#your lies unfold like lines that were left in turn and consequently told all

[dex-starr]

TTNG - Baboon

“What was in your head when you said “Until death”?

[jonaswpoetry]

Your lies unfold like lines that were left in turn and consequently told all

Baboon by TTNG

[yoon-kooks]

Technical Difficulties

Pairing: Jimin x MakeupArtist!Reader

Genre: Smut, Fluff, Tiny Angst

Summary: Jimin is infamously known for being the member who always takes the longest in the dressing room... Here’s the thing--

Warnings: Oral sex, handjob, fingering, sweet k*sses😔

Word Count: 4k

A/N: another drabble for jimin’s bday ♥︎♥︎♥︎ !

“Jimin, for the last time, please stop smiling like that.” With a huff, you lower your eyeshadow palette and brush until the rather cheerful idol decides to comply.

“Wow Y/N, I guess you hate seeing me happy. Fucking toxic.”

“You’re the toxic one. I can’t even blend out your makeup properly when you do that fucking eyesmile thing. Why do you enjoy making my job so difficult?”

“Oh no, Y/N gets to be blessed by Park Jimin’s infamous eyesmile everyday at work. What an absolute tragedy,” Seokjin snickers as he and the rest of the members walk past your makeup station. Somehow they’ve all managed to finish their makeup and are ready to start the photoshoot while you’re still lagging behind in the midst of combating Jimin’s eyesmile. If you’re the one makeup artist who gets the pink slip, you’ll know who to blame.

You watch the other members and staff file out into the corridor, leaving you alone with a smiling Jimin. The emptiness and silence of the previously chaotic dressing room only adds to the pressure for you to pick up the pace.

As you apply the boy’s reddish brown eye makeup in haste, you try to calculate how much time you have left, how much contouring you can afford to skip without anyone noticing, how much of your paycheck will be cut, how much-

“Do we have time for a quickie?”

“Oh my fucking…” You roll your eyes at Jimin. “I’m here trying to get your makeup done in a timely manner, and all you’re concerned about is that?”

“I mean, we can’t have the cameras capture this huge boner.” He looks down into his lap, expecting your eyes to follow.

“It’s really not that huge, Jimin…” you say, staring at the obvious bulge constricted by those tight leather pants. “And besides, it’s your own fucking fault for being so dirty-minded all the time.”

“But it’s not my fault you’re the one I’m always thinking about.” He gives you an innocent head tilt as if he’s not eye fucking the shit out of you. That’d be an awfully cute thing for him to say if the two of you were actually dating, but that’s certainly not the case.

“Stop flirting. It’s disgusting.” You lean in closer to paint a glossy peach tint over Jimin’s plump lips while taking a quick glance at the clock on the wall. If the photoshoot starts in twenty minutes, and it’s still going to take about fifteen minutes to apply the rest of his makeup, but you decide to skip the detailed shading and highlighting around his nose and cheeks, you might just have enough time to deal with Jimin’s little friend. “Just let me finish up your makeup, and we’ll see if there’s time,” you sigh.

With a hopeful nod, Jimin watches you hustle along. From the corner of your eye, you see one end of his mouth curve up, forming a nasty smirk on that handsome face. Despite the front you had put up, he knows you want it as much as he does. Otherwise you wouldn’t be in such a big rush.

As you blend a darker contour shade into Jimin’s flawless skin to enhance his charming features, you notice him shuffling around in his seat. And it annoys the shit out of you because you won’t have time to fix a messy contour job.

“Can you just sit still for two more seconds?” You place a firm grip just beneath his jaw to lift and steady your canvas for you to blend everything in. The makeup is so close to being finished, but you’re interrupted by the subtle clacking and undoing of a belt. “I can’t believe you’re getting off to me doing your fucking makeup.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time, babe.”

“But it will be the last if someone walks in on us,” you hiss, spraying the boy’s face with a lavender-scented mist to set his completed makeup. It’s your job on the line, not his. “You’ll get me in trouble, you little shit.” Jimin peels your hand off his chin and gets out of his chair, standing with little distance from you for just a moment before striding over to the door.

With the sound of the door shutting and locking, he spins around and walks back up to you. “You can’t get in trouble if no one catches us.” His confident, yet lustful, stare is locked onto your rosy lips.

“Yeah, but I can still get in trouble if you’re late.” You look over Jimin’s shoulder at the cockblock clock. Honestly, you wouldn’t even be opposed to the intimacy if there was more time and less risk. After all, Jimin has already expressed his feelings for you on multiple occasions. And if your career wasn’t bound to a strict no-dating policy, you probably would’ve told him you felt the same way. “Ten minutes,” you say, backing him onto the dressing room’s new grey sofa.

He watches in full focus as you unzip and free his eager self from the constraints of his expensive leather pants. Your dexterous fingers snake around him, immediately sending a jolt of blissful excitement throughout his needy body. You’ve barely touched him and a translucent lust already coats the length of his erection, lubricated and prepped for your service.

“Only someone as kinky as you would get this turned on from makeup…” You stroke as softly as possible with your thumb along the lower part of his shaft.

“You and I both know it’s not a makeup kink that does this to me,” Jimin says, his voice growing breathy, steamy, weak. He squirms in your tightening grip as a way of asking for more stimulation. You’re what makes him tick.

As soon as your hand starts gliding up and down his length, Jimin digs his nails into the cushion beneath him and throws his head back against the plush armrest. Very quickly, the shape of the sofa molds to the boy’s every movement of uncontained pleasure. His sensitivity to the intensity of your touch never ceases to amaze you.

“Mmn, Y/N…” the boy moans as he grabs your wrist and instinctively leads it right to the core of his pleasure. Finally, your thumb grazes over his glazed tip. It’s a warm pretty pink, the exact color of his cheeks beneath the caked-on makeup, just begging to be played with.

You crawl onto the sofa and hover yourself over Jimin’s lower half. As your hand continues to pump up and down in rhythm, you lick your parched lips before teasing him with a naughty tongue. The intense blood flow stiffens him and ignites an alluring heat you can’t resist as you work your way up his length. For every delicate flick of your tongue, you’re rewarded with a louder moan from Bangtan’s vocalist. You’d never tell him, but hearing his helpless moans is more than enough to set off a distracting ache between your legs.

When your tongue circles across his pink swollen tip, you’re fed a weak thrust into the back of your throat. Your half-gag, half-moan only feeds into the boy’s sinful cravings. He grasps for your tangled hair, pleading for you to take in his entire length and work your lips around him.

“F-fuck…” Jimin watches, panting as you pleasure him into the state of ecstasy. Although you’re not the one on the receiving end this time, you want to make him feel good, desired, loved. Because despite the loads of shit-talking you engage in with him, it’s all just to hide how you truly feel about him. If anyone, including Jimin, finds out you have a crush on him, you’ll surely lose your job, whether it’s at the hands of your unsatisfied boss or a crazed fan rumor. “Y/N…” His moan pierces right through your heart. “I’m close-”

“Jimin, are you still in here?” You jump off the sofa like a startled kitten and throw yourself across the room when you hear Namjoon’s voice from the other side of the door. Even the slightest possibility of getting caught is enough to keep you miles away from Jimin. You walk over to the sink to clean yourself up and throw a towel at the boy left on the sofa. Only then do you notice the time on the clock, and immediately your heart sinks. He’s late because of you.

Jimin glances at you, who looks like a deer in headlights. He strides over and uses his chubby thumb to wipe away the last bit of sin from the corner of your lips. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,” he whispers into your ear, more to be seductive than to prevent Namjoon from hearing. “And like always, I’ll return the favor after the shoot, yeah?”

You nod, but you worry about the consequences as the two of you exit the dressing room to rejoin the rest of the members and staff on the set.

You watch as Jimin lies about “technical difficulties” with smudged makeup to the members in front of the green screen. “It’s my fault,” he says. You notice the other makeup artists rolling their eyes and making gossip out of Jimin’s poor excuse. You’re fairly confident they all have something against you because of the “special treatment” you receive from the idol, and you can’t really blame them.

Throughout the photoshoot, you wonder how Jimin can go from a hot and horny mess with you to a pristine and professional model in front of the camera. The deception and duality of Park Jimin is quite deadly. So deadly that in between shots, you make it a point to be as brief as possible in touching up his makeup. Not only do you want to avoid rumors and animosity by your coworkers, but you also want to avoid Jimin himself. After all, your dilemma originates back to the complex relationship between you and him.

By the time the director finally calls it a day, it’s late and you’re exhausted. In the middle of gulping down a chilled bottle of water, you’re dragged away into one of the vacant changing rooms. There you stand, sandwiched between a pile of unfolded clothes and a concerned Jimin.

“Y/N, you know I’m sorry about earlier, right?” He runs his fingers down the side of your cheek to just beneath your chin.

“You’re going to get me fired one of these days, you dummy,” you speak softly. “Hopefully not today.”

“You won’t be fired, I promise.” His innocent eyes make you want to believe him, so you look away and distract yourself with his ugly ass designer shirt.

“There’s only so much you can promise, Jimothy.” Your fingers unconsciously fidget with the buttons on his shirt to help him get undressed.

“You know I always keep my promises, babe,” he says while stripping off his ugly shirt to reveal a healthy physique. It’s true that the boy doesn’t break promises, but you still think it’s playing with fire.

But before you know it, your legs are spread out on the bench for Jimin to do as he pleases. He pulls your leggings down to your ankles and slips two fingers into your soaked lace panties. With every tiny touch between your legs, his fingers become coated in your glaze. The moment he locates your swollen bud, your body jerks backwards with a soft moan. “S-shit Jimin, someone’s going to catch us in here-”

The boy muffles your panting voice with a soft yellow sleeve of the clean sweater he’s got an arm through. “Then save all of your naughty sounds for later,” he smirks at you even though you don’t know exactly what he’s implying.

“Jimin, hurry up and change. We wanna go to the BBQ place already,” Jungkook knocks on the other side of the door.

“I’ll be done in a sec,” Jimin calls back. But despite what he says, the fingers keep teasing you between your legs, up and down, in and out, and it takes everything in you to not let a single sound escape your mouth.

“Why the fuck does the shortest always take the longest…?” The hungry maknae mumbles until his voice fades into the distance. You’re safe to breath again, your chest heaving up and down in both relief and heat.

“Wanna grab dinner too?” Jimin pulls away with the pleasure and blinks at what a hot mess you are, as if his fingers weren’t shoved inside you just a second ago. It’s over. Any real intimacy between you and the boy ends before it could begin.

You pull up your leggings and shake your head. “I should get home.” It’d be too obvious if Jimin brought you along to eat with the other members anyway. “But have fun with the guys,” you say, softly tousling his hair.

For a moment, he gazes into your eyes, searching for a different answer. But no matter how hard or long he looks, you can’t change your mind. You just want to go home where you can get off in peace without worrying about your job or your feelings.

Eventually the boy gives up because he throws on the rest of his clothes and opens the changing room door just a crack to make sure the coast is clear. The two of you successfully sneak out and go your separate ways as if nothing sketchy had happened behind closed doors. As he rejoins his fellow members to depart for a huge feast, you grab your bag from the makeup room and prepare for your commute home.

On your way out of the building, you think about what to eat for dinner. You had planned to cook yourself an elaborate hearty meal after a long day at work, but you’re really not in the mood anymore. Fried chicken delivery, on the other hand, sounds delicious. And you can already smell the peppery spiced seasoning, your stomach growling in response.

You’re so distracted by the rumbling in your stomach as you walk through the lobby that you almost smack your face into an actual bucket of fried chicken.

“Aren’t you going to that BBQ place?” You look up at the boy in a soft yellow sweater holding the bucket before your eyes wander off to the steamy crispy snack.

“I told the guys to go without me,” he shrugs and offers the bucket to you. “I’ll take you home after we eat.”

You take a tiny piece of chicken even though your stomach tells you to take the whole bucket and run. Part of you wants to believe he’s only after the unfinished sex, but you already know his feelings go beyond that. “You know you’re not obligated to choose me over the guys…” Especially when the two of you don’t even have a defined relationship beyond the fact that he’s an idol and you’re his makeup artist.

“I know,” Jimin pops a chicken into his mouth. “But I just like hanging out with my favorite makeup artist. Is that a crime?”

“Yeah, it’s actually a big fucking crime in the idol industry, and you know it,” you laugh bitterly at how cruel the world is. The boy doesn’t laugh with you because he knows it’s the sad truth.

“Look, I know it’s selfish of me to keep wanting more when it only puts your job at risk…” He sets the bucket of chicken aside on a nearby table. “And I’m sorry there’s only so much I can promise, Y/N… But I really just wanna be with you.” You hate that he feels selfish and guilty for feeling things that he can’t control. You’re no different. You’re also guilty of not being able to resist the temptation that is Park Jimin.

“You don’t need to apologize for anything, Jimin,” you cup his cheeks. “I can assure you you’re not the only one who wants more despite the risks.” It’s the first time you’ve hinted at mutual feelings for the boy, but you certainly hope he picks up on it.

“Good to know, bub,” He picks the chicken back up and places it in your hands. “Shall we take you home?”

-

You’ve barely stepped inside your apartment when Jimin scoops you up and lays you down on your pink bed with cute little bunny pillows.

Without hesitation, he climbs over you and grazes his lips ever so slightly against the nape of your neck. A rather gentle trail of love bites traces the curves of your body as his nimble fingers unclothe you piece by piece. When only your lace panties remain, Jimin backs away to examine, or perhaps admire, your bare body and all of its features. He lets out a soft chuckle as his eyes wander from above.

“What?” Your face heats up as you use your hand to barely cover your peeking chest, now feeling a tad self-conscious.

“I didn’t know you had such a cute bed.” His eyes shift from your upper half to the bunny pillows. Sometimes you forget he’s never seen you outside of work, let alone had sex with you in an actual bed. “But I suppose there’s a lot of things I still don’t know about you.”

“Do you want to know more about me?” you ask as you tug on his yellow sweater for it to come off. As soon as he obliges, you take the hand that had covered your chest and slip it around to the back of the boy’s neck to pull him closer. Rather than the hot sex-craved eyes you’re used to, you look up at eyes that reflect warmth and tenderness.

Jimin nods, waiting innocently for you to enlighten him. But instead of talking about your secret crush or your love for fried chicken, you bring your lips up to his. His entire body freezes for a split second before allowing your tongue further access. You can’t really blame him for his surprised reaction when it’s the first time the two of you locked lips. For as much sex that happens at work, you had always made a conscious effort to avoid k*sses, in hopes of not catching the feels that come along with it. Perhaps it’s because you’re in the safety and privacy of your bedroom that you let those walls down—even if it’s only temporary.

Absorbed in the new found intimacy, Jimin’s sly tongue keeps you occupied as he slides his hand down your abdominals to your panties, soaked once more with a long-awaited desire. Like magic, he replaces the lace with his fingers and presses into your folds. You don’t appreciate, however, how he elects your clit as the resting spot for the tip of his chubby finger to chill. But you suppose this is part of the long drawn out foreplay you usually miss out on in your quickies at work.

“Jimin… hurry... up…” You finally break off the kiss and try to threaten him but it comes out more like a plea. And it certainly doesn’t help that you’re already this needy when he’s barely touched you.

“What’s that, babe? I can’t hear you through all that panting,” he asks, casually adding an ounce of pressure against your clit. The throbbing at his finger tip sends a jolt of pleasure through your spine.

“F-fucking move your fingers already,” your back arches up as a hushed moan slips from your throat.

“Louder, babe.” He curls his fingers just enough to flick your excited little bud. You hate that you let a louder sound escape so easily when you hear the boy’s command. And if your eyes weren’t shut to cope with the pleasure, you’d be able to see his satisfaction at your submissive state.

After what feels like years of nothing but minimal relief and maximum frustration, Jimin lifts his fingers from your core and makes you watch as he licks off your dripping glaze with that long tongue of his. From the tips of his fingers, he works his way down to the place between your legs. You feel his hot breath teasing you to prolong the anticipation, your core aching and twitching to be played with.

“Jimin…” you whimper the boy’s name, in hopes that it’ll be enough to get his tongue where you want it.

A warm sensation suddenly washes over you. His tongue glides up and down, just barely avoiding your bud but getting a little closer each time. Your fingers grasp the pink bed sheets as you attempt to shift yourself into a better position to be eaten out.

When the taunting tongue finally finds your bud, Jimin swirls around it until it’s swollen enough to put his lips around. You feel a light pressure sucking away between your legs, taking your bud into his mouth and fondling the tip with his tongue. Your head is thrown back against the bunny pillows through the heat.

“Mmn…” You squirm and moan to his every touch, tangling your fingers into his hair in a helpless manner. You want him to be rougher, harder.

Somehow Jimin picks up on this and sneaks a pair of fingers to fill your hole as his tongue continues to play with your clit. In and out, he dips his digits and curls them deep inside of you. Before you know it, your body is thrusting up against the rhythm of his fingers and tongue because he’s found the right spots to hit.

You roll your hips faster in a heated state, practically fucking the boy’s face for as much as he allows. The only way he gets your body to stop acting on its own is when he fingers and sucks you hard enough to push you over the edge. “Jimin, I’m gonna—ahh…!”

You’re overcome by an intense flood of pleasure from all the built-up stimulation in your most sensitive spots. Wild thoughts of Jimin fucking you fade in and out of mind as the orgasm hits you in waves, your walls tightening around his fingers. Your stream of piercing moans is proof that Jimin knows far too well how your body likes to be fed. And you have to admit, it feels really fucking good to not have to hide any of that.

As your breathing starts to calm, Jimin tosses himself next to you on the bed and tugs at your cheek. You roll your body over to face him, wondering if he wants you to pleasure him next. But to your surprise, he just pulls up a blanket and brings your tired body closer to his until the tip of your nose grazes his chest. You can hear his heart still racing.

The longer you lay pressed against the boy’s chest, the more you hope he doesn’t have to leave so soon. So you don’t say anything to him. You just stay as close to his heart as you can.

“I like this,” he says, massaging your back with his fingers.

“You mean sleeping together in an actual bed for once?” you chuckle.

He shakes his head, “No… well, I mean yeah… But I meant I like spending time with you alone. Sex or not.” His words tug at your heart’ strings. “Just like this.”

You’re silent for a long minute to take in his words and gather your thoughts. But even after all that thinking, all you can say is, “I like it too.”

