorescent yellow, a dodgy shade of mauve, this awful olive colour - this is quite a selection.”

He just does his grin again, and holds up a nice, bright, RGB colour wheel-worthy shade of blue. “This one for you. Actually,” he says, pushing another few bottles forwards, “you can have a rainbow.”

You end up playing Mulan in the background (Disney never fails), and he paints each nail on your left hand a different, horribly bright colour. In turn, you paint all his nails a wobbly black, except his pinkies, which he insists are painted a nice, glossy white. He wiggles his hands in front of your face. You have the urge to lick his hand, just because it’d be gross and maybe annoy him a little bit.

“Piano hands, Philly,” he says, and you look down at your own nails, which have very wobbly jobs as well.

“Uh. Vaporwave unicorn hands, Danny,” you reply, and he does his soft laugh again. Your gut clenches, and you decide you have to tell him before you regret staying quiet for months and months.

“Listen, D-”

“Oh yeah, heck,” he interrupts, jumping off the bed. “Look here, I got you a flower crown, I nearly forgot. We don’t talk about my favour for pastel clothing much, but you seemed to like the one I gave you at the train station a few months back, so you can have this.” He’s holding out a different crown, with slightly smaller roses on it, petals stained pink and orange and looping neatly with a few small leaves. “You don’t wear enough warm colours. Look, even your room is just blues, greens, black and white.”

“Thanks, Dan,” you say, almost whisper, and slot the flowers on your head. There’s a wash of fizzling happiness that rushes over you, and then you steel your nerves, pausing the film. “Listen, Dan,” you start again, and he looks ridiculously concerned for you, a tenebrous expression that you want to wipe off his face and replace with warmth again.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing super terrible. Although I guess it depends on how you take it, but…”

“Oh, come on, Phil, you’re not allowed to keep me in suspense like this,” he jokes, wavering.

Your brain just a one-eighty and you collapse back onto your pillow. The flower crown is dislodged slightly, flipping back and resting against the headboard. “I can’t do this,” you groan, and stretch out your hand. “Here, take it.”

“What?”

“My hand. hold it.”

Silently, he acquiesces. “Um, Phil-”

“Look,” you say, staring at the ceiling fan, watching it spin lazy circles above you, “I kind of fancy you. In, yeah, that kind of way. I don’t know, but I like you a lot, so I guess that’s that. I mean,” you mumble, beginning to ramble, “I know you’re my friend and you probably don’t- ah.” You’re cut off by Dan flopping down next to you, lacing his fingers with yours.

“It’s alright, Phil.” he says, flicking your head. “I think you’re pretty neat too,” and he gives your hand a squeeze. You think about how nice you thought his hands were when you first saw him at the station. Outside, the summery orange tint of sunset has darkened into a shadowy navy, and the sky flashes white and blue with lightning, a thunderstorm carving patterns of rain down the window. “No kissing till the third date, though,” he teases.

You can accept that.

[illyriantremors]

Beneath the Stars Chapter 6

Chapter: I II III IV V

AO3 Linkage

Summary: In an effort to get to know herself better, Feyre decides to take him up on his offer to join the Student Body Council where she helps Rhys's friends, including a particularly perky cousin, plan the upcoming Winter Formal dance.

Chapter 6

Amren was a vision in wicked delight when I pounced at her Monday afternoon. The prat had ignored my texts all weekend. She took one look at me, tucked her tongue between her lips right at the corner, and darted down behind her canvas.

Thankfully, there were no dragons nor mustaches littering the tableau on this occasion.

“Amren - what the hell!”

A gleeful, self-indulgent giggle unlike any sound I’d ever heard from Amren burst forth. I sat down like a lead weight. “Seriously - you gave him my phone number?”

Another giggle.

“And my address?”

Now she cackled.

“Amren, if you would please,” Mrs. Weaver said from her desk.

Amren settled back in, but didn’t reel the amusement in one bit. “Oh lighten up Feyre. He doesn’t bite and you could use a little shaking up in your life.”

“If this is about Tamlin-”

“Pft!” she scoffed. “Of course it’s about Tamlin. You don’t have to date Rhysand, but I’m tired of watching you moon over that boy when better options are out there. Trust me - I know.”

