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a-froger-epic · 3 years

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Interview with a Queen “groupie”

Cross-posted to AO3. I encourage you to leave any comments you have there.

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I compiled this interview following a long email exchange with J, a very sweet lady who went to Ealing Art School between 1972 and 1974. She knew all four members of Queen personally and was part of their larger circle of friends.

First off, you may find this hard to believe. I don’t blame you. But I assure you I’m not pulling your leg. As well as the pictures I share in this post, I have seen current pictures of J (which I will not share to protect her privacy). There is no indication as far as I am aware that she isn’t who she says she is.

Nastally, hold up. How exactly did you find this lady?

She found me. It turns out that she has been following my story Dawn of Aquarius for quite some time. The story is set in 1969. A lot of research about the era went into it, because I wanted to portray that time period - and Freddie’s and Roger’s surroundings - as accurately and realistically as I possibly could. That was what drew J in. She tells me it brought back a lot of memories for her. One of the reasons I love DoA so much is the nostalgia, she says, which genuinely means the world to me. Eventually, she talked to me in the comment section. Of course, I freaked out!

And then, I asked her for an interview, to which she replied: I will give it a go, but you must remember that I am 65 and there were great drugs in the 70s, and at 16, away from home, I had a lot!

And so...

Here’s what is IMPORTANT TO KEEP IN MIND when you read this interview.

These are one woman’s 50-year-old memories and subjective impressions. J has been incredibly kind to let me pick her brain, trying to recall everything as best as she can. In her own words:

Just remember that when I answer the questions, it is from a 16-year-old who is 9 years younger than Freddie and a little girl with no family and friends in a strange country trying to fit in. The only reason I was there, was because some hippie thought I had a unique art style.

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J as a teenager.

[I have edited the interview together from our long, and somewhat messy at times, email exchange. Typos have been fixed and some punctuation added for clarity, but I have not changed anything J has written to me. Again, bear in mind these are personal opinions and impressions.]

So, J, how did you end up at Ealing Art School in 1972 and what was it like?

This was the painting done for the Australian school-leaving certificate.

It placed first and gave me a scholarship. I could pick France, the USA or England. As a dual citizen of the UK, the choice was easy. The scholarship paid for board and fees, so had to be and sell whatever for spending money.

This picture is from the dorm. We all had a 10pm curfew and a very thick rule book that, I am proud to say, I broke every one of them, one by one. The rooms were on the 1st and 2nd floor. We were on the first floor, rooms one side and admin staff the other end. We had two bathrooms for 18 girls. One of them had two baths. The walls were your standard half wall, so it was a given that if you had a bath you run the risk of having a bucket of cold water dropped on you. Downstairs was the kitchen and lounge room.

I want to ask you a few things about life in London in the early 70s, to get a picture of what it was really like. For example, was there alcohol at the music gigs you went to?

If it was a school, church or community hall, no. If it was a pub, yes.

Did you and your friends drink as much then as young people tend to drink now when you all went out?

No, we didn't. I think it had a lot to do with money. We didn't have the disposable income, and it was unheard of to still be living at home with the parents after the age of 20.

Was weed and LSD as big and easily accessible as depictions of the 60s and 70s would have us believe?

The drugs! Got to have drugs. Pot (weed) was easy to grow, very cheap. Used to smoke it in bongs rather than joints, more bang for your buck. Trips [LSD] were cheap, I think. About 2 pounds and you were on the high for over 24 hours with no sleep. My drug of choice was hash. Either the oil or the block. It was a nice high, but you could not function well. But if you listen to the music of the time it really does reflect what it was like, to have a group of friends over for a session. Having said all that the most outlandish and shocking drug I ever saw anyone use was the birth control pill. Didn't you have to hide that stuff away?!

Can you tell us some 70s slang that isn’t really in use anymore? What in the world does “ultra-blagging” mean? (As written in a letter penned by Freddie to his friend Celine in 1969.)

Abso-bloody-lootely!

Man, I thought I was the bees knees to be on a scholarship in London. But that didn't stop me from jigging or having a skive day. They were the days that I blagged my way into a pub, had too many lagers and ended up chundering in the gutter. That was how you knew your night was ace. I would get a right bollocking if anyone found out. It would be a bugger when all that you could find at a car boot sale was chavtastic, but sometimes you could be Jammy Dodger and tickety-boo you find something brilliant. Bob's your uncle. Anyways, I need to see a man about a dog.

[It seems to me that J uses a bit of Australian slang here, like chundering, which makes sense because she is, after all, Australian. She also provided the translation:]

Cheers

It would be my honour.

I felt very privileged to be given a scholarship that let me study in England. But being so young and having no family to guide me, it was often tempting to not turn up or give a false excuse for being sick. (I had a lot of food poisoning). These would often happen if the night before I had been drinking beer and ended up vomiting outside the pub. But in my young mind that was a good night. If any of the teachers found me drinking I would be in a lot of trouble. Often I would have to say I was holding it for someone else. Not having much clothes with me, I would buy them second hand from church jumble sales or other students and, yes, Kensington market (the market). Some of the stuff would not be very tasteful or in good condition. But sometimes you would find something that was cheap and in good condition. I will stop this text now as I must go to the toilet.

PS: Ultrablagging sounds very Freddie. Blagging was used, but not ultra, meaning to persuade someone to do something or act better than you are. They were always rock stars.

Sincerely

[It was at this point that I realised I was talking to an absolute legend. She also told me then that the majority of her old photographs had sadly been lost when her house was flooded in 1988, including most of the photographs from her stay in London. Noooo! :(]

When you went out to dance, did you have only live music? Were there DJs yet?

You know, that is hard. We did not have a DJ. Sometimes there would be a band. Often we looked for places with a band or the jukebox. I think pubs closed at 10pm and some stayed open to 12 or 1, but public transport stopped at 9. So if you had not arranged a lift then you had to make the last bus. Most of the time we would be heading back to someone's place to get stoned and then crash there. In the morning you would have to work out where you were. When I got back to Australia, the discos were all the rage. They could have been in London too but it was not cool to like disco.

How many people would show up to Queen’s gigs when they played in pubs or at, for example, the Imperial College?

Depending on the location and the night: 10 to 1000!

So how did you first meet the Queen boys?

I was at the pub talking about a band we saw last week when Brian stuck his head into our booth telling us he knew a better one. Thinking about seeing them at the stall... Roger not often, Freddie quite a lot. Often on different stalls, I think that is why I can't remember the name. [The name of the stall. Other sources confirm that Freddie also worked at Alan Muir’s stall, for example, selling shoes.]

How well did you know them?

Just looking at your tumblr account. [she has had a look at my blog, where somebody asked if ‘groupie’ meant she had slept with the band] No, I never slept with the boys. I would not say I was a close friend, but I started at Ealing Art College in ‘72 and moved in the same circles. I loved the music and could be called one of the first groupies. I had to sneak into the pubs because I was 16. Roger always teased me for being so young. They all did seem to be one very large family, not just the band. It was a group of about twenty regulars, both male and female. Everyone knew that Fred was too gay to function. We were all at the gay rights march in London in 1972, had to run after the march. Lots of sharpies [Australian slang: youth gang, thugs] wanting to bash us. Back then I was in every protest that was going, student union rights, even the secretary protest. Just part of the times, stick it to Man or Woman. I left London in ‘74 for Australia, been here ever since and lost track of the boys but have never stopped being a fan.

What do you remember about them? How would you describe their personalities?

Don’t let the trolls hate me, but I did not like Brian. I found him to be rather full of himself. Space was a subject you never brought up around Brian or you would die of old age before he stopped talking. He was always the first to speak and start a conversation and then quickly passed you off to John, who was always tired and shy. Roger was also quite shy at times. He was very self-conscious of his looks, as he felt being pretty, nobody would take him seriously. Fred, well, he was not yet the big star, so I think he was working on his stage persona. When talking to groups at parties, he had the best stories of things that had happened to him or close friends. They were very funny and very descriptive. He was the life of the party. When he had a few to drink or was the centre of attention, he would take a cigarette out of the closest person’s hand and start smoking. Now remember this is the point of view of a 16-year-old girl that was a fish out of water, trying to fit in and not having much worldly experience.

It is said that Freddie and Roger were very stylish. How did they dress in everyday life?

Fred would do his hair and makeup to check the mail. Yes, he was always turned out, but so were a lot of people. Freddie did go over the top with hats, scarfs and jewellery. With Roger, it is a surprise he was able to have kids his jeans were that tight. And his shirts were always open unless he was in a jumper. I think it could have been so that you knew he was male, as it was the start of the unisex clothing. When I travelled out of London I realised it was a London thing. When I got back to Australia everyone thought I was a show-off.

There are some disagreements about how tall especially Freddie was. I know this is a difficult thing to try and remember accurately. But do you remember?

Freddie was taller than me but everyone was. Roger was shorter than Fred, but I never saw Roger in platform shoes. I did meet up with the band by chance at Sydney airport in 1984, said ‘hello’ but they did not remember me, or if they did then they did not say anything and I did not want to be a dork. At that time Fred was the same height as me (5ft 8in/1.72m), Roger was taller than me. It made me think at the time that he had a growth spurt! John was shorter than me and Brian has always been tall. [I have a feeling the platform shoes - or lack thereof - played a vital role here! Although 172cm for Freddie seems likely.]

You said everyone knew Freddie was “too gay to function”. Attitudes towards homosexuality have changed so much that it can be hard for us, now, to fathom what exactly people must have thought of him. Was it more of a joke that he was so camp? Was it something he would have been teased for? Also, he had a girlfriend. Did you ever meet Mary or the other girlfriends?

In 1972 a whole group of us - and I am pretty sure that Fred, Roger, Brian and Tim were there - were in a gay pride march. [Since then, J has found and showed me a picture of a boy she thought was Tim Staffel, and it wasn't, so Tim was most definitely not there. Whether Freddie, Roger and Brian really were there or if J is misremembering, who knows?] Us youth believed you could not choose who you fell in love with and if it was same sex, so what? However, if it was two girls then it was every guy’s duty to change her!

It was also a time that the gayer the guy was, the more the girls were interested. Also, if a guy was gay then you did not have to worry about him and he was a good person to take with you if you were going out drinking. However, the police, parents, teachers and anyone of authority were horrified and treated them badly. I did meet Mary a couple of times at pubs and once after a gig. This is just my opinion, but I found her a bitch. It could be that I was so young. It could be that I was very Australian. It could be that she felt threatened as my accent was a magnet to people around. And the boys (Queen) were no exception. Brian had a cousin in OZ and was always asking questions. I remember that my close group of friends thought that Mary made the perfect girlfriend for Fred as they were as fake as each other. Having said that about them, I often wonder if I would think the same now and if my perceptions were just because she would not give me the time of Day. Chrissy and Jo were a lot of fun.

This was before your time, but I read that Freddie's nickname at Ealing Art School was ‘Freddie Baby’. Any ideas how this came about? His showmanship or maybe personality traits?

I don't think so. There were an older crowd that would talk like that. I think the slang ‘baby’ was a 60’s thing, like groovy baby.

How long, roughly, did Roger and Freddie have their stall? I can't find anywhere when it closed down. What did it actually look like? Was it a sort of wooden stall type of thing? Or an actual room? What were some of the other things people sold at Kensington Market? Mostly clothes or all sorts?

The markets were little divided shops. The back was brick and the walls wood. I have been trying all day to remember the name. [Of the stall.] I think it was something hard to say. More often than not it would be Freddie's dad in the store. It was still open when I left. Roger and Freddie were both in the store on Saturdays and some Sundays. There was a girl, I think Jill, who was in the store more. And during the week it could be anyone. You name it and you could get it at the markets. Second hand or designer clothes, shoes, jewellery, pot and assortments. Hair cuts, food, bric-a-brac.

Wait, wait. What? Freddie’s dad? Really now?

Yeah, it was an older Indian man. so we just assumed it was his father. It was my understanding that he started the stall then the boys would work it as the whole markets were set up for younger people, but if needed he would work there. I don't think the boys would be able to pay the rent on their own. [I have since found out that the stall closed in late 1971, and Freddie continued to work at the Market until '74, for Alan Mair and possibly others. So the stall J witnessed wasn't their original stall - explaining all the different people she saw there - but she had no way of knowing that it wasn't.] They always had incense burning that was very big in the 70s. I still occasionally bring out the sticks, but it does not last like the candles and diffusers of today. If you could get in touch with Robert Daniels, he ran ChaChaDumDum it was the stall across from Freddie. He would know the dates.

[J says it’s this look, in a picture she happened across while looking at my tumblr] Yep, that is the one. It usually means that he does not believe or agree with something that was said and is working out how to respond, or he has lost the plot.

You mentioned Roger seemed shy to you at times. Was he also quite charming? We read a lot about what a chick magnet he was. Was this the impression you had?

My favorite subject! I had a thing for Roger. Everyone has a type and mine is the blue-eyed blond. Now, before you ask, was he brunet? No, he was a mouse/dirty blond. If it was summer he would have blond streaks mostly at the ends. He knew he was pretty and was always dressed in the latest fashion and had the current hairstyle. So, being my type I was constantly watching him. Everyone slept around during that time. I did not notice Roger doing it more or less. 80% of the time he was with Jo. Yes, he was a chick magnet, but he did not do the chasing. He was always very polite to everyone. If it ever looked like there would be any conflict he would be the first to leave it. It was not that he was a coward, just not into conflict. If he saw anyone that needed help he was right there, and often had to have Freddie's back. I never saw him in a fight. He could always talk his way out of things. He was also very patient and would listen for hours to other people talk. However, he would get this vacant look in his eyes at times.

And Freddie would either click his fingers, change the subject or just give up. I don’t think that Brian noticed, and it would be fair game for John, he would see how far he could push it. Roger liked to drink a fair bit and when drunk he would be hanging all over Jo. If she was not there then he missed Jo. If, however, he thought that he or his friends were not being respected, then look out! It was a verbal volcano heading your way. That is what happened to me one time. I was trying to talk with my friends close to where a drunken Roger was and I yelled at him to shut the hell up, you wannabe blond. We/I coped a mouthful back, all in the same sentence, that finished with: Sorry, I didn't realise you were on your rags (period)! I have to have the last word, so I told him the truth: I don’t get them yet! (I was a late starter.) He went so red in the face and called me JB [jail bait] from then.

You also mentioned Roger’s cat Ziggy having kittens. I read about this but never when exactly it was. Do you remember?

I think it was winter ‘73. I remember being cold when he was asking around the pub. [To find homes for the kittens, I gather.]

Is it quite strange reading fictional interpretations of real people you knew? When did you first find out there was Queen fanfic?

No, we used to make up stories about people all the time, a verbal fanfic. Was looking up Adam Lambert and came across the fanfics. Some had me in stitches! Others, like DoA, had me hooked.

Please, allow me to be a little self-indulgent at the end. What's one thing I got totally RIGHT in DoA?

All the Ibex stuff.

What's one thing I got totally WRONG in DoA?

Roger did not have a temper, and I don’t know what the go with his father was, but he would talk about him quite a bit and was always visiting his mum. [Absolutely fair, not only did I change the timeline of Roger’s parents divorce in DoA - for lack of information at the time - but also created a completely fictional narrative around it for the sake of storytelling.]

J, thank you so much for all this, sincerely. Can you tell me a little more about yourself? Are you still an artist?

I don't paint or draw any more. At the age of a 50 the doctors operated on an aneurysm or three, and now my eyesight is very bad, I have no fine motor skills and a tremor. I was married in January 1984 and have just celebrated our 37 year anniversary. I have one daughter who is 30 and two great, although tiring grandkids. A girl, 11, and one boy, 5. I have lived my life as the average middle class Australian with great memories. Talking with you has helped me a lot to remember a time when the world was mine for the taking. When I returned to OZ I started nursing, met my best friend, and we planned that once we graduated we would go back to London to study midwifery. But I fell in love instead.

J's wedding in 1984. As you can see, she found her own blue-eyed blond.

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Upon request, J has shared some of her past and present artwork with me.

These are from her time at Ealing Art School:

These were done later, back in Australia:

J: Did this just before Christmas as you had inspired me. It did not require fine motor skills!

So there you have it! I hope you found this little glimpse through a 16-year-old girl’s eyes as much of a fascinating read as I did. I urge everybody one more time to remember that J did not have to share any of this, and I think we all owe her a big thank you for delving into her memories. She is likely to see the responses on AO3, so I have comment moderation enabled there as I will not let anybody harass this lovely lady. The tumblr she created is @since72, but she isn’t really an active user and also very new to it all. Again, I can only urge everybody to be respectful.

If you have other burning question for J, feel free to leave them in the comments on AO3. I will either pass them on, or she may want to reply to them herself directly.

#Queen band #Freddie Mercury #Roger Taylor #John Deacon #Brian May #interview #i am so excited about this #so much into #information #JB

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spidernerdsblog · 3 years

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Match made in Hell : Chapter Four

A/N : Chapter four is here. Hope you like this chapter. Feedbacks and suggestions are always welcome.

Pairing : Mob! Tom Holland x Reader

Summary : you always wanted a simple life but to be born as the daughter of a dangerous mobster turned out to be a curse for you. Everything changes when your father gets your lover killed and forcefully marries you off to another mobster as a part of a deal. You hate your father and your husband the only thing you seek is now revenge. Will you ever be able to fall in love again or this burning hatred inside you will consume you?

Warnings : mention of blood, murder, language, flashback in italics

Mini Playlist : 34+35 by Ariana Grande

SERIES MASTERLIST

You text back William.

Y : What is it??

W : It’s confidential

W : I’ll text you a place, meet me there

Y : Ok.

Putting down your phone you quickly get dressed, slipping on your overcoat you raced down stairs to go out only to be stopped at the doorway by your very own husband.

"Where are you going now?" Tom’s voice deep full of authority, you scoff rolling your eyes turning around to face him.

"I don't need to answer you"

"Yes you do particularly after last night or else you're not stepping outside the house." He states firmly.

"Ugh! Ok fine. I'm going to the church" You say.

Tom was a little taken aback as he eyed you skeptically. "Didn't take you to be of the believer type"

"There's a lot you don't know about me so if you are done with your interrogation can I go now?" You were growing impatient with the delay.

"Yes you can, love and Anthony will be driving you" You rolled your eyes at him for treating you as if you were a baby. Getting out of the mansion you get inside the car as Anthony drives you to your destination.

The place you are going is rather ironic to you. People go there to confess their sins and seek redemption whereas that is the place you committed your very first sin. You wouldn’t call it a sin though because when danger befalls your loved ones you have to go to extreme lengths to save them even if you have to kill someone.

You had just turned 16 and as per your family traditions you were to be confirmed. It was to begin with your confession. You were young and naïve all excited about the ceremony but still wary about the fact that soon after your confirmation your initiation will take place meaning you will be part of the inner circle just like your brother. You still don’t know what that means but you have been told you’ll be able to take part and make decisions regarding the family business.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

It's been some time since my last confession, The Bible says gossiping's a sin. If that's true... I’m guilty" You blabbered like an overexcited teenager.

"Also, I admit to being, on occasion, disrespectful to my parents. My daddy says after my confirmation my initiation will soon take place, I fear I'm going down an unrighteous path" You paused for a while before continuing "Monsignor, as someone who's known my family for longer than I've been alive, I hope you understand my concern"

"I do, my child"

"And I pray you can offer some advice. Ten Hail Marys, five Our Fathers"

After you were done with the whole process you were fitted in your confirmation attire. Your parents were filled with pride as they watched you walk down the aisle. You now stood in front of the priest and he drew a crucifix on your forehead with holy water. You turned around to face the guests who have come to attend the ceremony.

"Do you Y/N Martinez, renounce Satan and all evil works? And do you walk in the light of the Lord?" Your eyes drift to your parents. Your mother gave you a reassuring smile.

"I do" And seconds later the inevitable happens.

Bang!!

You flinched at the loud gunshot which reverberated inside the chapel. It was a trap most of the guests were moles from the rival gang, the very few guests who were part of your family scrambled to run away but were shot down by them. In no time your father’s men surrounded the place a war brewing in the atmosphere. Your father grabbed your mother’s hand and rushed to you.

"Rosette take Y/N and get out of here"

"But what about you?" Your mother asked panicking.

"I and Jules can handle this, now go!" He ushered you both to leave.

"C’mon sweetie let’s get out of here" Your mother grabbed your hand and led you outside but the rival group has surrounded the place so you had no other option but to get back inside the chapel. An idea crossed through your mother’s mind she took you to the back of the huge statue of Christ.

"Stay put, do not go anywhere, okay?" You nodded in understanding. Your mother walks out to find a way to escape from the church safely when a man grabs hold of your mother by her hair roughly.

"Where do you think you’re going bitch?" Your mother struggled to get out of his hold as he dragged her back.

"Rosette! Andy leave her right now!" Victor growled.

"Tell your men to drop their guns Victor or this whore of yours gonna die a gruesome death" Your father had no other option as he glanced at his men telling them to put down their weapons whilst he put down his too raising his hands in surrender.

You peeked from your hiding spot to witness the horrific scene unfolding in front of your eyes, your mother held at the gunpoint and your father and brother standing helpless. A thousand emotions surge inside you, the only thought reeling inside your head that you just can’t hide here like a coward and see your mom die when your eyes lands on a gun lying on the floor near you. You tiptoed out from your hiding spot trembling with fear. Your throat runs dry as you muster up all your courage and lift the gun with shaky hands.

"Leave my mom alone!" You growled pointing the gun at the man. The man turns around along with your mother, the gun still pointed at her head.

"Or what you gonna do kid? Shoot me?" He laughed mockingly.

"Y/N run from here" Your mother yelled but you didn't budge instead you slided the safety switch of the gun with your thumb aiming right at his forehead.

"That is not your thing to play little girl. Go and play with your dolls only if you and your family make it from here alive"

You don’t know what came over you, you pulled the trigger without giving it a second thought. Your body jerked back at the recoiling force of the gun as the bullet hit the man right at his forehead, he let out a choked gasp before his lifeless body dropped with a thud. You were trembling with fear pupils dilated in shock as you dropped the gun from your hand in disbelief at what you did. The man is dead, you killed him, you killed a living person. Your mother ran to you pulling you into her embrace caressing your back reassuringly.

"It’s ok baby, everything is fine" She mumbled in your ears.

"Go and finish those fucking bastards!" Your father barked at his men.

"Jules lead them nobody should escape, I want each one of them dead"

"Yes dad" Your brother leaves to complete the task given by your father.

"Mija" He turns to you, his hard demeanor falling instantly looking at your terrified face as fat tears rolled down your cheeks "Oh my brave girl!" He cradles your face lovingly.

"Daddy, I-I didn't want to do it- I don't know how it happened—" You sobbed

"It's ok honey you did the right thing"

"Daddy am I a murderer? Will the cops arrest me?" Your eyes brimming with tears.

"No one will lay a hand on you, you are my daughter. And you have made me proud today"

"Ma’am we have arrived" Anthony informs breaking you from your thoughts.

You blink your eyes shaking yourself from your thoughts. You step out of your car and walk inside the church. You made your way to the confession booth and sat inside the booth

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned"

"Seriously?" William says from the other side of the screen. You chuckle.

"You chose this place to meet, so let me finish" You say. "I am a liar, a betrayer. I have conspired against my own blood and I doubt even your God could save me"

"Are you done?" William asks with a bored look, you let out an airy chuckle.

"Yes. So what's the tea?"

"I know the location of the secret lair they are using to operate, its ‘rêves de nuit’''

You frowned at the name. "Isn't that the place-?"