“I’m glad, babe,” he plants a soft kiss on your forehead.

“By the way, what excuse did you use to get out of the BBQ thing?” You only ask because you might be able to spend a few extra hours with the boy, depending on the type of excuse he made up.

“I told the guys about you and me.”

“Jimothy.” You’re struck with a minor dose of panic.

“Don’t worry, those dorks won’t tell anyone else,” his beautiful eyesmile puts you at ease. “Besides, now that they know, I’ll be able to sneak out of the dorms more often and stay longer~” That does seem like quite a good deal.

“…including tonight?” Your face burns as the invitation slips from your mouth.

“Do you want me to stay the night, babe?” He dreamily gazes into your eyes and rubs your rosy cheek with his thumb. Alone time to express how you truly feel about him is exactly what you need. Maybe only then will you begin to understand the complexities of the relationship between an idol and his makeup artist.

You nod before leaning in to give him a long goodnight kiss.

[today-only-happens-once]

Fault Line

Title: Fault Line

Word count: 6477

Summary: When Patton had asked if being safe was enough, Virgil had agreed. But the truth and its consequences weigh heavy on everyone. Sequel to Fight or Flight. Platonic or pre-romantic Prinxiety, Platonic LAMP/CALM.

Warnings: angst and suffering abounds, so do feelings of guilt, brief cursing, nightmares, monsters, (repeated) description and discussion of major injury/trauma and intense pain, borderline overworking, panicking and panic attacks, Roman is insecure and has self-deprecating thoughts, nausea mention, Virgil is tense, Logan gives the expository speeches (and I love him for it), food mention, let me know if I forgot anything

A/N: The fic that never seemed ready to end. Yikes. This got way darker (and longer) than I thought it would? Everyone is suffering. Headcanons abound, Logan is long-winded, POV is played with, longest SS fic yet and I didn’t even cover absolutely everything? I think I like it but at this point idek, this might just be a hot mess. Edited by yours truly, so all mistakes are mine. *covers my eyes before posting, then hides*

Confused? Read Fight or Flight here!

Tags: @creativenostalgiastuff (Extra props for her help in brainstorming/problem solving with me for this fic), @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @lizaelsparrow @princelogical, @random-pianist, @ravenclawicecream, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @rileyfirstname, @pinkeasteregg, @sassy-in-glasses, @vigilantvirgil, @generalfandomfabulousness, @lacrimosathedark, @lesbian-velociraptor (since you said you were interested!) @thepoolofthedead (only tagging you because its a continuation of that one fic you inspired.) Let me know if anyone ever wants to be tagged!

…

Virgil jolts awake with the taste of a shout dying on his tongue.

The memory of Roman’s pained scream still reverberates violently in his head against the abrupt silence of his room. His chest heaves with shuddering gasps. His purple t-shirt is soaked through with sweat, his bangs sticking to his forehead. He presses trembling hands against his eyes.

He breathes in for four seconds.

His barely-contained gasps.

He tries again. He breathes in for four seconds.

His shredded red sash.

He breathes in for—

The bloodstains on his white suit.

He breathes—

Roman crying out in pain.

Virgil kicks the blanket off of his legs and tumbles ungracefully out of the bed. He can hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears but it is still not enough to drown out the memories. The nightmares. A part of Virgil is begging him to run but he doesn’t know where because it’s inside of him, because you can’t out-run the memories inside your head.

Nevertheless, the urge to go somewhere anywhere anywhere but here is strong and before he’s even completely aware of what he’s doing, Virgil sinks out of his room.

When he rises back up, he’s got his eyes squeezed shut against the images flashing through his mind.

“Virgil?”

The Anxious Side’s breaths are still coming too quickly as he opens his eyes. French doors are left open so that a breeze blows through the white curtains and he realizes suddenly that he’s left his hoodie in his own room. He is open and exposed and this was a bad idea. Bad idea, bad idea, bad—

“Whoa. Virge.” The bed squeaks, followed by hurried footsteps against the hardwood.

Virgil feels hands on his shoulders and finally, slowly, looks up. Bare feet, red pajama pants, a thin white t-shirt. Loose strands of hair fall into wide, concerned eyes. Roman.

Safe. He’s safe. He’s okay.

Virgil sags a little in relief. He feels the grip tighten on his shoulders.

“Is something wrong?”

Virgil looks for a second into the Prince’s dark eyes, then down at the soft rise and fall of his (healed, he was healed) chest. The white t-shirt hugs his ribcage in a way that seems to Virgil such a stark contrast to the image of the bleeding slashes through his skin that was seared behind his eyes.

“N-no,” Virgil says, finding his voice just as Roman opens his mouth to speak again. “I’m sorry. I-I just…” He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay. Virgil runs a hand over his eyes. “Just had a bad dream. I don’t… know why I came here. Sorry.”

Roman had been sleeping. God knows he needed the rest after the quest, after fighting the monster and nearly… Virgil shouldn’t have bothered him, really. It had just been a dream. A memory at the most. A memory that has since passed. Didn’t matter now. Arbitrary, as Logan might call it.

“Virgil, wait—“

He sinks out before Roman can finish.

…

When Roman walks into the kitchen the following morning, Patton is surprisingly the only one there.

“Good morning, Padrè,” Roman says, not quite able to muster the usual sing-song flair he had most mornings. Virgil’s pale face and wide eyes the previous night were still ingrained on his mind.

“Morning, kiddo,” Patton greets with a warm smile. “How’d you sleep?” He hands a cup of coffee—already including Roman’s preferred ratio of cream and sugar—to the Prince.

Roman accepts it with a distracted but appreciative smile. “Virgil came to my room last night,” he says in lieu of answering Patton’s routine question. He takes a sip of coffee.

A crease appears between Patton’s eyebrows. “Was he okay?”

“I…” Roman pauses, looking down into his coffee mug. The knot in his stomach tightens a little. Virgil had seemed pretty torn up. Afraid. And though Roman was Creativity, it didn’t take much imagination to guess what exactly had been wrong. “He said he’d had a bad dream.”

“And you think it was about… what happened?”

What happened. Through the past couple of days since Roman and Virgil had returned, that was exactly how they’d all been talking about it. Or not talking about it, as the case may be. Roman remembers every moment of it all in startling high-definition, and from the Anxious Side’s constantly terrified gaze, he knew Virgil could as well. But talking about it…

What had happened was his fault. Roman knows this. It’s his fault that Virgil’s having nightmares that he won’t talk about. His fault that Patton hovers with questions pressing against his tongue. His fault that Logan had been hiding in his room ever since. His own fault that when he lies awake at night he can feel a ghostly whisper of the pain shred through his chest…

“Yeah, Pat,” Roman says, his voice unusually subdued. “I do.”

Patton is quiet for a moment, then sets his own mug on the counter with a quiet click. “How are you holding up?”

“Me? Totally Gucci.”

The Moral Side has a gentle, knowing look behind his glasses. “How are you really?”

The Prince swallows and averts his gaze. “I’m fine, Patton.”

“Well, I don’t believe that for a second.”

His jaw jumps. What does Patton expect him to say? Roman had been in danger before on quests, but not like that. He’d never… lost control of the mindscape, if that’s even what had happened. He’d never… almost…

And with Virgil there. He’d put Virgil in danger. He’d risked his life and Virgil’s and for what?

Listen to me. I don’t know about this. Virgil had been practically begging him to turn back. How had he responded? This is what I do, Virgil.

Though the coffee is saturated with cream and sugar, the Creative Side has a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Roman?”

The Prince shakes his head and forces a smile. “I’m just a bit tired. It’s nothing to worry about.” He clears his throat. Patton takes in a breath to reply, but Roman cuts him off. “Where’s our Microsoft Nerd?”

Patton gives him a quiet look at the less-than-subtle change in topic, but lets it slide. “I think Logan’s in his room again.” He looks at the stack of pancakes on the table. Roman hadn’t even noticed them when he’d walked in. “He should probably eat something.”

…

Virgil takes in a deep breath before rapping his knuckles lightly against Logan’s door. He shoves his hands into his pockets as he waits.

“Uh, come in,” Logan’s voice calls, distant and distracted. Virgil quietly opens the door and steps into the room, closing it behind him.

Logan’s bedroom is covered in a broad sea of open books. They lay open across his bed, his desk, the floor; nearly any flat surface of his room has either an open book or a stack of closed ones. Sticky-Notes and dog-eared pages mark the pages along with penciled notes scribbled in the margins of about half of them. Logan is sitting in a chair, his feet propped up on the desk with a pencil tucked behind his ear and another in his hand. A thick, leather-bound volume is open in his lap.

“Logan?”

The Logical Side glances up. His hair is a little mussed, and his blue tie is pulled slightly loose from his neck.

“Virgil,” he says with a note of surprise. He pulls his legs off the desk, his chair swiveling to face the Anxious Side more fully. “What can I do for you?”

Virgil scratches the back of his neck. “What, um, what are you working on?”

Logan glances around his room. “I am searching for information that may explain some of the… unusual events that have unfolded these past few days.”

Oh, Virgil thinks. He hesitates, unsure if knowing more would help him or just make everything worse. What was it that Logan had told Thomas once? If you’re afraid of being hurt, then seek knowledge. And Logan’s explanations usually did have a quite calming effect on Virgil. At least… most of the time.

“What have you found?” Virgil asks.

“Well,” Logan begins, nodding for Virgil to take a seat on the small space on his bed that wasn’t covered by books, “As we know, occupying space in any of our respective parts of Thomas’s mindscape can have unintended consequences on our processes, particularly if that space is not one in which we are accustomed to occupying.”

Virgil sits, watching as Logan marks the page open in his lap before closing the book and turning to grab another. “Uh…”

“Take, for example,” Logan continues, “When Roman, Patton, Thomas, and I all came to your room when you had elected to leave. Over a relatively short amount of time, Roman, Patton, and I began to feel the effects of your room with the outcome being increased sense of insecurity, emotionality, and urgency respectively.”

Virgil nods. “Okay…”

Logan thumbs through a smaller book as he keeps talking. “Similarly, the sense of nostalgia and emotionality of Patton’s room led to various effects on all of us. Frustration on my part, romanticization—forgive the pun—from Roman, and your stress increased from the sense of where Thomas might otherwise be in his life. Correct?”

Virgil offers a wry, humorless smile at the memory. It had been an important thing for them all to do, but a part of it had certainly been rough for Virgil. “You could say that.”

Logan nods, not looking up as his eyes scanned the pages of the text open in his hands. “Therefore, it stood to reason that I develop the hypothesis that Roman’s corner of the mindscape might also affect our processes.” Logan glances quickly at him through the lenses of his glasses. “Especially prolonged exposure, and particularly in your case.”

Virgil frowns. “Why particularly me?”

Logan quickly flips through a few more pages as he responds. “Granted, I don’t know anything for sure. This is all pure speculation based on what data I had available and the research I was able to accrue over the past few days.”

“Uh—“

“But,” Logan continues, oblivious to the skeptical eyebrow Virgil raises, “Virgil, though your processes are more complex than this mere overgeneralization, you largely are the manifestation of Thomas’ anxiety and fears. Correct?” Logan’s voice is patient and measured. Calming in a way.

“Yeah…” Virgil says slowly.

Logan looks up then, his brown eyes both curious and calculating as he locks gazes with Virgil. “May I ask you another question?”

Virgil nods his agreement, gesturing for Logan to continue.

“Would you say that your level of distress increased throughout the five days you spent in Roman’s realm?”

“I…” Virgil trails off as he thinks about it. Logan is right. His anxiety had gotten a lot worse throughout the journey. The process had been gradual and steady for the most part, and the Anxious Side had largely attributed it to just… who he was.  But by the time he and Roman had reached the stairwell, every fiber of him was begging for them both to turn the other way and never look back.

“Yeah,” Virgil says after a moment. “It… it was definitely getting worse.”

Logan nods as if the information confirmed something for him. “Creativity, as an energy, can often have adverse effects on the fight-or-flight response. Such influence may, for example, lead to increased cognitive distortions regarding the perception of threats in particular. In doing so, the cycle of impact becomes self-perpetuating.”

Virgil tugs at the sleeve of his hoodie as he turns over Logan’s words in his head. “What does that mean?”

Logan closes the book and looks carefully at the other Side. “In simple terms, your anxiety was heightened because the Creative energy that saturates Roman’s corner of the mindscape encouraged you to perceive increasingly worse threats, increasing your fight or flight response, which therefore worsen the perception of the threat, and so on.”

Virgil nods thoughtfully. So Creativity is what made his anxiety so much worse. That makes sense. “Okay, so that’s why I was more… on edge than normal. But there’s still something I don’t quite understand.”

Logan arches an eyebrow in piqued interest. “Hm?”

Virgil shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the hem of his sleeve as he pinches and pulls it between his fingertips. “Roman’s mindscape was rough on me. That’s fine. But it doesn’t exactly explain… what happened. Why would he…” He swallows, his voice dying in his throat.

A crease appears between Logan’s brows. “Why would he what, Virgil?”

Virgil sighs, shoving his hands back into his pockets again. “I…” Virgil can hear the hisses and shrieks of the monster whispering in his ear and fights back a shudder. He swallows hard. “Roman still has control over his realm, right? Everything in it… he created?”

What did it mean that Roman created the monster that nearly killed him? Did he think it would be some kind of sick joke? Did his ego just get the best of him that he finally created something bigger and stronger than he was? Why would he let it get so out of hand?

“Well,” Logan says slowly, “I think it may be more complicated than that.”

“What?”

The Logical Side snaps the book in his hands closed and sets it aside. He adjusts the frame of his glasses. “I arrived at the self-perpetuation hypothesis the night after your return. The rest of my research has been seeking to address the very question you’ve just posed.”

“And?”

Logan purses his lips, casting a furtive glance at Virgil. “I may have a theory, but I am lacking some… data sets that would be pertinent in either proving or disproving my current hypothesis.”

Virgil’s eyes flash up to meet his. “You want me to tell you what happened.”

“It… would be helpful, Virgil,” Logan says, his voice a bit softer. “And I think it might be beneficial for you as well.”

The impossibly-strong shadow. It’s hisses in Virgil’s ears as it wrestles for the sword. Roman screaming as its talons shred—

“No,” Virgil says.

“Virge—,” Logan tries, but Virgil is already on his feet.

“I said no, Logan,” he snaps. “Besides, what happened doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

“I—“

Virgil sinks out of the room.

…

Roman stands on the balcony overlooking the broad landscape of his realm. The wide expanse of sky is a flat gray, with darker clouds looming on the horizon. The rolling hills in the distance cast long shadows. The usually light breeze has sharpened to a harsh wind that tugs ominously at his red sash and the strands of his hair. Before, Roman could stand on this balcony overlooking his corner of the mindscape and feel that excited thrill rush through his stomach at all of the adventures yet to be embarked on, all the foes to yet vanquish, the performances yet to be acted.

But now…

Roman sighs and hangs his head, his hands beginning to shake slightly before he tightens his grip around the iron railing.

Now the thought of venturing any further than this balcony leaves him with a dizzying sense of paralyzing fear and faint nausea. Roman still isn’t entirely clear on what exactly happened, but somehow he’d… lost control of the mindscape. The one place where he was definitely supposed to have it. He didn’t always win every battle, but even when he didn’t, he had never almost… died, as a result.

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

He should have listened to Virgil. How could you be so stupid?

But Virgil had been watching him so closely the entire quest. And on occasion, when Roman bested a small beast or found a solution to a problem along the way, he’d see the way Virgil’s eyes would widen slightly, the corner of his mouth turned upwards a fraction. And Roman—with a warmth swelling in his chest—felt for once like maybe someone could be proud of him.  

But Roman always had to push it too far, didn’t he? Always had to be Too Much, couldn’t stand to just be Enough.

So when Virgil urged Roman to turn back, the Prince refused. The Prince was no coward—the Prince couldn’t stand to think someone might think of him that way. Not when he’d seen the look he could convince himself was pride in Virgil’s eyes.

This is what I do, Virgil, he’d said. Roman sees lightning streak brightly across the sky as he realizes with a sickening sort of clarity that there was still a truth to the words.

Because that it is what he does, isn’t it? He dives recklessly headfirst into fights, consequences be damned. Except in this case, ‘consequences’ really meant Virgil. Roman had fought and lost and it was Virgil who saved him. When Virgil had rammed into it, tearing it off of him despite its impossible strength, Roman knew he would never again see that pride and trust that Virgil had placed in him so carefully.

Roman stays standing on the balcony even as the rain pours down hard and heavy around him.

…

“Kiddo?”

Virgil is sitting in small nook by the window in the mindscape commons with his hood pulled up, but he pulls the earbuds out of his ears when he hears Patton’s voice. The Moral Side is giving him a soft inquisitive smile, holding two mugs in his hands. Patton hands one to him. It’s tea.

“Mind if I join ya?” Patton asks.

“Uh, sure,” Virgil says, pulling his knees up closer as he accepts the drink. Patton sits across from him, taking a quiet sip.

For a moment, the two sit in companionable silence. Virgil inhales the scent of the tea—lavender and cinnamon, he notices—and feels, for the first time in a very long time, the tight knots in his stomach loosen just a little. The mindscape is unusually quiet. Although, Virgil figures that had probably been true for the past few days. He doesn’t know for sure. He’d been spending a lot of time alone, not wanting to bother any of the other Sides.

“I’ve missed this,” Patton says softly, as if reading Virgil’s thoughts. Startled, Virgil looks up. Patton’s smile is soft, but there’s a sadness in his eyes that makes Virgil’s heart sink.

“Pat, I…”

Patton shakes his head. “I didn’t say it to make you feel bad, kiddo.” He takes another sip of tea. “A Dad just worries about his kids.”

Virgil averts his gaze, opting instead to swallow some of the warm drink. “I… I’m sorry.”

“You did nothing wrong, Virgil,” Patton tells him gently.

Virgil stares at the tea bag floating in his cup. There’s a beat of silence between them.

He hears Patton take in a deep and not wholly-steady breath. When he looks up, the smile the Moral Side offers doesn’t reach his eyes. Patton lifts a shoulder. “It was scary, though. When you both came back.”

Virgil’s grip tightens around his mug. The lump in his throat hardens slightly.

