#( never once have i ever felt like i have control over the autonomy that i have regarding my own decisions ) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Celebrities use Tumblr as well.

#( never once have i ever felt like i have control over the autonomy that i have regarding my own decisions )

hotreadingwitch · 5 months

Text

MADE TO LIE - the party

Y/N

Bucky might be handsome, sure, but that didn’t excuse his cold behaviour.

“God, he’s driving me mad” Y/n declared as Natasha helped her pin her hair in a glamorous old Hollywood-esque style.

“I’m sure it’ll get easier between you two the more you get to know each other” Wanda encouraged.

“Yeah and Steve adores him so he can’t be that awful deep down”

“True” Y/n conceded before continuing, her anger and insecurities simmering like a pot of boiling water, “I just can’t get past the feeling that he despises me”

“I don’t know if he does Y/n…” Natasha started.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, sometimes you act like you hate someone when really you’re just confused about feeling…something else?”

“You think he likes me?”

“Well,” she sighed, “You never know…it’s just an observation”

“Maybe he’s shy” Wanda added.

Y/n scoffed.

“I find that hard to believe”

“I think there’s probably more to Bucky Barnes than any of us know…”

BUCKY

When Y/n stepped into the large party room it felt to Bucky as if everyone, including him, suddenly noticed her all at once. The thought of hundreds of eyes on her made his stomach rumble with discomfort and protectiveness but also a small sense of pride. Her dress was some designer couture, clearly straight from the runway but she wore it better than any model ever could in his opinion. She shone in it, somehow not overpowered by the thousand glittering black beads and pearls that were delicately interwoven with the dress’s fabric. Bucky placed a hand on the ache in his chest, physically feeling overwhelmed, her beauty was so intense it was all-consuming.

“Are you okay James?” Dr. Pashia asked cautiously.

He tore his gaze away from Y/n only to notice his therapist’s sly smile.

“Don’t” he groaned, scratching at his 5 o’clock shadow, “Between you and Steve I can’t catch a break…”

“Well, my lips are sealed then” she mimed the action cheekily.

Bucky let out a loose, gravelly laugh, smiling down at her. He was endlessly grateful for her professional help and in the last couple of years working with her, she’d almost become a friend.

“Thanks, Doc”

The pair talked and talked, joking in a natural way that only a great therapist and patient could.

His gaze subconsciously flitted to where Y/n was in the room again and again as the night went on. Dr. Pashia said nothing about it, thankfully. When his eyes landed on her a third time he was surprised to find she was glaring at him with so much intensity he almost stumbled even though he was standing perfectly still. He watched as she slowly turned back to whoever it was she was talking to and threw her head back with a flirtatious little laugh. The man was tall, like him, with long, slicked black hair and piercing, devilish eyes. A rush of heat hit his cheeks. With a frustrated growl, he turned away, excusing himself before stalking over to the bar where he noticed Natasha was helping with drinks. The loud current pop music and throwbacks playing at the party pounded loudly in his ears.

I’m in love with the shape of you…

“Hey,” he bit out when he reached the bar.

“Hey,” she hesitated, looking visibly amused.

“What’s that look for?” He grumbled, agitated.

“Trouble with Y/n?”

“Is everyone able to read me these days?” He groaned, “What happened to being a top-class assassin?”

She raised her glass in a toast, “Oh how the mighty have fallen…”

He clinked hers in a sardonic cheers. If anyone could understand how it felt to suddenly gain autonomy after years of torture and control, it was Natasha.

“I’d give her a chance you know?” she continued, making Bucky’s eyebrow raise, “I’m biased as a best friend sure but that doesn’t mean she isn’t truly the kindest person I’ve ever known”

Bucky’s eyes softened, after talking to Natasha he was filled with a new purpose, one that started with an apology. When he finally turned away, heading back to the party, he stopped mid-step…

Y/N

After her talk with Wanda and Natasha, the girls had practically drunk their body weight in hard liquor, Wanda not even making it to the party. When Y/n arrived, it seemed that all the other Avengers were busy, either with each other or with the hoards of people Tony had invited to come. A little while later, her eyes finally found Barnes in the crowd and immediately narrowed. He was talking to probably one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen.

She turned away from the scene unfolding before her, strutting over to the nearest handsome man she could find, and tonight there were many.

Grab somebody sexy tell ‘em hey

The music blared over the speakers.

“Hi,” Y/n greeted with a flirting glance up at the tall stranger.