My eyes widened.

“No way! Did you two-”

She shook her head, but mixed some dark greens on her palette - if the earth could storm and brew as the oceans and skies. “No, but he certainly tried.”

A gasp escaped me. The thought of Rhysand entreating Amren - Amren who’s only romantic pursuit that I was aware of in recent history was a foreign exchange student from Germany who popped up two years ago with a devil’s tongue and jewelry to match that Amren simply couldn’t resist - was simply comical.

“I hope you gave him hell, Am,” I said blatantly beaming at her.

She looked up at me, the cat coming out to catch a mouse caught in the trap chasing cheese. “Rhysand may not bite, but I certainly do.”

“Girls, much as I do enjoy the stimulation one finds in another artist’s eye,” Mrs. Weaver said coming over to peek at us, “I suspect this conversation is not particularly relevant to your AP examinations?”

With a mumbled apology, I stared at my canvas.

Blank, blank, blank.

“Feyre?” Mrs. Weaver looked from my empty tableau to me and back. I sighed, sinking into my chair.

“A self-portrait? Really?”

Her look was kind - understanding. “It does not have to be quite so literal, my dear. I highly doubt the examiners expect ten unique representations of your face. Art is universal across the board and no one would ask for anything quite so literal nor predictable. You have to surprise them.”

“How?”

“Try surprising yourself first and see what happens.”

Whatever that meant.

“Really, Feyre. Just put something down for now so I can see you’ve tried.”

She moved on to another student and I continued to stare blankly at my canvas while Amren popped her headphones in and mixed the swirls of green onto her own piece. There was still something of a dragon hidden in the abstract of what she painted.

Surprise myself.

How exactly did someone surprise themselves when they’d known everything there was to know about who they were their entire life?

Then again, did I know myself? I thought I did. My life had never felt quite so unbalanced - mutable since mom left. There was a piece of me missing without her - and Elain, and Nesta, and maybe even dad too when he drank.

I was so proud when we finished unpacking in the new house and he hadn’t even opened the box with his liquor inside. That was the only time my dad disappeared and the hole inside my heart widened, was when he allowed the bottle to swallow him whole into his miserable depression without mom and I had to hope the lid hadn’t been magically re-sealed atop trapping him inside forever.

But I was still… Feyre, right? I was - damn, who the hell was I?

I painted and I went to school. I supposed that made me a painter and a student, but how obvious was that? Surprise them, surprise them, surprise them - surprise myself. How the hell was I supposed to -

“Amren? Amren!” I tugged on her shirt - plain black and capped at the shoulder - and whisper shouted Pst! At her until she took an earbud out. I could hear classical music playing through it - a soundtrack to murder by.

“What?”

I gulped, but forced the words out of my mouth. “There’s a - a student body council meeting today… isn’t there?”

The corners of Amren’s lips curled up like a fox’s ears spotting a rabbit across a snow-strewn meadow. “Why yes, Feyre. There certainly is. Why do you ask? You don’t fancy yourself coming,” and she set down her brush with obvious finality, my answer decided for me, “do you?”

I tried not to let the steam leaking out my ears become visible when I quietly asked to accompany her to the meeting.

I stood outside the administration building after school and texted Tamlin, apologizing for not being able to meet up with him like normal. I felt bad about our disagreement over the move and he was absent at lunch - abnormal for him. Food was not something he found easy to resist.

When I sent a follow up text five minutes after asking if I could make it up to him later that night, he replied back not a minute later: Absolutely. My place.

An arm rested over my shoulder - softly to give me space, close enough to feel a little warmth.

“You know you have to actually go inside to get credit for attending,” Rhysand said. “Unless you were planning on sending the family house ghost in your stead.”

“Why must you always insist on being so dramatic? Get off.” I jerked until his arm fell away. “You’ll ruin my hair. That ghost spent a good deal of time fussing with it this morning before I left.”

Rhys snorted and opened the door for me with a wide sweeping gesture. “After you, Feyre darling.”

I inhaled deeply, but walked forward. What the hell was I getting myself into?

A loud bark of laughter met me as Rhys led me into the administration conference room where the Student Body Council met every Monday for after school meetings. Cassian sat kicked back in one of the chairs with his legs propped up on the table while Azriel quietly recounted some odd joke or other that prompted the booming sounds coming from Cassian.