Patton’s soft, quiet voice floats in the air between them. “You were both hurt. You were bleeding a little, but I don’t think you even noticed. Roman was… very seriously injured. I’ll never forget the look in your eyes, Virge. I’ll never forget the look in Roman’s either. Both of you were terrified out of your minds.”

The edges of Virgil’s vision starts to blur with tears. He blinks a few times, but doesn’t lift his gaze from the steam curling up from his mug.

“You were both trying so hard to stay calm for each other, but I saw—could feel—how afraid you both were. When I asked you if it was enough that you were both safe, you told me it was. But… I don’t think that’s true, kiddo. Not really.”

Yes, it is. It’s enough. It’s all in the past. Virgil takes in a breath to argue exactly that, but the air trembles and catches in his lungs.

“Virgil, honey, look at me,” Patton requests softly and gently. It takes Virgil a long moment before he lets his brown eyes flicker up to Patton’s.

“It’s okay if it’s not enough,” Patton tells him as he reaches a hand and brushes Virgil’s bangs slightly out of his eyes. “But take it from someone who has a lot of experience in it when I tell you that you can’t keep bottling it up. You can’t, Virgil. We aren’t supposed to hold pain so closely.”

Virgil feels his vision blur again and he quickly brushes the sleeve of his hoodie across his eyes. He struggles to find words in the torrent sea of thoughts that press in the back of his mind. “I…” His voice catches but he forces the words out in a whisper. “I can’t.”

“Why not, Virge?”

“Because… because…” Virgil clenches his jaw for a moment. “It’s too much, Patton. It’s… It’s all my fault. I feel like it’s all my fault, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, kiddo,” Patton says with a sad smile. “You’re not the only one. But you don’t have to do anything. Just talk to one of us.”

“I don’t…” Want to burden you.

Patton seems to read his thoughts. “This is something we shoulder together. I’m not going to force you to talk about it right now, kiddo, but please talk to someone soon. I’m always around, any time day or night. So is Logan. So is Roman.”

When he glances up, he sees the warm sincerity and tinge of concern in Patton’s dark eyes. Virgil swallows and nods. “Okay.”

…

Roman stands at the door to Logan’s room. He sighs as he runs a hand through his hair. It’s some ungodly hour at night—Roman hadn’t bothered to check the clock—and it’s more likely than not that Logan is asleep. It’s hardly like this is urgent. Roman doesn’t even know why he found himself padding quietly through the mindscape to stop at the Logical Side’s door.

He shakes his head, and is about turn away when he hears a quiet thud and Logan’s unmistakable, muttered cursing.

At least he’s already awake, right? Roman tells himself, before knocking quietly.

“Hm? Come in,” Logan’s voice replies. Roman cracks the door open before entering the room fully and letting the door close behind him. Logan is leaning down to pick a book up as the Creative Side steps into the room. “Roman. I must admit, you were not who I was expecting.”

Roman forces a smile. “Sorry to disappoint you, Specs.”

Logan’s gaze narrows almost imperceptibly. “Quite the contrary. I merely meant to convey surprise.” He straightens up with the book in his hands.

Roman glances around the room. There are more books and scribbled notes visible than there is carpet or bedding. “What’s all this for?”

Logan sets the book in his hands on top of a stack of them at the corner of his desk. “Research.” He glances quickly at the Creative Side. “I don’t mean to make you feel unwelcome, Roman, but did you come here with a specific purpose in mind?”

Roman doesn’t answer right away. How is he supposed to explain to Logan that he’d been lying in his canopy bed, staring at the ceiling, and feeling the echo of a brilliant and intense pain slice through his chest before deciding he just couldn’t take it anymore?

He lifts a shoulder. “A Prince can’t check on his subjects once in a while?”

Logan looks unconvinced. “Roman, it is nearly 3 in the morning. Most are sleeping at this hour.”

“You’re awake too, you know.”

“Doing research,” Logan rejoins simply. “I have stated my purpose. Besides, you are still recovering. Substantial rest is optimal for healing.”

“I’m fine, Logan.”

“Falsehood.” Logan levels a steady, unflinching gaze at the Prince.

Roman averts his gaze. “I just couldn’t sleep, okay? And I thought Patton’s room would probably be the wrong choice, and Virgil is having enough problems sleeping without me waking him up, and I noticed you were already awake, so I just… I thought…” What? Roman doesn’t even know what he was thinking, really.

Logan looks at him thoughtfully for a moment. “Have you frequently been having trouble falling asleep?” He moves towards his bed, marking the open pages before folding the books closed and stacking them on top of one another on the bookshelf beside his bed.

“I…” Roman blinks hard for a moment. “I guess,” he admits quietly.

“When did it start?”

“After.”

“I think—” Logan turns to face him, his words careful and measured—“it would be beneficial for you to name it and talk about it.”

The Creative Side shakes his head adamantly, feeling a flash of frustration heat his face. The words spill out of his mouth before he can think to stop them. “Why? Why does talking about it matter so much? I already spend every waking moment thinking about it, Logan, so why do I have to speak it aloud. It’s already too–,” Painful. Roman snaps his jaw shut, but he has already said too much.  

As good as Logan is at keeping his expression neutral the majority of the time, the surprise is evident on his face. “You feel guilty?”

Roman scoffs, throwing his hands up. “Of course I do! How could I not?” He points a finger towards Logan’s door. “Patton hasn’t had a real smile in days because of me. You’ve been drowning yourself in research because of me. Virgil has nightmares every night because of me.”

“Roman—,”

“I lost control of my own corner of the mindscape, Logan,” Roman continues. The edges of his vision start to blur and he blinks hard to clear it. “I’ve never not known what was in the mindscape when I embark on quests, but this time…” His hands ball into fists at his side. “I lost control of it. What does that say about me, huh? Can’t even contain my own creations. I put Virgil in danger. I…”

Logan’s brows pull together. “Wait. What do you mean you ‘lost control of the mindscape’?”

Roman sighs. “I… Virgil and I got locked in a cave and there was this… shadow beast. I didn’t create it, Logan. I… had no idea what it was.” But he remembers it vividly. Its not-quite humanness, the way it shrieked and hissed and moved impossibly fast. It’s raw strength squeezing at his throat. Throwing him through the air without even touching him. Shredding through his chest with a searing, blinding pain—

Logan frowns. “That seems… improbable.”

“I know what I s–!”

“No, you misunderstand,” Logan says quickly, holding up a hand. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of fabricating a falsehood. Merely that this is new information. What you just described is… odd. I assume that this ‘shadow beast’, as you called it, is the perpetrator of the injuries you sustained?”

Roman swallows and nods hollowly. “Yeah.”

Logan hums thoughtfully before grabbing a notebook off of the desk and pulling the pencil from behind his ear. “So somehow, something that you did not create existed within your realm, interacted with you directly, with the ability and intention to cause tremendous trauma.” As he speaks, Logan scrawls messily on the page.

“Uh, yes. I-I guess you could phrase it that way.”

“And this has never happened before?”

Roman peers closer at the page, taking a step towards the Logical Side. Logan’s handwriting is too messy and the Prince is too tired to decipher it upside down. “That would be correct.”

“Then what is the variable here?” Logan mutters, mostly to himself. “Thomas is in perfect health, so that isn’t it…” His gaze flies back up to Roman. “Would you say that there was anything unusual about this particular quest? Anything out of the ordinary?”

The Creative Side scratches the back of his head, confused about Logan’s sudden change of demeanor. “Nothing comes to mind. Well, aside from Virgil’s accompaniment, of course.”

Logan stares at him for a moment. “Of course,” he says softly. Something alights in his eyes. “Of course! How did I not see it before?” He spins around suddenly and starts shifting books his desk around before grabbing a notebook—different than the one he had in his hands—and thumbing through the notes.

“Um, Logan?”

“The self-perpetuation hypothesis. The relationship of reciprocity is vastly more complicated that I’d first thought.”

“In English?”

The corner of Logan’s mouth quirks up in a small self-assured smile. His bright eyes rise and lock onto Roman. “Virgil was the variable.”

…

Virgil pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. The light leaking out from under Logan’s door meant the Logical Side was probably already awake, right? Virgil’s heart is still thudding in his chest with the nightmare-induced adrenaline that he can’t seem to shake out of his system. The Anxious Side pulls the sleeves of his hoodie over his palms. He knocks softly, then hears voices on the other side.

“—ination of the conflicting processes, combined with the creation-driven tendencies of your realm, resulted in the corporeal form.” Logan.

“Wait.” Roman. Virgil is almost certain. “So Virgil was influencing the mindscape? That’s why that… thing showed up?”

“Perhaps an oversimplification, but yes, precisely.” Logan’s voice, getting louder as he—presumably—crosses the room towards the door.

Virgil’s stomach hits the floor.

He’d known it was his fault, of course, but there is still something faintly sickening at hearing the very person he’d failed to protect and the literal Voice of Reason confirm his guilt. He had been influencing the mindscape. Roman’s realm.

Roman hadn’t created that thing. Virgil had.

That corporeal shadow that had sunk it’s talons into Roman’s chest and ripped through his skin had been because of him.

The memory of Roman’s scream floods his mind. You did that to him.

Virgil can’t breathe.

The door opens, but Virgil’s mind is swimming—drowning, really—in the repeated mantra he can’t shake. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

“Virgil?”

“Shit. Virge, it’s okay—“

It’s not it’s not it’s not

He bolts.

…

Roman shoulders his way past the Logical Side as Virgil runs down the hallway back towards his room. “Virgil!” But the Anxious Side is gone already. Roman rakes a hand through his hair and blows out a breath. He spins around to face Logan, his eyes wide.

Logan’s eyes are unusually solemn. He nods in the direction that Virgil had gone.

Roman wastes no time, rushing down the hall after the Anxious Side. His strides are long and hurried, and he nearly crashes into Patton as the Moral Side steps out of his own room in his cat onesie.

“Whoa there, kiddo,” Patton says, grabbing the Prince’s shoulders to steady him as he stumbles to a halt. “Where are you off to in such a rush at this hour?”

Roman’s gaze is focused over Patton’s head. “Virgil,” he says, shrugging out of his grip.

“Wait. Roman, slow down,” Patton says, frowning, “What’s wrong with Virge?”

Roman barely hears the question. Logan speaks up for him. “I believe Virgil overheard Roman and I discussing the events of the past few days and now feels responsible for what transpired.”

“I have to—,” Roman tries, but Patton interrupts him.

“What did you say?”

“I don’t know how much he heard,” Logan replies, his voice subdued in the dark. “But given his reaction, I’m almost certain he did not hear all of it. I was merely explaining to Roman that the energy produced by his realm entered in a relationship of reciprocity that worsened exponentially until conflating into something corporeal due to the particular tendencies of Roman’s—”

“Another time, Logan,” Roman snaps before he can think. Virgil’s huge eyes and faintly nauseous look is all he can think about.

Patton sighs. “I’ll talk to him.”

“No,” Roman says suddenly, tearing his gaze away from down the hall to settle squarely on the paternal Side. “I… Thank you, Patton, but I think this is something I have to do.”

…

Virgil’s breaths are coming short and quick. He yanks the hood up over his head and tugs on the drawstrings as he paces in his room. Your fault, your fault, your fault. Virgil feels like screaming. If only he could find his voice.

He hears the quiet whoosh behind him and his heart constricts in alarm. He clenches his jaw. He doesn’t need to turn around to tell who it is. “Roman, what are you doing?” he demands. “It’s not safe for you in here.”

“I just—“

“Get out,” he grits behind clenched teeth.  

“Virgil, just talk to me—“

Virgil scoffs and shakes his head. “Damn it, Roman—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Virge.”

Virgil whirls on him. “Didn’t do anything wrong? Didn’t do anything wrong?! I’m supposed to protect you! That’s my job, Roman! And I-I-I…” Virgil’s voice shakes. His chest heaves. “Not only did I fail, but I put you in danger. I nearly killed you! That’s on me.”

“No, hey.” Roman grabs his hand and presses it firmly in the center of his chest. Virgil tries to pull it away like it burns him but Roman holds it steady. Virgil can feel his heartbeat thudding hard and fast against his palm. “You feel that? That’s because of you. Because you saved me.”

“Roman—“

“Listen to me, Virgil,” Roman implores. The desperate earnestness in his voice makes Virgil look up. His protests die on his tongue at the tears pressing against the Prince’s eyes. “I shouldn’t have brought you into my realm in the first place, and I absolutely should have listened to you when you wanted to turn back. You were right, Virgil. And you were doing everything you could to protect me. And I am so sorry that I couldn’t see that.”

Virgil shakes his head, opening his mouth only to find no words forming.

Roman squeezes Virgil’s hand to his chest a little harder. “I… that monster was the manifestation of your anxiety at its worst. Every nightmare and fear you’d ever had, staring you in the face. And when you were confronted with fight or flight, you chose the first one. At great risk to yourself. For me. You found the strength to overcome it, to fight back, to… I…” His voice catches. He shakes his head, blinking a few times as a tear or two spill over. “You are so brave, Virgil.”

Virgil’s hand fists in Roman’s shirt against his chest. “But… I… it wouldn’t have even been necessary if I hadn’t—“

“This,” Roman cuts in, squeezing his hand against his heartbeat, “is the only thing you should feel responsible for.”

Virgil can feel a sob fighting up his throat as his vision blurs, and he does his best to swallow it down. He squeezes his eyes shut, sending a few of the pooling tears down his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, Virge. Pulling you into my realm… it caused you tremendous distress. Bad enough to actually take a physical form due to the creation tendencies of my realm. That’s…” The Prince’s voice catches slightly. “I can’t ever forgive myself for putting you through that.”

Virgil shakes his head quickly. He looks up into the other Side’s soft, pained gaze. “No, I… Roman, you didn’t know. Nobody did. And you told me I could turn back whenever I wanted to. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“You said it yourself, Virge,” Roman says. “You’re the protector. So long as I was going to press on, so were you. I should have known that. I should have listened to you, in the very least.”

Virgil wipes at his eyes, ignoring the way the makeup smeared across his fingers. “Why didn’t you?” he asks quietly.

Roman averts his gaze, then closes his eyes. “I…” He sighs, then shrugs helplessly. “I just… I didn’t want you to think I was a coward.”

Virgil feels something deflate inside his chest. “Did you think I was a coward for wanting to turn back?”

“Of course not!” Roman argues vehemently, his eyes flying back to Virgil’s. “That’s not what I meant. I just…”

“Then what?”

“I wanted to feel like you were proud of me!”

From the way the Prince’s eyes widen, he hadn’t meant to say it. His eyes flicker over Virgil’s face, and the Anxious Side isn’t sure what his expression is. He doesn’t know what Roman finds in his face, but the Creative Side squeezes his eyes shut a moment later. Virgil watches a few tears spill down his cheeks.

“For once,” the Prince whispers, “I just… wanted to make someone proud.”

“Roman…” Virgil says, his heart constricting at the look on Roman’s face even as confusion knits his eyebrows together, “I’ve always been proud of you.”

“I… what?” Roman’s eyes open suddenly, locking squarely onto the Anxious Side.

“I’ve always been proud of you,” Virgil repeats with conviction. “I mean, geez, Roman, you’re Thomas’s hopes and dreams. His creativity. Without you, I…. I don’t know where we’d be.”

Roman is shaking his head. Virgil presses on. “All of the obstacles we’ve overcome… you’re a big part of that. I may point out what the obstacles are, but you’re what pushes Thomas to work to overcome them regardless. You give so much of yourself every time Thomas makes new content. You thrust yourself into the spotlight again and again. I couldn’t do that, ever. Of course I’m proud of you, Sir Sing-a-Lot. We all are.”

Roman laughs, but it sounds a lot more like a sob. “I’m sorry.”

Virgil shakes his head. His voice catches in his throat. He coughs and tries again. “So am I.”

The faintest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Roman’s mouth. “We’re both a bit of a mess, huh?”

Virgil barks out a laugh, even as he feels Roman brush a tear with the pad of his thumb. “Yeah, we kind of are.”

“I just…” Roman brushes at his own eyes. “I just wish I could fix it. I wish I knew how.”

He looks up at the Prince in front of him, stripped of his normal attire, looking abruptly vulnerable and exposed in just red pajama pants and a white t-shirt. His eyes are dark, the beginnings of eyeshadow only emphasizing the fact. He’s exhausted, and scared, and it makes Virgil equally aware of his own mutual feelings of tiredness and fear.

Virgil focuses for just a moment on the thudding rhythm against his hands.

“Y’know,” he says slowly, “a Prince once said the only direction to go is forward, one step at a time.”

Roman’s chest expands under Virgil’s hand with a deep, steadying breath. The Anxious Side breathes with him.

“I think,” Virgil continues softly, “that’s a good place to start.”

[plumoh]

[NatsuYuu] flickering blue

Word count: 1731

Summary: Reiko could have told Souko her name a long time ago, but losing on her own terms only seems right.

Note: AO3 link. why is reiko like that

One-shot: flickering blue

This is bad.

This is really bad.

Reiko should have stopped coming here after the first day. There is nothing pulling her towards this part of the forest and she has no obligation to look out for every fool wandering into places they shouldn't.

And yet. And yet. Days passed and keep passing, each of them with one hour of pure freedom and relaxation—a feeling she hasn't experienced for a long time, if ever. She racks her brains searching for a memory springing up similar emotions, and all she does is chuckle at how empty-handed she comes back. Maybe that's why she stayed; maybe that's why she feels drawn to this girl who doesn't know anything about her.

Souko is bad at everything she challenges her to. If she wasn't so obvious about her feelings and her thoughts, Reiko would have wondered if she was a youkai trying to deceive her simply to humiliate her—but Souko is real, earnest and innocent, just putting all her heart into a task that shouldn't require that much effort. Reiko is being stubborn, and can stop this masquerade whenever she wants, if she utters a single word.

But she finds herself unable to, her throat closing up as soon as she attempts to curl her lips around her own name. She isn't doing it out of malice, she doesn't think so; there is just something incredibly soothing and pleasant in being around Souko, calming her nerves and reducing the mild headache she gets because of too many loud youkais sneering at her. Pretending to be someone she isn't is almost unnecessary, and Reiko likes it that way.

“Why are you so hell-bent on knowing my name?” she blurts out one day, without thinking.