"Yes indeed. Now I get it why Victor bought that place. It's right in the heart of the city with an underground casino and the deed is in your mother's name so less hassle from the legal authorities"

"Not for long as I'm gonna take over the place" You say with a sly smirk.

“How are you going to do that?” William asks curiously.

"Simple, I'll ask mom to transfer the deed to my name. I’ll be the new owner and in no time this place will be closed for any illegal business"

"And how will you convince your mother to go against your very own father?"

"Well as we are in the confession room let me confess something. It was my mom who gave me the idea to run away and also helped me through it. But my bad luck I failed her"

"You know I actually plan to turn this place into a diner and also use the underground space for a speakeasy. What do you say?"

‘‘Whatever you feel like but Victor will not be so pleased with this move of yours’’

‘‘Oh I swear this is gonna piss him off real good time” You chuckle “finally my business management degree will come to good use’’

You return home to find Tom packing his stuff in a bag.

"Already giving up and running away?" You quip leaning on the doorframe as he turns around.

"You see sweetheart Tom Holland may be a lot of things but he is not the one to flee from the battlefield" He says and goes back to packing his stuff "I have an urgent business deal to look after so I'll be flying to Berlin for two weeks"

"Hmm" You hum, quite happy at the news of him leaving for two weeks which makes your work much easier without him prying around you. He turns around hanging his duffel bag on his shoulder and a trolley on his other hand.

"So see you in two weeks wifey, don't miss me too much"

"Oh don't worry I won't" You snicker.

"I know, darling" And he gently pecked your lips taking you by surprise. A tiny smirk hung on his lips as he left, you wiped your lips with the back of your hand annoyed and stunned at his audacity.

****

You were in the front seat of the car with Harrison beside you on the driver’s seat. You were utterly displeased when you got to know that in his absence Tom has directed his brothers and best friend to keep an eye on you. You weren’t allowed to go anywhere alone, anyone of them will be always there to accompany you.

"So now you're on my babysitting duty’’

"Perhaps yeah. Tom has left you under my watch until he returns from Berlin"

"Don't you get sick taking orders from him? I mean I really hate when people try to boss me around"

"We are a family here and we swore to stick together, now you are a part of it too so I'm just looking after my family"

"That’s all bullshit" You grimace.

"You and Tom are finally getting along pretty well I see" Harrison says with a smirk referring to that towel incident.

"What? No!” You reply quickly “Whatever you are thinking nothing happened between us or will ever happen I can guarantee you that"

"You are just been too harsh on him"

"Can we just stop talking about your saint best friend and how I'm misunderstanding him? I'm tired of listening to it again and again"

"Ok so what do you wanna talk about?"

"Umm how about you?"

"Me?" He lifts an eyebrow.

"Yeah I don't know much about you and we barely talk so" You half shrug.

"Well my name is Harrison Osterfield which you already know I guess and I’m your husband’s best friend and consigliere" you smirk.

"So how long have you been a part of this circus?"

"Tom and I started together. My family has always been a consigliere to them so I'm just carrying on the legacy"

"Did you ever wish for a different life if you were given a chance to choose?" You ask.

"May be I would or may be not.” He says nonchalantly. “I mean c'mon minus all this bloodshed the luxurious life compensates all and you can't deny it either''

"Hmm" You hum as everything falls silent before Harrison speaks again.

"He isn't like that the way he shows himself"

"And yet he goes around acting like a slut" You scoff as Harrison cracks up.

"What?" You giggle "What's so funny?"

"Nobody dares to speak a word against him and you on the other hand are openly slut shaming him"

"Well you guys may be terrorized with his fake demeanor but not me"

"You're fun" He admits smiling.

''I know" You sass. "Gotta a girlfriend?"

"Uh no" Harrison shakes his head. You hum with a sly smirk, knowing by the look of his face he was lying.

You and Harrison reached the place, stepping out of the car you stood in front of the abandoned nightclub. Harrison had confusion all over his face.

"Cabaret? This got shut down ages ago. What work do you have here?"

"My family owns this place and my mother kinda used to work here’’ it just puzzled him even more.

"Yes surprise! My mother was a cabaret dancer. Rose the enchantress or the ‘poison thorn’ whatever you like to call men used to swoon over her beauty which I have totally inherited’’ You say haughtily ‘‘but that was long before she got all knocked up with me and was kinda forced to marry my dad for my sake. So I'm kind of half brit you see"

"You and your family are full of surprises indeed" He says shaking his head.

"I think you should leave now’’ You glance at your watch to check the time. ‘‘The LPD will arrive soon. And I also know you're kind of in the wanted list so if you don't want to get arrested today, leave"

"You called the cops?!" His eyes goes wide in disbelief.

"Yes" Your voice was calm.

"Why??!" He shrieks.

"I need them to seal this property. I have come to know about some unwanted trespassing happening on my property"

"What kind of trespassing?"

"The viper kind" You say.

His face went stoic. "Is this some sort of trap Y/N? Because even though I can’t harm you, don’t expect me to go easy on you" Out of instinct his hand reaches out to his holster.

"See, I know you don’t trust me but whatever I’m planning to do will ultimately benefit you guys only"

"You? Working for our benefit? This gang is your father’s and you being his daughter will help us?" He looks at you skeptically.

"Listen, whatever is going between me and Tom has nothing to do with this"

"So you mean to say you are trying to stop your dad?" He prods.

"Plain and simple yes"

"And what do you get from it?"

"My sweet revenge” You say but you still noticed the hesitation in his eyes. “See if I would have been plotting against you we wouldn't be having this conservation because by now you would be good as dead"

"That was very graceful of you" He arched his brows amused at your bluntness.

''You can trust me Harrison I mean no harm to anyone of you. The real threat is my dad so if you wanna fight him you would need me"

"Now c'mon- what do you guys say?" You pause to think "Oh yeah! Bugger off" Harrison hesitantly leaves you alone.

"Hello Mrs. Holland" A lady in uniform greets you.

"Hello officer" You give her a smile in return.

"We got your complaint Mrs. Holland against some trespassing on your property"

"Uh well the property is in my mother’s name I’m here on behalf of her and yes some illegal street gang is trying to get hold of this place and I have been planning to reopen this place so I would be highly obliged if you seal this property and turn it into a no entry zone until all the legal procedures are complete"

"We will surely look into the matter Mrs. Holland" The lady officer assures.

"Thank you officer" After your brief interaction you walk back to your car Harrison was for you patiently.

"So how did it go?" He asks as you get inside the car.

"Smooth as hell"

"You could have told us we could have dealt with the problem"

"And turn it into a gang war zone? No mister not happening. I want to open this place on fair and legal terms" You quip scrolling through your phone before turning to him again.

"So are you free tonight?"

"Umm I don’t understand"

You scoff. "Relax I'm not asking you on a date, I have somewhere to go regarding this matter and you’re a better company than his grumpy brothers. So will you take me?"

‘‘Yeah sure’’ He agreed.

‘‘Thanks’’ You smiled widely turning your attention back to your phone.

"Y/N I actually do have someone" Harrison confessed as you smiled warmly.

"Would love to hear about her over a drink after I get done with this"

****

The next few days were busy as you had to do lots of paperwork with Harrison tagging along of course. You guys have started to get along really well though he is still suspicious about your ulterior motives but something inside tells him you are not a threat. You called your mom explaining her about your plan which she eagerly agreed

Finally the day arrived when all the legal procedures were complete your mother made sure from her side everything was ok and you were now the legal owner of rêves de nuit. You were feeling really pumped up today and it called for a little celebration because why not? You’re going to start a new phase of your life as a businesswoman, a totally legal business to be precise. You turned on the music and treated yourself to one of Tom’s finest wine collections.

34+35 by Ariana Grande plays

You take a sip of your merlot swaying your body getting in the feels.

I don't wanna keep you up (you up) But show me, can you keep it up? (It up) 'Cause then I'll have to keep you up Shit, maybe I'ma keep you up, boy

You waltzed around in the room occasionally sipping from the glass in your hand your eyes goes to a framed picture of Tom he looks quite young in it maybe it was during his high school years. Your drunk self had to admit that he looks cute.

I've been drinking coffee (I've been drinking coffee) And I've been eating healthy (and I've been eating healthy) Know I keep it squeaky, yeah (know I keep it squeaky) Saving up my energy (yeah, yeah, saving up my energy)

You were already two glasses down as you poured yourself another glass, you danced around in the room in just your bra and underwear, a sheer robe loosely tied around your body.

Can you stay up all night? Fuck me 'til the daylight 34, 35 (yeah, yeah, yeah, yеah) Can you stay up all night? (All night) Fuck me 'til the daylight 34, 35

In all of this you had completely forgotten that today Tom would be returning from his trip so you didn't hear the front door unlock. Tom walked into the house to hear faint music coming from your room. He dropped his bags on the floor of the living room and headed to your room.

You on the other hand climbed on to your bed as you stumbled a little in your drunken stupor almost spilling the drink on those expensive silk sheets.

Got the neighbors yellin', "Earthquake" (earthquake) 4.5 when I make the bed shake (bed shake) Put it down heavy even though it's lightweight

Tom was met with the sight of you dancing around on your bed and he wasn't complaining a bit, a smug grin forming on his face, eyes lingering on your figure. He loved the way your ass swayed from left to right, hair all messy, you appeared to be in high spirits. Your back was facing him and he didn’t have any intentions to disturb you for whatever reason you were celebrating.

Yeah, we started at midnight, go 'til the sunrise (sunrise) Done at the same time (yeah) But who's counting the time when we got it for life? (Got it for life) I know all your favorite spots (favorite spots) We can take it from the top (from the top) You such a dream come true, true Make a bitch wanna hit snooze, ooh

You were totally unaware of the audience who was happily enjoying a free show. And then you turned and froze to find Tom standing, leaning on the doorframe a sly smirk dancing on his lips. You gulped feeling your face heat up in embarrassment.

"I could get used to this to be honest" He chuckles.

You fasten the robe around you and slowly get down from the bed scratching your head in a drunken state. If you weren’t so drunk you would have gotten back at him with some snarky comment but for now you rushed to the bathroom and tried to get a little sober.

Next day Tom was in the office as usual busy with a pile of paperwork for several deals when Harrison walked in.

"Hey slut, how was the trip?" Harrison walks in as Tom’s brows knits into a frown giving him a puzzled look. Harrison went into a fit of laughter seeing his reaction.

"Sorry mate, being with your wife for two weeks has really rubbed me off''

"Yeah I can see that very well" He huffs bemused.

‘‘So how did it go?’’

"Yeah it was good all -" Tom couldn’t finish his words as you walked in the office unannounced interrupting them.

"Hey Haz got a sec?" You chirped.

"Yeah just a moment"

"Didn’t your parents teach you to knock" Tom quips.

"Yeah they did I guess but you know what I don’t care" You shrug with sass.

‘‘I’ll be back mate, your Mrs. doesn’t like to be kept on waiting’’ Harrisons says and goes away with you.

It was almost an hour and Harrison didn’t return so Tom got up to check where he went when he heard laughter and giggles coming from the kitchen. He made his way to the kitchen area to find you and Harrison and you busy cooking. It really surprised him that you two had bonded so well in such a short time but your closeness to him was making him paranoid too. But he trusts his best friend.

"That’s totally not the way to do it!" You exclaim.

"I know what I’m doing Y/N"

"Now this is a surprise the man whose hands I have always seen dipped in blood is now dipped in pizza sauce" Tom remarks startling you both.

"Yeah at least someone here knows to have fun rather than shouting at people for no reason” You scowl. “You’re having a problem, leave nobody invited you anyway"

"Well for me to leave you have to leave my right hand man"

"He is free to go, I didn’t tie him up here"

"Don’t hog up the whole pizza’’ Harrison quips while he leaves"

"Haha keep dreaming about it’’ You snicker.

"Well somebody has got along in my absence" Tom quips as he and Harrison walk back to the office.

"She’s really cool, man don’t know why you would piss her off like that"

****

Tom never doubted Harrison nor his intentions ever but his over possessiveness for you was making his mind go haywire. Your ignorance towards him made him jealous of how nicely you speak to others except him. It didn’t go unnoticed by him how you and Harrison often used to go out together. He couldn’t stand it anymore he knew he was been toxic but you have become his obsession maybe this is what you meant of making him suffer and it only got fueled.

One morning Tom was heading to the gym when he heard two of his men talking among themselves.

"I’m damn sure they are fucking man"

"Yeah after boss left for the trip they have been together all the time. That slut has had our Mr. blonde wrapped around her finger’’ Tom’s face tensed up as he clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to believe that something was going on between you two but every passing day seeing you both spending time together fueled his suspicions.

Harrison was already in the gym throwing punches on the punching bag after a moment Tom walked in.

"Let’s do a little sparring mate" Tom proposed getting inside the ring. Harrison agreed in an instant as they began to practice sparring in the ring. Harrison manages to block Tom before he elbows him in the face and laughs proudly.

"Oh-ho-ho, you're getting faster!"

"Maybe you're just getting slower, huh?" Tom jabs.

They continue fighting. Tom punches Harrison in the face, but Harrison quickly knees him in the stomach. In retaliation, Tom elbows him in the side, and Harrison groans

"Ahhh!" Before Tom can punch him in the face again, Harrison grabs him by the arm and pushes him back.

"Keep your head up! Low center, guard your face" Harrison grins.

Tom angrily lunges for Harrison and roughly shoves him backwards To protect himself, Harrison grabs him in a headlock.

"Woah what's gotten into you?" he let’s Tom go as he turns around panting.

"Let me ask you one simple question Harrison. What is the second commandment?"

"That’s simple: never look at the wives of friends" He answers casually before a sudden realization dawns upon him.

"Wait, are you accusing me of something?"

"I'm not accusing Harrison, I'm just speaking out the truth in broad daylight"

‘‘You really don’t think that there is something going on between me and Y/N do you?’’ Harrison was met with silence.

"I can't believe this!" He exclaims in disbelief his own best friend for so many years is accusing him of adultery.

"Oh yeah! I go for a two week business trip and come to find my wife and best friend secretly going out to places" Tom snaps at him.

"Bloody hell Tom! What is wrong with you?"

"What is wrong with me? No mate I’m completely fine, it’s you who needs to check your limits"

"I’m just helping her with some work as a friend"

"And what is that?"

"I can’t say, not now"

"And hence you proved me right" Harrison was so done with his false accusations he snapped back at him.

"Really now I get it Tom why she hates you. You are just a fucking egoistic asshole. Who only knows to push people away. You really don’t deserve her!"

"Enough! I had enough of your non sense now get the fuck away from my sight before I forget that you are my best friend" Tom yelled at him. Harrison stormed out of the gym after their heated argument.

****

Tom was driving back home after taking care of some problem in the suburbs when a speeding car appeared from an alley on the side and rammed to the front of his car. The force of the crash was tremendous as the car tumbled to its side. Tom felt his bones and muscles and joints and organs being crumbled and smashed into a tiny box. His lungs contracted with such force as if they would fold into themselves. His torso and head smashed up against the windshield while his arms and legs were flailing, searching for somewhere to hold and stop the forward movement of his body.

The air bags got deployed automatically as his vision kept flashing from bitter darkness to blinding white light. The only sound that filled his ears was the crushing of glass mixed with the distinct crackles of his bones. Tom was badly injured as shards of broken glass pierced his skin. Luckily Harry was right behind him in another car as they rescued him out of the car while his lackeys went behind the car which crashed into his car and fled away.

You were in your room when you heard several voices and hurried footsteps. You went outside to stand on the corridor to find a badly injured Tom, scratches all over his face, the sleeve of his right arm soaked in blood as Harry carried him inside and settled him down on the couch.

You don’t know why but for a moment your heart clenched seeing him in such a condition a fear of losing someone haunted you. You were quick to shake those feelings off and rushed downstairs. You had a deep frown as you examined his wounds from afar then looked towards Harry.

"How did this happen?"

"All thanks to you and your diabolic father" distaste in his voice is evident. Harry wasn’t really very fond of you especially after you revealed your father’s true intentions.

"Ok now it’s my fault, great!"

"Harry let it go, we have bigger matters to solve right now" Tom groans in pain.

"Can’t we just take him to the hospital he might have a concussion it's better to get it scanned?'' You say warily.

"No, it's not safe. And if the word spreads out about today’s attack the other gangs will try to retaliate too. We have to put up a strong upfront"

"Really? Are you fucking out of your minds? His wounds need immediate medical attention and you are planning on going on a war?"

"We don’t need any advice from you"

"Well by the look of his arm if you want your dearest brother's arm to get amputated go ahead be my guest" Silence fell in the room.

"No? Then move your ass and take him to the bedroom" You ordered.

"Leslie!" You call out.

"Yes ma’am" Leslie rushes in.

"Bring me some clean towels and hot water please and also the first aid kit" You ordered as she immediately goes to fetch everything for you.

Meanwhile Harry with two other lackeys carried Tom to your bedroom. He was sitting upright back supported by the headboard. You entered the room with some clean clothes for him in your hand.

"You guys can leave now, I'll can take care from here"

You sit beside Tom and he goes to unbutton his shirt but it was a lot for him with his current state. You hesitated at first but then took the initiation and went to unbutton his shirt slowly and dumped it in the hamper. Then you dipped a clean towel in the hot water and pressed it gently on his skin cleaning the wounds.

Tom gazed at you with admiration as he studied your facial features. Your brows were knitted together completely focused on the task in hand he hissed when you pressed the cloth on the large slit on his arm.

"Sorry it may hurt a little the cut is quite large" You say apologetically.

"It's ok love, I'm no stranger to pain"

You went to disinfect the wound before securing it with a gauze and bandage.

"I thought you wanted me dead" He quips as you applied some antiseptic cream on the scratches on his face.

"I promised you an eternity in hell can't let you escape with a mere tetanus infection can I?" You smirk.

"There it's all done I'm gonna leave you alone now, you can change and then take some rest"

Next day Tom was busy scouring through some files as you brought his breakfast in the bedroom.

"How are you feeling now?" You ask.

"Better"

"Hey, do you know where Harrison is? I haven't seen him since yesterday and I have been trying his phone. He isn't picking up'' You say nonchalantly, Tom’s mood went sour at his name.

"I don't know," He mutters.

"But wasn't he supposed to be with you?’’ You nudge him.

"Harrison wasn't there with me"

"Oh thank God at least he is safe" You heave a sigh of relief and it irked him even more.

"You like Harrison?" His voice was cold.

"What's not to like about him? I mean he's a good man, kind, loyal and of course good looking if I may add" You chuckle at the last bit.

"Is he that good huh? I thought you despised mobsters or is it just me?"

"What do you mean?" Your brows knits in a frown.

"Oh don't act so naïve Y/N what kind of fool do you think I am? Do you think I don't understand what game you're playing?" He snaps.

"You think something is going on between me and Harrison?" Your eyebrows shot up in disbelief.

"I don't see otherwise, Why don't you admit it? This has been your plan all along to turn my people against me, starting with my best friend"

"What? Why would I do that?"

"Guess what love? the car that crashed into mine was hired by the vipers and they knew that I’ll be all alone and wouldn’t see it coming.

You look at him flabbergasted. "You're sick, you and your crippling paranoia will be the end of you not me....and I don't give a damn what you think about me. But Harrison... How could you think of him like that? Isn't he your best friend?"

"I think it's time to reconsider that too"

"Is that why Harrison was not there with you yesterday? Wait—” you pause. “don't tell me you finished him off like the way you did to Ethan"

"Wish I could" He says coldly.

"You know what? I actually came to give you this” you slammed an invitation card on his chest. “maybe pay a visit if you have the time and see for yourself what we have been up to behind your back"

...........................................................................

Taglist in bio or send an ask/dm I’ll add you.

#tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagines #tom holland imagine #tom holland smut #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #mob!tom

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kpopfanfictrash · 3 years

Text

A Holly, Jolly Crisis (Teaser)

Posting Date: December 18th, 6:00 PM CT (UTC/GMT-05:00)

Creative Contributor: @underthejoon for this wonderful banner!

Genre: Rom-Com / Ex-Childhood Best Friends to Lovers

Pairing: Hoseok / Reader

Synopsis: At this time last year, you thought you had it all. A kick-ass screenwriting job for the hottest TV show in LA, an actor boyfriend whose career was taking off and an affordable apartment with not one, but two bathrooms. Fast-forward to now and you’re single, soon-to-be jobless and searching for a way to scrape together January rent. Everything seems to be falling apart, which was why you told your family you weren’t coming home for the holidays. Enter your little sister, Sara, who recently became engaged to her boyfriend, Yoongi and needs you home to celebrate. The biggest problem? Returning home means you’ll be forced to face everything and everyone you left behind, including Yoongi’s best man – and your ex-best friend, Hoseok.

[ PART OF THE ONCE UPON A HOLIDAY COLLABORATION ]

Estimated WC: 37K

Rating: 18+

Preview: 2,455

Dear Y/N Y/L/N,

Thank you for taking the time to send our team your screenplay for One for the Money. It was a pleasure learning about your characters and ideas.

Unfortunately, we did not select your spec script at this time for further consideration.

Not wanting to read the rest of the rejection email, you clicked back to your inbox and moved the message to trash. Releasing a sigh, you slumped in the hard, plastic airport chair beneath you. This had to be your fifteenth rejection email this month, which didn’t bode well for your screenplay’s future.

The screenplay in question was your self-written TV series – One for the Money. You’d been working on it for years and had just begun sending it out to studios. If a screenplay was written outside a studio and shopped around after, it was often called a spec script. This stood for speculative screenplay and you supposed that right now, this was the best descriptor.

A screenplay without a studio was practically nothing. Speculative, indeed.

Glancing up from your phone, you saw the flight’s status on the board had moved from green to red – delayed. Stifling another sigh, you switched apps on your phone to check the weather. Winter storms were sweeping through the Midwest, resulting in a delay of holiday travel. This was precisely the reason you hadn’t wanted to go home this year.

Well, it wasn’t the only reason you were dreading your return to Josen Falls. You hadn’t seen your family in over a year but had still planned on staying in LA for Christmas and New Years. A wrench had been thrown in these plans when your sister, Sara, became engaged to her boyfriend, Yoongi.

Yoongi had only had one request when it came to wedding planning – that they be married in the same church his parents had been, a beautiful venue up north of the city. Of course, the only available date at said church within three years was June 30th. Seven months was practically nothing to plan a wedding, but Sara was determined to make it happen. Hence the need to have you at home.

Don’t get you wrong – of course, you were excited about Sara and Yoongi. You’d been the one who introduced them, after all, through your former best friend. They were perfect together and you were nothing but ecstatic to see your little sister so happy. The only unfortunate part about her life coming together was it happened to come at the same time as yours falling apart.

One year prior, you would’ve said you were on the right path. Things had been going well in nearly every part of your life. Your TV show was about to release its second season, you’d been dating Darren for nearly nine months and had found a reasonably priced one-bedroom apartment in a coveted neighborhood. Everything had been looking up, considering your previous year in LA, where paychecks had been scarce, and you’d been dangerously close to asking your parents for money.

Now, you found yourself back in the same situation. Uncertain where your next paycheck was coming from, recently single and unsure how you were going to make rent next month.

Your coveted Hollywood job had been as a screenwriter for The Drop, a critically acclaimed show which ended abruptly this year after a dispute with the main actor. The third – and final – season was set to air in the new year on Netflix, but after that you’d be out of a job.

Hence the desperate pitch of your spec script to every mainstream television producer with an open inbox. Suffice to say, things were not going well.