Their conversation didn’t stop as I stepped through the door, but Cassian took one look at me, then Rhys, then back to me and I swore his eyes sparked with a glint of fiery knowing. Azriel simply nodded at me before concluding his story.

“Feyre,” Cassian said. He slapped his hands together to rid them of the crumbs from the bag of Famous Amos cookies he’d been eating. “How’s your sister?”

“Ask her yourself,” I scoffed. “Didn’t you get a date? Or did she wise up and ditch your sorry ass after all.”

“You mean you don’t know?” His eyebrows rose, considering my ignorance. “Interesting.”

“Where’s Morrigan?” Rhys cut in, for which I was grateful.

“Getting out of Cheer,” Azriel said, staring down at the open binder in front of him and - I suspected - merely pretending to flit through it. “She’s meeting Amren on the way.”

So that’s where my friend had disappeared to after AP Studio Art. Part of me wondered if she’d done it intentionally for my embarrassment.

“Who’s Morrigan?” I asked, looking to Rhys.

“She’s-”

“Here,” Azriel said, cutting him off. Azriel must have been psychic because it was a good ten seconds before the blondest head I’d ever seen waltzed into the room like sunshine through a field - and came straight at me.

“You must be Feyre!”

“Morrigan,” Rhys hissed.

Morrigan swallowed me whole and over her shoulder I spotted Amren enjoying the sight of me cornered. There was no escaping now.

When she pulled back from the hug, Morrigan was all red lips and teeth grinning like a wildcat at me. Hell - she looked like a wildcat in that cheerleading uniform hugging her every delicious curve.

“I’m so excited to finally meet you. You have no idea!” Morrigan stamped her foot as she prattled on a million miles a minute, beaming the whole way through. I felt like I’d drank liquid gold. “You’re just - ugh, look at you! You’re everything I thought you’d be. My dear cousin has told me all about you.”

“He has?” I asked, not really sure what that would mean. We both looked at Rhys.

“You’re… perky today, Mor.”

She snorted. “When am I not?”

“You two are cousins?”

“Woefully, yes. But it has its perks - like planning this damned dance. Can we start yet?”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the principal and-”

“Nah!” Morrigan chirped. She walked past Cassian and slung her backpack over his feet still draped on the table. “Can we not?” Then she grabbed a seat and plopped down right between the two boys, Azriel sweating through his shirt while he tried to keep his eyes high at the worst of times and on his binder at the best. He frowned when he caught me looking and turned away from all of us.

“Ooh, Famous Amos,” Mor said snagging Cass’s cookies. “My favorite.” Cass didn’t protest the steal, much to my surprise.

I sat down on the opposite side of the table, Rhys sliding behind me to sit on my right while Amren took the seat on my left.

“We need a theme,” Rhys started, but Mor grunted indignantly.

“Aren’t you going to introduce her?”

Rhys’s eyes looked up and almost - just almost - rolled to the side. My jaw slackened slightly. This was possibly the one person in all of Prythian High who got under his skin, maybe ever.

“She already knows everyone,” Rhys replied dutifully, “including you, as you clearly just indicated.”

“Still.”

“Alright, fine.” He gave her a begrudging look, which she returned with enthusiasm, and said, “Everyone, this is Feyre. Feyre darling, this is everyone. She’ll be our Arts and Drama Chair.”

“Minus the darling,” I clarified, “because as I told you the first thousand times you said it, that’s not my name.”

“No it’s not,” he agreed. “Feyre is. The darling is just a perk.” He winked.

“Prick. Pri-ick.”

He smirked viciously and swiveled back around. “We need a theme-”

“Masquerade!” Mor interjected. “It’s perfect. We can do a black and white scheme - that’ll really make the dresses stand out like little pops of color in the crowd - and have low-lit lantern lights strung up everywhere. Very Phantom of the Opera.”

“I don’t know how I ever forget you two are related,” Cassian said, propping a single foot back on the table that Morrigan regarded very carefully. “Neither of you never shut your faces for a single damned moment.”

“Cassian,” Azriel said, obviously tense. The glare Mor had been about to unleash upon the Russian general’s son died when she looked at Az and put her hand on his.