Reiko is watching some youkai bird flying from one tree to another, and Souko probably thinks she's just following the clouds' movement in the sky. For a few seconds both of them are silent, and Reiko is about to sigh and say to forget it when Souko speaks.

“Isn't it sad to know someone, to know their face, but you can't call out to them?”

The spell is broken. Reiko sits up so suddenly that Souko startles, staring at her with confusion, questions and wonders visible in her eyes—and maybe there is a bit of hope dancing behind them, like this sentence sparked more than just shock. Reiko's face doesn't let anything seep through, although her heart is beating fast and her mind is collecting shards of bemusement.

“So you want to be able to casually shout my name to get my attention?” she says, a slight smirk on her lips.

Souko's cheeks take a faint shade of pink, and while her smile is shy and unsure, she is sincere. “A name has different meanings, and associating a face with one is nice. F-For example, people think blue suits me because of my name.”

Reiko doesn't tell her how right these people are, and simply laughs, lying down once more, content, as Souko offers her her bag to sleep on.

***

Physical intimacy is a concept Reiko is not familiar with, unless it involves the contact of her fist to someone's jaw. That's why she feels perplexed by her strong desire to touch Souko's hair, or to grab her hand for no apparent reason (she remembers grabbing her wrist to lead her away, and her fingers burn from the memory). Souko looks so delicate that she fears she might break her if she puts too much strength in her grip, and that's the only thing that restrains her from acting like an idiot.

Not that Souko really is weak. She doesn't back down from anything, and it's only a shame that her body can't keep up with her mind.

She will tell her today. There is no point in dragging these challenges for so long, if it costs Souko her health. Perhaps it's the most entertaining time of her day, but Reiko isn't one to ignore what is before her eyes, and letting Souko get sick is out of the question.

She finds her waiting at her usual spot, deep in thought. The youkais are babbling nonsense, though Reiko has become immune to their stupidity and has tuned them out a long time ago.

“Is thinking all you ever do?”

Souko lifts her head and immediately a smile replaces her forlorn expression. Reiko frowns.

“You look upset.”

“Ah, it's nothing serious,” Souko softly replies. “I'm just being silly.”

Reiko plops down next to her, her hands landing in the grass and gripping a few strands. She notices Souko's hands folding in her lap, like she didn't know where to put them.

“Well, everyone is a bit stupid,” Reiko retorts. “Some people more than others.”

“That's not very kind of you to say that,” Souko chides, but there is no heat in her words.

“Not my fault it's true.”

Souko glances at her, a bit apprehensive, a bit nervous, and Reiko can't find a reason behind her behavior, unless yesterday's conversation affected her more than she thought. What, did she really think there was a problem with her wanting to know her name?

“So, what's the challenge today?” Reiko asks, waving a hand in Souko's general direction. “Are you well enough for something physical?”

Reiko pauses, and reconsiders her words. A smile stretches her lips.

“Actually, I'm going to decide for today's challenge. If I can tell what you're thinking, I win, if I guess wrong I'll tell you my name.”

Souko looks utterly lost at the strange request, though Reiko can't blame her—they've never done this kind of challenge before, and were it in any other context she would have called it ridiculous. Somewhere in her mind, a voice is telling her it is ridiculous, serving as a pretense when she can simply give what Souko wants without shielding herself behind a loss. Maybe she needs it to feel strong enough—to entrust her name to someone that will cherish it.

“Alright,” Souko finally accepts, her wariness still present in her features.

Reiko turns her head to look at Souko. Her gaze briefly lingers on her pink cheeks and bright eyes, staring at her with wonder, and Souko's look is similar, and Reiko tries to not let the warmth spreading in her body reflect on her face. For someone who was an open-book for days, Souko abruptly seems distant, hiding her emotions, but that crease between her brows is still the same.

“You're worried you'll never win against me, and will never know my name,” Reiko states calmly.

Maybe it's a bit egoistical to presume Souko is thinking about her, but Reiko has met enough people to know a conversation with her never leads to something peaceful or good for either party. And after declaring this challenge, she couldn't escape anymore.

Souko is quiet, for a moment, then she opens her mouth, closes it, multiple times, before settling for laughing. And she laughs, laughs, the sound of her voice sending a new wave of awe in Reiko's entire core.

“It could have been that, but you guessed wrong,” Souko chuckles. “You lost.”

Reiko stares, surprise covering a thin layer of relief. Her face breaks into a grin.

“I got ahead of myself, I guess. Fine, you win.”

“Oh, and... uhm... Before you tell me your name, I want to tell you what I was thinking about.”

Reiko raises an eyebrow. Souko is fidgeting again, folding and unfolding her hands in her lap, but then she takes a deep breath and looks right at Reiko.

“You're going to find me weird, you probably won't talk to me again...”

Reiko firmly believes that this was her line.

“...But it's only fair that you know why you lost.” She licks her lips, lowering her gaze. “I... I was thinking about kissing you.”

Time slows. Something twists inside her, curls around her heart and pushes, gently, urgently, and Reiko decides that everything is one magnificently devised mess.

She gets up, standing right in front of Souko, who refuses to meet her eyes.

“Hey, Souko.”

It's the second time she calls her by her name and—it lights up hope in Souko's face, as she instinctively answers to the call and lifts her head. She looks ready to bolt out of here. Reiko faintly smiles as she bends down, not hesitating one bit, or faltering, even when her lips meet Souko's in a soft press that's hardly anything more than a touch. A breeze, sweet and kind, that neither of them knows what to make of. When Reiko pulls away, she's wearing an expression that not many people has seen, probably. She doesn't know what she looks like either, anyway.

“I'm Natsume Reiko.”

She sees the recognition dawning on Souko, sees the way her eyes widen, both from the kiss and the name. Usually, Reiko would have left, after doing such a foolish thing; she would have turned her back on anything that might happen. However, she's still waiting, tricking her fear with the sight of Souko slowly smiling at her, a little dazed, a little incredulous.

“Reiko,” she whispers. “It suits you.”

Reiko's voice takes on a wistful tone. “You're not afraid?”

“I know you won't hurt me. I know you're not like that.”

Whatever 'that' meant—violent, untrustworthy, unreliable, or a liar.

“You won't want to stay with me, after you see my ugly side.”

“Right now, I want to stay. I want to know you better and to understand why you always seem so lonely.” Souko presses her lips together. “I want to make you smile for real.”

And suddenly, Souko springs forward, wrapping Reiko in a tight hug. She's clinging to her back.

“I can reach out to you, now.”

Perhaps it's a whim. Perhaps it's the honest words. Perhaps Reiko has always wanted someone to say these heartfelt words to her, only for her, so she hugs back, bringing her arms around Souko's shoulders and squeezing. A soft chuckle escapes Souko's throat.

“Don't cry, Reiko.”

And it's Reiko's turn to laugh.

“I'm not crying, you idiot.”

Relationships are fickle. She knows that; the ones built upon lies even more so.

But she wants that, just once in her life, to feel accepted and wanted for who she is. She will think about the consequences later, after the tears dry.

[donatnetherlystudios]

                     The Downsizing

                   Chapter 1 – Fallout

  The dust and ash had settled, so we collectively thought after the third world war     hope was restoring itself. Families and friends of families ushered out to an atmosphere enshrined in sandy driven air, almost like mist with dirt. Craters lay everywhere from each major explosive that had set off and the radiation was finally dissipating. Mountains and deserts for miles were the only environments that could be seen,

not from war, but for this particular area of the country in general. As for our hope

and faith we relied upon, we couldn’t have been more wrong at the time.

    Previous allies who had long supported Americans such as Russia, China and others had turned against us at turning point in the war. The remaining ones took neutral stances. Anxiousness and fear were overloading them to oppose what had become new superpowers. Our allies in UK, Canada, Australia and Israel were still with us to the end. Sadly, they would suffer the same consequences we did. The only thing that saved us from total destruction was nuclear chaos in every country, no one knew where they came from. Every country was alone now dealing with their own woes. Betrayals came from every spectrum, but none as sinister as that of our own. Our own military had dissolved due to casualties from war and the government in place collapsed. When the opportunity arose the remaining officials and military who had planned for takeover assembled. They rose up and formed a dictatorship led government, with the army itself forming into more of a widespread militia. Our country had become what some of us had felt about other nations before it started, third world. Common folk were treated like peasants in medieval times. Labor camps were installed left and right, barricaded, highly fenced, heavily gated and with plenty of militia to keep everything exactly how the government wanted it.

    Militia was dressed in all black with red symbols of a picture of our great country in the center and an X over it to show their anti-American sentiment. Politicians who were actually against the new order had either fled the country or taken up with the new ones to become just as corrupt. Our encampments were called settlements, with tents seen for miles in the distance. “Move along.” says one soldier as they scramble us forward like cattle. Militia quarters mirrored actual building structures made of stone and steel. Laughing, drinking, and all types of rustling sounds could be heard from structures. Frankly, it made me sick. The tents were more quieting since the majority always felt defeated, ashamed or just weary of how things unfolded and how much worse they could actually get.

    My name is Eve, which suits me because I had always wanted the forbidden fruit, so to speak. I was in fact named after Eve from the bible as my mother was of the Christian faith. My father had always been more of a realist though and was an agnostic who believed if there was a God, things wouldn’t have gone down the way they did, with so much suffering. In the long period before the order had come together properly, there was a time of dead silence everywhere. We were alone from other people, but we didn’t care, since we were together as a family.

    A gun goes off in the middle of my daydream and rattles me with me almost jumping in the air. “Shit” – I turn around to catch a glimpse of who was eliminated and realize it was the old man who mentored my father, who had just turned 70. I walked forward while the line and militia were moving the opposite direction to investigate further. “You’re going to get caught” came from a familiar voice. It was Emmy, my best friend in the settlement, possibly my only friend. Heeding her advice, I turn around, met with being struck in the face with the back of a militia hand. “Next time you’ll get the gauntlet” he muttered as he pushed me back in line. The gauntlet was a solo event the militia devised for their evil amusement and found one poor soul being forced to wander across a field while soldiers from all sides took places shooting them. It wouldn’t be merciful and fast because the person in question would be shot in areas less severe and gradually getting worse until they reached close to the end. Most were dead from bleeding out before they got there. Thinking further back I started to remember my father teaching me survival skills from a tender age that involved archery, throwing knives, scavenging and surviving in the wilderness. Guns weren’t permitted for civilians even then, so they were out of the question. He always told me the ammo would run out anyways. A loud noise of a piercing sound mixed with a siren commenced to go off and snapped me out of my daze. I recognized it as the escape siren, this time a group of five attempting blitzing some soldiers and forcing through the gates, only to be put down a few seconds later from gun fire. Any people attempting escape were killed and disposed of in the desert. We all knew when deaths occurred, despite our captors giving us light explanations of the missing. It had become like concentration camps from the second world war, only in the year 2032. All ammunition had begun running extremely low and other resources declined not far behind it.

    Men who were able bodied were put to heavy labor working the fields or in construction. Women were treated as if they worked in sweat shops and treated as objects or toys for the militia to play with. Elderly people and those with major disabilities were terminated quickly to preserve supplies. Pregnancies were forbidden, with any woman and her offspring wiped out shortly after it was known. We’d hear babies cries and painful screams from the women giving birth. Following that was dead silence, which seemed worse than the noise. As we knew what that meant.

“Time is 21:00, all civilians please return to your homes” blurted out over the PA, as people everywhere scrambled away like mice. My face was the shade of the bark on a tree from the mud and debris I had worked with all day. My hair was matted against my head and shoulders from sweat and the color copied the same shade. I was still only 20 years old and small but was lean and agile. My skin was tan from all of the sunlight and even though I was of Indian descent I had always been a lighter skin color than my family. The rebellious side of me was from the Irish in my blood, as well as me holding my liquor whenever we could sneak some from the passed-out soldiers on more idle days.

    Nothing to see in front of me, everything pitch dark. Soldiers had streetlights but they were as good as useless. They would sway back and forth and flicker nonstop against the midnight backdrop. A light came into view from the distance and I could finally tell it was my tent. A candle sat in the doorway with a bell, as I would post it there as my porch light and used a cowbell to pretend as a doorbell. Gradually I winded down for the night plugging my ears with a mix of cloth, leaves and other material worked into a ball with doughy material. As I lay there, I think back to the day my parents were killed. Both had come ill and the moment those bastards found out they were spoon fed a kind of quick acting poison. I was only 16 at the time. My father could sense he was fading from a source other than his illness and was able to tell me bye. My mother never got the chance, she plummeted a mere minute or so after the poisoning. I was handed over more lies of how it happened but had an inside source who told me the real events.

    That evening I lie motionless, with every inch of my body asleep. Clattering noises tap the ground back and forth, nudging me partially awake. Telling myself its due to the wind is what becomes of it. The corner of my eye catches a shadow lingering behind me and showing a silhouette on my tent. My candle makes it like a light show. Finally, I hear obvious footprints in the back, leaving me completely petrified. Unsure how but the shadow seems to fade as fast as it came, and I decide I’ll be alright. “Cling” – My cowbell drops off its foothold and to the ground. The sound shakes me enough to cause me to finally turn around toward the tent flap opening. It is now wide open, even though I safety pin it at lights out. I remain there speechless and dumbfounded, frozen in place. As I turn around a hand is already grabbing me by the arms and forcing me to my cot. Though it’s still dark, I recognize the force to be one of the soldiers clearly drunk. I screamed but it was done in vain, as no reinforcements would come to aid me. The heavy smell of tobacco and alcohol was enough to cause anyone to gag. He grabbed my miniscule wrists using only one hand. Meanwhile he hit me several times with the other to silence me, as by that time I had given up waiting on anyone else. Bloodied and beaten I was severely weakened, but I came from a family of survivors and fighters. His sweat and mine allowed my hands to slip from his grasp, but still on top of me. Using all the weight I could whip around and forward; I landed a few strikes with my fists to which he barely flinched. He smacks me again and my arms flop beside me. As he leans forward, I feel my arm thinking its way over to the side of me. Though dark I can feel the insignia on my Mother’s pen knife lying on the bedside table.

    As fast as he was there, my right arm flew forward and forced the pen knife into his chest. Feeling he would fall over any second and I’d be free were my only thoughts, not thinking about alternative possibilities. Slowly he pulled out the knife, glaring at me with his evil, bloodshot eyes and a smile that showed me just how little effect my short-lived attack had on him. He was simply too strong and overpowering. I was winded and my head lay to the side toward the tent entrance. I concentrate on the candle, attempting to black out what is ahead of me and try and imagine a different place. Although the entire event took only a few minutes, I was raped for what seemed like hours. A tear crawled down my cheek, as my innocence was ended. I’ve never been one to cry, but one could fill a river with the amount occurring at the time. The sheets were painted red from his blood and mine. They were also damp from sweat and tears. The air itself was suffocating because all of the malice around and the fact he smelt like a chimney. Since most of our settlements were in the deserts, he had dry chapped skin. As he rubbed up against me, that dryness could be felt to the left and made even lying beside him more unpleasant than it needed to be. Snoring and sleep grunting seeped from his vocals and I could sense he was passed out. After I had peeked around and confirmed it, I had my eyes set on the way out. I slowly backed away from my side of the bed and dropped to the side, before making my way around the front end and making a break for my front flap entrance.

    Although still shaken and frighten, I manage to stumble through our row of tents trying to seek out a safe place to finish out my night. “Thud” – Falling to the ground out of exhaustion I collapse. Sobbing proceeds to take over as I start to release the cries of anguish I had longed for earlier. The tent flap opens, and a girl approaches I recognize as Emmy, who assists me off the ground and inside, before penning the flap back up and walking me over to the bed to be able to sleep my pains off. She lie beside me stroking my hair and just whispering it’ll be alright. Sounds of my crying didn’t cease so she simply allowed me to finish it out, before I eventually drifted to sleep.

    Barely a month following the assault, I found I was indeed pregnant with my abuser’s child after being a few weeks late. Knowing the consequences for me and the child, I foolishly had thoughts of attempting escape to a border state away from New Mexico. Alas, the gates were heavily guarded and little way over the fence, so I returned to reality. Emmy comforted me with her only advice being something we came to call back alley abortions. It was a play on words, since we had no alleys and were out in the desert. They simply took place in a secluded area of camp where nothing had been constructed and were out of view of any lighting not provided. They were risky and dangerous, as the procedure wasn’t precise and couldn’t possibly be unsterile. A risk of being caught was a common fear at the same time, with patrols not sticking to their normal routes for certain all the time. Unlike some young mothers I actually yearned to keep my child, for they were from me and would be the last family I ever had. Arriving at the vacant tent, Emmy ushered in her light. The stand in doctor asked if I was ready and I reluctantly nodded. He approached me and I chose to swing my head to the side to black it out and bury it like other traumas. The physical pain was immense but didn’t compare to the emotional pain I would endure. Thoughts of vengeance consumed me with the thoughts of violence spiking as we approached the end of the event. Although the doctor and Emmy are mumbling in the background, I remain still and as dead as before. From those moments on I swore nothing like that would happen again and that it wouldn’t be the end, but the beginning of a revolution. My abuser would be my first target and just as he had snuck into my tent in the dead of night, I would use a stealth tactic to get to him. I figured it wouldn’t require much to amp the settlement up into an uprising, as things had been heated between the men and soldiers for the past year. I couldn’t save my family but was going to save my friends I had and other’s families from this abusive new nation by any means necessary. Only after they had been overturned would I find peace and a restful heart.

    I’ve always heard time heals all wounds, it wasn’t something I believed in. My mother’s gift of dispensing hope and faith caught ahold of me, meshed with my brain absorbing my father’s training in survival. If this new tyranny thought it was over and that the rest of us would remain their slaves, they were wrong.

[tinkiisms]

Tink & Simon || dealer verse

with @memoriies / @neverbcy

beginning: on the blog

continued on discord and compiled here, PART I

And then she was kissing back, pulling him in and he knew that he'd made the right choice. Some times he really need to listen to his instincts - his impulses.

So he allowed himself this luxury, the luxury of deluding himself into believing this was anything more than a fling between two people who pined for a love they would never get. It hurt to see Bell every time Peter rejected her, turning to his obsession with Wendy instead, but it hurt more to know deep down that he was doing exactly the same thing to himself, just with her.