This was evidenced by the uncomfortable chair you’d squeezed yourself into at the airport, having been forced to give up your pass to Admirals Club. The cost just couldn’t be justified right now. Forlornly, you stared at the ticket you held in your hand.

It had been nearly a year since you’d last visited home. At first, this hadn’t been a purposeful decision. You’d been swamped at work, preparing for the Golden Globes and seasons one and two of The Drop. Your ex-boyfriend, Darren, had been nominated for an Oscar last year, resulting in a lot of holiday parties to attend.

Last year had simply been too busy to come, but all that had changed in just a few months. It all started in March, when contract negotiations stalled with your leading actor, Tory River. Tory fancied himself a method actor, so when you refused to pay him the GDP of a small country, he decided to walk. Without him, the studio had to scrap the show. Better to leave things at three solid seasons than add a lukewarm fourth without the star.

You were told in May the third season would be the last and were highly encouraged to apply to other shows. Nothing had panned out from there and then, at the end of the summer, you were dealt another blow.

You should’ve known things were bad when Darren, your ex-boyfriend, called you himself instead of Molly, his assistant.

When you first met Darren Carmichael in LA, he was a struggling actor from Des Moines, Iowa. The Darren of September 2020 was no longer the Darren of early 2019, though – he’d long ditched the Midwest accent in favor of designer shades and loafers. High off an Oscar nomination and with job offers rolling in, you should’ve suspected something was wrong from the genuine contriteness to his tone.

The first thing he said to you was, “Did you pass a newsstand today?”

At first, you’d been baffled since no one walked past newsstands anymore. Logging into Twitter, you immediately saw why your boyfriend had been worried.

DARREN CARMICHAEL AND CO-STAR, JESSICA AVEC, CAUGHT CANOODLING ON SET OF RECENT MOVIE!

Frozen in place, you’d barely listened while he pleaded his case. Instead, you scanned the article and felt your emotions deaden with each word you read. Darren and Jessica had been caught making out when no cameras were rolling. You were only mentioned as a footnote, and not even by name.

Darren was previously dating a screenwriter in LA, although this seems to have ended several weeks prior.

You had wanted to scream at that point, wanted to call up the author and berate them for proper sources, but you didn’t do any of that. Instead, you sat eerily still while Darren yammered on and on about why he’d done what he’d done.

That had been the worst part. He hadn’t apologized – not really. Instead, he’d gone on about how hard it had been for him to be away, surrounded and worshiped by more available people. You had your career, he’d argued. You had other things, you didn’t need him and what he felt for Jessica seemed like the real thing.

Darren thought you should break up so he could begin dating her.

Numbly, you’d hung up the phone and blocked his number. That had been nearly three months ago at this point, but the sting of the breakup remained.

It wasn’t as though Darren had changed overnight. When you’d first met, he had been the super-cute barista at your favorite coffee shop. You two had bonded over being unable to find appropriately caffeinated beverages in LA and the rest, as they say, was history.

Then Darren landed a role as a recurring character on a popular Netflix show. What seemed like overnight, he became America’s heartthrob. Still, Darren had remained mostly the same at first. He went to work every morning, came home in the evenings and you continued to attend the same parties, run in the same circles.

Soon though, Darren was invited to more exclusive gatherings and slowly, his invitations transitioned from “Darren plus date” to “Darren.” You hadn’t protested at the time, not overly interested in canapés and pretentious conversation. The time you did spend together dwindled, going from Facetiming each night on his movie set to a harried phone call every other day.

Maybe you should’ve been more suspicious. Looking back on it now, the warning signs were all there, but you’d been too busy with work and worried about your show’s future. Darren had been distant and withdrawn, but you’d been okay because you’d been distant, too.

After you blocked his number, you’d kicked him out of your apartment. Packing everything he owned in boxes, you’d set these on the lawn and firmly shut the door. It was unfortunate that it rained before he could pick them up, but that couldn’t be helped. You refused to see him again – you even went so far as to have your assistant, Jimin, pick up Darren’s keys.

Jimin had done so gleefully, perhaps too gleefully, but that couldn’t be helped. Darren had tried to contact you a couple more times, but eventually he got the hint and the last you’d looked, he seemed blissfully happy with his vapid co-star.

Gritting your teeth, you exhaled. That wasn’t fair – you had no idea what Darren had told Jessica about you. For all you knew, she could’ve thought you’d been broken up.

Regardless, things had gone steadily downhill for you the past year. Single, nearly unemployed and running low on your savings, you could easily call this a low point in your life. Worst of all was your family didn’t know the true extent of it.

They knew you’d broken up with Darren, of course – that had been front page news for the nation. They also knew your TV series had ended, but they had no idea you were struggling as much as you were. Each time they called, you meant to tell them, but something managed to choke you every time.

Maybe it was that your mom was so excited about Sara’s wedding. Or maybe it was how diligently your dad had watched The Drop. Admitting you didn’t have a next step felt like defeat, so you’d purposefully kept things brief until you had something to tell.

The problem was none of your next steps seemed to be panning out. Again, your mind wandered to the rejection email in your trash.

“Excuse me? Are you Y/N Y/L/N?”

Blinking, you looked up and felt your heart sink.

The guy standing before you looked around college-age, dressed in a MORDOR FUN RUN t-shirt and wire-rimmed glasses. Clutching his laptop, he looked at you hopefully and you felt your heart sink even further. He had to be a film nerd.

“Um, yeah,” you said, trying to smile. “That’s me.”

This had happened to you a few times before. Even if you weren’t an actress, your name appeared at the end of every episode of The Drop. It hadn’t taken long for starry-eyed screenwriting ingénues to find you on Instagram.

Usually, you were patient in your responses, giving them as much advice as you could without being discouraging, but Lord of the Rings here had caught you on a bad night.

“No way!” he gushed, grinning widely. “I’m such a big fan of your writing. I swear, I’ve memorized the entire first season of The Drop.”

“Not the second, though?”

His face fell. “No, well – I, it’s a long series and…”

“I’m kidding,” you said with a smile. “That’s really nice.”

“I want to be a screenwriter myself, someday,” he said, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m in a program at UCLA and am searching for a summer internship. Any advice for someone who’s just starting out?”

Hesitant, you looked him up and down and wondered how honest to be. He seemed nice, looked hopeful and you were one hundred percent sure the industry would crush him.

“You want some advice?” you said as you stood from your seat. The light on the departures board had changed from red to green.

Eagerly, the guy nodded.

“Alright, here it is.” Slinging your bag over your chest, you said, “Don’t be a writer.”

The guy’s expression faltered. “What?”

“Don’t be a writer,” you said. “Screenwriting is one of the most fickle, unforgiving jobs in existence. Job security? None. Creativity? Only as much as shareholders allow. The industry will eat you up, spit you out and no one will give a damn. The glamorous profession you’ve dreamt of doesn’t exist. The best advice I can give you is run the other way.”

The guy stared at you, wide-eyed and for a moment, you felt a modicum of pity. Brushing this aside, you steeled your spine – better for him to find out now, while he could still change his major to something stable, like accounting.

“I, uh…” He paused, and then swallowed. “Thanks, I guess?”

“No problem,” you said, brushing past him as group numbers began to be called. At the last second, you turned around. “Best of luck in whatever you decide, though. Happy holidays, and all that.”

“Happy holidays,” he mumbled, in a daze.

As you entered the line, you bit down on your lip and began to regret your outburst. Some of your bitterness was based on your own experience; maybe his would be different. The guy had seemed excited and you’d just crushed his dreams.

Narrowing your gaze, you straightened. It would’ve happened to him sooner or later; of that you were certain. Better to warn him now than for him to learn it the hard way. You only wished someone had been kind enough to tell you this years ago.

Actually – a sliver of discomfort entered your thoughts, since someone had told you this last year. Someone had warned you about Darren, about your job and LA, but you’d chosen not to listen. Instead, you’d let your friendship crumble and hadn’t spoken to them since.

Just another reason going home for the holidays was going to suck. Going home meant you’d be forced to see Yoongi’s friends, which meant you’d be forced to see Hoseok. Yoongi and Hoseok were close, after all – they’d become friends in college, which was when Yoongi had been introduced to Sara.

It had been nearly a year now since you and Hoseok last spoke, despite having once considered him to be your best friend.

So, there it was. Reason six hundred and sixty-six why the holidays would suck. You were single, jobless and facing the imminent prospect of two weeks with people who either had their shit together or were a constant reminder of why you did not.

As you boarded the plane and settled into your seat, you pulled out your headphones and cranked up the volume. If you weren’t feeling particularly Christmas-y, you could at least try to numb the pain with alcohol and music.

Starting now, you decided, as you closed your eyes. Happy holidays, indeed.

[ TO BE CONTINUED ]

#teaser #hoseok fanfic #bts fanfic #A Holly Jolly Crisis

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josefavomjaaga · 3 years

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By the end of November, Eugène, finally back in Milan with wife and daughters after the campaign of 1809 and that pesky revolt in the Tyrol, receives a curious letter from his imperial stepfather

November 26, 1809:

My son, I desire, if no major impediment prevents you, that you leave Milan so as to arrive in Paris on the 5th or 6th of December. Come alone with three carriages and four or five persons of your service of honour. Pass through Fontainebleau. This is assuming that major events do not prevent you from leaving.

For comparison: at the end of this post I’ve quoted the letter that Napoleon wrote four years earlier in order to … invite Eugène to his own marriage (»twelve hours at the latest after receiving this letter, you will depart with all speed [...]«). Let’s just say, this is an unusually timid and hesitating tone for Napoleon’s correspondence (it almost sounds as if he has a bad conscience). And because it is, I imagine that on this November day in Milan, not one but two heads are leaning over the paper, looking rather perplexed. Until Auguste claps her hands in excitement.

Auguste: »Oh my God! I think I know what this means!«

Eugène: »You do?«

Auguste: »He’s calling you to Paris in order to make you his heir! His heir to the throne of France!«

Eugène (who has already heard lots of rumours in Vienna, awkwardly): »Err… no, darling. I really don’t think so.«

Auguste: »No? But then surely he will finally make you King of Italy! You have done such great work here and you’ve helped him so much in the last war, he must reward you somehow!«

Eugène (forced smile): »Y-yes. That’s probably it, honey.« (gulps)

***

In the meantime, on the evening of November 30, Palace of the Tuileries, Paris. Dinnertime. Lots of people in fancy clothes standing in a half-circle. Emperor and empress are sitting at a table, occasionally poking at their plates, staring blindly ahead. Silence. A clock ticking in the background.

Napoleon (muttering): »What’s the time?« As nobody answers, a bit louder: »The time!«

Somebody answers, Napoleon stands up, so does Josephine.

Napoleon: »I need to talk to you, madame.«

Emperor and empress disappear through a door into Napoleon’s cabinet. Everybody else heads out of the room, except for Bausset, who is on duty and remains in the anteroom.

More clock ticking. Bausset yawns.

A piercing female scream from behind the closed door. Bausset whirls around. The door opens wide, Napoleon stands on the threshold, white as a sheet and utterly shocked.

Napoleon: »Bausset! You gotta come! The empress! Unwell! Help!«

Bausset and Napoleon hurry back into the room. Josephine lies on the carpet, motionlessly (and very decoratively draped, of course, because Josephine).

Napoleon (close to panic): »I just told her that I was going to divorce her. And then she kinda … dropped down. To the floor! Unconscious! Why do these things always happen? I had talked to her daughter before, she was supposed to have prepared her! And now she doesn’t move! What do we do now, Bausset?«

Bausset: »How about we take her downstairs to her own rooms, Sire?«

Napoleon: »Good idea! Then her ladies can take care of her. We’ll use the private stairs so nobody sees us. Let’s go. I’ll grab the legs, you take the upper half.«

***

A narrow, poorly lit stairwell. The steps are steep. Napoleon, his arms wrapped around Josephine's knees, impatiently carries his spouse down the stairs. Behind him, Bausset, not exactly slim and rather clumsy, struggles with Josephine's weight and his sword of honour, constantly scraping the wall or catching on the banister. Both men are puffing from exertion and agitation.

A look at Josephine's face. Her eyelids flutter imperceptibly.

Josephine (hissing softly): »Bausset!«

Bausset (stares open-mouthed).

Josephine (whispering): »Don't squeeze me like that!« (»faints« again).

Napoleon: »Are you doing all right back there, Bausset?«

Bausset (startled): »Oh, yes yes. All fine, Sire.«

***

A couple of days later. Young Louis Tascher, a relative of Josephine and aide-de-camp to Eugène, has been sent to the Tuileries from Italy in order to report on the progress made in pacifying the Tyrol. He has himself announced, is called up and steps over the threshold into Napoleon's audience chamber.

Napoleon (enraged): »Aha! Did Eugène send you to spy on me, eh?«

Tascher (flabbergasted): »Actually I was supposed to talk to Your Majesty about that Andreas Hofer guy, Sire ...«

Napoleon (embarrassed): »Oh. Oh, right. Anyway, that's not important now. Have you seen your cousin yet? I mean the Empress.«

Tascher: »N-no, I've only just got out of the carriage, the one still down there in the courtyard ...«

Napoleon: »Then see to it that you visit her at once!«

Tascher, utterly perplexed, is led through the Tuileries to the empress's appartment. The door opens, revealing a dozen richly dressed ladies, Josephine and Hortense among them, all of them sobbing into their handkerchiefs.

Tascher (uneasy): »Hello? Your Majesty? I've come from Milan, from Eug...«

Polyphonic sobbing.

Josephine: »Where is he? Why doesn't he come? Has everyone left me? Oh, I am the most unhappy woman in the world!« (More crying all around.)

***

Meanwhile, Eugene writes to his wife from the hospice on Mont Cenis that they are stuck in absolutely terrible weather. And that Caroline Murat has already crossed the mountain, headed for Paris, a couple of days before him. Not a good sign.

***

Again a little while later, in the Tuileries. Hortense has gathered around her those few members of the family still reasonably in tune with their senses: Tascher and Lavalette.

Hortense: »So, we are agreed. We absolutely must intercept Eugène and groom him before Napoleon gets hold of him and talks my dopey brother into this divorce at a bargain price. We don't know which road he'll take, so we split up. Tascher, you go to the right, Lavalette to the left, and I'll cover the main route via Nemours. Off you go!«

***

Next day, Nemours. Eugène's coach rolls into the courtyard of the local post station, where Hortense's carriage has already pulled up. The Queen of Holland and the Viceroy of Italy both step out of their respective vehicles, admired by some dozen teary-eyed spectators. It's the very first meeting of brother and sister after a separation of almost five years, there's hugs and air kisses all around, cheering and happy sighs by the audience. Then queen and viceroy both board Hortense's coach, and as soon as the door is closed and the carriage moving, they can start their conversation.

Eugène: »So. Is it good or bad?«

Hortense (wailing): »Baaad. It's the worst. It's the divorce.«

Eugène: »O god. - How does Mum take it?«

Hortense (exasperated): »Why, BADLY, of course!« (subtone: You insensitive dimwit of a brother!) »She's crying all the time and she says he can't do that to her and that she has been married in church and that the Pope will never allow it and that he at least must pay her debts and make you king of Italy and that she wants to keep her diamonds and that divorces aren't even allowed in the constitution, she has looked that up herself - and besides, if he gets to divorce our mother, why can't I also divorce Louis, huh?«

Eugène (staring into the off): »Sure, sure ...«

Hortense: »You must tell him, Eugène! You must tell him that he needs to give Mum at least a pension of some millions or she'll always be in debt, which of course she most likely will be anyway but do not tell him that, and he must give her Malmaison and a house in Paris and she also wants to keep her parrots and her dogs and go to Plombières every summer and if he really does this to us then the least thing he can do is to let me get rid of Louis. Do you understand?«

Eugène: »Uh-huh.« (mutters in despair) »How the hell am I going to explain this to my wife?«

___________

That’s the story of how Eugène learned about Napoleon’s decision to divorce Josephine, if you combine the memoirs of Hortense and Bausset and add some details from DuCasse’s publication of Eugène’s letters (and a little malignancy from myself). Unfortunately, it ends here, as there are no outside witnesses for the actual negotiations between the three Beauharnais and Napoleon, so we only have the official story of noble self-denial and generous renunciation. But I would have loved to be a fly on the wall during those discussions.

#napoleon #eugene de beauharnais #auguste of bavaria #josephine de beauharnais #hortense de beauharnais #bausset #louis tascher

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septembersung · 2 years

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Just skimming my dash and blogs tumblr recommends to me and screaming internally, nothing to see here.

Every time I see some sort of trad discourse post, which I have no context for because I don't follow crazy people or go tag diving, I realize all over again that the internet is a desperately bad place.

Sure I call myself 'trad' - because I have been around enough in real life to know what most functioning and generally healthy adults mean by that term. I believe in and practice the Catholic faith as it was universally until ~1965, and I am a married woman with children so my primary duty is to raise my children and make our family home. And I personally have a vested interest in "traditional" ways of living, the kind of stuff covered by terms like "homesteading" and "self-sufficiency."

The circles I move in are primarily varying shades of 'trad' Catholics, in terms of home life, scattered across the Church discourse spectrum from Novus Ordo-lovers to sedevacantists, and one of the things they have in common is they are all extremely offline. None of them, even the nutty ones, even come close to embodying the alarming and despicable silhouette of T R A D as it exists on the internet.

I reiterate: Go outside. Meet people. Join a physical Catholic community that takes the faith seriously. "Trad" as it exists on the internet is a phantasm and a monstrosity and engaging with it is damaging to souls and families.

#no i will not engage in discourse #ignore me i just needed to articulate this for my own sake #my life #my catholic thoughts

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alccaddsccup · 3 years

Text

The Proposal (chapter 1)

this is my idea of what i think could’ve happened if somebody made a certain proposal. I intend for this to be about three chapters, but i have no specific release schedule. I hope you enjoy!!

Miss Parsons x MC

warnings: fluff and a literal crumb of angst

“Miss Parsons, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Miss Parsons looks to Clara with wide eyes and she nods encouragingly

“Why Mr Konevi, I’d be delighted to accept” Mr Konevi stands from where he was kneeling to place a chaste kiss on Miss Parsons hand and all the guests in attendance of the Viscount and Viscountess’ wedding reception applaud politely. Mr Parsons beams with pride as he wipes a tear from his eye

“I never thought I’d see the day where my beloved daughter got engaged. I surely thought she would remain a spinster!” Miss Parsons turns to her father with a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes

“Of course not father, I was simply saving myself for the right man” she is barely able to contain a grimace as she says this, but the unpleasantness is soon replaced by a feeling of warmth as Clara embraces her tightly and whispers

“I am so proud of you, my Annabelle. This is all means to an end, we will soon be able to live out our days in peace as wife and wife” Miss Parsons’ heart flutters at the thought of spending her life with her, without interruption or questioning. As Clara lets her go, Mr Chambers approaches

“I believe congratulations are in order miss, Mr Konevi is quite the catch!” Mr Chambers winks which causes Miss Parsons to giggle “I assume you and Mr Konevi have the same… arrangement that the countess and I have?” Mr Chambers lowers his voice as he says this in order to remain unheard by the party guests

“Indeed sir, we each know where our hearts truly lie” Miss Parsons’ gaze flits to Clara who is engaged in conversation with Mr Konevi. Clara catches her eye and smiles softly, a delicate blush blooming across her cheeks “Then I think this union will be most joyful, miss!”

—————————————————————

Clara knows she shouldn’t be feeling like this, but she can’t help the way she squirms uncomfortably

“They make a lovely couple, don’t they?” someone whispers the question from behind her

“Indeed, they are perfectly suited.”comes the reply. It was Clara who was perfectly suited to Annabelle, not Mr Konevi. But she held her tongue and resumed her focus on the ceremony before her

“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” Mr Konevi’s deep voice rings out through the church as he places the ring on Miss Parsons’ finger, but Miss Parsons’ focus is not on the ring but on Clara instead. She gives her a small smile and the countess does her best to return the expression

“Forasmuch as Mr Yusuf Konevi and Miss Annabelle Parons have consented together in holy wedlock, I pronounce that they be man and wife together. In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen” The pair turn to face the crowd hand in hand with polite smiles on both their faces before walking back down the aisle with everyone else in the church following shortly after.

Once inside the wedding hall, the newlywed couple are given various compliments and well wishes but Clara is nowhere to be seen.

“Yusuf my dear boy, your mother would be so proud of you right now.” Madam Raisa embraces Mr Konevi tightly and he returns the hug with just as much enthusiasm “Thank you, it warms my heart to hear this” As Madam Raisa releases Mr Konevi she turns to the new Mrs Konevi and grabs her hands “I hope you will pay Yusuf’s family a visit in the Ottoman empire one day, they would love to meet you” A brief wave of panic runs over her at the thought of leaving the country and leaving Clara behind but she masks it well “I’ll be sure to meet them as soon as I’m able” Madam Raisa gives the pair a final smile before allowing the next person in the line to congratulate them

“Annabelle, you make your father proud!” Mr Parsons embraces her briefly before shaking Mr Konevi’s hand “And you sir are most welcome to move in to Hazelvale manor as soon as you are able”

Annabelle rolls her eyes subtly “Father, we will be living at the Edgewater estate, as we have already discussed several times”

“Yes of course, but I just don’t understand why-“ Annabelle suddenly spots Clara on the far side of the hall looking down and a little lost “excuse me father, I must see to something” she quickly crosses the hall and grabs Clara by the hand before leading her out to the deserted hallway

“Annabelle, what’s this about?”

“I could not bear to see you so sad for a second longer” Annabelle kisses Clara’s cheek softly whilst rubbing small circles on the outside of her hand “Please, my love, tell me what is bothering you?”

Clara sighs “I know I’ll sound foolish but-“ Annabelle puts a finger to Clara’s lips

“Nothing you say could possibly be foolsih” she tucks a strand of Clara’s hair behind her ear before trailing a delicate finger down her cheek

“I suppose I’ve been feeling jealous. So many people have been saying that you and Mr Konevi are a perfect couple but that simply isn’t true!” Clara pulls away from Annabelle to gaze out the window “We are the perfect couple, and I feel so frustrated that no one else can know or understand” Annabelle joins her by the window, placing one arm around Clara’s waist “Clara, you know I love you with every fibre of my being, nothing that other people say will affect my love for you” she pulls Clara closer “and our love is so pure and wonderful that no one will ever understand. Is it so bad that our feelings remain between only a select few?”

“I suppose there are worse fates. Thank you Annabelle for letting me share this burden with you” Annabelle turns Clara’s face towards her own with her hand on her chin “of course, it is my duty as your wife” She places a tender kiss on Clara’s lips before resting their foreheads together “should we head back inside?”

“Hmm, not yet. Perhaps I may have another kiss before we return?” the pair move towards each other at the same time and their lips meet in another kiss. Clara pulls Annabelle to her body as she deepens the kiss, their tongues mingling together. After a few moments, the pair pull apart breathlessly

“We can return to the party now” Clara smiles demurely at Annabelle before going to rejoin the rest of the party, holding each other’s hand until they reach the door

#playchoices #choices stories you play #choices #desire and decorum #miss parsons #annabelle parsons #miss parsons x mc #choices d&d #choices desire and decorum #annabelle x mc

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the-single-element · 2 years

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Good morning.

We've come, at last, to Holy Week, our commemoration of the climax of Jesus's mortal life: his celebratory entrance into Jerusalem, his last meal with his inner circle... and then his betrayal, condemnation, execution, and burial.