“Well hello there” he responded, his mouth curving into a naughty grin.

“Y/n” she held out her hand to shake.

He took it, placing a dapper kiss on her skin before introducing himself, “God of Mischief”

She threw her head back, laughing a little more than she normally would at such a stupid joke.

Give me everything tonight

By the time they made it to the dance floor the song from earlier was almost making the space shake, not to mention the people covering the dance floor.

I might drink a little more than I should tonight

And I might take you home with me tonight

Y/n swayed along with the stranger, allowing his hands to press into the curves of her hips. All was going well until a different hand, a cool metal one, planted itself on her shoulder from behind.

“Hi honey” his sarcastic tone grated her eardrums.

She turned with an annoyed look to see none other than Bucky Barnes glowering in front of her.

“Can I help you?” She feigned innocence.

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, likely out of annoyance. But she didn’t care…Let him be annoyed.

She turned back to the stranger to find that he’d disappeared.

“What do you want Bucky?”

“What do I—“ he grazed a frustrated hand over his mouth, “What do I want? It doesn’t matter what I want Y/n. What matters is that I’m the only one you should even be near tonight, this might not be an official mission but that won’t stop people from talking”

“Apologies, I didn’t know you could even stand my presence”

He looked taken aback by this but before he could respond a woman backed into him, bumping him forward toward Y/n so that their chests were pressed together. He gripped onto Y/n’s wrist, seemingly for support as he stumbled slightly. The woman’s perfect olive-brown skin gleamed in the lights and she smiled at Bucky, a sweet smile that made him sigh and shake his head.

Y/n realized in an instant that this was the woman that Bucky had been talking to earlier. She had seen enough. She attempted to rip her hand away from his but he whipped his gaze back to her, his grip on her only growing tighter. It was then, just as Y/n was about to speak, that the overhead lighting dimmed and a mellow piano melody began to fill the large space.

She turned her head, noticing quickly with a groan the other drunken party-goers who were now forming pairs to partake in the slow dance.

Like a flower, waiting to bloom

Like a light bulb in a dark room

I’m just sitting here waiting for you

To come on home

And turn me on

Y/n’s heart ached at the DJ’s choice of song as she reached out, placing her other hand on Bucky’s strong shoulder. Lost to the music, her fingers brushed the swell of his muscle, tracing down to his collarbone. If she noticed how this movement made Bucky’s breathing hitch, she didn’t say anything about it.

“So now you want to play the part?” Bucky chuckled, raising a thick eyebrow in a light-hearted manner that she hadn’t seen directed at her in all the time she’d known him.

Like the desert

Waiting for the rain

A beat passed, a thoughtful silence settling between them.

“My father used to listen to this song…we’d waltz to it when I was a little girl, it was my mother’s favourite” Y/n admitted softly.

She winced then, looking up into Bucky’s steely eyes to measure his reaction, information about her abusive crime boss father wasn’t what she normally started conversations with. But his gaze was surprisingly soft.

“I’m sorry…” Bucky murmured, pulling her slightly closer.

Y/n sighed. She supposed all the Avengers had been briefed on her past when she first joined the initiative but she wasn’t sure. This confirmed that. A couple of years ago, Y/n had fled her father’s French crime organization, giving information to Nick Fury that would later contribute to the group’s effort to lock him up, neutralizing him as a threat for good. In a twisted way, she was glad that her father was no longer a danger to her or anyone else.

“Thank you” she whispered back, “I suppose it’s a bit of a weird father-daughter song anyway”

“Perfect for a weird father-daughter duo then” Bucky smirked playfully.

Y/n’s eyes widened before she let out a startled laugh. No one ever dared to joke with her about her past, especially about her father.

“Very true” a small smile spread across her lips.

She hesitated then, leaning forward to rest her head on Bucky’s shoulder. She found his planes of muscle were soft on her cheek, the quality of his expensive-looking suit surely helping with that.

I’m just sitting here

Waiting for you to come on home

And turn me on

Turn me on

The music faded out eventually but Y/n didn’t really notice.

BUCKY

Y/n was drunk and Bucky had forgotten what it felt like to be as the super soldier serum mostly prevented it. He did, however, remember the stories of him coming home sloshed and sloppy that Steve refused to let him forget…and sloshed and sloppy was exactly what Y/n was now.

“Come on doll” Bucky pushed softly as he guided Y/n through the compound hallways to where he hoped her room was located.