Forcing himself to push those persistent thoughts down, Simon decided to just relish the moment. Never turn down the one thing that made it all bearable - the main reason he was still there. He could lie to everyone and say it was simply loyalty and fear that kept him in line, but he didn't have to share who he was loyal to. Who's life he feared for...

Hands sliding into her hair to hold her closer, pretending in that moment that she was all his and nothing was about Peter, he deepened the kiss - harsher, but the gentleness was still ever present. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.

So he would just hurt himself to make her happy.

If Bell understood the consequences of partaking of the forbidden fruit, she might not have been so hasty to touch, to get her lips on Simon. Then again, if she were a pious woman to begin with she wouldn't have done any of the things in her life that had brought her here, to this moment. And as anyone--god-fearing or god-forsaken alike--knew, the problem with forbidden fruit was that it tasted so...

Good God. He made Peter seem like a boy.

Comparisons kept her grounded. Allowed her to remember who she was and pull herself back when she threatened to get lost in the feeling. What was that? The feeling that she was the ONLY thing in Slightly's world right now. He wasn't halfway to somewhere else, with someone else. She didn't get exclusive rights to Peter's thoughts even when she gave him every part of her.

This was new. Being kissed like she was the only one. For today, damn, she was lucky he wasn't in love.

He felt as though he were in a dream - surely none of this would be happening in real life... Life wasn't fair to Simon, never had been, so why start now? Then he remembered how unfair his life still was, because life liked to dangle happiness in front of him before ripping it away.

He'd been holding her close, letting Bell pick the pace, the intensity, not wanting to overstep. Losing himself in a false world where everything was kind to them both, and allowed the pair a happy ending.

Then a phone started to ring.

Her phone.

One glance at the screen told him who was calling.

Peter.

Of course there was an interruption now, when things were finally getting interesting around here. Right when she was in the middle of something good, a catch just had to pull her away. Bell only hoped Simon wouldn't take such an interruption as a sign that they shouldn't be doing...whatever this strange, wonderful thing was that they were doing.

Breaking away from their embrace was like coming up for air--resisting the temptation to dive back in almost impossible. She managed it with a flash of annoyance at their fun being disrupted, but that melted away like snow in spring as she checked the phone and saw who was calling.

Sitting up and adjusting herself mentally for a moment, she cleared her throat and picked up the call with a chirpy, “Hello.”

Simon moved further down the sofa from her as she answered, the fantasy world fading away into the bleak reality that he was in. He should have known this would happen - he never got to have too much happiness.

Something would always come along and snatch it up, telling him he'd had his time.

__

“Where are you?” He didn't bother greeting her, his goal was not to chat.

Peter glared around his room, eyes red and damp, body shaking with a mixture of anger, sadness, and craving.

She'd done it again. Floated into his life, told him this time it would be permanent, if he cleaned up. He'd been sober for a week before Wendy claimed he was too negative and upsetting to be around any more.

It should have been expected, they had a pattern now. She came, he tried to quit his 'nasty habits', she left, he went to Bell, repeat.

That tone was too easily recognizable. Bell was sure she couldn't keep her face from falling as she realized what state Peter was likely in, and exactly who had caused it. Wendy had reentered his life recently, pushing her to the sidelines; next step was pre-written. They'd been through the cycle plenty enough times before, and yet she had been swept up in it every time.

She still was. With her happiness so attached to, dependent on his, Peter's heartbreak was her own. And perhaps for selfish reasons, too, because she knew these times were the ones where he seemed to need her the most. It wasn't the same as wanting, appreciating, loving, but being needed was at least something.

Signaling to her guest with an apologetic expression and a motion that suggested she needed to handle this, she put their situation on the back-burner for Peter's without second thought. “I'm home. What do you need?”

Relief swam through his body and he stood from his bed, grabbing a jacket as he made his way to the front door.

"I'm coming over."

No questions, no asking if he could come over - it would be pointless to ask even if he had thought to, the answer was always yes. Peter simply grabbed his keys, tugged on some shoes, and was out of the door headed to Bell's home.

__

That signal was all he needed, to know it was that time of the month. Wendy had finally given up on Peter again, and he was building himself back up by using Bell as a way to feel better. It had taken longer than in the past, usually lasting only a few days before she left...

Simon knew that Wendy wasn't exactly good news, but he couldn't help but love when she was around. Perhaps it was because she made Peter slightly more bearable in those periods of time, or perhaps it was because it gave him the freedom to see Bell if he wanted.

Rising from the sofa, Simon didn't even glance back in Bell's direction before walking out.

Not two minutes after leaving was he suddenly slammed into a wall by a violent (and clearly experiencing withdrawals) Peter. He immediately regretted not leaving the instant he saw the caller ID.

__

Peter didn't live far from Bell, and when he was like this he really stopped giving a shit about road laws, speeding through the streets on his motorcycle. He'd not left the apartment long after telling her he'd be over, and it had taken him even less time than usual to make it there.

Which is how he saw Simon leaving the building. No one Simon knew, other than Bell, lived in that building.

Rage rolled over him, and he tackled the other man into the nearby wall. Not waiting for a response, he grabbed Simon by his collar and dragged him back inside, angrily knocking on the door. “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”

His blunt answer sent her heart into a dizzying spiral. He could be over in a matter of minutes if he was leaving from where he lived--the click of the call ending told her she didn't have time to explain to him that she wasn't alone or tell Simon to get lost. Luckily her fox boy was clever enough to clue in before she could say anything and had already walked, leaving her to head to the window and watch his exit. Was that twinge of regret she felt because she would have been happy to continue their tryst a little longer, or because she may have put him in a dangerous spot?

If Peter were to catch Bell with any of the guys--the closest things after her that he had to “friends”--the chaos that would follow was...was unfolding before her eyes. Flinching at the sight of the collisions, Peter into Simon, Simon into the wall, imagining the felt them in her own gut, she tore her gaze away. No, oh no no no. What could she do? Would her presence ease Peter's fury or agitate it further?

She didn't need to answer that. Bell found herself at the door moments later without knowing how she got there, ready to rush down and intervene, but something overwhelming and oppressive as a dark cloud stopped her from turning the knob. Visceral fear. She must have stood there long enough for them to enter the building and march upstairs, which she hardly realized until the banging and shouts of Peter's demand shocked her back into action.

Shaking, she turned the knob and let the door swing open. Took two steps back to allow Peter and his anger to fit through.

“What is this?” she asked, using her flushed face to her advantage as she improvised an ignorant reaction. For all she knew, one of her dealers had just left her apartment from a quick chat about business only to be accosted by Peter on the way out.

Simon was practically thrown into the apartment, stumbling into an end table, almost knocking objects off of it. His heart was racing, life flashing before his eyes. It was a shit one...

Full of fear, addiction, lies and pain. He only wished Bell wasn't also going to have to deal with this.

His one regret was not being fast enough to save Bell from Peter.

__

After unceremoniously throwing the taller man into the apartment, Peter slammed the door shut behind himself. He was like a thunder storm, ready to strike at these traitors with lightning.

“Don't try to bullshit your way out of this, Bell! What was he doing here?!”

An accusatory finger was pointed at Simon, who was trying desperately to make himself seem small and invisible whilst glancing at the woman between them. Those glances only served to make Peter angrier. He recognised that look - he'd seen it in himself, and he'd seen it in Bell. The fear of losing someone you wanted.

A small, unexpected noise escaped her throat as she saw Simon shoved into a table...She had messed up and Peter was taking it out on him. Punishing him for nothing but the transgressions SHE had pushed him into, because SHE had strayed. But despite the violence in his voice, Peter hadn't laid a finger on her yet; if he was lashing out at the other man because he couldn't hurt her...Well, it didn't make it okay, but maybe it was because he cared about her. Actually cared, enough to get jealous.

Hating herself for even wanting this sort of vicious, possessive attention, she felt the speed of her heartbeat increase to a hummingbird pace. Nevertheless, she didn't want to see anyone hurt, so she approached Peter with what she hoped was a calming demeanor as she tried to soothe his concerns. Bullshit excuses or not, her love was genuine. Couldn't that alone give him some peace of mind?

“He was here to talk pixie dust; that's all. I told him to go when you called because I thought you wanted to...have a private conversation.” They all knew what that meant. It was a believable enough reason for the situation he'd caught them in--all he'd seen was Simon leaving. Peter must have known that if Bell ever expected anything from him, she wouldn't hesitate to kick her own grandmother out.

The fire in his eyes was suddenly directed straight at Bell, no longer concerned with Simon. She was lying to his face, and being so fucking calm about it.

“How stupid do you think I am?” The volume had lowered considerably, to the point where Peter would have seemed calm if not for the fierce tone and the burning anger in his face.

“Do you honestly think I've not seen the way he looks at you? But I left it alone, because I believed that you were smart enough to not want anything to do with him. That he was smart enough to not even try.”

Peter then glanced back over at Simon, who was breathing heavily, eyes clenched shut. Regret painted across his face, it only proved Peter right. And then he was moving, towards Bell. She would either step back, until he trapped her, or stand her ground and get forcibly moved into the nearest wall. That was her choice.

His voice dropped to an almost whisper, dripping with a poison that threatened to burn her from the inside.

“I guess you're both talented at lying. I'd say you deserved each other if it wasn't for one thing.” A hand suddenly reached out and grabbed Bell's upper arm in a vice like grip - adrenaline overpowering the weakness that came from withdrawal.

“You both forget that I don't share my toys.”

“I don't know what you mean--” she began, looking for the right combination of words that would stop his anger, stop him in his tracks as he backed her against the wall. True ones or false, warm ones or bitter. Were there any words of any language to placate that hell-born passion? She could fight to be believed, but when Peter got something into his head, he was stubborn as a bull. Even if she had been telling the truth, he probably wouldn't have believed her anyway.

She had been lying, though. It was her fault they were in this mess. She couldn't meet his eyes even as he grabbed her in a bruising hold and whispered words that sounded like threats. Her own fell on Simon and she could have laughed at the irony if she weren't so distressed. Not half an hour ago he'd also been pressing her to the wall, yet with none of the force and ferocity of Peter's grasp. She'd been the one making teasing remarks about Peter's property. It was like he was now unwittingly giving her what she'd asked for.

But she wouldn't admit to betraying Peter if it killed her.

“You're the only one I want,” she said, looking back at him. Her voice rose in intensity as she continued, “You know you are. I've always been here for you!”

You're the only one I want. Those words sliced through Simon like a knife, unable to hide the slight flinch that came with the pain. He was just a placeholder - a way for Bell to entertain herself until the main attraction decided she was worth his time again.

And yet some small part of him still wanted to protect her.

“I was just giving her the money I owed her, that's all. She's already made it clear that you're the only guy she'll ever be interested in.”

He was staring intensely at Peter, refusing to give Bell the satisfaction of seeing him acknowledge anything they'd had before this moment. Only bitterness.

___

Simon's voice had his head whipping around to glare at him, taking in everything he said. That bitterness... He wasn't a good actor, and it amused Peter to know that Simon was so hurt by Bell's disinterest. There was no way that could be faked.

But he didn't quite believe the reason for Simon's visit. Letting go of her, as if she was a burning piece of metal, Peter marched over to Simon and punched him - the man reeling back with a hand flying to his now bleeding nose. Then there were more punches, and it pleased him greatly to know that even when experiencing withdrawals, he still had the upper hand.

Simon was on the ground, shaking and bleeding as Peter crouched down, forcing the injured man to look up at him.

“If I ever see you on the same fucking street as Bell or her apartment, I'll have your heart removed and I will give it to her as a gift, just to watch her reject it again.” He was grinning, the anger still in his eyes was now mingling with a sick amusement.

“Now get out.”

__

Almost immediately, Simon was scrambling to his feet and wrenching the front door open, the slam of it closing followed him down the stairs as he tried to stop the bleeding, any of the bleeding. He was done. Moving, gone. A ghost.

He'd sell the last of his supply, keep the money for himself (how could he pay his supplier anyway? It was Bell), sell his crappy apartment and find somewhere new to live. Audition for the band and hope more than anything that they'd take him.

Relieved of his painful grasp on her arm, she was actually thinking for the tiniest sliver of a second that her words had reached some small sensitive part of Peter deep down, that he'd leave off them knowing he had no reason to think Simon was a threat. How silly of her. Her delusion of peace--why should she ever have expected it--was shattered instantaneously, as was possibly Simon's nose.

“PETER!” Her shriek was so high and breathless it wouldn't have done any good even if Peter was inclined to listen to her protests. The rest of her screams to stop, don't take it out on him, he did nothing, stop, went similarly unanswered. She attempted to hold his arm, only to be thrown back with his next swing. Giving up quickly on fruitless efforts--it never helped--she defaulted to the other option: she scooted away and shut her mouth. That was all she could do in the face of the bloody mess being made of her dear friend right in front of her eyes. Too small, too weak, too useless to stop it.

And then he was gone, gone for good and she was to blame. He didn't have the kind of money for hospital bills, and who was there at home to treat an injury if it was serious? If she had just kept her big mouth shut to begin with, hadn't let her arrogance get the better of her in thinking she could slip something past Peter and drawn Simon into all of this...Did she dare to hope it was over with him now out of sight?

Her voice was hardly audible in the wake of the storm that had just come through as she said, questioningly, “Peter?”

The aftermath had him drained of all the energy his adrenaline had provided. Peter tentatively rubbed his split knuckles, shaking and sweating once more with need. Turning to face her, his chest rapidly rising and falling, Peter looked so vulnerable, as if he could break at any moment.

“Pixie dust...” He managed to mutter, before making his way into the living room, to collapse on the sofa as nausea rolled through him like an ocean wave. She would have some, she always did, and he could rely on that. He needed it, he felt like he was staring at death and unable to move away.

The anger eventually subsided into a sadness that clung to his heart, like brambles that stuck to clothes as you desperately tried to get out, tugging painfully. It was only due to his heightened emotional state, and lack of drugs in his system, that Peter started to cry.

His lack of an answer, the visible weakness in his physical and mental state were enough proof that his outburst was over. In the ebb she melted, and immediately metamorphosed from plaything to caretaker. No one else would pick up the pieces. Deciding to clean up the mess in her apartment later, check up on Simon after Peter had been handled, she moved to bring him a fresh packet of dust and a glass of water.

Kneeling beside his spot on the couch, she almost offered over the drugs, but paused. Times when Peter needed something from her were the only ones when he didn't speak over her. Whether he was addled with withdrawal or not, she had a duty to herself to at least try to make him understand what effect his actions had on those around him. Let alone the physical injury to one of her best friends and dealers, but the emotional distress he put on anyone and everyone who associated with him.

“Peter, you can't DO shit like this anymore. I know it's because of that...bitch, Wendy...but you can't just take it out on everyone else!” His tears were enough to push hers over the edge as well, and they trailed down her face undisturbed as she reached out to wipe Peter's away with a finger.

He seemed unresponsive to her words, just continuously shaking with tears rolling down his cheeks. Sure, there'd be a brief time when he'd listen - when his sadness over Wendy leaving turned to a bitter want of revenge, and he would self destruct instead. Attack the very thing that she'd tried to make 'perfect'.

That also wouldn't last long, because Bell would try to stop him and then it would affect how much money they were making.

The second her finger touched his face, his hand snapped up to hold her wrist. It took a couple of seconds before he then tugged her closer and buried his head in her shoulder, arms tightly wrapped around her as he cried into her. Muffled ‘sorry’s and ‘I'm sorry’s were spoken into her shoulder through the tears.

He was well and truly vulnerable in this kind of state. It was almost sad that it took so much to make him even remotely decent, even if it was just for a few moments...

No answer but his delayed embrace and the quiet apologies that poured out with his tears. No way to know if he understood her or was just so broken that he would say anything to earn a fraction of forgiveness in the aftermath of his outburst. But he had never had to beg for scraps with her. She was a goner by the time he pulled her in close and tied her up in his shaking arms.

Bell crawled the rest of her body onto the couch alongside him so she could make a better cushion for him to wrap around--cry into. She tried to soak up his sadness, but it didn't matter how much she took from him; it was an endless spring from within Peter. Nothing would EVER be enough to quell it. No amount of surrogate motherly affection from half-present girlfriends, mind-numbing hallucinogens or support from a silly girl who thought she could mean something to him. She would never be enough.

It was a masochistic game to be a player in. Give her heart away to a reckless boy who dropped it each time. Pick up the pieces and hand them right back. Watch him tear himself apart every day in the name of self-medication. Pick up the pieces. Watch him break his own heart every other week. Pick up the pieces. Watch as he brutalized one of the only people in her life who might genuinely like her. Pick up the pieces. Over and over.

The new position only had him holding her tighter, whispers subsided back into quiet sobs that echoed slightly through the room. He hated to cry, especially in front of anyone​, but his heart hurt too much for him to give a damn any more.

Eventually, after about half an hour, Peter's head rose from her shoulder, tear stained and incredibly pale.

“I'm done with her, Bell. This is the last time I let her in.”

Lies.

“She doesn't care about me - not like you do. I'm sorry I push you away,” a soft kiss was then pressed to the corner of her mouth. “I'll never do that again...”

More lies.

How long would it last this time? He acted as if there was a real choice between her and Wendy. Like he would actually stay by her side next time the perfect, polished primadonna came waltzing into his life and tried to change him. Bell had never been his first choice before--why would she start to be one now? She told herself not to believe it, not to fall for those pretty words that fell from tender lips. She told herself not to be drawn in by those eyes that promised peace but delivered poison.

But it had been really bad this time...Worse than ever before, and though it was record-breaking every time, it had been so bad he might truly refuse to go through it again. Bloody and tragic, and yet here she was, holding onto him despite it all. Had he finally learned who was always here by his side no matter the circumstances or the cost? She made herself sick by smiling into his kiss, but the slimmest possibility was worth the risk. If he wanted to feed her lies, she would make excuses to eat them up.

And so she picked up the pieces. And handed them back to the boy.

Her smile had him smiling softly, and this was perhaps the softest he's ever been. Moving in for another kiss, Peter closed his eyes and willed for his heart to heal once more. Let her put it back together again, and he wouldn't hurt so much.

Though a small thought in the back of his mind piped up, reminding him that he'd leave her again as soon as he was whole once more.

He probably should have cared, but he didn't.