Catholic practice in particular, steeped as it is in ritual and tradition, marks this week of horrors and wonders by changing the usual rules. The usual forms and customs, which we would follow in any other week of the year, seem to shift and mutate, and in some cases are set aside entirely. Something different is happening – something unprecedented – something we can't understand or come to grips with – something hard, and painful – something transformative.

And all this begins today, with Palm Sunday, which – as the only strictly mandatory part of Holy Week – tries to communicate that whole rollercoaster of emotions and events in microcosm.

We begin outside the church building, and parade in together, singing something triumphant – often based on Psalm 24 ("Gates of the city, stand up straight! The King of Glory enters!").

But before long, we exchange that triumph and joy for Psalm 22 ("My God, why have you abandoned me?"), and a strange Gospel reading, in which different readers – and even the congregation – each read aloud their assigned part in the story of Jesus's suffering and death.

I say "strange" because I've always felt... uncomfortable, even as a kid, participating in that reading. The "crowd" in the Passion story – whose lines are read by the congregation – is not friendly to Jesus. At times, they mock him, or call for his death. It is a disorienting feeling to say those lines, as someone who believes the opposite.

But this, like all of Holy Week's strange reversals of "business as usual", is there for a reason. It forces us to think: what does it mean for the same crowd of people to be praising someone's name one day, and then calling for his death a few days later?

Is it because they learned something new about him? Some damning piece of evidence about his "true" intentions? Surely not; he said nothing different when he was being questioned by the Sanhedrin – the religious leaders of Jerusalem – than he had been saying in the synagogues and in the wilderness.

I think it's something different: the pressure of fitting in with the people around you, even if it's wrong. The pressure of crowd psychology.

We know that when people were praising Jesus on his entry into the city, not all of them were actually his fans. The ones who had enough of their own clout to get away with it even said so, when they cautioned Jesus, "rebuke your disciples". What about the ones who felt like they didn't have that kind of clout? Who felt like they had to, at least, stay silent about their doubts in order to fit in with their excited friends or family members, and not make a scene?

But this kind of thinking just as easily cuts in the other direction. When the leaders of your own community are shouting "crucify him", and the only person saying "no, I think he should go free" is the local foreign tyrant, are you really going to throw in your lot with him? When your own friends and family seem to be convinced that this man is evil, an enemy, isn't it easiest to agree with what they're saying, or at least tacitly go along with it with a lukewarm "well, I dunno"?

If the first purpose of today's ritual is to get us thinking about why those people two milennia ago behaved like they did, the second purpose may be to force us to empathize with those people. To put ourselves in their shoes. To realize that, if we had been there, we might have made the same mistake.

Lent is a time of repentance. Of changes-of-heart, of becoming someone new. But our assumptions about who we really are is often most exactlingly tested by times when it's hard to be the person we imagined ourselves to be.

Peter swore to die with Jesus rather than deny him, but when push came to shove, he was too afraid. Others, when tested, turned away from Jesus's message not out of fear but out of hatred, lashing out at the first person they could construe as an "enemy" and letting the Kingdom slip from their grasp in the process.

Such fear and anger is, of course, forgiveable. After all, it's a fundamental, human weakness.

Even Peter – who in today's Passion account famously denies Jesus three times when put to the test – went on to be the foremost of the Apostles, and eventually went willingly to his own martyrdom.

But... it's better to be hot and not lukewarm. It's better, if we can manage it, to be like Isaiah – who, when he faced scorn and ostracism for sticking to what he knew was right, (as we hear in today's First Reading), "set his face like flint, knowing that he would not be put to shame".

This is not to say that we should ignore what our neighbors say and believe. To cut ourselves off from the world to avoid "infection" by "bad ideas" is to leave ourselves vulnerable to something worse. The danger, rather, is to let them do all the talking when our own consciences are warning us to turn back. The danger is to shrink from having the conversation at all, when that conversation is your only hope of the two of you sussing out the difference between the "Hosanna!" of Sunday and the "Crucify!" of Friday.

And of course, we can't know what we would actually do if put to the test. We can guess, but as Peter's fear reminds us, and as psychological studies have shown, what we think we'll do, and what we'll actually do under duress, are two very different things.

But isn't that precisely what we've been practicing, all Lent? Deliberately putting ourselves under duress, deliberately putting ourselves to the test, and using it to practice maintaining our integrity even under such circumstances?

So, as Holy Week begins, we spare a thought for those who underwent the test and were found wanting, as well as those who passed. But let's not try to judge or defend our own hypothetical selves. Instead, let's take these last few days to reflect on where our Lenten journey has led us, and try to take something home with us from it. What strategies have I learned? What did I find myself doing, to resist those temptations? What worked, and what didn't? What can I apply when that temptation comes again, for a matter more grave than whether to eat a chocolate or have a smoke?

Maybe this will give us ideas for next Lent.

Or maybe we'll need it sooner than that.

After all... for now, our prep time is over.

Jesus has entered the city. Passover is in just a few days.

Something is about to happen.

#holy week #palm sunday #passion sunday

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ayamari-no-goshi · 3 years

Text

A Leap in the Dark | (T)

ff.net | AO3

Fandom: Danny Phantom (DP)

Summary: AU. Daniel "Danny" Fenton tried to distance himself from anything that could possibly tie him to magic. However, his world begins to unravel when the powerful Vlad Masters brings charges of witchcraft against him.

Warnings: rated T for violence, descriptions of death

Warnings: Witch trail interrogation and execution by hanging

Parings: none

Notes: Cross-posted to AO3 and ff.net

This entire fic was inspired by a conversation I had on Tumblr

A Leap in the Dark

The old cart creaked and rocked as it slowly moved towards its destination. With the exception of the occasional instruction to the donkeys from the wagoner, the only sounds from its passengers were whispered prayers and weeping.

Daniel (Danny to friends) Fenton closed his eyes as he waited for the inevitable. No amount of crying or pleading would save him now, and he’d come to terms with it. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

Several days prior, town guards stormed his home and pulled him into the streets. He demanded an explanation only to be punched in mouth and knocked to the ground. Some of the guards grabbed him and forced him into a kneeling position as another took out a scroll.

“On behalf of his majesty, we the guards of Amity Park arrest Daniel Fenton, son of Jack Fenton, on suspicion of practicing black magic and soliciting with the devil.”

He tried to argue with them. The charges were insane. Sure, his parents liked to experiment with alchemy which often seemed like magic, but he’d done his best to keep his nose to the ground once he moved out of their home. What did he do to get someone so upset with him that they falsely accused him?

His words fell short as someone hit him in the neck.

The next thing he knew, water fell on him, jolting him awake. Glancing around, he found himself in a cell. Trying to stand, he found shackles binding his arms and legs. In front of him, a guard with an empty bucket sneered.

Soon after, he found himself brought before the hallmote. A representative of the town stood before those gathered and explained what the accusations against him were. The other villagers yelled and hissed. The representative waited until they calmed to provide the evidence which involved reports of him meeting with a dark someone in the middle of the night at the outskirts of town.

Danny jolted as he realized someone saw him meeting up with Samantha. She and her family were fairly new to the area and affluent. Her parents didn’t approve of him, and there was an issue of different religious backgrounds.

When he had a chance to speak, Danny explained just that. “I just wanted to spend time with my dear friend without worrying about the judgement of others,” he pleaded to them.

The crowd’s anger softened some. Another rose and asked if any further evidence could be provided. Hope welled within Danny. If no further false evidence existed against him, he might be able to walk away from this relatively unharmed.

The crowd shifted as they waited for someone to speak. When no one did, Danny sighed in relief. He’d be able to go home and live his life. He might have to let Samantha know they would need to move their meeting times to make it safer for both of them, but if that was the only thing he needed to do, he could live with that.

The sound of walking broke the silence. Everyone turned to see Vladimir Masters, another recent addition to the town slowly walk into the room. Danny didn’t know what to make of the man. He had more influence due to his merchant money then the local lord which caused some tensions between them. However, he’d managed to charm most of the villagers and the church with his donations and public improvements. He also seemed to have an unhealthy interest in his parents, particularly his mother.

“Ladies and gentlemen of this fair town, I bring you one final piece of evidence,” he announced as he opened his cloak to produce a large leather-bound book. He waited for the whispers to stop before he continued. “When rumors first started, I could scarcely believe the son of my two dear friends could possibly be involved in such things. So, I decided to follow him to one of his supposed meetings with the Dark One.”

Again, he paused for effect. “I watched as young Daniel meet with a strange man who appeared on a dark mist. Afraid for my life, I didn’t dare approach and instead hide behind a nearby tree. While I couldn’t hear their words, I did see the stranger hand the boy a book before disappearing back into the mist. The boy glanced through it before heading further outside of town.”

“Concerned, I followed at a safe distance. He eventually came to the hang man’s tree that grows at the crossroads and buried it before heading back to town. I waited until I believed he would no longer be able to detect my presence and dug up the book. Lo and behold, I found a tome written in a language I could not read. Images of death and sacrifice littered its pages. Horrified, I returned to town with it in my possession to report it to both the guards and the Church.”

“Are you so enraged that you can’t have my mother that you need to frame me?” Danny spat at the man. “Everyone knows the crossroads are dangerous at night. I have no desire to risk encountering the vengeful and dark spirits that make such a place a home. Besides, don’t we all know the Dark One is more likely to appear at the crossroads? Why would I go there after supposedly meeting with Him?”

Masters just gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “How is a simple man like me supposed to understand the logic of such evil? Besides, you have not denied ownership of this book.”

The rest of the crowd erupted. Even through the symphony of voices, he could tell many of them cursed and condemned him. His heart sang as the shouts grew louder. Everyone knew the if the crowd believed your guilt, your fate was sealed. He would be handed over to the Church. If he was lucky, their interrogation techniques would kill him before he would be hanged.

After the official ruling was given, officials from the church entered and took him. The last thing he saw before being knocked unconscious was Masters’ smug expression.

He came to in another cell. Sore and aching, he took stock of himself. Well, as best as he could due to the chains. He didn’t seem to be injured which the exception of a few bruises. The pain appeared to be from resting in the uncomfortable position. Shifting, he tried to find a position slightly more comfortable and warmer while he waited for his fate.

An unclear amount of time later, a couple guards came to retrieve him. They removed him from the chains in the cell and placed more compact shackles on his wrists. Once they were certain he wouldn’t be able to fight back, they led him to a different chamber.

He figured he’d see the vicar and maybe a deacon. Instead, Vlad Masters and some men dressed entirely in black greeted him. “I don’t… I don’t understand…” he stammered.

Masters clapped his hands. “My dear boy, I don’t expect you to, but I should explain, seeing as you are my most recent guest.” He closed the distanced between them after a few strides and began circling him as if he was a predator. “I’m one of those tasked with seeking out who have made unsavory deals with the Dark One.”

An icy chill raised through Danny’s chest. “Are you telling me you’re one of those moon touched under that Hopkins guy?” While Amity Park wasn’t part of any of the large cities, the stories of the sudden upsurge in witch hunts had reached them. Hopkins was the most prolific of the hunters.

“We have crossed paths on occasion,” Masters responded as he continued to circle. “However, we disagree on some methods and share little more than a profession. While Hopkins believes those he prosecutes are truly evil, I do things a little differently.” He closed the gap between them so he could whisper, “You see, I believe people need to fear evil, and to do so, I need to remind them of its existence, whether it exists in that location or not.” For a moment, Danny could have sworn the man’s features warped into something inhuman and evil.

Danny swore as the man moved away. “You… you monster! How many innocent lives have you destroyed?”

Masters just chuckled. “Not enough. My friends, could you please silence the boy? We need to begin our interrogation.”

The men in black quickly gagged him before ripping off his clothes. They gasped and muttered darkly when they spotted the large birthmark on his chest. When they found no other mark of interest, they poke and prodded the mark. They started lightly before beginning to scratch and jab. Eventually, they brought out a small knife and drew his blood.

“He bleeds,” the one muttered. “Surely this is no brand.”

“Perhaps it is an illusion, or his brand is one of those normally unseen,” another replied.

The first one nodded. “If that is case, then we must locate it.” He then made a series of cuts on Danny’s arm. “No evidence here. Please try his back.”

They continued this investigation for some time. Slices were made up and down his arms, his chest and back, legs, and even his face. All of them bled. All of them hurt. Displeased they could find no sorcery mark, they ordered the guards to take him back to the cell.

The cool stone of the dark cell gave him some relief from the stinging cuts. If any one of them refused to heal cleanly, it could mean the death of him. One of his uncles died from a cut that refused to heal, and it was not one he would like to repeat.

After that, the attempts to get some form of acknowledgement or confession from him worsened. The beat him with their firsts and with whips. They burned him with hot iron. They even tried to throw him in the nearby river, but someone interrupted that one. While it wasn’t much, he silently thanked the unknown stranger for the act of kindness.

While he never confessed to any of the false accusations, he did openly curse Masters. That apparently was enough for him and his cronies. The next thing he knew, he was standing in front of the Hallmote again with Masters announcing his confirmed guilt. As a result, he was sentenced to hang.

Danny spent the next few days in the prison’s cell. In a different cell across the hall, a few more condemned prisoners also awaited their fates. He heard they would meet their ends on the same day he would. One of the others tried talking to him, but he decided not to respond. Whatever the man did to deserve his fate, he didn’t need a chance to make it worse by speaking with someone accused of magic.

When the day finally came, the guards came to retrieve them. After their hands were bound behind them, they were led to the wagon to be transported to the location of the gallows.

While some of the other men prayed and wept, he just stared at the sigh. He’d made peace with his awful fate. As much as he wanted to blame the Lord, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He learned at a young age that while the Lord could work miracles, He couldn’t always interfere with the evil acts of men. At least he knew he’d be welcomed in Paradise.

Once the wagon reached its destination, Danny allowed himself to glance at the crowd. Many of them were celebrating the day. He almost forgot how an execution could excite the townsfolk. Some were even taking bets on how long he and the others would last.

They were marched into a line underneath the scaffold. After the nooses were placed, the executioners gave the other men the chance to say their final words first. Then came Danny’s turn.

He glanced around in hopes someone might be brave enough to save him. No one stepped forward. Instead, most of the faces visible to him appeared to laugh and jeer. Except one, he spotted Sam who appeared to be weeping.

“I hope that you who falsely condemned me are haunted by your choices,” he stated while trying to keep his voice as even as possible. I know what awaits me on the other side, but can you say the same?” The crowd shouted obscenities at him as his words came to a close, but he didn’t care, not anymore.

With him being the last to speak, the executioner and his assistants began the process of covering his head with the characteristic hood and kicking the supports out from under their feet. Even though he was prepared for death, he didn’t want to die. His weight forced the rope to press harder against his neck, making it harder and harder to breathe. He struggled to free his hands in hopes he might be able to save himself, but with each passing moment, he seemed to be drain of more and more of his strength.

His last conscious memory was to hope Sam wouldn’t be targeted for her show of tears.

... … …

Consciousness came back to him slowly. Feeling groggy and stiff, he slowly sat up. As dirt fell away from his body, he realized night had already fallen. Why had he fallen asleep outside? Had he been stargazing again? After the first time, he decided to use his roof for that purpose as it was safer than sleeping outside the village.

“Danny?”

He jolted at the soft voice. Turning, he found Sam kneeling a couple feet away with her friend and servant, Tucker, standing behind her with a lantern that had an unusual intensity. Both of them watched him carefully. If he didn’t know any better, he would have guessed they were apprehensive of him.

“Thanks for waking me up,” he told them cheerfully as he stood and brushed some of the dirt off him. His voice didn’t convey his feelings though as it sounded gravely even to him. He must have slept much longer than he originally figured.

Frowning as he realized his feet were buried in the dirt, he glanced behind him to find what appeared to be a shallow grave. Disturbed soil with an arm of an unnatural bluish color sticking out of it could be found only a few feet away. He’d been buried.

“Danny?” Sam called out again as she slowly stood and approached him. “What’s the last thing you remember before waking up?”

As he thought about the odd question, flashes of his interrogation and the gallows came to the forefront of his mind. Scared at the implications, he rubbed his throat. The skin felt rough as if it had been injured and pain blossomed at his touch. He had been hanged. Falling to his knees, he thanked the Lord for a chance at a second chance at life.

Standing again once he finished, he glanced at his friend. “I’m glad you came when you did. I don’t know what I’d do if I woke up alone out here. Let’s get you home before something bad happens. Only one of us needs to be accused of practicing magic.” He gestured to the lantern. “You didn’t need to break out the good candles just for me. Actually, they might be too bright if we want to sneak back into town.”

Tucker glanced at Sam, who bit her lip. “Danny, they just seem bright to you. The candle in there is the dimmest I could find. We could barely see where we were going while getting here.”

She wouldn’t look directly at him. Instead, she kept her gaze lowered which was unusual for her. That by itself clued him in something was wrong.

“Sam, look at me. What’s going on? You’re not telling me something.”

“My lady, err… I mean Sam,” Tucker floundered as she turned to stare at him. Even though her parents bought him to be her personal servant, Sam refused to have him call her by an honorific. She wanted him to consider her his friend first and foremost. “Should I bring out that mirror?”

“That might be best,” she agreed as he hesitantly handed her the lantern while he dug through the sack attached to his belt. When he finished, he brought out a black stone and traded the lantern back for it.

“I thought that was supposed to be a mirror,” Danny joked as Sam took a moment to polish it.

“It is… It’s just a special type of mirror. Difficult to come across.” She held it up to him. “It’ll be easier to show you.”

Not sure what to expect, Danny stepped forward until he could see his reflection in the stone. However, whatever person it reflected, it certainly wasn’t him. The stone showed a creature with hair of moonlight and eyes of an unearthly green. Its skin reflected as the bluish pallor of death. Dark bruises were visible around the neck.

Cursing, he stumbled away. Grabbing at his hair, he found stuffs of whitish silver. The skin of his hands matched the color of the creature’s skin. “What happened? What did you do to me?”

“I was trying to summon your soul.”

“I get accused and executed for witchcraft, and you turn around and preform it?” Danny gave a hollow laugh. “Was my death not enough of a warning? And what did you plan to do once you summoned me?”

“I wanted to take down Masters, okay?” she snapped at him. Her gaze fell when they locked eyes. “Not all magic is evil. I just wanted to see if there was anything you could provided to help me make sure he didn’t take any more victims before your soul became beyond reach, but something went wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if I did something wrong.”

“Don’t say that,” Tucker scolded as he placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder. “The crossroads hold strange powers as its one of those places where mortal and immortal can meet.”

Danny gulped at the implication. He forgot criminals tended to be buried at the crossroads. And even though he wasn’t as superstitious as some, he knew such places could be very dangerous. “So… what did the combination of this good magic and the crossroads do to me?”

“That’s something I don’t really know. It seems to have reanimated you, but you are clearly not as you were.” She fell to her knees as tears began to roll down her cheeks. The Sam Manson crying! Sam never cried.

Hesitantly, he crouched down in front of her and used his fingers to lift her chin. Her skin felt so warm to the touch. “While I can’t say I’m comfortable with what happened, I can say it’s not your fault. You had no idea this would be the outcome. You’re also right about Masters… There’s something wrong with him. During the interrogation, I could have sworn I saw the shadow of evil on him.”

Instead of responding, she lurched forward to embrace him. Not sure what else to do, he rubbed her back in a soothing manner.

“Sam, you’re going to get dirty. Neither of us will want to risk the wrath of your parents.” Tucker spoke softly as he tried to gently pull her off of Danny.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she buried her head deeper into Danny’s chest. Not sure what to make of it, Danny shared a look with Tucker. Eventually, she stated, “I can hear your heart beating. Danny, I can hear your heart! You’re alive.” She looked up and gave him the biggest and purest smile he’d even seen.

“But how? How is that possible? I couldn’t have survived the gallows, and my appearance is of some specter… What the?” As he spoke, a blinding light washed over him. As his eyes adjusted, everything seemed much darker. If it wasn’t for the faint light of the lantern and the visible sliver of the moon, he doubted he would have been able to see anything. Wait, he’d been able to see just fine moments ago.

“Tucker, the lantern!”

Seconds later, the lantern appeared within inches of his face. “Whoa! Watch it! Those metal ones hurt when they hit you.”

“Danny,” Sam’s smile somehow grew wider, “you look like you again! “

“Is that why I suddenly can’t see?” When she rolled her eyes, he quickly added, “I mean, that’s wonderful!”

“I doubt it’s that simple,” Tucker noted as he watched the two of them stand. “You touched death, and that always leaves a lasting mark.”

Sam brushed the dirt off her skirt before she began to walk. “That’s true, but for now, we should return to town. We can figure out what happened to Danny as we work on destroying Masters. He can stay at my place for now. It’s big enough we should be able to hide you for a few days.”

Danny acknowledged that would work for now. Even though he didn’t want to put either Sam or Tucker at risk, it would be easier to discuss the future once they rested.

Perhaps he could even stagger back into town in a day or two just to see how the townsfolk would react. Maybe they would consider his return to life as the will of God. Or, if he could take the form of that creature again, perhaps they’d consider him a vengeful wraith. The latter made him smile. Oh, Masters didn’t know what type of revenge he unleashed.

End of story notes. There are a lot:

Firstly, if anyone would like to expand upon this idea, please feel free. I have no desire to extend this. The plot bunny, now that it’s fulfilled its goal, has run off.

Now for the historical notes.

The hallmote is a court held in a Justice’s hall. In medieval England, this is the lord’s manorial court. For the lord, this primarily functioned for fees and land ownership. However, when it came to issues regarding laws, the villagers acted as prosecutor, legal authority, witnesses, and judge. The lord of the area rarely had anything to do with legal issues.

I know that when it comes to magic, usually that fell under the church’s domain, but I wanted to mention a trial first before he was handed over to them as the accusations against Danny were fabricated.

Moon touched is being used as a euphemism for being crazy.

Vicar is a term primarily used in the Anglican church for parson/minister.

Also, witch hunts and trails did still happen in the 1600s in England – they peaked again in the 1640s and the 1650s due to the English Civil War and the rise of the Puritans.

I did review the interrogation techniques of this time period. While they existed beforehand, the specific ones I mentioned were championed by a man named Matthew Hopkins, who flourished as a witch hunger during the English Civil War. He and his colleagues are believed to be responsible for 20% of the total people persecuted for witchcraft in England between the 15th and 18th centuries. His book is also considered a contributing factor in how the trials in Salem, Mass. played out.

The accused often had their bodies searched for marks which were said to be proof of their pact with the Devil. This was often a birth mark, mole, or other skin manifestation. The area was believed to be unable to bleed or feel sensation.

Hanging. The gallows with trapdoors (drops) weren’t invented until the 1760s. So, Danny is experienced it the old-fashioned way where they put the noose on and cover the head with a hood. Depending on the gallows, the condemned might stand on stools or be on the wagon at first. Then those were removed. Unlike modern hangings which were designed to break the neck upon the sharp drop, the original version had people die by suffocation. Most loose consciousness within 5-10 minutes and death occurs soon after. The title actually is a saying believed to have derived from being hung.

There are some instances where people simply lost consciousness and revived at a later time after they were cut down. Some considered that a pardon from God. Others thought the person made a deal with evil.

Executed criminals were traditionally buried at crossroads. Normally, they couldn’t be buried in a church graveyard, and there were concerns the dead could come back to haunt the town. Being buried at a crossroads helped confuse angry spirits.

Crossroads were considered liminal places where one could meet all manner of supernatural creatures. Some traditions state it’s the best place to contact the dead or conduct spells.