“Don’t fuss, Az. We won’t fight,” she said the softest I’d heard her yet. She removed her touch and Azriel immediately placed both his scar-encrusted hands under the table.

“Much as I agree the masquerade concept is an enchanting one,” Rhys resumed, “the senior class did it our freshmen year. We’ll need something fresher.”

“Blood is fresh.”

We turned collectively to Amren who sat picking at one of her perfectly manicured nails.

Silence.

“You’re fucking creepy, Amren. I hope you know that.”

“Thank you, Cassian. I’m well aware.”

“Just trying to be helpful.”

Rhys rifled in his backpack for a moment and took out a scrap of paper he’d printed off. “This is the suggested list the principal gave us of approved and within budget themes. Much as I love lantern lighting, we don’t have hundreds of bucks to blow at Hobby Lobby.”

The sheet passed to Azriel who immediately passed it to Mor who naturally took the longest time with it. Cassian gave it no more than a glance before brushing it over to Amren who studied it carefully for no longer than was necessary to have it memorized and passed it on to me.

It was a fairly typical list of party themes ranging from casino night to circus carnivals and everything in between. But there wasn’t really anything… exciting. Nothing that suggested magic or whimsy or surprise. Nothing that made you want to feel the romance.

“Well?” Rhysand asked. When no one answered, I looked up from the paper and found them all staring at me expectantly.

“Well what?” I asked.

“You’re the Arts and Drama Chair,” Cassian said. “Figure it out.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down there, Sassy Cassy. You can’t expect me to pick the theme? I thought I was just here to play with poster boards and paint so things at least looked pretty when you made a mess.”

“Part of art is having a vision,” Rhys said. He took the list from me, crumpled it up, and tossed it behind him without another look. “Right now we currently have no vision. But we could use it sorely. This is one of the last big moments of our adolescent careers. We should make it memorable.”

His gaze was thoughtful, pressing even, as his violet eyes reigned down so intently on me. He actually trusted me to do this. A dance was trivial in the long run, but we all knew it meant a lot more than the one-off jokes between us would suggest. A kernel of pride blossomed in my chest at what he was asking of me.

I had to shut my eyes and lean back in my seat with my lips pursed to pretend I was merely considering ideas rather than just trying to escape his gaze.

Dance themes, dance themes…

Well, for starters, it was a winter dance. So anything summery and more upbeat was out. Winter was a cold season, but not without a little refinery. This dance needed to feel sophisticated and just a touch whimsical.

“What do you think of when you think of winter?” I asked. “What words come to mind.”

I kept my eyes closed as the room obliged me with answers, everything from Christmas and spiced apple cider (Morrigan) to ice and snow (Azriel) and weather cold enough to freeze your balls off (Cassian). And in the middle of it, I heard a velvet voice beside me whisper of the cold, cold dead of night, when the skies close and snow glides down.

A snowfall. Though that was a horrible name for it.

Almost as horrible as the way Rhys described it like there was a hidden pain somewhere there.

I remembered once when I was little my parents drove my sisters and I up to Big Bear for the weekend, one of the few places in the southern half of the state that got snow. It was my birthday and I’d told them I wanted to see what it looked like not to be able to see the grass anymore. I couldn’t have been more than five, but I never forgot the moment my dad woke me up at two in the morning in that little cabin in the mountains and told me it was snowing outside.

Mom tried to wake Nesta and Elain, but they couldn’t be bothered to move from their beds, too warm and cozy to see something that would still be there in the morning waiting for them.

But I got up. I went and I sat on the porch with my parents drinking hot cocoa while the snow fell and when it was over some time later, the clouds parted back and you could see the stars. They glistened and burned so bright even under a California sky and it was the most peaceful I’d ever felt. I wanted to reach up and touch each one.

“Starfall,” I said suddenly and my eyes popped open. And for some reason, I only looked at Rhys.

“It’s perfect.” I didn’t even have to explain.

Mor was teetering on the edge of her seat. She stole a sheet of notebook paper right out of Azriel’s hand and started scribbling furiously. “We can hang Christmas lights and get those little paper lamps that people hang candles in - and gold! Everything in gold and maybe little accents of silver here and there…” and on and on she went.