Enjoying the small part of Peter's heart Bell could touch, the attention she so craved which he rarely allowed her, she allowed time to slip away as they held one another. After a while she noticed a fresh wave of his swetaing and tremors hitting him hard, effects she couldn't cure with all the affection in her arsenal, and gave him a fix of his favorite medicine. Poison in a pretty package. Eventually they moved to her bed and the rest of the night swirled by in a sweet blur, but as always he was gone by morning's light.

It took her longer than usual to get ready that day, head feeling full of cotton and eyes bleary but filled with a sense of strange calm and peace. Even numbness as she cleaned the dried blood from Peter's jealous attack on Simon the previous night and showered away the remnants of his scent on herself. She chose a top that covered the bruise blooming on her upper arm and set off to meet her sister.

Peri's apartment was in a much nicer area as opposed to the seedy neighborhoods Bell frequented, and she felt a small sense of relief at ringing the bell and not feeling the pressing need to look over her shoulder.

[elvendara]

Please can I ask Saeran x MC? I'm a Yooran person too but after these 4 days of new route I need him in my life 😭😭😭 I need fluffiness and a lot of cuddles, I need him to know how much I love him 💞

Thething is, I’m a Yooran shipper, like, I can write Yoosung with someone else,but Saeran? NO, nope, no way, no how! Yoosung is the one and only person forSaeran. Sorry. So, I wrote this as platonic, not a romantic relationship.

Theman in room 361, boy really, was mercurial. It wasn’t as if MC hadn’t hadpatients like him before, but, there was something about him that feltdifferent. There was very little information about him, nothing to indicate howhe had become in the state that he was currently in. She knew he had belongedto what the police believed was a cult, perhaps he had been brainwashed.

Eitherway, he was difficult. Most days he was silent, ignoring her when she came in.He would take his medication without issue on those days. Then, there were thedays that he would need to be restrained, his medication injected. She hatedthose days. In fact, she hated the medication he was being given. It made himgroggy and listless. It did nothing for him except make him docile andcompliant.

Butwho was she to go against the orders of the doctor’s?

She tooka deep breath and braced herself as she entered his room. He sat on thearmchair, having moved it next to the window. His eyes scanned the sky, adreamy look on his face. He turned towards her, a slight smile on his lips. Shewas taken aback, he’d never smiled before.

“Doyou like the sky?” he asked wistfully. His voice was light, almost childlike. Sheput her tray down on his bed and sat on the edge across from him.

“Isuppose. What do you like about it?” she asked him.

He turnedback to watching through the window.

“The clouds.They always change. I think they are beautiful.”

“Ithink you’re right.” She agreed.

He turnedback to her and smiled even wider.

“Whatelse do you like?” she asked gently.

“Oh,I don’t know. This and that. Hah, no one’s ever asked me that. Hmm, I like toread. I like books. The weight in my hands, the smell of the pages, beingtransported to hundreds of other worlds. Worlds better or worse than mine.”

“Do youhave a favorite book?”

“Frankensteinby Mary Shelley. Have you read it?” he leaned towards her, his eyes large andearnest.

“Longago, yes.”

“Itwasn’t his fault you know. He didn’t ask to be born. His creator made him thatway, made him fend for himself in any way he could. He couldn’t help what helooked like. His father abandoned him and everyone else treated him like amonster, so is it any wonder that he became one?”

“Isuppose you have a point.”

“The realmonster was Dr. Frankenstein. He should have taken responsibility for his owncreation. Although he eventually attempted to rectify what he did. Instead oftrying to understand the being he had brought to life, he tried to kill it. Why?”

“Isuppose because the monster had no morality.”

“Well,whose fault was that? He was clearly very intelligent, he could have beentaught morality. You can’t blame him for not being born with it. Humanity isfull of evil.” He turned back towards the window. She wanted to keep himtalking, but was afraid this line of conversation would lead him towardsaggressive behavior. She understood how he could sympathize with Frankenstein’smonster. After all, was he not the product of someone else’s meddling? Therewere secrets to him that she did not know. That she was sure even the doctordid not know. But the money Jumin Han had given the hospital was enough to keepany questions unasked. She wondered what this man’s relationship was to the Directorof C&R.

“Isthere anythng else you like?” she asked.

He nodded,“Ice cream.” He smiled, the tension that had begun to infuse his body suddenlygone. “I remember the first time I had it. My brother snuck me out of the houseafter our mother passed out from drinking. I don’t know how he got the money tobuy it, but, he let me have the whole thing, even though he said we would shareit. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen the clouds, but, it was the first time I’dseen them not through a window. The wind smelled fresh and so very green. The sunwas shining, he had to remind me to eat the ice cream before it melted.” He laughedat the memory. Then his smile faded and his eyes clouded.

“Ithought he loved me. He said he would protect me, but, he lied. He left me.” Therewere tears in his eyes now and he let them fall, fat and searing. Her heartbroke for him. She wanted to hug him, but that was strictly forbidden. She wasnot allowed to touch the residents any more than she absolutely had to. His lipsquivered as he became choked up with emotion.

She glancedtowards the door then went to him, folding him into her arms. He buried hishead into her shoulder, clutching at her scrub top. He eventually cried himselfout and pulled away from her. His eyes were once more guarded and cold. He wrappedhis arms around his legs, having brought them up onto the chair. He lay hishead on his knees and stared out the window once more.

MCsighed and grabbed the small cup with his medication in it. She handed it tohim along with a glass of water.

Hiseyes glazed over and he robotically took the pills and the water. He tossedthem into his mouth and took a long swallow of the water, handing it all backto MC when he was done. He resumed his position, ignoring her once more. Shewanted to reach out to him, but she resisted the urge and walked out of hisroom.

She raninto a man who was walking quickly down the hall. She gasped when she met hiseyes behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

“Areyou alright?” he asked her, holding on to her upper arms.

“Yes,oh, I’m sorry, you must be the brother?” she asked. He smiled, eerilyreminiscent of the patient she’d just seen.

“Yes,uh, has he been behaving himself?” he asked with concern.

She nodded.“Today has been a good day, he even spoke a great deal.”

“Hedid? What did he say?”

“Hetalked about how much he liked watching the clouds. His favorite book, and thefirst time he had ice cream, with you of course.”

“Hetold you that?” the red-head was clearly surprised.

“Yes,he said you let him eat it all, even though you said you would share it.” She laughed.He smiled wider.

“Thankyou!” he exclaimed.

��Noneed to thank me, I didn’t do anything but listen.” She patted his shoulder andwalked by him.

The nextday MC walked into the patient’s room and knew it was not a good day. He was onthe bed, against the headboard, clearly irritated.

“Goodmorning. Are you ready to take your medication Saeran?” she asked. His eyes flickedtowards her then away. She could see that he had been scratching his skinagain, enough to make it bleed. They would have to clip his nails again.

“Hereyou go.” She said gently. He took the offered pills and threw them back,swallowing them dry. She set the tray down and sat on the side of his bed.

“Saeran,can I tell you something?”

Hedidn’t respond, so she took it as a sign that he would at least not scream ather and become violent.

“Iwent home last night and reread Frankenstein. And, you were right. Dr.Frankenstein was the true monster. He did something without considering theconsequences, but, once he had succeeded, he abandoned his creation.”

Saeranwas looking at her now.

His head came up, his eyes were still clear. “Ilike you.” He said.

“Ilike you too.” She admitted.

“You’revery nice. Why are you so nice to me? I’ve hurt you before.”

“Becauseyou deserve it. You deserve someone being nice to you. Saeran, you’re not amonster. I know you think you are, but you’re not. And I’m here to help you. Iwant to help you. Will you let me?” she held out her hand. He looked at itwarily, as if it was a snake that would snap at him any second. He slowly movedhis own hand and placed it in hers.

“Youwon’t hurt me, will you? The last person that said they wanted to help me, hurtme. She hurt me.”

“Iknow. But she can’t hurt you anymore. I promise. And I will do everything in mypower to help you.” She didn’t know who he was talking about, but, she feltcertain that his brother would never let anyone hurt him again. And she woulddo everything she could as well. He unfolded himself and gently wrapped hisarms around her, setting his head on her shoulder. She soothed him, holding himjust as gently.

[socialjusticeartshare]

Separated at the border: Families torn apart by US immigration policy

The Trump administration’s hardline treatment of child immigrants unnerved the field. Ben Riley-Smith meets families restful traumatised by the controversial coverage.

Elias can undergo in mind all about school. Sitting at house on the outskirts of New Orleans, he rattles through a listing of workout routines they did that day. 

“Leaping jacks”, he begins. “We did squats, too”. He pretends to bounce one thing, indicating basketball, and then provides soccer.

Former eight, Elias has most productive been in America a limited bit extra than a year however already he’s adopting his new fatherland’s culture. He is wearing a Michael Jordan T-shirt, emblazoned with the sportsman’s famend number 23, and his shoes are coloured crimson, white and blue. 

As he answers questions his grin, dominated by two orderly entrance enamel with a famend gap, is on permanent train. It is most productive when requested to remove the moment he was separated from his mother on the US-Mexico border that the smile fades.

“We had been locked up, I don’t know what number of days,” he says on the muse. Then the responses secure shorter. Invent you undergo in mind the level you had to split? “A limited bit”, he says.

Asked if he realized his time alone strong, Elias nods. His eyes flick all over to Milagros, his mother, who’s in tears on the sofa about a meters away.

Invent you undergo in mind what it felt take care of? One more nod, however no phrases. Introduced on, he seems to be away from his mother. “It felt…” He pauses for seven seconds. “Sad.”

Elias’s skills is now not queer. Since Donald Trump grew to turn into US president thousands of foreign teens were separated from dad and mother after entering America. 

It was legitimate coverage from spring to early summer season final year. Any person crossing the border illegally would be charged. Within the event that they had been with a child, that intended separation. 

The measure, phase of a “zero tolerance” force on illegal migration, was an try to scheme a disincentive for these making an strive for to unfriendly into America from the south. 

But when observe unfold of what was occurring, accompanied by leaked recordings of teens wailing for his or her mothers, a fierce backlash followed. The coverage was ditched. 

The categorical collection of teens affected is unknown. Between April and June 2018, when the coverage was in map, around 2,800 teens had been separated. But the federal government has stated that now not decrease than one other 1,500 had been impacted sooner than that.

Nor has the observe strictly ended. For folks that could maybe additionally very successfully be deemed to pose a hazard to your child separation can restful happen. Around 1,000 extra migrant teens were split from a guardian since June 2018, most incessantly for minor past crimes take care of drink-utilizing or shoplifting. Immigration legal professionals are worrying these choices, arguing officers are the utilize of the secure-out to successfully continue the coverage. 

Slowly the impact of separation is foundation to emerge. In September, the inspector frequent on the Health and Human Providers Department, an interior watchdog, produced a document on psychological successfully being companies in facilities for child migrants. The findings on separation had been damning.

“Constant with program directors and psychological successfully being clinicians, separated teens exhibited extra dread, emotions of abandonment, and post-anxious stress than did teens who weren’t separated,” read one line. One more famend: “Some separated teens expressed acute distress that triggered them to cry inconsolably.”

To attain the explicit impact of household separation, the Telegraph has spent months making an strive for out teens and dad and mother split on the border to hear their tales firsthand.

Three families agreed to discuss. Some requested to discuss beneath a assorted title, given on-going asylum conditions or the awful conditions they fled. Others requested for some particulars to be unnoticed.

The US administration was now not approached over the members conditions, given the desire for anonymity. But legal professionals concerned corroborated key substances of their tales.

The total families spoke through a translator. They shared their experiences because they wanted folks to know what was being done by the Trump administration.

Milagros, in her early 30s, left a Central American nation with Elias final year. She had confronted racism “ever since I was born” in consequence of the coloration of her pores and skin and did now not make a choice her son to skills the an analogous.

Travelling through Mexico, where she suffered some haunting events her legal professionals requested now not to be detailed, Milagros introduced herself on the Texas border to claim asylum in early 2018.

Once in America, mother and son had been assign in what many migrants call the “ice box” – notoriously runt and freezing maintaining cells in Customs and Border Protection facilities.

The border officers had been allegedly dismissive of her possibilities of success. “They stated there may be now not any asylum here for you guys,” Milagros says. “You guys most productive approach here announcing that that you must likely additionally very successfully be fleeing from one thing however that you must likely additionally very successfully be honest criminals.”

Milagros had once tried to secure refuge in America however had been deported after she did now not pay bail. She says the guards predicted the an analogous consequence this time round.

After which they stated a new coverage was in map. The officers told her to notify goodbye to her son and lunge away the room. Elias was veteran honest seven.

Milagros becomes tearful as she remembers that moment. The paper napkin in her hand which she has been folding and unfolding, rolling and unrolling, is moved to her eyes.

Verbalize wavering, she remembers what was in her mind: “I honest conception, why did I approach here? I had already suffered so great. Why did I bring my son here to suffer?”

She goes on: “He was honest crying. He was announcing ‘mum, what’s going to turn into of us? What’s going to turn into of us?’. And so I told him, ‘you are going to be magnificent. And if they deport me and send you out here, then you definately are going to behave successfully, okay?’”

For the next fortnight – or likely longer, she can’t undergo in mind precisely – Milagros had no thought where Elias was. She was moved to Port Isabel detention facility, on the southern tip of Texas. Elias, she would later be taught, had been sent to a refuge in New York.

“I was tender lonely,” she says, recalling her time locked away with out her son. “I surely did surely feel take care of I was going to die.”

The stipulations made issues extra strong. Her bed was correct above the air-conditioning unit. “I could maybe additionally surely feel it running through my body take care of I was freezing,” Milagros says. She complained however was now not moved.

Her sage grew to turn into when at some point soon a bunch of legal professionals visited. They’d heard household separations had been taking map and wanted to again. Milagros, who by now had managed to discuss to Elias, approached them and additionally they took on her case. 

In spite of that scepticism from the border guards, she in the end obtained originate. “So liberated,” she says of that moment. “I felt take care of ‘wow, I did it”. Her asylum case would work its methodology during the courts while she lived in America.

And yet, shut to 2 months after separation, Milagros had restful now not viewed her son. The moment of reunification got here on the airport shut to lifeless night. 

Hours glided by as she waited with Ruby Powers, a lawyer from Powers Law Community in Houston, Texas, who was instrumental in her originate. After which Elias arrived. 

The embody was heartfelt. There was pleasure. But additionally a stage of inconvenience. Milagros seen, as a mother would, that Elias had lost weight. He was also offended about what had took map. 

“I was surely excited however he had this feeling of ‘why did you let me secure taken to this map’,” Milagros says. Her snarl again begins to crack as tears manufacture.

“He would honest notify ‘you told me that they weren’t going to separate us. You told me that the folk in the United States had been honest’.

“After we had been coming up here [to America] I told him ‘we’re going to lunge to a nation where no person will bother you’. That is what I believed on the time.

“And so after that they had separated us, he started announcing ‘that was pure lies what you stated, they address folks defective here.’”

The nightmare of separation was over, however the inconvenience remained.

Nery’s sage shares similarities to Milagros. Forty three and from Guatemala, he also crossed into Texas making an strive for asylum. He too was separated from a child within days of entering custody. But it surely would be nearly a year sooner than Nery seen his son again. 

Talking at his apartment on America’s North East fly, Nery has the same opinion to discuss on the account and agree with his face shown in photos. His son, also known as Nery, shared his recollections as successfully. 

Nery Sr speaks with heat and vitality, answering questions at length and with gesticulations. He says he feels deeply for these families restful separated and wants to draw consideration to what’s going on. 

Protection was the motive Nery fled to America. His son, then veteran 15, was being approached by gangs with a clear message – either join or be killed. The threat was all too right in the phase of rural Guatemala they known as house.

Fearing the worst, the pair took off in the heart of the night. Simplest a goodbye to his wife and any other members of the family was imaginable. No longer even his youngest teens had been told. Nery conception they would now not observe.

The wander to the US was brutal. Fragment of it was spent hidden in a lorry with a roof so low his head would bruise and folks would faint. At one level he was pressured to give up the total money he had, 5,000 Mexican pesos, to Mexican police worrying rate.

Reaching the Rio Grande river that separates America and Mexico, the 2 Nerys had wanted to register at a port of entry however the queues had been big. As an different they trudged all over the river, which was honest ankle-high mud then, and grew to turn into themselves in. It was Can also 2018.

Nery Sr and Nery Jr, take care of Milagros and her son Elias, ended up in the “ice box”. They too had been advised the guidelines had changed and that they had to separate. The message was given, Nery Sr says, with out a hint of sympathy from the guards. 

He remembers the moment successfully. There had been about 20 migrants collectively in a single room, half dad and mother and half teens. The adults had been told to notify goodbye and the teens had been led out collectively. 

Nery’s eyes rep with tears remembering these final moments along with his son. “It is only so unhappy because you can agree with got already been through so great struggling,” he says.

“I stated ‘manufacture now not dread, no person’s going to inconvenience you, we got here here looking out to search out lend a hand.’ It was a gruesome secure 22 situation, there had been teens of two or three who had been clinging to their mothers and additionally they had been taking them away from them.” Each father and son had been crying.

Nery Jr, sitting subsequent to his father staunch during the interview, largely stays quiet. He is wearing a Guatemala soccer shirt and puma trainers.

Asked for his recollections, he says: “The most productive thing I had time to invent was hug him and picture him we would look every other again quickly. Then they got here for me and there wasn’t a style of time.”

Sitting on a bus with other teens being pushed away from the power, Nery Jr was now not told where he was going. At some level of the wander there was “nearly no talking”. 

It would be around a month sooner than Nery Sr realized even essentially the most overall data about where his son had been taken. At some level of that time he was moved to a detention facility in New Mexico, then a jail in Texas, then motivate to New Mexico. 

The total while he could maybe additionally now not even call house. He wanted money to placed on a phone card and all his savings had been in the pockets of the Mexican police. His son, it would later emerge, was in a refuge in New York – a insist continually mature to apartment migrant teens 

Nery Sr was now not allowed to live in America. As an different he was deported. Facing the probability of months in jail, he agreed to recede in the hope that it would originate higher his son’s possibilities of staying. “They may agree with deported us anyway,” he says. 

After five months, Nery Jr was released and allowed to live with a sponsor household while his asylum case stepped forward. But he was restful separated from his father. It was most productive after Nery Sr was realized by a stunning again non-profit, Al Otro Lado, which successfully bought a bunch of deported migrants reunited with their teens that he bought motivate into the US.