Sam is still Jewish (although secretly since this is the 1640s) in this fic. There are old Jewish spells, which fall under a specific type of mysticism, that call allow one to call forth the dead to ask a question. This is what she was trying to do.

#danny phantom #danny phantom au #dp #dp au #one shot #my writing #fanfic #danny phantom fanfiction #dark au #danny fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #vlad masters #folklore #supernatural #paranormal #historical elements

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antoine-roquentin · 3 years

Link

These pixels of joy may not seem like much to the average person: According to a 2015 Pew Research survey, a quarter of all adults regard most video games as a waste of time. But for Guyton, gaming is a hobby like any other — an activity that values a momentary feeling of immersion above other forms of success. And despite living on the margins, Guyton remains eager to spend what little coin he has, sometimes waiting in long lines for a piece of the latest digital adventure. There’s no shame, he says, in “wasting time” seeking fun in gigabytes of alternative realities. For him, gaming is as priceless as peace.

It’s no accident that a greater percentage of lower income people consider themselves “gamers” (the same Pew survey found that across income groups, although those making less than $30,000 a year were the least likely to report they played games, with only 46 percent saying so, low-income respondents were still the most likely to actually describe themselves as “gamers”). Chris Arnade, a photographer and author of the recent book Dignity: Seeking Respect in Back Row America, explains that gaming is “one of the few virtual communities open to a lot of lower-income people.” Arnade, who’s spent “a lot of time basically sleeping in cheap motels when I was on the road or in my van,” tells me that while looking for a good WiFi connection, he often came across people from families with Section 8 housing vouchers in search of prime gaming real estate “with their old, beat-up PC.”

Through his lens, Arnade has been clued into a more intimate, nuanced view of the low-income gaming community than most. As such, much of the discourse around gaming pisses him off. “This whole language of, ‘Young men should be doing something better with their time,’” he says. “Like what?”

But even within the gaming community, Arnade has noticed a discrepancy between how people judge rich gamers versus poor ones. “You have rich kids who game, but that’s not what I usually see people making fun of,” says Arnade, who believes that this sort of antagonism comes from the “idea that poor people shouldn’t be allowed to have fun.” “We celebrate consumption because our society is built on consumption,” he argues. “Yet when poor people consume, it seems ugly and crass.”

Pathetic and depressing sight. pic.twitter.com/GoeVrvV5kx

— Sohrab Ahmari (@SohrabAhmari) November 27, 2020

He uses the example of the way people look with disgust toward those who line up to get deals at GameStop on Black Friday because they don’t have a lot of money. “With something like the PS5, when there’s a new game launch or a new console launch, wealthy families like me, we pre-order well ahead of time and put a deposit down and put it on credit and that’s not really hard,” he says. “A lot of people can’t do that. I mean, they don’t even know they can do that. They don’t have the money to do that. They don’t have the cultural capital to know that you should do that.”...

According to K’ryzt (the online moniker of another gamer currently living in low-income housing), because gaming helps people create relationships with people outside of their own cultural bubble, “having affordable prices for consoles and gaming PCs is so important.” “Nowadays, voice chat is almost required in some respects for competitive games, from FPS [first person shooter] to raiding in MMOs [massively multiplayer online games],” he tells me. “When consoles are too expensive, they have a pretty steep barrier to entry for people who can’t afford them — and when the peripherals became more and more of a necessity to play games successfully, it’s important to make sure they’re priced in a way that it isn’t just gouging.”

Growing up, K’ryzt’s family was, he says, “fairly poor,” so he never had the next generation gaming system “until it was in its second-gen iteration.” “I got a PlayStation relatively shortly before the PS2 came out,” he says. His Gameboy Color was a hand-me-down from his then-church. “I worked summer jobs for my first PC, which wasn’t even a gaming PC — just some old stock Walmart Gateway [computer],” K’ryzt adds.

Echoing Arnade’s earlier point, K’ryzt tells me that what he’s found in gaming that he believes exists in few other places, is a level playing field. “Even in the case of pay-to-win loot boxes, you mostly have situations where skill trumps all,” he says. “So when you’re behind a computer screen and you’re playing a game with people from all over the world, they don’t know your economic or social status, what race or gender or orientation you are, or if you have a disability.”

In that way, K’ryzt says, gaming gives low-income people an opportunity to be on equal footing with their peers in a way that often isn’t true in real life. “When I log in to play Final Fantasy XIV, I’m a Male Miqo’te White Mage,” he says. “All that matters to the people around me is, ‘Does he heal well?’ And unless I reveal how I’m somehow different to them, I’m just another Warrior of Light.”

It helps, too, that apart from a few hundred dollars in start-up costs — which is steep, but can, according to Guyton, be “built up over time” — the thing about gaming is that unlike most real-world communities, be they professional or social, there isn’t an impenetrable barrier to entry. “Once you’re in, you’re in,” says Arnade. And though the language of gamers has long been the subject of controversy, in Guyton’s circle, it’s just “kind of bull-crapping around” and “just being weird to each other.” For him, that means sometimes doing “funny dances in the game and just acting out of context.”

“People seek status in different ways,” says Arnade. “[Low-income gamers] are never going to obtain status signifiers that rich people want, like a house,” he says. “That’s just too distant.” Instead, Arnade tells me, you seek the status you can obtain. And getting a new PS5 or, in Guyton’s case, a copy of Cyberpunk 2077 — which Guyton’s heard is “going to be really good” — is a piece of status that feels realistically within reach.

#last line is hilariously sad #social dislocation from neoliberalism

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

if you leave before the start (i)

summary: he’s your husband, but that doesn’t mean you have to be his wife.

word count: 7.7k+

series masterlist

chapter warnings: arranged marriage ceremony, unlikeable reader (y’all she is a straight up meanie!), alcohol, language, innuendo

glastonbury, somerset, england. 1840.

according to your father, it is a good match, a very good one indeed.

he has wealth, status, a sizable estate. you have a healthy dowry and connections to parliament by virtue of your father. he will give you a safe life in the countryside, and you will provide him access to the inner-workings of government and an heir to carry on his family name. together, you will live in wedded bliss—no troubles, no worries to turn your hair gray, but perhaps the odd village scandal to keep things interesting.

really, you should be happy. dozens of your friends have gone to the marriage bed and found themselves sated by romance and fripperies. you are no different from say, sally, who met her intended the day of her wedding and wrote to you a week later that her husband proved to be a delightful man with amiable qualities. in all truth, you are merely one in a long line of women who have been pawned off to the highest bidder. you are not the first to meet such a fate, and you certainly won’t be the last. there is nothing unique about your situation. your father reminds you of such when you smash a chinoiserie vase to the floor at his pronouncement that yes, you are to be married to gwilym lee on the first of the month and you will be quiet about your rage.

god, you hate them both.

you’ve seen this gwilym lee only once, on the day of his meeting your father. you’d crouched at the top of the stairs, peering over the railing into the vestibule below where your father stood with mr. lee, shaking hands over the arrangement. from your vantage point, you could see mr. lee was tall and well-built, that he had a soft, genial face, and a well-trimmed beard peppering his jaw. when he’d laughed at your father’s joke—the timbre of his voice filling the hall—you’d risen to your feet, rushed to your room, and slammed the door behind you with enough force to ensure everyone in the house knew of your distaste for the matter.

insufferable prat. where did he find the nerve? entering your home, passing pleasantries with your father, all the while intending to steal you from the nest like a common viper? it makes your blood boil.

so much so that on your wedding day, stood before the mirror in your room, a cream gown pinching your waist and pearl-pins digging into your scalp, you want nothing more than to take ahold of the mirror and ram your knee into the glass, shattering the pane. you hate it; you hate every bit of this. and your father is sorely mistaken if he thinks you will go quietly.

you look magnificent, this you will concede. the gown your mother bought suits you well, though it is a tad demure for your taste. it’s silky to the touch, the short sleeves capped by an inch of lace. your back is held straight by the tightness of your corset, and the neckline exposes the crest of your shoulders. it’s simple—nothing compared to the gown rebecca wore on her wedding day—yet it should leave those in attendance breathless. you smirk as you glance over your shoulder, your eyes running over the cloth buttons decorating your spine and the swath of garment circling your feet. yes, though plain, it will do; you are the diamond which sparkles within the box, the true gift.

a knock sounds on the door of your bedroom, and you shoo your maidservant to answer the call.

“your mother, miss,” abby whispers.

you huff, twisting side to side as you smooth a hand over your stomach. is that a wrinkle? you frown as you pick at the fabric. “let her in.”

the door creaks as abby widens the opening, and your mother, with all her self-important and put on airs, sweeps into the room. she’s dressed in her statement color of purple, and a heavy necklace rests around her slender neck, the diamonds glittering in the light pouring through your bedroom window. she stands behind you, her delicate hands on your shoulders, her gaze shimmering with unshed tears.

“oh, my dear,” she says. “you look marvelous.”

you arch a brow in a silent challenge. “i know.”

if your mother sees the bait dangling before her, she does not rise to the occasion. she merely tightens her grip on your shoulders, the edges of her smile stiffening. “i’ve brought you something. an early wedding gift.” removing her hands from your shoulders, she motions to abby, who brings forward a square, velvet box. “this was my mother’s before me and her mother’s before her. now it is yours.”

abby opens the box to reveal a gold necklace within. the necklace chain is thin, the heart shaped locket at the end trimmed with yellow garnet stones. four small birthstones, each no bigger than the width of the nail on your pinky, rest in the center of the heart.

“the birth stones of your family tree,” your mother says, noting the way your eyes linger on the colored stones. “i’ve added yours—sapphire—next to mine.”

emerald, aquamarine, ruby, sapphire. four women, four lives, four marriages arranged by money, position, and power.

you wave your fingers in dismissal. “it’s gaudy, mother.”

in the reflection of the mirror, there is no mistaking your mother’s disappointment. it swallows her face like a shadow and erases the single spark of joy dancing around her irises. she looks down, fiddles with her fingers, and you are struck by her frailty in that moment. she’s haughty on her good days, a tyrant on her worst, but she’s never frail. you open your mouth, unsure of what will come out, but then you see her wedding ring and you look away.

“tell me, mother, since i am to be married in much the same fashion as you: will this gwilym insist on sleeping with the maid staff as your husband does?” her head lifts, fire lurking beneath her gaze. you narrow your stare. “when was the last time father laid his hand on you outside of the public eye?”

there’s a long pause as your mother considers you with her fire-laced eyes. you can feel the heat of her glower on the back of your neck, and you stand straighter.

“i’m sorry i ever birthed you.” her voice is low, gravelly.

you snort in amusement. “at least on this we can agree.”

she shakes her head, and a curl tightly wound against her scalp breaks free of its pin. “you will be a curse upon your husband. i am sorry for him.”

“i take that as a compliment. any man willing to all but purchase his bride deserves nothing but a wretched wife.”

turning, you lift a veil from the end of your bed. you hand it to abby and lower your knees to aid her in the process of pinning the veil to the crown of your head. once your veil is attached, abby slides a stem of baby’s breath behind each ear. you apply the finishing touches—pearl drop earrings, elbow-length gloves, a pair of silk heeled boots, a pale pink bow over the laces—then face your mother.

“well?” you spread your arms. “how do i look?”

your mother reaches out and brushes her fingers along the edge of your gloves. “like a dream.”

you tilt your head as you gather the train of your veil from the floor and shove it in abby’s waiting hands. “funny,” you say. “this feels a lot more like a nightmare.”

sidestepping your mother, you glance over your bedroom one last time then hurry down the stairs to the overcrowded foyer. as per your father’s request, the household staff have arranged themselves in two formations on either side of the room. it is unlikely you will return to this house after the marriage ceremony. you parents will come and visit you at mr. lee’s manor home, and you will never have the pleasure of darkening the halls of your childhood home again. thus, it is time to say goodbye and, loathe as you are to admit it, you feel a lump of emotion rise in your throat as you survey the faces you’ve seen slip from room to room or wait behind every corner your entire life.

your father stands before the door, already cloaked and ready with his top hat. he nods to the staff and then meets your gaze. he beams with pride, with pleasure, and you feel sick to your stomach.

“well, i dare say it is about time we made our way to the church.” his shoes clip against the marble floor as he crosses to your side. “you look a picture of a blushing bride, m’dear.” he offers is elbow, and you fit your hand in the curve of his arm.

with all the air of queen victoria on her way to marry prince albert, your father parades you down the foyer, his steps slow and regal. the servants on either side bow or curtsey in deference, the tops of their heads the last thing you shall ever see of the people who have been your confidants in moments of crisis and your playfriends in childhood. the air in your lungs feels hot, and something wet pricks the corners of your eyes.

it’s all slipping away before your very eyes—anything you once held dear—and you are powerless to stop it.

two footmen pull open the double doors, and sunlight streams into the hall, sparkling in its intensity. for a moment, you are blinded. you lift your hand to block out the sun, blinking against the pain lingering between your brows.

“[y/n]?” your father must mistake the moment as sentimentality rather than pain. “do not cry, m’dear. you are on the threshold of a new life.”

you lower your hand and turn your face to him. he’s smiling, truly convinced of his goodness to you. he looks older than you remember. his beard is peppered with gray, his forehead wrinkled. when did he age so? when did you stop paying attention?

the weight of the universe presses in on your shoulders, and you wish for all the world that you could turn back time and be his little girl again, content to worship at his feet. but you are his jaded daughter now, on the precipice of ruin, and he is your condemner, not your savior.

“father, i—”

he cuts you off with a finger. “mr. lee is a good man, [y/n]. he will take care of you, of that i am sure.”

“but i—”

“no buts, daughter. what’s done is done.”

at his gentle prodding, you leave your childhood home and any girlish notions of love behind.

your walk down the center aisle of saint peter’s church feels much the same as your walk down the foyer of your once-beloved home. guests stand on either side, wide skirts and tailored suits smooshed in the narrow pews. your footfalls echo in the cold chamber. it’s a steady beat, unlike the rapid tempo of your heart. beside you, your father radiates all the joy you should be feeling as the bride, so you feel no compunction to paste a smile on your face. he’s happy enough for the both of you.

the only difference between your walk down the aisle and your walk down the foyer is what lies at the end.

at home, there had been sunlight. it blinded you, yes, but it was warm and comforting against your frozen skin. it reminded you for the briefest of moments that the sun continues to rise on the darkest days. perhaps, you’d thought, at the end of the tunnel, there is hope for you yet...

here, between the gray stone walls of the church, there is a man waiting for you at the end of your journey. the sight of him—tall and effortlessly handsome—grinds that sliver of hope to a pulp. you’ve never hated anyone more, and your future stretches out before you in a chasm of disappointment.

it’s hard to focus when your father kisses your cheek and hands you off to gwilym. the blood rushing to your ears is loud, and it clogs the rest of your senses. you can barely breathe, so stunned by the turn of events that has brought your existence to this. the hatbox of girlhood fripperies that is shoved beneath your bed—full of ribbons and wedding announcements and dried flowers from the garden, each an image of the life you thought you would lead—withers to dust in the back of your mind. it is replaced by a steel trap, and when gwilym places his warm palm in yours, you lock your heart deep within the trap’s depths. you resolve then and there that no man shall move you—not one.

you cannot seem to tear your eyes from gwilym’s profile as the priest begins his droning. you knew gwilym to be handsome in the brief glance you’d stolen from the top of the stairs, but he is unnervingly good looking up close. from the vantage point of any of the wedding guests, you’re sure you look like a besotted fiancé, but your scrutiny runs deeper than mere appreciation. it confounds you. how could a man such as this one, with his grecian face and soft eyes and curved mouth, resort to a bride package? surely he has a handful of paramours eager to be in your position. he could have his pick of the litter.

but then you remember: you are more than a bride. you are an open invitation to a seat in parliament and an untainted womb and pretty piece to hang off his arm. disgust roils in your stomach, and you finally look away.

a low bench digs against the flesh of your knees when you kneel to take the lord’s supper. you open your mouth, accept the thin wafer and the wine, and snap your jaw closed. gwilym has the audacity to reach for your hand and squeeze your fingers while the priest recites a blessing. without sparing him a glance, you pull your hand away, thankful for the layer of fabric that kept his skin from touching yours.

during the vows, you meet his gaze. you’ve never seen eyes so blue. they look like the english sea, pale and dark and churning with foam and still all at once. you move your stare to the center of his forehead and repeat the vows when you hear your mother roughly clear her throat after you hesitate too long. you trip over the word obey and sneer at the idea of life with gwilym until death.

it’s the pronouncement of a kiss that hurtles your attention forward. the blood pumping in your ears drains; the buzz of frustration at the back of your head fades; and all is silent.

“gwilym, you may kiss your bride.”

gwilym looks between your eyes as if he’s considering. you narrow your stare on a challenge, and something flickers across his face. frustration? disappointment? you cannot tell.

when he leans forward, you stiffen and move your chin a fraction to the right out of impulse. he hesitates, then, and you can feel his breath fan the side of your face. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

his mouth lands on the corner of yours, nothing but a brief touch to signal two souls becoming one. to you, it feels like a slap to the face. unbidden tears rise to your eyes. you choke them back when gwilym turns you to face the wedding guests. you know less than half the people in attendance, your family being smaller than his, and the unfamiliar faces smiling back at you needles the anger simmering below the surface.

how dare they all turn out in their most resplendent gowns and pressed suits and grin and clap as if this wedding were more than a sham! how dare they congratulate gwilym when he ushers you down the aisle as if you were no more than a prized hog won at the county bazar!

you hate him. you hate him. you hate him.

there is no time to make your hatred known as your mother comes to sweep you along to the wedding breakfast. she tears you from gwilym’s side before you can share a single word with your new spouse, and she tucks you close in the carriage bound for hiraeth manor.

her breath is warm against the side of your face, and her fingers adjust a loose strand of hair slipped from the chignon at the base of your head. her motherly doting, so out of character, threatens to break you entirely, fraught with emotion as you are, so you turn your head to face the window. the somserset landscape hurtles by, the rolling hills and towering trees, and you bite hard on your lower lip to keep the tears at bay.

“you shall be ever so pleased with life at hiraeth, [y/n],” your mother says. “your father is not without his wealth and position, but the lee family? goodness, they put us to shame.” she reaches for your hand and curls it between both of her palms. “you will have hiraeth to run, of course, and then the townhome in bath and forty-five thousand a year? you will want for nothing, daughter.”

you say nothing. you keep your gaze trained on the countryside, your stomach weak with the jostling of the carriage.

“i do wonder if i have trained you well enough for the job of running a household. hiraeth is larger than whitemarsh, to be sure, but—”

“mother.” you blink and remove your hand from her grasp. “stop talking.”

she is quiet a moment before whispering, her voice edged with thinly-veiled anger, “[y/n], I know we shared our own disagreements this morning but you are my daughter and i am pleased for you. you would do well to recognize what an opportunity your father has given you in this match.”

you do not hesitate in a biting retort. “the moment you allowed father to barter me off in exchange for a bump in position i ceased being your daughter. i am my husband’s wife now.”

“continue with an attitude like that and you will be a cuckolded wife, left alone to wither while the world continues to turn.” your mother’s nostrils flare. “you are lucky mr. lee is of a forgiving nature. any other man would have your tongue snipped after hearing such insolence.”

“i wouldn’t know about mr. lee’s character, mother. I have yet to exchange pleasantries with my husband.”

your mother falls silent, and her skirts rustle as she scoots away on the padded bench. the movement, small as it is in the cramped interior of the carriage, sends a sharp pain through your heart. you clear your throat to swallow a sob.

you will not cry—not now, not ever.

but truly you want to cry. you want to curl your head in her lap and release the tears you’ve been tamping down since your father told you of the match. you want her to stroke your hair and tell you it will be alright, that you’ll be alright. you want her to tell you that she’s sorry.

she’s not sorry, and she would never cradle you. she did not swaddle you in her arms as a babe; she won’t start now.

the carriage takes a sharp turn, sending you lurching against your mother’s side. you grunt with the effort it takes to reposition and disentangle yourself from your mother. she fusses with her now-wrinkled skirts and tuts under her tongue about proper decorum, but you’re not listening. you’re too busy leaning forward, your head knocking against the window pane as hiraeth manor comes into view.

“fuck me,” you breathe, throat gone dry in surprise.

your mother give an unladylike snort of derision. “yes, i’m sure he will—eventually.”

hiraeth makes whitemarsh, an altogether stately and proud manor home, look like a factory worker’s hovel. it is large, sprawling over the hilltop on which it overlooks rolling meadows on all sides. the tan facade glitters in the reflecting pool at the base of the hill, and an ancient willow’s dangling limbs skim the water’s surface. you shrink back against the bench as the manor draws closer. it seems to grow with each moment, new wings and additions sprouting before your very eyes. all this—yours to manage. the task is a formidable one, and your mother must know she has not prepared you for something like this.

the carriage rumbles over a cobblestone drive edged with flowering shrubs and rolls to stop in a circular receiving area. a nondescript footman unlatches the carriage door, and you tumble into the fresh air. you try not to gape, really you do, but it’s hard when such an estate looms before you. if your husband will not swallow you, make you insignificant in your own right, then this house surely will.

an arched door tucked in the corner of the courtyard opens on a heavy creak. you turn to see a short girl exit the home, followed by a wiry woman. the girl drops to a curtsey, her pale cheeks flushed.

“welcome to hiraeth, miss,” she says, a heavy lisp on her tongue.

“mrs. lee, how wonderful it is to finally welcome you to hiraerth!” the wiry woman stretches out her arms to take your hands. her sculpted face pulls into an eager smile, and you resist the urge to lower your defenses. “my name is mrs. brown and i’m the housekeeper here. this is angelica, your personal maid. we thought we’d be the first to greet you before escorting you to the breakfast. everyone is already here and waiting in great anticipation of your arrival.”

you look between mrs. brown and angelica, gauging their sincerity, before motioning to your mother. “we were held up briefly. my mother gets ever so sick on these winding roads.”

“[y/n],” your mother hisses.

mrs. brown gives an uncomfortable sort of chuckle as she looks over your mother’s pinched face then takes your elbow in hand. “no matter, no matter. you can follow me to the breakfast hall. there’s no time to freshen up now, but angelica will show you to your rooms as soon as she has the chance.”

you bristle at the idea of a room set aside solely for eating breakfast, but as mrs. brown guides you through the winding halls of hiraeth, the idea make more sense with each hallway and room you pass. it’s clear mr. lee has more space than with which he knows what to do. a breakfast room indeed.

the room in question is not far off from the entryway of hiraeth. there’s little chance to take in your new surroundings, so you set your jaw and square your shoulders as mrs. brown opens the door of the breakfast room. you step across the threshold, your mother close behind, and hold your breath.

you meet his eyes—gwilym’s—before anyone else’s. he sits in the middle of the arrangement of tables, an empty seat by his side. you glance at the chair to his right then at the other empty space at the far end of the room. the four tables are arranged in a sort of a square and, if you look the empty spot furthest away from gwilym, you’d be fortunate enough to neither hear his voice or see his face. a towering bouquet of flowers sits in the center of the table, and that spot has a particularly nice view of the white roses. you make to take the spot with the view of the flowers, intent on letting everyone in attendance know your feelings on the matter, but your mother beats you to it.

the bitch.

with a huff, you curl your hands to fists and all but stomp to the only remaining seat. the room is quiet, heavy with anticipation as you drop to the chair. your arms itch to fold themselves over your chest, but you are wise enough to resist. though you will not mask your anger, you will tamp it down to a degree. it wouldn’t do to wake up tomorrow and see your name in the gossip columns. that would be a dreadful start to a life in a higher societal position.

beside you, gwilym openly runs his eyes over your profile. you can feel him study you, but you do not flinch beneath his inspection. you keep your eyes on the centerpiece and drum your fingers on the tablecloth.

rising to his feet, gwilym picks up a glass chalice and lifts it. “my friends, i am very glad to be sharing this morning with you all. since the passing of my mother, hiraeth has been without a mistress, and it brings me great happiness to finally have a wife of my own who can fill this house with as much joy as my mother once did.” he twists to look down at you and settles his hand on your shoulder.

you look up, frozen under his touch. his palm envelopes the entirety of your shoulder. his gaze is soft, much to your surprise. as it was for those brief moments in the church, he looks at you only with tenderness; perhaps even pity. there is nothing angry about his eyes; it seems it might be impossible for his face to be anything but mellow. you harden your stare.