I didn’t say much for the rest of the meeting - if you could call it that. It felt more like a family dinner of sorts with occasional bickering before overwhelming laughter and wisecrack jokes. And at the center of it all were Rhys and Mor, the ring leaders casting fire and light down upon us all.

It was nice.

“When are we going dress shopping?!” Mor asked as we walked out an hour later, the initial details for planning the dance set.

“Dress shopping?” I shot her a look. “I’m not going to the dance.”

Mor’s face shattered. Five steps ahead of me, Rhys’s head jerked.

“What do you mean you aren’t going, Feyre Archeron?”

“When did you learn my last name?”

“Feyre,” Mor said, her head tilting to one side as she frowned. “I sit three rows behind you in Calculus.”

“You do?”

Mor tipped her head back and roared with laughter. “You’re a little clueless, hun, but that’s okay.” She laced her arm in mine and if it weren’t for my sluggish pace, I had a feeling we’d be skipping ahead full speed. “And I’m going to get you dress shopping whether you like it or not. I need an opinion from someone who doesn’t wear black for a living.”

“I wear color plenty,” Amren said behind us sharply and I almost jumped. I hadn’t realized she had followed so close.

“Grey does not count!” We stepped outside into the warm sunshine and Mor paused to close her eyes, basking in the heat. “It’s so nice and warm. Don’t you just love how the sun dances on your skin when it’s hot like this?”

It had to be nearly a hundred degrees out, but she opened her eyes and gave me the brightest smile, pure happiness radiating out of her at 110%. A few feet away, the boys stood talking, but neither Rhys nor Cassian noticed the shy face staring blatantly at the long golden locks in front of them.

I could see why he was so smitten. Morrigan was a force of nature designed to orchestrate us all into living.

When everyone got out their car keys, it felt like an illusion had cracked inside me. I’d forgotten about life for a little while inside that room with all of them and I liked it - a lot. Slowly, I fished my own set of keys out and made my excuses for not joining them all when we got to the student lot.

I was excited, for once, to tell Tamlin everything. There was suddenly this very warm spot in my life where maybe I could carve out a little niche for myself - one that wasn’t isolating like my art.

“Well?” Tamlin asked when he opened the door to his home for me, this sad little sort of smile playing out on his lips. The bright, happy words I’d been bursting at the seams to keep secret in the car - to save and hoard for him lest even the air snatch their excitement - cut off in my heart at the sight of him.

Truthfully, he looked awful and I felt even worse than he looked for ditching him.

“Well nothing,” I said and grabbed him, leading him upstairs to the room I knew all too well. I realized about halfway up that I hadn’t actually told him yet where I had disappeared to this afternoon or who I was with. My stomach knotted guiltily.

And for the first time maybe ever, we had sex and none of the sick, self-loathing feelings went away - not even a little bit.

We had sex - and I felt nothing but a guilt I did not understand.

xx

[thenameisbinx]

Blame Monday

ive been wanting to write down this entry since tuesday but i was busy trying to regulate my thoughts. Writing has always been my point of solace where in i find peace of mind and a completely different outlet as to talking to my friends about what im going through. i’ve set to making this entry in defining my roles and the effect of them. however, i ended up realizing its too complicated to describe. 

so let’s start it like this instead. 

Facade - a false, superficial, or artificial appearance or effect

OK. let’s not waste anytime by letting people see who you really are.  Smile for the audience and don’t show that your hurt, in pain, or depressed. Keep moving and show that you’re fine. be in everyone’s good graces. please them like a slave. adapt, change for them, plead for their acceptance. All the while, bury your thoughts of reality within you. you’ll get to that stage where youre always wanted. 

Reality bites. you keep wearing a mask for too long that you forget how to be weak, to be vulnerable. i learned that word when i was seven. one of the words you learn at that age where words originating from the french language. it was along the lines of “rendezvous” words or english classes that tries to teach different sounds of words that has literal sounding letters. When the teacher told us what it means, i always thought it was acting. Facade is a character that you want to play but not in a movie, but in your life. it dawned on me that ive been doing that awhile. since i could remember. Then i keep just playing along. 