Nery describes the moment he seen his son again in April 2019 – 11 months after being separated – as “radiant”. He had arrived on the apartment at 9am however Nery Jr was already in school. It intended he bought to search out his son walking down the facet toll road from a window sooner than they embraced. 

“It is the hardest thing,” he says now making an strive motivate, his son by his facet. “Taking your child away from you is take care of striking off phase of your coronary heart. Folks judge it’s strong however they have not lived it.

“I judge it’s the hardest thing anybody could maybe additionally ever fight through. Your child is the flower of your existence, it’s essentially the most productive phase of your existence. Then to evaluate that one thing could maybe additionally lunge unfriendly, that defective issues can happen…” 

He trails off sooner than finishing the conception.

Esperanza, take care of Nery, has seven teens. Most live in the Central American nation she fled. She now lives outside NY metropolis along with her son Lucas.

In her mid-30s, Esperanza arrives for the interview wearing a dark T-shirt with the phrases “ZERO LUCKY” in inexperienced lettering. When she smiles two gold enamel flash on the quit row. Her son declined to discuss. 

The sage in the motivate of Esperanza’s flight is horrific. She descend in love along with her first boyfriend however he began ingesting and grew to turn into abusive. Within the future, she says, he raped her in entrance of their teens. 

She fled to her grandmother’s with the teens however he did now not cease contacting her. That threat, plus the gangs attempting to recruit her sons, made her be taught about out America. 

In Can also 2018 she crossed the Rio Grande, clinging to the interior tube of a tyre with Lucas, then veteran 15. They paid a particular person $1,500 to drag all of them over as he swam. She wanted to soar with extra of her teens however did now not approach up with the money for and feared the awful day out. 

Reaching McAllen, one other Texas border metropolis, they had been quickly apprehended. Arriving on the detention facility, she remembers being told: “We wish to position your son with the boys and also you persist with the ladies. It be honest going to be a brief time.”

She would now not look him again for four months. There had been no warning of the separation, no astronomical goodbye or final embody. With out a doubt it was the different – she had been told it may perchance probably maybe likely be non permanent. 

When the guards admitted the split was permanent she demanded to seem her son one final time. “I requested ‘can I notify goodbye?’. They stated ‘no that you must likely likely now not’,” she remembers. “I started crying. They stated ‘no sorry, there is nothing we can invent’.”

Esperanza’s anguish grew to turn into to agony about a days later. Given a top bunk bed by detention officers, the injury from a Caesarean part she had 14 months earlier reopened. Lying in an infirmary bed in intense inconvenience, she restful had no thought what had took map to her son.

After a number of fortnight they did in the end discuss. “He was very unhappy and extremely nervous,” Esperanza says. “It was rotten”. She stated her son sounded in shock. They may talk assuredly after that, however every time Lucas would be crying.

Esperanza anticipated to be deported. But in the end, with the again of legal professionals she calls “angels”, she obtained the correct to live in America as her asylum case stepped forward. That could maybe likely in the end lead to a reunion along with her son.

Recalling that moment, Esperanza gets extra emotional that at every other level staunch during the interview. Lucas, who had been in a refuge in New York, had already been released. She walked up to the door of her sister’s apartment where he was staying and knocked.

First her sister answered. Then Lucas with out note met her hands. “I stated ‘my son, I’m so sorry you went through this fighting me, however I by no methodology imagined that we had been going to be apart’,” Esperanza says, her eyes filling with tears. 

“I hugged him and we cried so great. I surely couldn’t imagine it after goodbye. It was take care of a dream that I was living, because the relaxation was a nightmare.”

“He stated ‘no mum, it’s now not your fault, why are you asking me for forgiveness. I do know you wanted essentially the most productive for me and I do know you had been constantly there for me.’”

Esperanza says she “by no methodology imagined”  the struggling they would skills. Had she known, she says, she would by no methodology agree with location off for America. 

We invent now not know precisely what number of migrant teens were separated by the Trump administration. It is now not decrease than 5,500. The figure is being added to every month. 

Nor will we know what impact it has had. For many the separations are most productive a year or so susceptible. Some of these affected are restful young. 

In that inspector frequent’s document, there are moments where the trauma skilled could maybe additionally very successfully be glimpsed. It says that some teens felt “offended and at a loss for phrases”. Others expressed “emotions of dread or guilt”.

One scientific director quoted stated teens’s psychological inconvenience would manifest as “physical symptoms”, such as complaints take care of “my chest hurts” or “I’m able to’t surely feel my coronary heart”. 

No longer radiant what took map is half the dread. All three dad and mother who talked to this newspaper stated their teens had been reluctant to portray what they skilled alone.

Aid in New Orleans, Milagros and Elias try to rebuild their lives. She has a job at a hotel in the metropolis centre and wants to be taught English. He appears to be making pals in school. 

But the injury is restful there. Elias talks decrease than he mature to. He could maybe additionally very successfully be a “limited rebellious”. And, most caring to his mother, he by no methodology opens up about what took map. 

“When I assign a query to him about these items he obtained’t resolution me,” she says, foundation to choke up again. “He honest sits there looking out at me, that is all.”

Each infrequently Milagros considers getting a psychiatrist. But she can’t come up with the money for it. Elias is now not yet nine. She hopes time will impress a healer.

Article Source

[childrenofathoria-rp-blog]

◆Out Of Character Information◆ Name/Age: Maria, 16 Preferred Pronouns: She/Her. Timezone: GMT (+11) until the 13 of February. GMT (-3) after that. Desired Character: Miniel.

◆Character Information◆

(1) What pronouns will your character be using? Would you like to list their sexuality at this time?: She/Her. To be honest, I believe she is so worried (and busy with overall) about other people’s relationships she didn’t yet realize she might one day fall in love. 

(2) Any changes or comments? -

(3) Why this character? For me it was a matter of choosing two sides of the same coin - I was between an angel who knows too much and an angel who knows next to nothing. In the end, I ended up choosing Miniel because I can relate to the sense of being lost; after all, she was sent to do an important job with no help or guidance whatsoever. Also, it’s no secret I enjoy playing outcasts and characters who are happy about life in general. Miniel isn’t a human being but for most of her existence she’s been acting as such, so I’m excited to explore how she relates with other angels and how clueless she can be when it comes to her job and her own species.

(4) Interpret this character: Reading Miniel’s bio at first made me think of a character with a sense of cluelessness and naivety, someone too pure and way too honest - not in avoiding lies but rather in terms of malice. As somebody who was given a task from Heaven and never really got any help from her kind, one would suppose it has made her bitter, but to me it only highlights how decent she is in terms of not getting angry at her kin. She is happy to do what is expected of her not because she wants to please or as a result of pride, but rather because she appreciates human beings and finds herself grateful whenever their need for love and happiness is fulfilled. It shows much of her character just how concerned she can be with humankind; after all, for her, selflessness is a virtue she never spent too much time thinking about.

After reading her bio a second time, though, I realized she is much more wise - in a way - and concerned about her job than I first thought. Although not very certain of the role she plays and just how important it can be, she does realizes it will have consequences and some of them might be pretty bad if she isn’t careful. This appeals to me because she isn’t exactly a careful persona: her job is done through methods that work for her not because it is the right way but simply for the reason of working. As stated in her bio, she gossips, she makes herself involved, she is closer to the spotlight than she will ever be to the background, despite not at all being attracted to it. Sometimes she asks herself if there are other ways to do it, if maybe her results would turn out different if only she did her job from afar, but why stop herself from doing something that is working? Her concern now is exactly that: it is working.

Humans were granted free will and fate should unfold for itself, so how much is she changing the rules by getting herself in the middle of those relationships? She might never know. Thus, after twenty years of working as a cupid, she is now watching a lot more than acting. It doesn’t mean she has stopped, though, and she never intends to do so. It only means she is a lot more aware of her actions and said consequences.

I have a headcanon for her that she works as a tailor: when it comes to clothes, she is passionate about experimenting, and when it relates to humans, what better way to help them than in a job that not only allows her to travel, but also to ‘secretly’ offer a thing or two for those who doesn’t have the money to afford a certain piece? Miniel is successful both due to being good at her job and enjoying her work. She never allows herself to work only for the rich kind as she doesn’t want to distance from the normal people, and especially, she doesn’t want to be in the middle of attention; her job is better when people realize who she is enough to openly talk to her, but not enough to be suspicious. It isn’t so much a conscient thought, though: it is simply something she came to realize in a matter of years and decided it was suitable.

In the end, Miniel is a character whose love for life and lack of prejudice dictates how she lives each day at a time. As long as she is doing her job and putting smiles on people’s faces and their histories, it is enough to make her feel happy and at ease. As someone who is very interested and curious, and not at all afraid to express herself, no wonder she is a wonderful fit for the job of Cupid. ◆ Interview Questions ◆ (1) Question One: “Can you describe what you see or feel when you realize two souls could be bound together by you?” “What I see…?” The question hung in the air just long enough for Miniel to realize the person speaking to her wasn’t at all aware of what her job entailed. Instead of laughing, though, or raising her eyebrows as some weirdly rude personalities had done to her before, the angel simply waved her hand as if passing the question. In her lips, a vivid smile appeared in such a way one could believe she would tell them a secret. “I’m not sure why you imagine I see anything, dear. I suppose it would be nice to… and of course it would have helped me sometimes when I wasn’t certain if I should act. I’m not like Zadkiel, though. Unfortunately, there is nothing resembling auras in my line of work.”

“No, no, it’s more of a feeling. You are right when you speak of it. Maybe…” She had to stop and think for a second, Looking at her fingers, Miniel tried to gasp the right word: humans sometimes had an awkward way to express themselves. That, of course, was a thought met with another smile, a lot more subtle: she expressed herself just like they did. “A sixth sense? Yes! That’s perfect! A sixth sense it is.” She almost joined her hand as though celebrating the finding of the right expression. Her eyes met the person for only a second before realizing they wanted to hear more.

“Maybe you could say it is a mixture of joy with ecstasy? I’ve sent some kids the other way around because I had a feeling they might meet their best friends if they so did. I’ve given perfumes, hats and even dresses to ladies because those are helpers in terms of attraction. I have even told a few men to stop frequenting some… establishments - usually, they ended up spending more time in places I knew they would and that’s how some met their soulmates. Most of the time, I simply guide people through doing something and it works.” Another sip of the cup in her hand and there was nothing left to eat. A golden coin, an amused smile and a wink: all part of the scene, though not necessarily in that order, and definitely not in a scheme.

She kept talking, though: cases in which it wasn’t that simple, cases she wouldn’t ever forget. Her work was interesting and there was nothing she could do if somebody else wanted to listen - time wasn’t as precious for Miniel and she was willing to talk for hours if only someone would listen. (2) Question Two: “Have you been back to Heaven or has Earth became a permanent home until summoned away?”

Another question? They had been talking for hours. Between music, drinks, dances and flashbacks, Miniel had learned more about that person than she usually learned from most angels that stayed in touch. It wasn’t a particularly happy question to answer, after all, it brought back some memories Miniel usually had no problem forgetting about, but she didn’t mind. As long as they were talking and she was having fun, why not give them the benefit of knowledge? They had answered a few more questions than expected too. “I have. A few times, when I was younger. I tried to get some answers and they would give them.” She shrug her shoulders; it wasn’t for indifference as much as it was for lack of decision. In fact, it simply meant she regretted doing so. She knew now what angels said behind her back and it was clear, although she couldn’t understand the reason behind the talks, why most of them would ignore her. “In the end I realized it was best to focus on my job and just live life in general..” A sweet smile appeared, her features almost brightening up the room; she was truly happy now, thinking of the things she loved about Earth.

“I have music, clothes, happiness and so many interesting things going on here. I get to put smiles on people’s faces and realize it isn’t me the cause of it, but the person I help them find that makes them smile so easily. I get to experience their happiness and joys, even their suffering, and now it makes sense to me. I’m happy here. Why would I want to return to a place that never felt like home?”

◆Writing Sample:◆ Gazing towards the radiant background, all Miniel could think of was a place she once stood. Heaven. Sunlight filled the sky, clouds were almost nonexistent and birds flew as if announcing the beginning of another steady morning. Earth was simple and easy to understand: sometimes it rained, sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes the heat and the sun would be there for hours, sometimes it wouldn’t. People came and went, each of them a small piece of a puzzle much bigger than anyone could ever guess. It simply… was.

Heaven, on the other hand, was as confusing and unclear as difficult words to a two-year-old. Near angels that lived to see Earth in its beginning, and even those whose existence only dated a few centuries, she always felt like a child: a lost, abandoned one, but still a child. How difficult to understand a place whose existence should feel like home for an angel. It never did, though, and Miniel was quite sure it forever wouldn’t (although, of course, ‘forever’ was, and continued to be, a strong word for her being). No matter how many times she tried to go there in the beginning, just after being sent to Earth, nothing life-changing happened, not even a grasp of what would be like to be heard and respected by the other angels. It bothered her in the beginning because wasn’t she supposed to have someone… guiding her? Apparently, not. Apparently, the only way to find happiness was to focus not on Heaven, but the place she was put to work.

Today, though, she wasn’t thinking about such bothers, but rather what it felt like to feel lost. Not only in Heaven, but in every situation one could experience the sentiment of not quite understanding, not quite being able to belong and connect. On Earth, for example, she would almost never have such feeling: it was easy for her to find people she wanted to be with, to find places that mattered to both heart and soul and made her happy by staying there even if only for a few minutes. Earth was home both because she could comprehend and not worry about it - at least, not in terms of Earth itself. For an angel, one could probably confuse her to a human being: after all, there was probably no angel as comfortable as she was away from her kind and the place that most reminded her of it.

“There was a moment, though.” An abrupt thought, almost a fugitive, but enough to bring her back to a moment of pure agony. She very well remembered the day that made her fear for humankind and its existence: a day when the sky first and last saw the hand of the one responsible for evil. Lucifer. She didn’t like thinking of that name. She didn’t like saying that name. Most days, she wouldn’t even try and remember it: it was easier to store it in the back of her mind and do good for the sake of remembering only good. But such days existed only to remind her that evil was lurking at every corner.

It wasn’t supposed to happen, of course. One would think demons coming out from the sky was a sight better to stay in books, but it did happen. And at first it paralysed her, until she was conscious enough to run and help those who screamed in the streets. It was the scream of a child that first made her do something. She remembered the fear, the heart beats, the despair, everything. If she closed her eyes and let the memories take her back, she would remember how revolting and sickening it felt seeing the dead bodies on the streets. Not even helping a few dozen of humans escape made her feel any closer to better for lots of the weeks ahead of her. Nothing good came from it. Nothing good could ever come from evil (except, maybe, the appreciation of all things that opposed to it).

“There are good days, though.” How freeing to think about such moments in which it was truly gratifying to be on Earth. Days when she would be out with some friends for the sake of enjoying the company. Days she would spend working, mixing clothes, buying makeup and doing whatever made her happy and maybe invent a new fashion tendency in the middle of everything. Simple days, good days. Even busy days, in which she would be all over the place, helping all kinds of humans, bonding people, finding them their soulmates, making sure they appreciated their partners and friendships. “Moments like now.” A smile appeared in her futures, as she lurked over the window to see some of the peasants on the street. Her eyes fell to the sight of a particularly beautiful gentleman, whose posture felt a little out of place as he stumbled and tripped during his way. She couldn’t help but chuckle, knowing fully well he was a perfect match to the girl she made sure would be there at the time.

“And she is.” Another smile at the recognition of a second peasant; Adalia, she knew. She lived just across the street and that morning Miniel asked for a particular quantity of fabric, giving her the exact time to be at her doorstep. Miniel had been observing both of them for about five days now and knew not only their habits and details of their life, but she had also been sure from the moment she met the gentleman that they would be a perfect match. Adalia’s habit? The peasant always made sure to leave the house at least ten minutes before she should be at a place. The gentleman’s reason for such appearance? Miniel had offered him to try a new piece of clothing that could only suit someone like him (it wasn’t exactly true, but she was happy to both get them together and have someone to try the clothing). The angel also knew he had a habit of stopping at any place available to check some pieces of cloth, at least once, and there was only one at the street right now, exactly where she instructed Adalia to get the last few materials (Miniel could do it herself but she gave the busy excuse).

And so, it worked, as it usually did. “And if it didn’t, how fun would it be to get them to talk right here where I work.” She was soon invaded by the warmth feeling one could only experience as a Cupid. They were talking now and she knew it better than any other person it was meant to be. As to prove it - as if Heaven wanted to help her, and that thought always made her laugh - a bow and arrow materialized on her hands. She stared only for a few seconds before finally sending the arrows to its targets. Another happy beginning. Another moment in the day in the life of a Cupid.

[edc-creations-blog]

Red September, is a contemporary, fiction, romance novel. It’s a coming-of-age narrative that tells the story of Constance (Connie) Brown. Set amidst the poverty of the 1950’s on an island in the Caribbean. After their father dies, Connie and her siblings live in fear of their alcoholic and abusive mother. Connie life changes when Nathaniel (Nathan) Hart, a charismatic twenty-one-year-old man arrives from New York City on family business. When they meet it is love at first sight for both.

However, Connie is forced to marry Mr. Henry, a wealthy landowner, for financial gain. He moves her into his home on the hill overlooking the town. Though this may seem like a fairy tale ending, events begin to unfold and secrets are revealed that subsequently fractured the center of angst that all of Connie’s conflict revolve around. Her life is riddled with lies, masquerades, and broken dreams.

Connie is left with the task of coming to terms with strong, ambivalent feelings towards her mother, staying in a loveless marriage, or risk everything for her independence and ultimately find her place in the world with Nathan.

Customer Reviews on Amazon.com

  5.0 out of 5 stars. I really enjoyed the book. It was a page turner from the beginning to the end. I would definitely recommend this book for the young and the old. I brought five books for my friends and family.