“[y/n]”—your name in his mouth. you want him to wipe his tongue and promise never to speak it again.—“welcome to hiraeth. from all of us to you, i truly hope you will be happy here.”

you blink, your mouth parting when he sits and motions for the covered platters around the table to be uncovered. leaning forward, you lower your voice and speak to him for the first time without the aid of a wedding script.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “all of us to you?”

gwilym thanks the man sitting to this left when he is passed a tray of eggs. he scoops some onto his plate then offers the platter to you. “would you like some?”

“uh—yes, yes—i suppose.” he drops of pile of fluffy eggs onto the cream china then passes the platter to the woman on your right, who you belatedly realize is none other than mrs. brown. you scoff and whirl to face your husband. “mr. lee, are we eating with the hired help?”

the fork that’s halfway to his mouth pauses, and his brow pinches in a confused frown. out of the corner of his eye, he looks at you. “is it wrong to celebrate nuptials with one’s staff?”

you sputter. the linen napkin in your hand bunches in your fist. “yes!” your voice is too loud for the gentle and amiable air of the room, but no one makes a move to correct you. they wouldn’t dare. “wedding breakfasts are for family and friends, mr. lee, not servants and scullery maids!”

gwilym swallows the food in his mouth and shrugs. “this is my family, [y/n]. i am celebrating—forgive me, we are celebrating with our family.”

you must look ridiculous, your forehead wrinkled with a frown and eyes narrowed in disbelief and mouth agape, because gwilym laughs and points to your plate with his utensil.

“eat your food, wife, before it gets cold. you will come to understand how hiraeth runs in due time. if it eases your anxiety,” he adds, “we will celebrate with my friends in the coming week in bath. that is the celebration you are anticipating, i’m sure.”

he returns to his conversation with the man—the butler or valet or hallboy—at his side, effectively dismissing both your outrage and your petty insolence with nothing but a gentle reprimand.

you hate him.

you do not eat your breakfast. you sit with your hands fisted in your lap and your jaw set hard. across the table your mother purses her lips and looks pointedly at your plate. you turn your gaze away.

gwilym must truly be a nincompoop if he believes you will simper and bat your eyelashes and allow him to treat the staff as family simply because he is your husband. never have you heard of such a foolish sentiment. there is a clear boundary between staff and family never to be blurred.

your skin itches, and you long for a hot bath.

as breakfast continues around you, you survey the room. the eggshell blue walls stretch to meet a high ceiling, the trim around the border a bright white. you catch a glimpse of yourself in one of the gilded mirrors hanging between a pair of large windows. you look sour, like an over-ripe lemon on child’s tongue.

the breakfast concludes some time later when the kitchen maids rise from their places to return to their duties. a skinny girl with glittering eyes takes your plate still laden with food. her voice is airy when she speaks.

“did you not like the breakfast, ma’am?” she balances your plate on her forearm, another stacked along the inside of her elbow. her cheeks flush when she moves to take gwilym’s empty plate and he smiles at her.

gwilym answers for you. “of course she did, gildy. what’s not to like when you and mrs. cliff are at the helm? mrs. lee is simply overwhelmed by the talent you possess. she confessed that all your sweets were nearly too delectable, she could hardly take another.”

sucking in her lower lip, gildy beams at the scuffed toes of her boots. “thank you, sir.” she bops a curtsey before scurrying through a side door.

you flash gwilym a harsh look. “i can answer for myself, sir.”

“i would prefer you answer with a modicum of kindness.” he nods his head to the side in consideration. “i’m not altogether sure that’s possible, so i thought i would save gildy the heartache.” he drops his napkin to the table and stands, offering you his hand. “come—would you like to see your rooms?”

spare gildy the heartache? he did no such thing for you when he agreed to taking—no, stealing—your hand in marriage.

you leave his hand hanging midair when you stand, adjusting the bustle of skirts around your legs. “i would, yes,” you say. “it’s been a trying morning, and i’d enjoy some silence and a bath so i can rid myself of the filth eking through my body.”

the jab does not land where you intended as gwilym merely laughs at your discontent. his laugh is loud, startling in the now-quiet breakfast room. he reaches for your arm and fits your hand in the curve of his elbow, patting your still-gloved fingers with his.

“your father said you were a spitfire,” he says, shaking his head in his amusement. “i see now he was not mistaken.”

at the arched doorway through which you entered, you bid your parents a hasty farewell. it is not an overdone affair—no tears, no final embraces. the days where you held your mother’s hand or clung to your father’s leg have long since passed. you merely wave them off with an upward tilt of your chin and a half-hearted promise to write before the yuletide. gwilym makes no comment on the stilted air between yourself and your parents. perhaps he knows you would stamp on his foot the moment a question slipped beyond his pretty mouth. you’re not entirely above stamping on his foot just for the sake of it. you resist the urge, however, knowing there’s bound to be a maidservant or hallboy lurking around the corner, waiting for a drip of juicy gossip to bring back to the servant’s quarters. you’ve already given them enough fodder for one day with your behavior at breakfast.

once your parents are securely in their carriage and enroute home, gwilym tugs you further into the manor. “come, your rooms are this way.”

you say nothing, question nothing, about separate bedrooms. it is a relief, in all truth, though you wonder if he will darken your doorway come the evening. your throat clenches. you pray to all the saints he will keep his grimy hands to himself or you’ll do more damage than a crushed foot.

you pull your hand from the crook of his arm as he guides you, preferring to keep your hands clasped behind your back as you walk. gwilym pauses in his explanation of the home’s original construction. he goes so far as to stop walking, and you pass him before realizing he is not by your side. in the wide hallway—one side boasting an array of polished windows, the other decorated with marble busts of his family tree—he blinks at you.

“you don’t like me very much, do you?”

you have to laugh. the sound resounds in the empty hallway, and you toss your head back in a fit of amusement. “goodness, you’re slow, aren’t you?”

he frowns, the first inkling he may possess anything other than an easy-going nature if pushed. “what is it i’ve done to offend you?”

you gawp and try to keep yourself from falling to the floor in surprise. “you must be joking, surely.”

shaking his head, a line forms between his brow. “no. i don’t understand why you are so cross.”

you turn your face away for a moment, inhaling slowly. you cross to the wall of windows and count to ten. the grounds of hiraeth are lovely—forest green grass, neatly-trimmed hedges. far as the eye can see is yours. in the span of one morning, you have gone from moderately wealthy to blessed beyond your wildest imaginations. your husband is handsome and thus far been nothing but considerate of you. it could be worse. and yet, somehow you feel as if you are the only woman who has been made to suffer a fate such as this.

you turn slowly on your foot and meet his gaze. he’s patient, you’ll give him that. he simply stares at you, waiting for some sort of explanation.

you decide to give him one.

your jaw tightens as long-neglected rage begins to boil in your stomach, and you draw in a deep breath before unleashing your indignation in a measured, even tone that fills the hall with its power.

“i am cross, sir, because i believe you to be a viper. you have stolen me from my comfort of my mother’s nest, and i fully anticipate you swallowing me whole. you are no better than the scottish barbarians who kidnap their brides and hide them away in the countryside. you are a thief and a coward, evidently unwilling—or perhaps unable—to woo his own choice of woman. i did not even have the pleasure of seeing your backside before being made your wife, and for that offense, i will never forgive you. marriage is meant to join two people who at least have been made somewhat acquainted before the ordeal. our marriage is a sham and an offense before god. so, you’re right—i don’t like you very much.”

it pleases you to see him so pale, so undone by your words. his chiseled jaw scrapes the floor, and a flush breaks out on his cheeks. you smirk in triumph.

at the sight of a maid inching along the wall at the far end of the hall, you hold up your arm and snap for her attention. “oh! girl!”

you hasten away from your husband, leaving him in the wake of your outburst. your skirts swish along the waxed, hardwood floor, and you meet the maid halfway down the hall. she stares at you with wide eyes, fear lurking beneath the surface. she must have heard. you’ve never felt more powerful.

linking your arm tightly around hers, you cast a look over your shoulder. gwilym’s hands have turned to fists. “my husband and i are finished speaking,” you say, your voice loud enough for him to hear every inflection. “show me to my rooms, won’t you?”

the following week is a rush of gown fittings, growing accustomed to the running of hiraeth, and attempting to make your husband’s life miserable.

the gowns are meant to fill your wardrobe for the social season. you arrived with a handful of dresses, yes, but with a home in bath, it is likely that you will spend a significant amount of time at dinner parties or galas. so tuesday afternoon, the day after the wedding, you are presented with an array of fabric and fashion sketches. from your place on the fitting stool, you glance over the options and pick your favorites: the teal blue which will come with an embroidered bodice; the scarlet red with lace-fringed sleeves; the dark green which will host tiered-layers cascading to the floor. it’s a hefty bill, but your husband has money enough to spend on four separate wardrobes if you so choose.

wednesday morning, mrs. brown insists you take a tour of the lower floors and accustom yourself with directing the maid and kitchen staff. you begrudgingly follow her and offer tight-lipped smiles to the flushed and nervous faces staring back at you. you truly could care less about the goings-on downstairs; that was always your mother’s job. but your mother isn’t here, and it’s up to you to preside over the well-being of the household staff. there’s so many of them, you wonder if gwilym will have annulled your marriage before you have the chance to commit all their names to memory. you can certainly pray that will be the case.

throughout the week, you revel in spurning gwilym’s kindness. you avoid him, mostly, choosing to take your breakfast in bed and your afternoon tea in the garden. you suffer through dinner with him, sat across from him at the end of a long table. you ignore his polite comments and questions and simply focus on eating your food. when he leaves a gift outside your bedroom door—a single white rose and a newly printed copy of a novel he thinks you might enjoy—you simply turn up your brow and send it back to his office. he invites you to ride about the grounds with him, and you scoff at the idea, turning on your heel and waltzing down the hall without a fare-thee-well.

to his credit, he does not shout, does not so much as grit his teeth. he bears it all with grace and composure, and that’s what frustrates you the most. you wish he would shout. you wish he would tell you to grow up and act your age. something—anything—other than the saccharine care with which he treats you. a snake with manners, it seems.

on friday morning he catches you in the breakfast room. you openly sigh when he enters, setting down your knife and reaching for your cup of tea.

“i thought you had gone,” you say, your gaze trained on your reflection in the mirror across the room. your skin is clear, your hair piled atop your head in a mess of artfully arranged curls and pins. you tilt your head to the side. hm, you really are a sight to behold when done up well. your husband is blessed.

the husband in question drops to a seat opposite you, and, for a brief moment, you note the way his waistcoat fits snug against his broad chest. you look away. “no, actually. i was hoping to steal a moment of your time this morning.”

“you’ve done a lot of stealing from me already, mr. lee.” you slide your gaze to him, challenging. “are you sure you want to continue down this path of thievery?”

as you anticipated, he does not rise to the occasion. he actually smiles and shakes his head in amusement, the knob. you roll your eyes. “your tongue does not quit. it truly amazes me.”

“i’ll have to increase my efforts to anger you, then.”

he smirks, continuing to spread butter across his piece of bread. “there is a party this evening,” he says, catching you off guard with his change of topic. “i don’t know if you recall me mentioning it, but my friends in bath are throwing the two of us a wedding party. we’ll be leaving late this morning in order to arrive before nightfall.”

“oh, that’s a shame.” you place your teacup on its saucer, pat the corner of your mouth with your napkin, then meet his eyes, yours round with innocence. “i’m afraid i can’t attend.”

he pulls an incredulous face. “it’s not an option, [y/n]. my friends are most eager to meet you, and they’ve worked very hard at making this party something you and i will both enjoy.”

a heavy moment of silence passes. you smooth your hand across the tablecloth and smile sweetly, lifting your gaze from beneath your lashes.

“i understand that, mr. lee, and i am sure your friends are lovely people. however, i simply cannot attend.”

his knife hits his plate with a bit more effort than is necessary. you bite your lower lip to keep from smiling in triumph.

“why ever not?” he asks. there is an edge to his voice; it’s slight, but it’s there. your heart lifts with glee.

you shrug, and your earrings sway against your neck with the movement. “well, i just don’t want to.”

gwilym sputters, and his hands clench on the table. inhaling deeply, he holds your gaze, and a muscle ticks on the side of his jaw. if you weren’t so intent on hating the man, you might find his anger thrilling.

instead of shouting, gwilym rises from the table and gently pushes his chair in. he clears his throat and drums a finger along the chair back before saying, “we leave at eleven o’clock, [y/n]. please be ready.”

you bat your eyelashes and take a bite of a pastry, grinning, giving him no promises.

at ten-forty-five you are dressed, but have no intention of joining gwilym on the trip to bath. instead, you study yourself in the floor-length mirror in your dressing room. much to your surprise, one of the gowns recently drawn up had arrived the night before, and after taking breakfast, you’d grabbed angel and had her help you into the dress.

you sway back and forth before the mirror. a wine red, the light catches in the folds of the skirt and the ruching over your chest. a pearl pendant rests in the middle of your breastbone, a teardrop pearl dangling from the pendant itself.

“don’t you like it, angel?” you ask.

from behind you, hands clasped before her waist, angel nods in earnest. “oh yes, mum! you look like a goddess.”

“i do, don’t i?” you pout and turn to face her. “shame about not going to the party. who will see me look so splendid?”

before angel can answer, your dressing room door bursts open. you gasp, whirling to face the storm cloud of a man in the doorway.

“gwilym!” you hold a hand against your heaving chest. “you mustn’t scare me like that!”

he looks well, dressed in a crisp suit complete with black tailcoat and trousers and deep green waistcoat. he wears no tie of any sort, though a gold pocket watch chain hangs from his waistcoat pocket. despite his arranged clothing, his demeanor is decidedly less put together. his face is splotchy with an angry flush, his eyes boring holes into yours.

“goodness, what has gotten you into a tiff, husband?”

his nostrils flare. “i told you to be ready by eleven.”

“and i told you i am not going. did you not hear me?”

“i told you it wasn’t an option.”

you sigh and level him an unamused stare. “i am ever so tired of people making decisions for me.”

“we are going—together—to bath.”

you glance down at yourself and lift your arms in defeat. “i’m not dressed for the occasion, so i shan’t keep you and make you late.”

gwilym’s eyes dart to angel then back to you. he seems to be weighing his options, whether or not giving in is worth it. he runs his hands around the brim of his hat, his eyes narrowing in thought. finally, he seems to make up his mind. he pops his hat on and just when you’re ready to wave at his retreating back, he stalks into the room and loops his arms around your waist. you screech when he lifts you, throwing you over his shoulder as if you weigh no more than a feather.

mortification and seething anger crashes over you in rush. the feeling is hot, like boiling water beneath your skin. “unhand me, you villain!” you beat your fists against his muscular back.

he says nothing.

“i swear to you, gwilym lee, if you do not put me down this instance, i will scream!”

again, he says nothing. he walks toward the waiting carriage, the hallways and rooms in which you could seek shelter whizzing past you with the speed of his gait. you kick your legs out like a donkey, attempting to connect with something which might impede his progress.

nothing helps.

the outside air is cool against your hot skin, and you fight him all the way—all arms and legs and nails against whatever flesh you can find—until he deposits you in the plush interior of the carriage. he slams the door in your face, adjusts his crumbled waistcoat, and rounds the carriage to the other side. once seated beside you, his breathing labored and jaw tight, he taps the roof of the vehicle.

“onward, smith!” unlike his breathing, his voice is steady, and you want nothing more than to reach across and tear his windpipe out of his throat.

powerless to stop it, the carriage begins its journey toward bath.

taglist: @im-an-adult-ish @itsametaphorgwil @queenmylovely @captvinswaan @joeslee @gwilymleeisbae @ineloqueent @queen-paladin

#gwilym lee #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym lee fic #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rhapsody fanfiction #j writes #if you leave fic

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talatomaz · 4 years

Text

the silent brothers | izzy lightwood x fray!reader

a/n: I may have projected a little but oh well 🤷🏽‍♀️ I’m actually really enjoying this so far and hopefully, I’ll continue with this

warnings: brief mentions of death

word count: 2.6k

masterlist | navigation | request rules

pt.i | pt.ii | pt.iii

reader is clary’s younger half-sister who learns about the shadow world at the same time clary does

i do not give you permission to repost or translate my fics on any platform - likes/reblogs are okay and are much appreciated

“Ugh.”

Simon groaned as he lay down on the bed beside you.

After Izzy had marked a healing rune on you, Clary had expressed her interest in questioning Hodge, an ex-Circle member, but you had declined to join her and Jace.

The both of them were getting increasingly close whilst you and Clary seemed to be growing further and further apart. She supported your decision, not wanting to push you after your father’s murder, but you could tell she was still annoyed.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to help find your mother - of course you did - but you had this feeling that whomever this Valentine person was, and why he wanted the Mortal Cup, was much more linked to Clary than it was you. And you learned the hard way to always trust your gut instincts.

So instead, you both agreed that you would let Clary and Jace question Hodge whilst Izzy would watch over you and Simon, or rather, ‘the mundane’ as Alec kept referring him to.

Currently, you and Simon were in one of the spare rooms in the Institute, which was glamoured to look like an abandoned Church but was actually the Shadowhunters New York HQ, and Izzy was making some breakfast which Jace had ominously warned you to stay away from.

“It’s been a hell of a day, Lewis.”

“You’re telling me.”

You sat up, resting on your elbows, “Oh, really? What have you been doing?“

Simon playfully pushed you when you failed to hide a snicker, “Shut up, Fray. This whole Shadowhunter thing has taken a toll on me.”

“You’re a mundane, Simon.”

“Shut up.” He repeated, but there was no harshness behind his tone.

“Hey, I’m just saying. I always knew you were a muggle.”

“Rude.” He said, swiping at your elbow so you fell back down on the pillow, making you both burst out laughing.

You and Simon always got along well.

Though he was Clary’s best friend, he was more like your big brother, even though he was less than a year older than you. The three of you had known each other for almost all of your lives. And despite you moving away, you and Simon still remained close. So, of course, he was there for you and Clary during this particularly bad time.

You lay beside each other as the silence encompassed the room. Though it was quiet, your mind was loud as you played through the day’s events in your head.

When you had woken up, you were in college, relatively care-free. Only bound by the ropes of education and nothing more.

But now, you were fatherless and practically motherless. You had lost your home, all your belongings too because your father had burned them to protect you from being traced, and on top of that, you found out that you were an angel.

It really had been one hell of a day.

“How are you, y/n?”

“I’m exhausted.” You answered. “My mind is spinning and I just want everything to stop.”

“I’m so sorry. About this. About your dad. About everything.”

“It’s okay. I’ll deal with it.“

Simon sat up and looked down at you.

“You need to learn to process it, not just deal with it. You’re allowed to cry and be upset, y/n.”

“Simon-“ You sighed.

“Yeah, I know, you don’t like to cry in front of anyone but you have to let yourself feel everything. You can cry in front of me and Clary. You know that.”

“Simon, just let it go. Please.” You said quietly, you didn’t have the energy to argue.

“Okay, but promise me you’ll talk to someone if you need to.”

When Simon raised his pinkie finger in the air, you laughed. You hadn’t done this for a while and it was a silly thing you did when you were kids but it was important. You raised your pinkie and locked it with his.

“Yes, I promise.”

Izzy smiled when she peeked through the door and saw you laughing with Simon. She had finished making breakfast a few minutes ago but had been standing outside the door, listening to you and Simon. She hadn’t meant to do it but this was the best way she could learn important information about you. After all, you, Clary and Simon were complete strangers and she needed to protect her family from any danger.

She was about to interrupt when she heard Simon mention her name.

“How do we know we can trust Izzy and the others? We should be going to Luke.”

“I know. And whilst I agree with you about that, I also trust Clary and if she says we can’t trust him, I need to believe in that judgement. At least for now. She’s all I have left.”

“Okay but just because we can’t trust Luke doesn’t mean we can trust these-these supposed angels-these Shadowhunters.”

Simon said exasperated.

“I get what you’re trying to say but they seem like good people and you know I have a sixth sense about these things and I’m never wrong. Besides, Clary and I are Shadowhunters. My dad is-was. I need to learn more about him. This is the only link I have left to him, Simon.” Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Okay fine, but should we even let Clary be alone with Jace? We might need to protect her from him.”

“And why would Clary need protection from Jace?”

Your’s and Simon’s head turned to face the door where Izzy walked through holding a tray of food. She gently placed it on the ottoman at the foot of the bed and approached Simon.

“He’s the ultimate protector. I mean, hello, have you seen the guy?” She smirked as she got closer to Simon.

He leaned back, flustered in his usual Simon way. He adjusted his glasses and stumbled over his words as he tried to stand up but failed.

“Now, let’s eat.”

She said, grabbing a piece of toast. Simon politely declined whilst you grinned at his awkward composure.

“Y/N, you need to eat. When was the last time you had anything?”

You thought back to the cup of coffee you had had earlier and remembered that was the only thing you had consumed. And honestly, you were hungry. You picked up a piece of the, well, burnt toast and began eating. You managed to finish one slice before losing your appetite again so you washed it down with some water and sat back as Izzy started to ask you both questions about your life.

She wanted to know what life as a mundane was like and a bit about your family history. You revealed more than you usually would have but you weren’t sure why.

Simon looked like he was ready to hand over his life for her which you thought was unnecessary as Izzy looked like she could take care of herself.

But you could understand why.

She was stunning.

✧── ･｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

“Valentine has her.”

Clary said, a mixture of anger and horror on her face.

During her conversation with Hodge, she’d learned that your mother was an ex-Circle member and that both of your early memories had more than likely been taken by a warlock, at your mother’s request.

Clary then had a vision of Dot at a club called “Pandemonium”. But, by the time you had geared up and arrived, she was gone. More than likely having been kidnapped by Valentine’s men.

When you all arrived back at the Institute deciding on what to do next, Jace had interrupted to suggest a dangerous option.

“I’m sorry, who are the Silent Brothers?” You asked, confused at Izzy and Alec’s outrage and downright refusal.

“They’re like superior Shadowhunters.” Jace explained.

“They possess the ability to recover memories.” Izzy continued.

“Yes and that process can kill you, so there’s that.” Alec finished, making you look wildly at Clary.

“Your bedside manner is abysmal.” Simon’s attempt at humour failed to make you laugh as your mind started to spiral with the possibility of losing Clary.

Alec, Izzy and Jace argued amongst themselves about the danger that it posed and that they should report to the Clave instead.

The Clave was essentially like the Shadowhunters’ Government and Justice System. And all Government agencies were sure to be working in their own interests and not the people’s. And you had a feeling that the Clave were no different.

“Unless someone can give me a better option, we’re doing it.” Clary said, making everyone look at you and her.

“Speak for yourself, I’m not doing it.”

“Y/N-“

“No, Clary. If you want to, fine, but I’m not.”