Before, i would bring the sadness of my day by showing to the people that i’m ok. That it doesnt hurt. My mom pulled my hair and complained how thick it was, even if i was sitting still not wanting her to try to do my hair. called me, “worthless” and “incompetent”. instead of crying, i’d laugh and play around with some classmates the moment i get to school. Or the time that my sister made fun of how ugly i was in front of her friends, that i’m just an orphan. I just talked back and said, “Well, at least im not fat.” Then, there was this one time that my dad scolded me for trying to play in my undergarments, i wasnt naked but i was wearing a thick white top under my uniform and some thick shorts thats long enough to touch my knee under my skirt, like my friends were doing at school. i wore three layers everyday and wasnt allowed to take it off till i go home but i saw some kids doing it. took a layer off and played. i was 6. Dad dragged me out of my school yard and slapped me right in front of the guard. Don’t get me started with my brother. let’s just say, he never made me feel like im important in the family. he’s the only person that treats me like im nothing and no one until now. like my opinions didnt matter, or as if what i do doesnt have any relevance. yet, i’m the jolly one. the funny one. the energetic one. the loud one. the push over. easy definition, the masochist. Harsh but partially true.  

Now, implications. still, verbal cues. like, “lazy”, or “stupid”. in the family, its more verbal but emotional responses. Mostly they cuss, or scream or yell. If i reciprocate the same but not intentionally, i still get scolded. i cant talk back because im just the help. i’m obligated to do what they want me to. Even if im tired from work. Even if i just got dumped. Even if my mind is going through some stuff. 

what you dont know. i go through these every day and i don’t bring it at work or when i go out with “friends”. I’ll go to work with a smile on my face like nothing bad ever happened to my life. i’d put that big smile on my face and just laugh things out. Remember just the little good things that happened and seemingly move on, but i don’t. its slowly sinking into my chest. Subconsciously weeping like a baby, consciously aware that during a meeting i’d want to cry just because i couldnt keep it in a box. i’d clench my fist as if im waiting for my palms to bleed because it crate wasn’t chained shut. it oozes when you can’t regulate. 

Obedient -  submissive to the restraint or command of authority

the words “dont” and “do” are basic commands to me. any question that has “did” are immediate doubt on me or even the start of the sentence “have you” makes me quiver already. i was taught to obey a form of authority. Parents, older siblings, uncles, aunties, prefects, teachers, apparently, anyone who is older. so when someone says, “believe me” or “did you know”, i immediately am in awe. i believe them. the fun fact is stuck in my head. i pass down the knowledge or experience. There’s another word for obedience, gullible.

i was once asked by my brother to go through trash when i was a kid. because he threw something he shouldnt. i was asked to do my sister’s homework because my mom overheard her asking me to do so. i was told by my so called friends to ask people for their numbers for them for their friendship in exchange. I have reached the point that i feel guilty when im not doing what people ask me to. 

imagine working. imagine dating. imagine meeting new people. i can paint a picture but it’s too painful. Subconsciously, i thought i have removed that side of me. unfortunately, reflecting on the past few days, NOPE. i thought my defensive stature in every decision ive made was and the only way to take off that obedience or gullible card. Looks like i have been. being conditioned this way from the very beginning makes it seem impossible to take off. Obedience equals to gullibility. Refusal equals to guilt. 

my dad comes home drunk one time, asked me to give him his gun to point at my brother. i said no, he shook me. no one else stopped me but i obeyed. i talked to my sister’s friends once. she told me never to talk to them and beat me up till i had bruises on my stomach. i wanted to cry when one of her friends talked to me. so i ran away. i wasn’t allowed to sleep until i memorized multiplication set of 9. it was 3AM, i woke up on the bathroom toilet. my mom woke up and asked me to recite it. closed the door and told me to recite it till i said the right answers. there’s consequences if i dont follow. i took that till adulthood. 

i have guilt if i don’t do what i was asked to. more guilt if i really decide not to. it consumes me till i finally give in. i feel regretful right after. then, i completely try to forget. that never happened. ever tried telling your boss no? i learned how to say no last year. i had multiple speeches dedicated to me with people saying, “Do you even know how to say no? do you even hear thank you?” i feel obligated to do what people want. i feel obligated to give what people want or need without being asked to. let’s stop there. i sound stupid. 