“Here, here—” she slurred her words as they reached the door, cutting herself off with a small burp.

Bucky tried not to laugh as he took in her drunken state. After they’d danced together for three of four more songs, Y/n and Bucky had rejoined the group who were then playing a ridiculous drinking game that someone had come up with. Bucky glared daggers at the tall, dark-haired man who had been dancing with Y/n before, who he learned was Loki, Thor’s mischievous brother. Besides that though, he had actually managed to have a pretty good time. It seemed, however, that Y/n, who’d drank double her weight in liquor, had an even better experience.

Y/n stumbled onto her bed, bending over with a huff as she tried to take off her ridiculously high heels. She pulled and pulled at the stubborn shoe, not realizing, in her state, that she had to undo the buckle first. Rolling his eyes, Bucky got to his knees before her.

“What are you doing Barnes?” she garbled.

“Taking off your shoes” he chuffed, “And you never call me that…”

“Well maybe I do now”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Fine, fine, ‘Bucky’ it is, though I don’t know why you’re insisting…” her eyes glazed over, “Unless you just like hearing me say your name”

A flame lit in Bucky’s eyes.

“Go shower” he commanded gruffly.

“M’kay” she agreed before stumbling into the bathroom, the moment forgotten, just another drunken thought that she’d likely forget by morning.

She left the door open as she did, allowing Bucky a full view of her as she stripped out of her fancy dress and the lacy lingerie beneath it. Tearing his eyes away from Y/n out of respect for her privacy was the least of his issues. What worried him now was the fact that she might slip. Sure enough, after a single minute passed, Bucky heard a small yelp coming from the steamy bathroom. His gaze snapped to the shower where Y/n was on the ground, her knees curled up to her chest. He ran into the room, opened the door to the shower and, being careful not to look, helped her to her feet.

“Are you hurt?”

The freezing cold water ran down his suit, soaking him to his core, but he didn’t care. When she didn’t answer he prodded again,

“Why didn’t you turn the water to be hot?”

“Because” she responded with a non-committal shrug.

Without another word, Bucky grabbed a fluffy towel from outside the shower and wrapped it around her, turning off the stream of now-warm water.

“Come” he ushered her to her bed.

He flipped open the plush sheets, helping her to settle between them.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” the words poured out of her with startling vulnerability.

“Because” he responded gruffly, repeating her seemingly nonchalant words from earlier.

“Because” she slowly whispered back, speaking into the dark, “Because…”

Bucky’s laugh was a quiet puff.

“No laughing” she drunkenly chided, though her smile was at odds with her words, “I’m tired”

“Then sleep doll” he caressed her forehead, making her hum with contentment.

Only when she had finally drifted off into a heavy, peaceful slumber, did he finally leave.

A/N - the three songs with lyrics used in the chapter are Shape of You by Ed Sheeran, Turn Me On by Norah Jones, and Give Me Everything by Pitbull, Neyo, AFROJACK and Nayer

requested account tags:

cjand10 identity2212 bucky-jbb-sunshine unaxv hnnhbananananana

#fanfiction #fanfic #marvel smut #marvel #marvel fanfic #avengers compound #the avengers #mcu #mcu fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky #bucky barnes

55 notes · View notes

larkspyrr · 5 months

Text

chapter vii — i see oceans in your soul (wc. 6k)

prev — masterlist / ao3 — next

reblogs are appreciated!

The sun had begun to dip below the crest of the hillside, casting the sky in swaths of pink and lilac and gold, when the riding party returned. The men approached the stables in small groups, as unruffled and dustless as they had been when they'd departed in their pristine white breeches and unwrinkled leathers. They wasted little time passing the reins to nearby stable boys before splitting off further still to return to their estates or parlors or gambling dens of choice.

Few of the gentlemen bothered to so much as look at you. None deigned to say hello. You felt about as significant to them as any of the towering pines they'd passed by on the well-trodden trails through the forest.

They had been gone a long while. You were lost in thought. Paquette had given you much to consider, indeed.

You hated everything about the role you were destined to play, the hand that fate had dealt you before you'd even committed the sin of being born. A mere prop for men to offer a fleeting glance to in passing before being left in their dusty wake, never to be remembered again but as a blur of muted color in a vast forest. A forest, beautiful in its entirety but composed of a million faceless souls, each striving for the sky and never able to reach it.

Inconsequential and unremarkable, forever rooted deeply in cold, unrelenting ground.