“Don’t you want our Mom back? Your memories?” Clary asked, raising her voice whilst everyone else remained silent.

“Of course, I want Mum back! But I don’t want to know what I’ve forgotten. I don’t need to-“

“Yes, you do. They’re important or else Mom wouldn’t have had a warlock take them from us.” Clary started to scold you before you shouted.

“Clary, for God’s sake, just shut up!”

Everyone stared at you and you started to blush at your outburst but still remained angry at Clary‘s carelessness.

“You’re so goddamn impulsive that you can’t see the danger in this situation. You could die! And then where would I be? My dad was just murdered, Mum’s been kidnapped by some maniac and now you want me to lose my sister too?”

When she remained silent, you saw tears forming in her eyes and, to your horror, you could feel yours doing the same.

“You think with your heart. Which I love about you. But you need to think with your head too. If you want to do it, whatever. But don’t force me to do it too.”

Then you walked away from the group and made your way to one of the only rooms you were familiar with.

“I’ll go after her.” Simon said, holding Clary’s arm in support.

“No, I’ll go. Might be better if it’s not any of you two right now. And I think I know where she’s gone anyways.” Izzy countered.

She didn’t wait for an answer and immediately followed after you.

She found you sitting on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands.

You looked up as you heard the door open, surprised to see Izzy standing there. Well, it was her room after all.

After you had eaten breakfast earlier, you had learned that the supposed ‘guest’ room you were in was actually Izzy’s room. And, to be honest, you weren’t sure why you hadn’t made that assumption yourself as the room was elegant but also simple at the same time which suited her.

“Nice room choice.” She teased lightly, smirking when you blushed again.

“Sorry. This was the only room that I knew. I should have asked first.”

“Well, that would have ruined the roll you were on. You couldn’t exactly say ‘do what you want, Clary. Oh, can I just storm into your room, Izzy?’”

She said it in such a way that you couldn’t help but smile.

“Awh, see? There’s your beautiful smile.” Izzy commented and you felt yourself blush even harder.

You stood up, feeling uneasy that you were sitting down on her bed, and made your way to a pillar that stood in her room and leaned against it.

“I know Clary’s angry with me and I get it, I would be too. But she’s just jumping into things without thinking of the consequences.” You sighed.

“I know why she’s doing it. The moment she stops and has a moment to think, she’ll probably spiral so this is her way of managing that but she can’t just expect me to follow her. There’s just so much happening and I just need a moment to breathe.”

You explained, your head resting against the pillar with your eyes closed, trying to calm yourself.

“Are you expecting me to give you a pep talk or something?” Izzy joked.

“No, not really. Pep talks are overrated.” You shrugged.

When you opened your eyes, you found yourself momentarily stunned because Izzy was no longer by the door, but was instead standing a few inches from you, staring at you intently.

“What?” You asked, your voice but a whisper.

“Nothing, you’re just very...intriguing.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Most definitely.” She smiled.

Then she moved closer and lifted her hand to push a few strands of hair behind your ear.

You held your breath as she did this.

It was such a gentle thing for her to do, and you weren’t sure how to feel.

“You were born to do this, y/n. You both were. This is your destiny. You got this.”

You nodded, biting your lip gently and you caught Izzy’s eyes flickering down to your lips and then back up to your eyes. It was only for a brief moment, but you had seen her and she knew you did too.

“Now, if you don’t want to get your memories back, that’s your choice and something you deserve to have because it’s one of the few things you have left. But we should still be there for Clary, in case she needs it.”

✧── ･｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

“Are you sure?”

Jace asked as everyone looked at you.

After your conversation with Izzy, you had agreed that you would support Clary in her decision to meet the Silent Brothers but you wouldn’t relent on your own. You would be there for her but you weren’t going to recover your own memories.

So you were all currently outside the City of Bones, where Izzy and Alec had agreed to keep watch and look after Simon whilst Jace and Clary would go inside.

“Yes. I’ll stay here.”

Though you hesitated for a moment, you quickly brought your sister in for a hug. Scared of what could happen if things didn’t go well.

“Be safe.”

“I will.” Clary whispered fiercely, holding you tight in her arms. When she pulled away, she smiled gently, “I’m sorry for trying to force you do this.”

“It’s okay, I get it. Go get Mum back.” You reciprocated her smile, gesturing for her to enter.

✧── ･｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

“Woah, what happened?” Alec asked when Clary and Jace came running out of the dungeon, tears running down Clary’s face.

You quickly approached her and held onto her arms.

“What happened, Ry?”

“V-Valentine. H-He”

You looked at Jace in alarm, Clary wasn’t making any sense and you were beginning to worry.

“Valentine’s her father.”

Though you gasped, you weren’t entirely shocked. You had had a feeling that this was more connected to Clary than you.

Alec then began to scold Jace about Clary’s true intentions, making you lash out at him for the first time.

Since you had both arrived, Alec had been the most unwelcoming, and whilst you did understand his wariness, you didn’t appreciate him acting as if the two of you were as malicious as Clary’s father.

“Wait, where’s Simon? Where’s Izzy?” Clary interrupted, just now realising that they weren’t here.

You were about to explain how Simon had forgotten his phone in the van and how Izzy had decided to accompany him when the latter came running towards you all.

“He’s gone. I just left him for a minute because I heard something but when I came back, he was gone.”

You and Clary began to freak out and started to run in the direction she came from, calling for Simon.

“Is that the mundane’s name?”

You all turned around, looking up at the bridge and what you saw had your heart dropping to your stomach. Simon was being held upside down over a bridge, threateningly close to being dropped and falling to the ground.

“The mundane, unharmed, in exchange for the Mortal Cup. Tick-Tock, people.”

The pale man shouted before disappearing with Simon and another woman. Simon’s scream for help lingered as you looked at Clary and saw the same horror on her face that you were sure was on yours.

“Who the fuck was that?” You asked, looking at Izzy.

“Those were vampires.”

Dead Man’s Party ->

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foxtophat · 3 years

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i dont have much to say about this one!!! it’s just a story about carmina’s tenth birthday, and how the town of fall’s end is coping a decade after the collapse. uhhh there are some random children in it? bean is there! and of course john shows up, too, because that’s KIND OF THE POINT of mercyverse lol

technically there’s a story that comes before this, but i don’t have the vibe yet for it so i haven’t worked on it in a while. instead, i’ll probably just keep moving forward and throw up that one if the rest of the plot becomes at all relevant to the real main storyline. uhhh the next one will take place in the spring of 2029 and we’re going to start getting into some fun stuff that i’ve planned out for a while!!!

until then, uh, the usual: love you, please like/share/reblog/kudos/comment, whatever you feel good about doing, because i sure do love to share my universe with other people! hope you’re doing well and hopefully i’ll see you with another fic in a few weeks!

also as usual: the story text is below the cut for those of you who wanna stay on tumblr :)

It's Carmina's tenth birthday, and there's a party in town. The two things aren't exactly related, sure, but Carmina's used to sharing her birthday with the Collapse, and she's not about to turn down a bunch of free food. How can she not go to a real Hope County barbecue after her parents had hyped the experience up so much in the bunker? She'd hoped that her ninth birthday would have gotten a similar treatment, but the town just didn't have the food or people for it at the time. Her parents had told her that next year would be better; Carmina does her best to keep her imagination from blowing the whole thing out of proportion.

They leave a little bit after breakfast. Since John is coming along, mom has no excuse not to let Carmina ride in the back with him. He's not excited to be heading into town, but then again, the town isn't usually excited to see him, either. And considering what day it is, they're likely to be extra rude to him. Carmina doesn't get it, honestly, but she's just glad that she can ride in back without her mom grabbing onto her at every pothole and bump in the road.

The first surprise of the day comes as her dad parks just past the church, giving her a chance to stand up and look out over the town. She hasn't been here in a while, and so she's surprised to see that they've cleared out a lot of the dirt lot behind the usable buildings — and there are a lot of people hanging out there. Carmina's never seen so many people at once — she loses count around twenty and can easily guess double that. It's enough to rattle her nerves for just a second, before she catches the looks on her mom and dads' faces and realizes that this is probably a good thing. Sure, John looks like he wants to hop back in the truck and go home, but he always looks like that around strangers. Her parents, on the other hand, actually seem happy for once, and that's what matters to Carmina.

The second surprise is just how many of the adults seem to know her. Her parents move slowly through the mingling crowd, usually coming up with names for faces before Carmina's even looked at the strangers who call her by name. She gets lots of comments like, "I remember when your parents were expecting you!" and "I was wondering how the Rye's little girl turned out!" and even a few, "Glad to see you made it," comments that make her parents side-eye each other pretty fiercely. She doesn't need to introduce herself to anyone, not even people who her parents don't know so well — it's like everybody's always known her, and her family. It's kind of cool — but also kind of weird. Pastor Jerome always said that their family was a pillar in the community, but this is first-person evidence, right here in front of her.

Plenty of the adults wish her a happy birthday, too, but she knows their hearts aren't in it. It's one of the big drawbacks to sharing her birthday with the end of the world — nobody asks how old she is, nobody wants to know what she did on previous birthdays, and all of them have to make some kind of depressing comment. Like trying to get her to relate to birthdays before the Collapse: all they want to do is tell her about all the things she could be doing, or would be doing, if only the world hadn't ended. They want to share their birthdays from the past, but Carmina's never been to the movies, she doesn't know who Disney is, and she has no idea why they'd need a cake and candles for it all. Somebody tells her she should be graduating to the fourth grade, and she just stares back because what even is the fourth grade? What does that mean?

They mean well, so Carmina does her best not to upset anybody, but she knows that nobody appreciates how little she cares about life before the Collapse.

At least there are other kids in town today. Her mom had been telling her about some of them — kids who don't have families, who the town looks after — but Carmina's only ever met one of them, and that had been only for a few minutes. But Carmina can see them hanging out in the field, and as soon as her mom lets her, she heads right out to them. It's about time that she met people her age — she's getting tired of only ever talking to old people.

Of course, meeting strangers is still difficult for her, but she's saved from too much embarrassment as she recognizes the chicken brothers hanging out in the small group. She can't remember which one is Tom and which one is Matt, but they seemed really nice when they helped her pick out her chickens. She also recognizes the oldest boy in the group, although she can't remember his name at all. She's never seen the others before — two teenage girls, another boy her age, and a kid a couple years younger than her — but hopefully she won't make a total fool of herself.

"Hi," she says as she approaches, waving.

"Hey, Carmina," Matt-or-Tom says, stepping aside to make room for her in their makeshift circle. "I thought we would see you today."

"Yep," Carmina smiles, "Here I am!" She sees the teenagers' curious looks and tells them with little fanfare, "Today's my birthday."

"Oh," the oldest boy says. "That sucks."

One of the girls elbows him. "Don't be mean," she says.

"No, he's right," Carmina says. "It does suck."

"Well, happy birthday anyway. How old are you now?"

"Ten."

"Wow," the girl says. She looks at the boy, then back to Carmina, and says sympathetically, "You weren't kidding. That's rough."

Giggling with relief, Carmina waves once more. "It's okay. My name's Carmina, by the way. It's nice to meet you."

Being polite works like a charm, and the oldest boy is quick to go around with introductions. "Well, I'm Jason — this is Caroline, and this is Flower. The little kid there —"

"Hey!"

"— Is Bean, and... Sorry, man, what did you say your name was again?"

The other ten-year-old looking boy frowns and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. "Luke," he says.

"Okay, Luke. And you know Tom and Matt."

"We were talking about the bison out in the field," Tom-or-Matt says. He points in the direction of home and asks, "Did you guys see the big one when you were coming into town?"

"The one that's all white?" Carmina asks, "With the big scar over its hump? We see that one all the time when we come out this way —"

"No, no," the other brother says, "Jason says there's a bigger one."

"I told you guys," Jason says, "I only saw it once, and it was late at night while I was up in the crow's nest. I don't think it comes out during the day."

Carmina frowns. "What big one? What do you mean?"

"Oh, boy," Caroline sighs, "Don't listen to him, Carmina, he's full of shit."

"Hey, language," Flower laughs.

"Look, I was pretty far away, but I had the sniper rifle and I wasn't sleeping on the job. Uh, so..." He points out over the field, towards a squat set of huts surrounding a tall, busted silo that's still standing. The view from up there must be great. "Jerome has me sit up in that tower sometimes, you know, to practice. So I was up there, looking around, and it was probably midnight or so... and I just see this glow out in the field. I think it's a fire, right? Maybe somebody made a camp out there on their way to town or something. So I look out through the scope — and it was a bison."

"A glowing bison?" Carmina asks skeptically.

"Yeah. Like, a monster bison. It was all dark and scaly looking, except for the way its belly glowed. I thought about shooting it, but..."

Caroline laughs. "He got scared. Or it wasn't real, and he's making it all up."

"I wasn't scared, and I'm not making it up! It's not like it could've hurt me up in the nest. It... just didn't feel right. You know, it was just grazing with the rest of the herd. And it moved off over the hill before I could change my mind or call anybody up to confirm it."

"Sure, Jason."

"I'm serious," Jason insists, "I really saw it, okay? I told Jerome about it and everything." He frowns at the dirt. "He said it might've been mutated after the bombs. Then he told me not to go looking for it."

"He's right," Flower says. "Even regular bison are pretty dangerous." She smiles. "That's why I like deer — they won't hurt you. If you sit really still, sometimes they'll even come up and lick your face."

"Oh," Carmina says. "I usually just shoot them. They eat all our vegetables otherwise."

"Yeah," Flower sighs, "Sometimes I do, too. But they're also nice to watch."

Tom-or-Matt looks to his brother. "I wonder if that's what we see outside at night?"

"What, deer?"

"No, dumbass." He turns to the group and explains, "Sometimes, when it's real late and I gotta use the bathroom, I'll see something glowing out in the woods. Dad's cut back a lot of space so it never gets very close, but... maybe it's another mutated animal."

"At least you'll see it coming when it tries to attack you," Carmina suggests.

"Gee, thanks."

Carmina knows he's probably teasing, but she still feels guilty for being so blunt about it. The least she can do is try to reassure him. "Well... most animals don't attack near houses, I don't think. When we first came out of the bunker, there were wild dogs and wolves that would watch us, and my dad was real worried about them — but now they mostly stay away from the property. I think it's because of the fence. You guys have a fence, right?"

"Yeah, plus a butt-load of chickens that freak out over anything out of the ordinary." Matt-or-Tom grins at her and asks, "Don't they wake you up with every little thing?"

Carmina briefly considers mentioning John being attacked, then decides against it. She also doesn't want to tell them that the chickens live mostly indoors at night now — the last thing she wants to do is kick off a whole big thing about the cult on her dang birthday! It's already hard enough pretending to care about them around her parents; she's not sure she could even force herself to bother here. And if she's not careful, the kids in town might start to think about her and her family the same way all the adults do.

"They're pretty docile, actually," she says, "And we only really see deer around our place... It's not like they eat chickens."

"Well.... maybe there's a mutant deer out there that wants to eat you," Tom-or-Matt teases.

Carmina rolls her eyes. "I'll shoot it before it gets past the hangar," she replies.

Of course, her dismissive confidence leads to a sprawling discussion on who might be the best shot out of the group. Carmina does her best to defend her skills, considering she can't prove any of it right now, but all three teens insist they're dead-eyes, and even Bean says he's "getting pretty good at the aiming part." On top of that, the kids from the town have gotten pointers from Aunt Grace herself, which means they might actually be better shots than Carmina expects.

"Maybe we should have a competition," Caroline suggests. "I bet Pastor Jerome and Aunt Grace would be okay with it."

"Sure," Jason laughs, "But you know they'd make us spend forty minutes disassembling and cleaning our rifles before and after. Like I don't know what I'm doing — I'm almost fifteen!"

"Have you guys been to Aunt Grace's?" Carmina asks. "She has a shooting range there."

"Maybe she'd let us use it!"

"I've never been to a real shooting range," Bean says.

"It's not a real shooting range," Jason points out, "Those all got blown up. Do you even know how to use a gun, Bean?"

"I just said I do! My dad taught me! I... just don't like the loud noises it makes."

Matt-or-Tom boasts, "We learned to shoot in our bunker. Mom collected Airsoft guns — they don't use bullets, so they can't kill you."

"What's the point of that?"

"I dunno, I guess practicing underground?"

Tom-or-Matt laughs. "Dad was convinced the Peggies were gonna get us, so he wanted us to know how to shoot."

The quiet kid, Luke, finally speaks up. "Lucky," he mutters, "Easier to learn underground, I bet."

"What about you?" Carmina asks. She tries not to cringe away when he stares back at her like he didn't expect anyone to hear him. Maybe he doesn't like people talking to him? "Um... my mom and dad had a bunch of gun magazines in the bunker, but I never got to shoot a real gun until we came outside. Mom and Aunt Grace have been teaching me, though, and I'm way better than my dad is."

Luke hesitates. "Kind of the same. We came up early, though. Had to."

"Me, too," Jason replies. "It was just me and my brother. I was five when we got stuck in the bunker — we went through our supplies in about three years, so we had to come back up."

"We... only stayed down until I could walk," Luke admits. "It was still really cold when we came up. And mom got real sick for a while."

"Yikes," Bean says, "That sucks!"

"Come on, bean," Jason snaps, "You don't say that."

"You just said it to her!" Bean shouts, pointing at Carmina.

"He's... right," Luke mumbles. "It sucked. It... still sucks. But things are getting better now." He looks up at them, then drops his eyes back to the dirt. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Carmina insists, "I asked first!"

"That's kind of the mood today," Caroline adds. "Don't worry. We can talk about something else."

The change in topic comes abruptly as Bean points towards the Church and asks, "Who is that with Pastor Jerome?"

Carmina doesn't need to look, but since the rest of the group does, she might as well too. John has his hat pulled low over his eyes, as usual, which makes him look suspicious, as usual. Knowing him, he probably didn't even leave the truck — just waited there for Jerome to come talk to him.

She can only hope that Tom and Matt keep their mouths shut since they're the only other kids who know what John looks like nowadays. Unfortunately for her, that hope is pretty quickly dashed.

"Oh," Matt-or-Tom says, like a jerk, "That's John, I think. Right, Carmina?"

"Wait," Jason says, "You're that Carmina?"

Carmina ducks her head. "Um... it depends, I guess?"

Flower, looking too sympathetic for Carmina's liking, tries to mediate. "He just means, well... Jerome talks about you sometimes."

"And he talks about that guy," Jason adds, pointing without any subtlety at all.

"Everyone talks about that guy," Caroline says with a sigh. She gives Carmina a sympathetic shrug as she does, as though she wishes she could stop the conversation from happening, too. That only makes Carmina worried that this isn't the first time the teenagers have sat around gossiping about John and the crazy people who decided to take him in.

"Wait," Bean gasps, way too loudly, "That's John Seed?"

"Oh my God," Matt-or-Tom sighs, "You gotta keep up with the conversation."

"Wait, what's he doing here? Why's he going into the church? I thought he wasn't supposed to come to town? I thought he was locked up!"

Carmina groans. "It's my birthday," she whines, "I don't wanna talk about John today!"

"We don't have to," Caroline says. "Guys, come on."

"I mean, he did kill a lot of people. Isn't he, like, a psychopath? Isn't it weird to live with a murderer?"

"Jason!"

Luke mutters, "I heard he used to cut off people's skin."

"That's true," Jason replies, "My brother has a huge scar from when it happened to him. Boy, I hope he doesn't see that jackass is here..."

Matt-or-Tom finally seems to realize what he's started, frowning as the conversation spirals crazily out of control. It's too late to stop it, though, and so he shuffles his feet and looks apologetically towards Carmina.

Fine. If she can't get around the subject, she's just going to have to tackle it head-on. Even if that sounds really scary. She doesn't think that these guys are going to flip out like the caravan last year did, but she's still a little worried that she might be in for a fight if she says the wrong thing about John.

"I know John used to be a bad guy," she says. "Like, really bad. My dad's got one of those scars, too. But he's not like that any more. All he does nowadays is help my parents with chores and stuff. And he's just like everybody else — he doesn't talk about what happened before the Collapse to me or anybody. So I really don't know anything more than you guys.

She probably knows less than them, honestly, but she's not about to say so and get a brutal lesson in everything John's ever done wrong.

"So he's just... different, now?" Jason asks, frowning unhappily at the church.

"I guess so," Carmina replies with a shrug. She looks over to make sure that John and Jerome are inside, just in case. "He's not... scary, or mean, or anything like that. Just quiet. Kind of... lonely, I guess. Ever since he found out his brother is alive but still crazy, he's been really beat up about it." He's also been literally beaten up over it, but now's not the time to try and make the others feel sorry for him. John would probably be irritated at the idea of a bunch of kids pitying him.

Matt-or-Tom is quick to help her out, which is nice. "She's right," he says. "The Father is still out there in the woods with all those crazies, but John's repented. Dad said he made amends with God, whatever that means. He... uh, still doesn't like us being around him, but when we helped him load the chickens in he seemed okay. Just real quiet."

"That's John, alright," Carmina sighs.

Bean looks seriously disappointed by the news. "You mean he doesn't talk about it at all?" he asks.

"No," Carmina says, snapping for good measure, "And he gets really upset when you ask about it, so don't."

"I'm not gonna go talk to him!" Bean gasps.

The idea that a kid might be scared of John is pretty funny, considering how uncomfortable he is around her, but Carmina's not about to say as much. John probably wouldn't like her sharing a weakness like that with a bunch of strangers, and she wouldn't want them using it against him later.

Flower slowly lifts her hand, looking embarrassed. "Some of the adults in town say the Bliss messed him up. Is that... true?"

Well, at least she's trying to be nice about it. "I dunno," Carmina admits. "He was super weird when he first started living with us, but that might've just been because he was stuck in his bunker for so long."

"Oh, that happened to a guy my dad knows!" Bean supplies helpfully. "Dad calls it bunker shock. Says living underground too long is bad for you when you're all alone!"

"Glad I didn't live in one long enough for that," Luke says. When everyone looks at him, he clams up for a second before continuing on. "A neighbor came up just this year. He's... real weird. I don't like him much. He still sleeps underground, hoping he'll wake up and it'll all be a dream." He scuffs his boot against the dirt, sniffing loudly. "That's what my mom says, anyway. I try not to be around when he comes by."

"He wouldn't be the first adult to be like that," Jason says. He gives the church one last look before nodding his head towards the party. "I mean, that's why we're all the way out here, instead of hanging out around the food. Right?"

"No," Bean replies, "I'm out here 'cos I can't eat another bite! I didn't know you could be this full."

Caroline laughs. "Yeah, the adults have been stockpiling for weeks, it looks like... I guess everyone was really looking forward to it — or, well, I guess that's what it is."

Flower gazes over at the gaggle of adults. Carmina recognizes her dreamy smile from the way her mom looks around the house sometimes, like she's getting a new, better look at the place.

"It feels like things are starting to look up," she says. "Maybe they can all be happier now."

"Hey, don't jinx it!" Tom-or-Matt laughs.

Bean looks around at the rest of them and for a second, Carmina is worried he's going to ask more about John and restart the whole ugly conversation. Thankfully, it looks like he's still a baby, so he's quickly distracted.

"So, what do we do now?" he asks, pushing his too-big glasses up his nose.

Carmina has never actually played with other kids before, so she doesn't have any good suggestions — especially when shooting is off-limits. Thankfully, she isn't the only one. The teenagers don't know where their soccer ball went, and Luke says he doesn't even know what soccer is. Bean says he usually plays word games by himself. When Tom-or-Matt suggests they play something called "capture the flag," it manages to make its way to the top of the list just because Jason and Caroline have both heard of it before.