Strength -  legal, logical, or moral force;  degree of potency of effect or of concentration

People see what i want them to see. Facade comes into this picture. i’m always strong. can never show my weakness. if i do, i lose. if i don’t, i lose internally. i’ve been playing the supergirl card all my life. issue is, i’m always alone. always the savior never the saved. 

Superhero syndrome. ever heard that song Superman? 

It may sound absurd but don't be naive Even Heroes have the right to bleed I may be disturbed but won't you concede Even Heroes have the right to dream It's not easy to be me

my whole life revolves three things; work, home, friends. i always wanted to be alone, but i don’t survive it much. never felt wanted anywhere, even if its family or friends. then, work came. loved it because it was the only place the NEEDED me. but seems that i wear my cape there everyday. to the point that i couldnt be clark kent there either. always strong, never vulnerable. 

been saying lately, im tired of being strong. then Monday came. That’s that for strength, it’s pretty self explanatory on my side. it’s too literal of a section so i hope this would suffice. for the last of the entry. 

Tired -  drained of strength and energy

Trigger : work

Action : Resignation

Symptoms : Nausea, shaking hands and knees, vomiting, clouded vision, crying, Lack of sleep, loss of appetite, lack of motivation, heavy breathing, sleep paralysis, sleep apnea

Diagnosis : Unknown

Working Impression : Panic Anxiety Disorder

i’ve defined some of my roles. a glimpse of my mind and soul but to the people i’ll be send a link of this too, i bet you only know some. some, would even say they never knew. you know, i dont share my feeling or these heavy stories. seemed irrelevant. one time, 1st grade. i shared a problem about the family to a friend. This ‘friend’ made it seem too petty to the point i avoided sharing problems since then. i feel like any problem i have has no value to others. so i keep it in. just me. maybe a few blank pages. some ink. mostly tears. by myself. on my own. 

when i feel bad, or depressed when i was a kid. i would cry faintly inside my closet. come out after an hour or two. wiping tears of my face. i got caught once, by my dad. i just said, nope i was just checking my closet. i acted as if what he said before that point was ok. i step out when i feel weird and want to cry. ive learned how to cry heavily without showing an expression or even in a quiet manner. Congrats to me, i brought that till adulthood. 

Until Monday. i tried to put up my mask. but couldnt. i tried to be strong. but couldnt. i tried to obey. but couldnt. i remember asking my boss recently, can i be selfish? all my walls broke down in one day. all my optimism. my positivity. and i thought that i can do it. what people saw of me, they couldnt recognize me. 

i showed me. the weak one. couldnt even get myself to fake it. fake being strong, fake happiness, no mask. i couldnt even try. i was just done. even basing on what ive written on this entry, getting tired wouldnt be an option just yet. i didnt even talk about love or difficulties. i only got to write down instances. i was just done pretending.

since that day, i couldnt regulate. i associated almost everything and get anxious about everything. seeing the exit to my work makes me tense. walking to the building tightens my chest. getting inside makes me palpitate. claustrophobic. i dont usually breathe heavy but the doctor said breathing exercises would help. SOMETIMES it does. but not everytime. 

it took years to learn how to regulate these thoughts that i experience daily and i feel like i have to go through two decades again to learn how. i didnt lose myself, thats for sure. but i feel like im not strong enough to stay in one place anymore. to have the same people in my life anymore. i want to leave. i want to disappear. 

you know what i did after i broke down on my boss? i sat in a Starbucks branch in Molito. and starred out the window for two hours. spaced out. even my friends knew i dont do that. i felt like i died and im just the undead walking around doing my daily routine. 

why am i writing this? it’s 2:35AM. nearly sleepy by the way. i’m writing this for me to realize something. i already just did. i just realized that what people knew of me, wasn’t me. what you see and experience of me now, is the true me and i dont like it. i want to be wild binx on good days. bea when im home. bianca when im at work. looks like i can’t be that for a while. 

to those im sending this link to, i hope you read the whole thing. so you really know where i’m at. youre worried or concerned yea? well, here i am. here it is. i’m sorry im dumping my indifference this way. i’m sorry that im burdening you of my petty problems. i’m sorry i cant be myself. i’m sorry i cant be that person you knew. 

blame Monday.