4.0 out of 5 stars. By Rico One of the best books I have read lately I have always felt that the most compelling gift that a writer possesses is the ability to describe places and characters in such authentic detail that the reader sees himself/herself there in the flesh watching the story unfold. This was my experience as I read Marita Berry’s “Red September” and being transported to a small fictional Caribbean island,Taino, that featured the same people, culture, beauty and poverty familiar to my own upbringing. On one hand it is the story of a mother who was dealt a cruel hand, losing her father at an early age, living with an abusive alcoholic mother and having the responsibilities of adulthood thrust upon her at much too early an age. Among those responsibilities was having to care for her siblings. Thirty years later with a family of her own she tries to understand the mother who had caused her so much pain and discomfort in her early years and she finds solace retroactively in telling the stories of her upbringing to her daughter, Brenda and at the same time finding room to forgive her abusive mother. “Red September” is much more than a story of struggle and survival. It is also a love story with it’s own twists and turns of the heart. This is one of the best books I have read lately. My advice to you, the reader, is to get a copy and lose yourself in a great story of love, forgiveness and a mother’s triumphant survival in the end.

5.0 out of 5 stars. This book is a wonderful love story, chapter after chapter is gets more endearing that make you want to keep reading. A great buy!!

4.0 out of 5 stars. A great story of an innocent woman coming into adulthood through unexpected trials and tribulations and how things work out.

4.0 out of 5 stars. By S. Stone This was a Giveaway on Goodreads. Thanks so much! I really enjoyed this heartwarming debut novel by Marita Berry. The story travels from the West Indies in the 1940’s to New York City in the 70’s. It’s the story of a young girl has to endure the harshness that her mother’s drinking evokes. Forced to marry their landlord in exchange for a place for her mother and younger siblings to live, raped, and becoming a mother herself at the young age of 16, it is a story of survival, of hopelessness, and of a love seemingly destined not to survive. Recounting her past to her daughter, Connie relives that love and what it has meant through the years. I will definitely look for more works by this author.

Excerpt: Red September Book

Taino, West Indies (1944)

  I awoke with the sun that morning, as I’ve done so many times before. I sat up on my bed, put my feet on the cold cement floor, walked over to the window and looked out. I gazed at the beautiful skyline of orange rays coming up above the mountains, while the candlelight’s flickered in the windows of the framed pastel homes that lined the side of the road. It was another tranquil morning on the small island we called Taino. The trade wind blew softly and the air laden with the rich aroma of freshly cut grass and the soil after a rain was invigorating. Lizards skittered, and a rooster crowing nearby signified a new day.

The grandfather clock in the parlor struck the hour, and my ears perked up at the familiar sounds of the screen door slamming shut as my brother Kevin strolled out to the hen house to collect the eggs. Then there was the pitter-patter of my sister’s feet and the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen as my mother prepared breakfast. We would have oatmeal porridge, scrambled eggs, fresh baked bread with homemade fruit jam and chocolate milk most mornings, and whenever we heard Mother stirring the cocoa mix into the tin cups; it signaled to all four children that it was time to eat.

By the time I appeared in the cozy kitchen and sat down at the table, my siblings were already there playing amongst themselves.

“Where’s daddy?” I asked, turning to face my mother.

“He still taking he bath,” she said. “We can’t eat just yet.”

When it came time to eat we knew that we’d have to wait until father was seated and served first. As an eight year old, I realized how important a father was in a young girl’s life. I loved my father, and he loved me too, so much, that he named me Constance after his mother. And as the eldest child, he was very protective of me. In fact, I was daddy’s girl.

My father was the essence of tall, dark, handsome and slightly built. He was adventurous, a great provider, and possessed a gentle, loving and understanding nature. With a chronically ill wife and four children to raise my father was devoted to his home and family. He never ran away from his obligations by escaping to the local rum shop like so many of the other men did. He regularly found the time to spend with each one of us.

My fondest childhood memories was of this little colored girl wearing a pink cotton dress tiptoeing out of the house with my father on a peaceful morning, just as the sun came up, to pick mangoes and sugar apples from the trees growing in an orchard beyond our house.

Our adventure began with us climbing over the fence in the yard and taking a shortcut through the cow pasture, until we reached the tree line. And then father held a long stick with a nail attached on the end as a hook, and bent the tree branches just low enough for me to reach.

Afterwards, we’d find a shady spot under a tree to talk as we ate some of the succulent fruits, before taking the rest home for mother to turn into jams in preparation for the rainy season.

My father taught me important things about life and the world that I could not acquire from any school. He often talked to me about God and how he made boys and girls different and if I did not give of myself too freely, when I grew up, some man would be lucky to have me. I didn’t realize until I was much older that my father was teaching his frightened little girl how to expect to be treated by boys, which later had a great influence in my matrimonial relationship.

I listened very carefully and deeply valued my father’s advice. Those were the times that I felt secure and the closest to him. It was a warm, comfortable bond.

But I knew only too well the consequences of being brought up feeling as though I lived in two worlds.

My mother a woman of average size and appearance, although semi-illiterate, her greatest ability was her firm, determined and strong-willed personality. She was the force around which our entire family existed. As a strict disciplinarian, she strongly believed in the saying, ‘spare the rod, and spoil the child.’ And if I so much as sucked my teeth or frowned when I was told to do something, I would be punished with a beating from my mother.

On the day my father suddenly died from a brain aneurysm, I never felt so empty, so lost and heartbroken. It was the saddest day of my life. My whole world shattered into a million pieces and life as I knew it changed forever.

  About the Author Marita Berry – a self-published fiction author lives in New York City. She cherishes her family, exploring the meaning of life, chocolate, rainy days, salsa dancing, and meditation. Marita is most proud of raising her two sons as a single parent into successful young men, while continuing her education where she received a master’s degree in Social Work, and being a grandmother to two wonderful grandsons whom she says keeps her grounded. Marita’s debut novel, Red September takes the readers on a roller-coaster ride of emotions that will make them laugh, cry, wonder, and wanting more. Her book can be found on http://www.maritaberryauthor.com

      Intimate Conversation with Black Pearls Magazine

Marita Berry, a New Yorker, retired after a thirty-year career in telecommunications. She cherishes her spiritual relationship with God; her strong, loving family; and close sister-friendships. She is proud of her two sons, daughters-in-law, and grandsons, as well as her master’s degree in social work from Fordham University.

BPM: Tell us about your most recent work. Is this book available on Nook and Kindle? My first novel, Red September, is a self-published, contemporary, fiction, romance novel. A coming-of-age narrative that tells the story of Constance (Connie) Brown, set amidst the poverty of the 1950’s on a small island in the Caribbean. After their father dies, Connie, the eldest of four, and her siblings are left to live in fear of their alcoholic, and abusive mother. Connie life changes when Nathaniel (Nathan) Hart, a charismatic twenty-one-year-old man arrives from New York City on family business. When they meet it is love at first sight for both. However, Connie is forced by her mother to marry Mr. Henry, a wealthy landowner, for financial gain. He moves her into his home on the hill overlooking the town. Though this may seem like a fairy tale ending, events begin to unfold and secrets are revealed that subsequently fractured the center of angst that all of Connie’s conflict revolve around. Her life is riddled with lies, masquerades, and broken dreams. For Connie, life is filled with hard choices. Will Connie bow down with the task of coming to terms with strong, ambivalent feelings towards her mother, staying in a loveless marriage, or risk everything for her independence, and ultimately find her place in the world with her one true love, Nathan? Can time truly heal all wounds? Also available on Kindle.

BPM: Give us some insight into your main characters or speakers. What makes each one so special? Connie is shy and naïve, but she has genuine inner qualities of being a good daughter, helpful, respectful, smart, self-sufficient, nurturing, sensitive to other’s welfare, and she has a strong obligation to her family. The kind of daughter that any mother would be proud of, but she’s never received any affection or compliments from her mother. It’s only through her relationship with her aunt that her self-esteem can be nourished, and she can feel treasured as children need to feel.

Nathan’s strengths are divided into his core values: having traveled the world in the Navy as a young man, he is brave, courageous, knowledgeable, open-minded, perceptive, and persistent. But as he falls heads-over-heels in love with Connie, Nathan is harboring a deep, dark, secret.

BPM: What inspired you to sit down and actually start writing this book? Red September began as a concept after listening to my mother’s countless stories about growing up on a small island in the Caribbean. It was where she lived without running water, nor electricity, and only the dirt roads on which she traveled. The passing away of my mother served as a catalyst that forced me to get down in accomplishing what I set out to do. She was my muse, and her fearless life anecdotes sparked my interest to loosely base this story about a dysfunctional family where the sorrows and afflictions experienced by the family are at the hands of the alcoholic, abusive, mother. It’s a story of hopelessness, survival, and of seemingly destined love.

BPM: Can you share one topic or scene from your book that will touch most readers? I awoke with the sun that morning, as I’ve done so many times before. I sat up on my bed, put my feet on the cold cement floor, walked over to the window and looked out. I gazed at the beautiful skyline of orange rays just above the mountains, while the candlelight’s flickered in the windows of the framed pastel houses that lined the side of the road. Another tranquil morning on the small island we called Taino. The trade winds blew softly, as the air laden with the aroma of fresh cut grass, and the soil after an overnight’s rain was invigorating. Lizards skittered, and a rooster crowed nearby signified a new day.

The grandfather clock in the parlor struck the hour, and my ears perked up at the familiar sounds of the slamming screen door as my brother, Kevin strolled out to the hen house to collect the eggs. Then, there were the pitter-patter of my sister’s feet and the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen as my mother prepared breakfast. We would have oatmeal porridge, scrambled eggs, fresh baked bread with homemade fruit jam, and chocolate milk most mornings. Whenever we heard Mother stirring the cocoa mix into the tin cups; it signaled to all four children that it was time to eat.

By the time I appeared in the cozy kitchen and sat down at the table, my siblings were already there playing amongst themselves. “Where’s daddy?” I asked, turning to face my mother. “He still taking he bath,” she said. “We can’t eat jest yet.” We knew we’d have to wait until our father was seated and served. As an eight-year-old, I realized how important a father was in a young girl’s life. I loved him dearly, and as the eldest, he remained very protective of me. In fact, I was daddy’s girl.

My father was the essence of tall, dark, handsome, and slightly built. He was adventurous, a great provider, and possessed a gentle, loving and understanding nature. With a chronically ill wife, and four children to raise, my father was devoted to his family. He never ran away from his obligations by escaping to the local rum shop like so many of the other men. He regularly found the time to spend with each one of his children.

My fondest childhood memories were of this little colored girl wearing a pink cotton dress, tiptoeing out of the house with my father just as the sun came up. We would go out to pick the mangoes and sugar apples from the trees in an orchard beyond our house for mother to make her jellies and jams.

Our adventure began with us climbing over the fence in the yard, and taking a shortcut through the cow pasture, until we reached the tree line. And then, father held a long stick with a nail attached on the end as a hook to bend the tree branches low enough for me to grasp. Afterwards, we’d find a shady spot under a tree to talk as we ate some of the succulent fruits, before taking the rest home.

My father taught me important things about life and the world I could never acquire from any school. He often talked to me about God, and how he made boys and girls different, and when I grew up some man would be lucky to have me. I didn’t realize until I was much older that my father was teaching his frightened little girl how to expect to be treated by boys. I listened very carefully, and deeply valued my father’s advice. Those were the times I felt most secure. It was a warm, comfortable bond.

But I knew very well the consequences of being brought up feeling as though I lived in two worlds. My mother, a woman of small stature, stood about five-feet-two. Although semi-illiterate, her greatest ability was her firm, determined, no nonsense personality. She was the force around which our entire family existed. As a strict disciplinarian, she strongly believed in the motto, ‘spare the rod, spoil the child.’ And if I so much as sucked my teeth or frowned when I was told to do something, I would be whipped by my mother. The day my father died suddenly from a brain aneurysm, I never felt so empty, so lost and heartbroken. It was the saddest day of my life. My whole world shattered into a million pieces. Then, life as I knew it changed forever.

BPM: Where do your book ideas come from? Are your books plot-driven or character-driven? My book ideas for writing comes from personal experiences and memories, and they are character driven. So far, my characters have been about sheroes, and I try to focus on their inner conflict. I want my characters attitudes, decisions, and personal evolution to change the shape of the plot by having the women encounter life through empowerment, and I want their confidence and strength to be admired without them having to feel ashamed or apologetic about it.

BPM: Is writing easy for you? Do you feel lonely being a writer? No, writing isn’t easy for me, because I find myself spending quite a bit of time just trying to come up with the right words to put on paper, and to have the clarity to know what I want to say in the first place. I do, however, find writing to be certainly challenging. Like any creative activity, I have my good days where I can come up with a great scene or dialog, and my bad days when my mind goes completely blank. I often wondered why people call writers lonely people. I know it can be a lonely activity. If sitting at a desk for six hours once or twice a week, not talking to anyone, or not having any social interactions with other people, while listening to smooth jazz music, lonely?…. then I may very well be lonely…. But what I feel is inner peace.

BPM: What did you enjoy most about writing this book? I enjoyed the freedom to write this book with no pressure or expectations. I wrote it “for fun,” and I didn’t have to worry about any deadlines, or what I wanted to do with the book once it was finished. It was a given that it would be self-published.

BPM: How long does it take to complete one of your books? It took me almost four years to write my first novel, Red September. I was determined it had to be the best I could write, quality was more important to me. Besides, being an indie author, it was a very challenging learning process as you go. My next book, I’m working on, I expect to take a year.

BPM: Do you have any suggestions to help me become a better writer? I would suggest for anyone to become a better writer, to read a variety of books in different genres. Write a lot. Figure out your own style of writing, because everyone writes differently. Share your work with others, and be willing to accept the good as well as the bad critiques without taking it too personal, so that you can grow.

BPM: What period of life do you find you write about most often? I like writing under the genre of coming-of-age stories, young adult, and contemporary women.

BPM: How do you feel when someone disagrees with something you have written? Honestly, if someone gives me negative feedback, it does dampen things momentarily. I’m lucky to have been in a writing group for five years, and we trust each other feedback by giving constructive criticism to improve on our writing. If there is someone in the group that differs with me considerably, first, I thank them for taking the time to read my work, then I take what I want from them, and leave what I don’t, and keep it moving.

BPM: Are there under-represented groups or ideas featured in your book? If so, discuss them. Yes, the under-represented group or ideas that I have featured in my book(s) thus far have been revolved around African-American women. Moreover, because I feel that female characters are less likely than males to have identifiable goals, or to be portrayed as resilient leaders of any kind. I have been surrounded by strong black women all my life. I am moved by the strength of my late grandmother who single-handedly raised thirteen children, or by my late mother who only went as far as the fifth grade, but raised six children, some of whom went on to receive college degrees, or became a pastor or a deacon of their church’s. My sisters, aunts, and sister- friendships have all given me examples of the embodiment of what a strong black woman can be. And so, it’s from them that I pull my stories.

BPM: Share one specific point in your book that resonated with your present situation or journey. My answer would have to be the romantic love that developed between the two main characters, Connie, and Nathan. Three years ago, I fell in love with a guy. At first, I thought it was just lust, but it evolved with time. As I’ve matured on my journey through life, I found out love is not only about the phone calls, the text messages, the I love you’s, the candlelight dinners or the gifts. Love is about understanding each other. It’s feeling that someone is always going to be there for you no matter what the situation. It’s about trust. It’s about growing old into a graceful couple.

BPM: Did you learn anything personal from writing your book? I learned that I’m passionate, optimistic, and dedicated with the utmost belief in myself.

BPM: Can you share some stories about people you met while researching this book? To make my book come to life, I had several pre-recorded tape messages of my mother’s words. The tape recordings that included questions and answers of my mother and I conversations were carefully translated so that I could capture the inflection of her voice, and the remembrance of her reactions. I also interviewed several of her friends, and family members who were born and/or raised in the Caribbean to ensure their interpretation of island living, and to dig deeper into the culture. What I’ve learned from my research is that although some people think living island life is a dream or fantasy, island life in not always paradise. With limited job opportunities, lack of good medical care, everyday power outages, few, or often no developed roads, between the mosquitoes, heat, humidity, hurricanes, and a limited supply of food and goods, it can be the reasons why so many migrate statewide.

BPM: How has writing this book impacted your life as a published author? I’ve always been a bookworm. Reading has helped me through a lot of crisis in my life because there is no better way of getting drama out of your mind than through the pages of a good book. However, I didn’t set out to write this book as a formula for someone else’s life, or as a get-rich quick scheme. I’ve had several Aha’s moments in my life listening to stories that touched my soul or spirit in some way, and it impacted me so significantly that I found myself on this journey of writing I never intended to go on. A journey on which I found myself. Writing gave me confidence, taught me how to take risks, forced me to ask questions about life, and most of all, it has helped me to meet new people, friends, that are on the same journey as me.

BPM: What does literary success look like to you? I look around on a daily basis and say with a very big smile, “Thank you” to the Universe. I set my goals, and I work tirelessly in achieving them. However, I do like to dream big. What literary success look like to me is self-publishing to great acclaim, getting an agent, publication offers, book tours, selling to film rights, and acquiring financial stability through writing. But in the meantime, I feel blessed to know that success is more of being on the right path, rather than a destination. It’s less about the doing and having, and more about the being.

BPM: What are the 3 most effective tools for sharing your book with the world? Social media such as Facebook, Twitter, and my personal website make it easy to share my book with the world.

BPM: What projects are you working on at the present? I’m presently working on my second book, “Soulfully Yours.” It’s about three single women who met in college, and together they established a public relations firm. But due to their busy schedule, the reality of dating in the new millennium isn’t what it used to be. Meeting a guy at the local bar has been replaced by encountering them on the Internet on a popular dating website named, “Soulfully Yours.” As the story unfolds, the lives of the women become entwined as they search for that special someone that will make each one of them happy. What these three women soon discover is a web of secrets and lies that surrounds the world around them.

BPM: How can readers discover more about you and your work? Share all of your social media links.

My readers can follow me on: Author’s Webpage: http://www.maritaberryauthor.com. Facebook/www.facebook.com/ritaberry.750 Twitter/www.twitter.com/Rebberry Goodreads/www.goodreads.com/meberry

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Black Pearls Magazine for the time to interview me, and in learning more about my work.

Purchase Red September by Marita Berry Genre: Contemporary Romance Novel https://www.amazon.com/Red-September-Marita-Berry/dp/149177696X http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/bookdetail.aspx?bookid=SKU-000501693

      Red September by Marita Berry Red September, is a contemporary, fiction, romance novel. It’s a coming-of-age narrative that tells the story of Constance (Connie) Brown.