Well, at least something is better than nothing. The older kids explain how capture the flag works, using Jason's shirt for their team's flag while the other kids band together around Matt-or-Tom's sweaty tank top. Carmina imagines that one of them should sit out for even teams, but the older kids seem confident that they can handle it. Too confident, in Carmina's opinion — maybe they need to be brought down a peg.

Capture the flag turns out to be more fun than Carmina had expected — and a lot harder, too. Trying to outmaneuver the older kids is tough work, but she and Tom-or-Matt figure out how to flank them pretty quick. There's nothing better than the moment when Carmina manages to dive out of the way when Jason tries to tackle her, and even if she gets dog-piled by Flower halfway back to Bean at home base, she holds Jason's shirt up for another teammate to take.

Unfortunately, the game ends without a winner as a sharp whistle pierces the air. Bean looks up and shouts, "That's my dad! I better go!"

He runs off at full tilt without so much as a goodbye, and Carmina has to squint against the setting sun to watch him go. She hadn't realized how late it had gotten.

"I should probably get going, too," Luke says, sweaty and almost smiling for once. "I want to get another plate of food before we go home."

"Ugh," Carmina sighs, "And the chickens need feeding."

"Just make John do it," Matt-or-Tom says, apparently not learning his lesson about mentioning John.

"It's supposed to be my job," she says. "And anyway, he already feeds them in the morning when I don't get up in time."

"They're gonna like him more than you," Tom-or-Matt laughs.

Jason frowns. "He feeds your chickens?"

"I mean... yeah. He does whatever we need him to." Carmina shrugs, glancing back towards the church. She hasn't seen Jerome or John leave — maybe she should go see them before she rounds up her parents? Nah, it's better to leave them alone until the very last minute.

"Just... didn't think you'd let him near livestock, that's all."

"What's he gonna do, poison the eggs?" Carmina huffs. "He's good with them. I think he likes them 'cos they aren't judgey."

Caroline frowns, which tells Carmina she might've been a little rude. But Jason's been rude about John all day, so she's not going to feel sorry about it!

"Well, I guess if your parents trust him..."

"Sure they do," Carmina replies, even if that's not... exactly right. She knows her parents trust John enough to help around the house, but she thinks they only want to trust him with all the other stuff.

"I really better go," she says, pointing towards town.

"Sure," Flower says. "It was nice to meet you, Carmina."

Carmina gives them her best grin, relieved when it's returned from the others. Jason even waves like there's no hard feelings. "It was nice meeting you guys," she says.

"Happy birthday again!" Matt-or-Tom says, "And be careful!"

"Yeah," his brother laughs, "Wouldn't want to have a glowing deer attack you in the outhouse tonight!"

Carmina laughs away the dumb attempt to scare her, waving goodbye before turning to head for the party. Halfway there, she glances over her shoulder and sees the group turned back to one-another in conversation. None of them are looking back, but as she continues on, she's chased by an unfamiliar sense of discomfort. She can't help but wonder if they're still talking about John in the church.... If they're talking about her.

At least she can distract herself while looking for her parents. There are plenty of adults who say hello; some of them even point her helpfully towards her mom's last known location, or towards the table with the cookies her dad really liked. Some of them check in to make sure her birthday has been going well, too, which is nice of them, but a lot of adults are pretty drunk and deep in their own conversations.

She eventually finds her mom and dad standing around a grill with Marjorie, one of the adults in charge around town. Carmina's met her a couple of times. She's nice, but she can talk a lot. There's no telling how long they've been talking for, and if Carmina doesn't interrupt, who knows when they'll finish. While she could probably grab some food for the road, first she has to make sure that they're actually going to be leaving sometime before the next Collapse.

Besides, it looks like her dad's already got a box of leftovers in his hands. If Carmina wants to eat, she's going to have to interrupt.

"Hey dad," she says as she comes up to them, "The chickens are going to need dinner soon."

Her dad grins at her before handing over the squat, open cardboard box. There's chicken, ribs, corn and roasted potatoes, and even a handful of cookies and flatbread; it takes everything in Carmina's power not to make a desperate grab for more food. She doesn't have to worry about going hungry tonight, so there's no need to eat everything put in front of her.

"Here," he tells her, "You take this, alright? My arms are gettin' tired."

Yeah, right. As soon as she takes the box, he uses one of those tired arms to grab one of the ribs. When Carmina frowns suspiciously at him, her dad only shrugs.

"I coughed on it."

"Uh-huh..."

Laughing, her mom reaches out to give Marjorie a hug. It might've run a little long, but her mom obviously enjoyed the talk. "We'll be back in a week or two with the tractor parts," she says. "You're going to get the fields back in shape in no time."

"Already got a good start," Marjorie replies. She shoots Carmina a warm smile. "Happy birthday, by the way! Don't think I got to see you much. Hope those kids weren't giving you a hard time."

"No," Carmina replies., "They're all really nice. We want to practice shooting together, maybe have a contest. Jason said he's better than anybody else."

"I bet you're gonna give him a run for his money!" Marjorie laughs. "Well, the better a shot you are, the better off you'll be. You won't see anybody here stop you kids."

"Yeah, but tonight, I have to feed the chickens," Carmina says, just in case her parents need another chance to get out of here.

"We've got a few other people to say goodbye to," her mom tells her. "Why don't you take the food back to the truck? We'll meet you there."

"Should I get John, too?"

As soon as she asks, Carmina decides she probably shouldn't have brought it up. Too late, though; by the look on Marjorie's face, there's no way to pretend she didn't hear it.

Her dad shrugs. "Probably oughta," he tells her, as if he doesn't see Marjorie staring at them like she is.

Marjorie definitely doesn't like that, judging by the way she squints, but she doesn't say anything about it. "Well, I hope you had a decent enough birthday for once," she says, "Hopefully we'll be having a party around this time every year from now on."

"That would be nice," mom says.

"Just you wait, we're gonna turn this ship around one way or another." Marjorie gestures with her hands and says, "Alright, you better go, before those chickens of yours eat each other."

Carmina frowns. "They don't do that, do they?"

"Uh, let's get moving," her dad says. "See you soon, Marg."

"Take care!"

Her mom and dad have to stop a few more times to say goodbye to people Carmina doesn't know, but she pushes on without them and nobody stops her for more than a quick birthday greeting. She catches sight of Luke packing up some food with his parents, but he's too distracted to notice her. At least she isn't the only one carrying a box of leftovers out of here; it would feel selfish of her if they weren't sending leftovers home with other people.

Her parents haven't caught up with her by the time she reaches the truck, and John is nowhere to be seen. She figures he's probably still in the church — he and Pastor Jerome always take forever when they're talking. They'll probably be there until dad goes in and breaks them up.

Eating by herself in the back of the truck doesn't feel right, especially not within walking distance of the church. Leaving the food tucked in the corner by the cab, Carmina heads for the building herself. Even if nobody was in there, she'd probably go wander inside for a few minutes; it's a comforting, quiet place in the dry, dusty town. But right now, she's pretty sure John is hanging around inside, and he probably hasn't eaten anything all day, either. She should at least let him have first pick.

She knows a lot of the adults dislike the church, but Carmina personally enjoys how its sun-bleached siding stands out against the sky. Besides the house, the church is one of the few places Carmina wishes she could have seen in one piece. She's seen old, faded pictures from ancient newspaper clippings, but it's just not the same.

The doors are open wide enough for Carmina to slip in without a sound. The air inside is cool, almost chilly, and it smells like dirt and grass. From the entrance, there's only a narrow gap keeping Jerome and John out of sight. She doesn't mean to hide, but she doesn't want to interrupt Jerome mid-sentence...

It's too late, she's eavesdropping.

"It might not be much, but it's something," Jerome's saying. "He even stayed a few nights, when the wind got bad and brought too much pollen over the river."

"It would be better for everyone if he stayed here permanently," John replies. "Wallace went further down the path than the rest of them, and they clearly don't know what they're doing."

"They're trying, John. And we don't have a say in the matter. It's got to be his choice. Remember?"

John grunts, clearly annoyed. Carmina doesn't think she's ever heard him say so much before. Does he talk to her mom and dad this much? Is he really only quiet around her?

"I don't like it," John says.

"For what it's worth, neither do I. But Sharky's taking things seriously — they all are. You're going to have to trust them."

"Trust isn't exactly one of my virtues," John grumpily admits.

Jerome chuckles. "You just need practice."

Well, Carmina definitely feels guilty now. She had only been waiting for an opening, but if she waits any longer, she's really going to be breaking John's trust. Pastor Jerome's, too, for that matter.

Thinking on her toes, Carmina pushes on the already open door as though she's just showing up. Of course, the hinges squeal in protest as soon as she does, so she stops before she breaks something.

"Are you guys still in here?" she calls. She's pretty convincing about it, in her opinion.

"Yes, Carmina," Jerome responds, apparently none-the-wiser, "We're here."

John regards her neutrally as she steps into view, but he's always wearing his poker face around her. She needs to get better at reading it.

"I guess it's time to go, then," he says.

"Yeah. Um — I mean, I can meet you back at the truck. Mom and dad will be here soon..."

Jerome speaks up before John can get the chance. "No, you two go on. I think we were just about done ourselves, and I'd like to sit here for a little while, before it gets too dark." He and John shake hands, and then he comes over to give Carmina a hug. "Happy birthday," he tells her. "You be good for another year, alright?"

"I'll try," she says.

"That'a girl," Jerome laughs. "Keep an eye on her, John."

Sometimes, it seems like Jerome is the only adult in Hope County that doesn't think John is a bad influence on her. Even her mom and dad, who are basically the only people on John's side, get uncomfortable if she tries to talk to him too much. But Jerome is a special case. He used to be weird about anything John-related, but nowadays? Honestly, Carmina's pretty sure he's John's only friend at this point — well, okay, other than mom and dad, but they don't count.

John waits until they've left the church to speak. He's chilly and dismissive, as usual.

"How long were you listening for?"

"I wasn't," Carmina begins — but she can't lie to him. Lying only ever makes things worse. So she corrects herself reluctantly and admits, "It was only a minute. I didn't mean to... it just sort of happened."

"Hm."

Normally, Carmina can't get a read on John's poker face, but... huh. She can't help but feel like she might've... hurt his feelings? She definitely wasn't being trustworthy, that's for sure. And now he's trying to casually out-pace her on the walk back to the truck.

"I'm sorry for eavesdropping," she says, picking up her pace to match his. "I promise, I won't do it again."

John glares at her, but she's pretty sure he's not angry. Maybe just confused? She's not sure, he's never looked at her longer than two seconds before.

"I... appreciate it," he replies instead, which makes it the first time he's ever accepted an apology of hers. Usually, he just tells her not to worry about it.

Carmina grins at him, but he's already looked away, so of course he doesn't see it. Instead, he looks to the field, where the three teens from town are still hanging out. Carmina can't tell if they're looking this way or not. She sure hopes they aren't; John would know immediately that they gossiped about him, and she's already messed up with him once today.

"Have you ever played capture the flag?" she asks, hoping to distract him. "The chicken brothers taught us the rules but I think they maybe made some of it up."

John cracks a small smile. Well, Carmina will pretend it's one, anyway.

"The chicken brothers," he repeats.

"You know, Tommy and Matt."

"Do they know that's what you call them?"

"I mean, I've never said it to their faces..."

"That's probably smart."

They reach the truck, which marks the invisible barrier that keeps John out of town. Of course, mom and dad still aren't here. If Carmina climbed up on top of the truck, she might be able to spot them, but it's not like she could get their attention from this far away. So, she's going to have to kill time until they get back.

"Did you eat?" she asks, climbing up into the truck bed.

"I'm fine, Carmina," John replies, a little wearily. Like she's not the first person to bug him about it today — or, maybe like he lacks energy from not eating all day.

She rolls her eyes, but John doesn't see. "Uh-huh." She sits down, pulling the box of food into her lap as she leans back against the cab. "Dad was surprised that there were cookies. Um, not exactly the same, I guess? But still really good." She's not going to give him a chance to turn it down, grabbing one and shoving it in his direction. "Here, try one!"

John, leaning against the side of the truck like he is, is clearly more interested in looking for her parents than humoring her. He definitely looks like he wants to say no. But to her surprise, he actually takes the offered food. It would be weird to stare at him while he eats, so she goes back to debating between a chicken leg or one of the last ribs in the box.

"Not bad," John comments, which is like, crazy, because Carmina definitely isn't goading him into talking.

"They're kind of crumbly," Carmina says, "I dunno if that's what it's supposed to be like. But all the food is really good." She counts the chicken legs out again, just to make sure there's one for each of them. "Um... hey, John? Uh... do chickens eat each other?"

John frowns, chewing the question over with the rest of the cookie. He swallows, then says, "Most animals cannibalize their own if they're desperate enough."

"Oh."

"They would need to be left alone for a lot longer than a few hours," he points out. "Or they would have to be sick. It's more likely a dog will get them before they turn on each other."

Well, at least Carmina can trust John to tell her the truth, even if it's probably not the way her parents would want him to do it. She doesn't even mind him being so blunt about it, either; she's just surprised he's willing to talk to her. She can't help but wonder if this is going to be a normal thing, now that she's ten — is he going to stop being so weird around her? Or is this just a special treat, because of the day? She sure hopes not. It'd be a lot less awkward if John didn't act so scared of her all the time.

Her parents finally join them at the truck. Her mom wrinkles her nose at Carmina sitting in the back again, but she doesn't say anything. Her dad doesn't seem to mind; once he spots the box in Carmina's lap, he reaches over to grab one of the shortbread cookies for himself.

"Sorry about that," he says, "We got held up a couple times. John, you try one of these yet?"

"I did."

"Crazy having home-baked goods again, right?" Her dad waggles the cookie in John's face; John rolls his eyes and circles back around to the tailgate, climbing up into the bed. "Here, Carmina, give me that box so the food doesn't get too cold on the way home."

"You're just gonna eat everything," Carmina objects, handing over the box anyway.

"Nah, come on. Here, you guys grab something for the ride home." He nudges Carmina's shoulder with the box. "You probably worked up an appetite bullying all the older kids out there — and I bet you didn't eat much of anything, either," he adds in John's direction.

"I had a cookie, didn't I?"

"Yeah, I'll bet nobody forced you into it, either."

Carmina grins as her dad winks at her. Her mom rolls her eyes, but doesn't keep dad from bullying John a little. "Grab something so we can get going," she tells John, "And make sure she doesn't stand up once we're in drive."

John reluctantly takes a towel-wrapped ear of corn and a single rib, while Carmina goes right for that piece of chicken she'd been eying from the start. That helps her make peace with sitting safely, at least this one time. Next year, she's definitely going to get to ride in back by herself, she can feel it, and she is going to do it standing up!

As Carmina watches the town shrink behind them, she congratulates herself on another successful birthday. It'd been better than she'd expected — she was a little uncomfortable around so many people at first, but now she's pretty sure she can say she's made some friends? And seeing the town full of food and laughter and music... It had been sort of what Carmina imagines Fall's End used to be like. Her parents probably wouldn't agree, but maybe that's okay. Maybe when she's older, she can try and prove to them that things can be just as good as they used to be — even if it's a different kind of good.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #fcnd #new dawn #john seed #nick rye #kim rye #carmina rye #far cry fanfic #my fic

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cptsdstudyblr · 3 years

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Cults & Religious Abuse PART 2: So you’re in a cult?

If you don’t want to see this series, you can block #cptsdstudyblrreligion

tw// cults, religion, religious abuse, religious trauma, mentions of other types of abuse

PART 1: Q & A

In this post I will be speaking somewhat specifically about my experiences that led to religious trauma, so please be cautious when reading this post. The tips and resources are at the bottom and are bullet points, so feel free to skip to there if you aren’t comfy with the post itself.

Maybe you were raised in a religion, maybe you or your family joined a religion later in your life, or maybe you’ve gotten involved in a cult in some other way. But one day you wake up and you realize that you need to get out. But how? In this I’ll be sharing the basics of my experiences in a cult-like fundamentalist religion, how I got out, and some resources I think are helpful for people in similar situations.

Before I get into the details, I want to make one thing clear: I am not a woman. I am non-binary. However, I was raised a woman and that was a huge part of the way these experiences affected me, so I will be including that perspective in this post.

I also want to make it clear that I am not against religion in general or against people practicing religion. This post is not intended to attack religion as a concept, but to shed light on specific extremely harmful religious practices.

My family’s relationship with religion is on the complicated side, but I’ll briefly explain it for context. Both of my parents were raised fairly generically Catholic. My grandparents on my dad’s side are now loosely Catholic, but don’t explicitly practice religion. My grandmother on my mom’s side has since converted to protestant Christianity at my mom’s suggestion. My dad has been either apathetic or even hostile towards religion for as long as I can remember and rarely attended church with me and my mom, but my mom has always been religious. These are the primary influences in my life, as I’m not close enough to any other family members for their religious beliefs to have had significant impact on me.

My mom is where it gets complicated. Although she was raised Catholic, she explored protestant Christianity starting a few years before my birth and quickly converted. For most of my actual childhood my mom was a pretty average protestant Christian. We moved a lot, so we attended churches in a variety of denominations, including several more charismatic and prosperity-gospel based megachurches, but when I was around 9 years old, my mom fell down a rabbit hole of Messianic Christianity through one of these churches, which I believe is where it all started to fall apart. Just to clarify, although this group of beliefs is technically referred to as Messianic Judaism, I refer to my experience with it as Messianic Christianity as I am in no way Jewish (and thus feel uncomfortable calling my religious experiences Judaism) and the messianic movement is harmful to actual Jewish people.

This move into Messianic Christianity pushed my mom to start rereading and reinterpreting the Bible and she consequently decided that she was not enamored with the teachings of the church we attended at the time. I strongly believe that her understanding of that study was also heavily influenced by the domestic violence and instability going on in our home at the time, as she was unable to connect to the overwhelmingly positive messages that our church preached. So, she moved us to another church. This was a church we had attended some in the past while trying to find a home church after a move, but hadn’t really stuck with, so it wasn’t an entirely new church. Because of this, I generally say that I attended this church from the age of 9 although we did not attend this church consistently until I was around 11. This church was a nondenominational Bible church closely associated with Grace Community Church in Sun Valley, CA, which is pastored by John MacArthur. I’d encourage you to take a look at the basic teachings of John MacArthur and of this church in some depth as they are already quite problematic. The linked article is really just one example of the kind of teachings that are prevalent here, and I’d encourage you to follow this rabbit hole as far as it takes you because it’s fascinating.

The church that we moved to was extremely fundamentalist. Unfortunately, I’m not comfortable linking the actual church for fear of doxxing myself, but the teachings of this church are pretty much exactly in line with those Grace Community Church and the other organizations I will mention soon. This church also unofficially followed the teachings of the Institute for Basic Life Principles (IBLP). When I say unofficially, I mean that my church was not publically associated with IBLP, but they were definitely associated with IBLP in reality. And again, I’d really encourage you to browse through their website to get a feel for their teachings. However, as a basic summary, if you’re familiar with the Duggar family from the TLC reality show 19 Kids and Counting, they are members of IBLP and everything they teach was taught fairly similarly at my church. I won’t go into the details of what the teachings were, but they were about as fundamentalist Christian as you could come up with. Sexism, racism, homophobia, transphobia, abuse, etc. but turned up to 11/10. And it was a very closed circle. So how did I get out and end up where I am now - a bi-romantic asexual non-binary university student studying STEM at an incredibly liberal university?

It wasn’t easy. But I did get somewhat lucky. Unlike 90% of the kids at my church, I was not homeschooled after 8th grade. Instead, I went to a private Christian school - this was definitely still harmful and contributed to my trauma but it did give me opportunities to be exposed to people and ideas outside my fundamentalist Christian bubble. It also encouraged me to attend university, as it was expected of all graduates from that school. My dad wasn’t religious, and he and my mom divorced right before I graduated from high school. Additionally, my mom did encourage me to continue my education despite the teachings at our church. I’m not sure why she encouraged this, but she did. So I got lucky that things in my life pointed me in a direction of further education. And I got further lucky that the main school in my state is the school it is. It’s a school that is incredibly left-leaning and secular, and ultimately it pushed me extremely far outside my comfort zone.

I am extremely grateful for the opportunities that made it easier for me to get out of this situation, but I did still have to work for it. Here are my suggestions for surviving a cult-like environment and for eventually getting out:

Do everything you can to expose yourself to other ideas and beliefs. I assume that if you recognize you’re in this type of situation and want to escape, you already know that you disagree with the beliefs that are being forced on you at some level. But it’s important to further educate yourself where possible and figure out your beliefs. Figuring out what you believe and being committed to it is key in being able to stick to leaving your environment. If you know you disagree, but you can’t articulate why you disagree or what you believe and you aren’t committed to your beliefs, you will be very easy to convince that you are wrong and you will be very easy to manipulate.

If you’re on tumblr reading this, you probably have access to the internet, so use that to your advantage. Research things, read articles, and involve yourself in discussions. If you struggle with internet access, you can read books, magazines, and newspapers at your local library and potentially even join clubs through your library or school. Not everything you learn has to be political or about religion. Reading and learning will broaden your horizons, give you concrete interests outside religion, encourage you to learn about things that make you uncomfortable, etc.

If you are involved in a religion that has a text, read it critically and read nonreligious analyses of it. You don’t necessarily have to agree with these analyses, but thinking critically about the text you’ve been raised to take as complete fact will help you realize what you actually believe.

Find others who agree with you. In high school, I had a couple of friends at church who were “rebels” too, and we’re still friends to this day. We moved on together, and it really helped me be able to get out because I wasn’t doing it alone.

If you have to physically leave to get away, make sure you have enough money and have a backup plan. If you leave and are forced to come back for any reason, leaving again will be infinitely harder. If you leave, make sure it can be for good. It doesn’t necessarily have to be permanent, but if you come back it has to be on your own terms and not out of necessity.

Don’t get yourself kicked out and be safe no matter what.

Some resources I think are helpful:

Find an LGBT Center (US only) - LGBT centers are incredibly helpful for issues that go beyond being LGBT+, and if you’re eligible to use them they can be a great resource

The Trevor Project - LGBT+ resources and crisis lines

Tumblr post describing what to do if you’re homeless - It’s from Tumblr, so take it with a grain of salt, but it seems like pretty solid advice.

How to leave a cult - Very basic guide, but has some good advice.

Quiz to help you figure out your political beliefs (US based, but has some other countries as well) - I’d suggest taking this a few times as you develop your beliefs, and I’d also suggest clicking “more questions” as many times as possible in every category to ensure that you cover a broad range of topics.

How Ideology Colors Morality - about how morality frames US politics

Ethics - a good place to start when looking at different ways of analyzing ethics. My high school ethics class is a huge component in why I questioned my own beliefs. Ethics is an eye-opening topic.

List of all the religions - exploring different religions and belief systems helped open my mind to new ideas and ways of thinking about the world

If you want me to help you research something or find resources for a specific situation, feel free to message me or send me an ask and I’m happy to help (you can also ask me other questions, my asks and DMs are always open!)

And as always, if I made a mistake or linked a bad resource, please feel free to let me know so that I can correct the issue ASAP. I always try to do my research thoroughly, but things can slip by since I am but a human. Thank you!

#cptsdstudyblrreligion #cptsd #ptsd #trauma #religious trauma #religious abuse #religion #christianity #fundamentalism #ex fundamentalist #cult #ex cult #fundie #ex fundie #ex christian #christian

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