You shifted anxiously from foot to foot as you watched the oncoming procession and wondered just what you would say to Wriothesley about Paquette once he and Lucy finally descended the hill. You were sure he would ask.

You knew how big this day was going to be for the Fortress' vote. How important it was that Wriothesley make a good impression; how his performance on this ride would be more impactful for him than any number of dances with you on his arm ever could be, and you couldn't quite manage to bury the anxiety that accompanied the knowledge.

Ever little more than an ornament, even if Wriothesley had never treated you like you were fragile or unneeded. Never the one leading the dance, even if Wriothesley would have happily relinquished control to you the moment you wished it.

Ever the faceless pine. But not to Wriothesley — no, he saw you.

Did he even understand what that meant? To you, to the Court?

You wondered who Wriothesley would arrive with, which noblemen he’d have aligned himself with over the course of the afternoon. Which alliances he’d have carefully formed, stitched together thread-by-thread. You wondered if he’d treat you the same way the rest did now — like an accessory, not worth the breath it would cost to greet you.

You knew that the very men Wriothesley rode with were the ones who held the Fortress of Meropide’s future in their smooth, unblemished palms. You wondered if he’d have found a more reliable way to secure the vote for autonomy in his favor. You wondered if he’d discard you like an outdated Steambird once you were no longer a convenient pawn in his negotiations. Once you no longer served him, anyone, any use at all.

No use to anyone except Paquette, apparently.

Neither Wriothesley nor Paquette had appeared yet. Nor had your father.

Lord Paquette had stressed the importance of discretion in this matter and you had always prided yourself on being a woman of your word, even if you’d seldom been given the opportunity to exercise this sense of honor. Paquette had entrusted you with his request and asked for you to keep it to yourself.

He’d thrown you a length of rope, and you could either fashion it into a lifeline or a noose. Planks of wood, suitable to build either a raft or a gallows.

Far be it from you to betray someone’s trust the very moment it had been freely given to you; especially from one of the few who seemed to have looked at the trees in that beautiful wood and wondered just what they might become; what ships or palaces they might be fashioned into.

But did he carry an axe? What was he — what were you willing to do to find out?

And that didn't even include the promise of security were you to succeed.

You hesitated. Archons knew you wanted advice. You had known the man your whole life and he’d never seemed anything other than harmless, if a bit pompous, yet you couldn’t help the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You’d told Lord Paquette you’d think about it, but you weren’t sure what there even was to consider.

Would you be a fool to refuse? A fool to agree?

Why the insistence on discretion? Just what was in those documents?

And then that one, blaring question — why you, of all people? Surely there was less risk in asking another trusted, provably capable contact. Whispers of his staff and his longstanding relationship with your father aside, you had accomplished nothing which could prove you were capable of handling a posse of pantry rats, let alone a gang of Treasure Hoarders.

You had much to gain from this, if Paquette’s words were true, but if the documents were as vital as he implied, you found it hard to believe that he would take a leap of faith with you — the sheltered daughter of a friend who had nothing under her belt but a few rumors and a wisp of a dream.

Wriothesley could be trusted.

Couldn’t he?

He’d certainly given you no reason to doubt his integrity in the weeks that you’d known him — conspired with him. Even if that was partially due to the fact that he had even more at stake in this arrangement than you did.

For you, it was you and your family's future on the line.

For him, it was countless futures.

You'd seen little from the men you'd known in your life besides what they could gain from you. Wealth, power, children. Influence.

But with Wriothesley, the only thing he had ever asked from you was time. Fleeting moments, stolen across the expanse of one summer. Seconds you had been only too happy to give; would give freely again.

The expiration of Wriothesley's capacity to benefit from your arrangement was barely more than a week away. For you, it could be years that you needed to stall the court.

You couldn't ask him for years. You wouldn't. And even if you did, even if you were to ask him to sacrifice more of himself, it would only matter if—and only if—your father remained well.

And your father wasn't well; he could be gone, any day, any moment. If that happened... no courtship, fake or otherwise, could save you or your sisters from the cruel hand of fate.

Wriothesley's stakes were higher still and his deadline was imminent, yet you’d barely seen any of the urgency you had come to know so intimately, the desperation that had made its home in your chest and rattled its fists against your ribs when you thought about the dead end you barreled towards at breakneck speed. He handled everything with a dignity and grace that belied his situation. Where was his desperation?

Did he have fallbacks? Were you simply a fallback?

You knew the answer.

The Duke of Meropide was a cunning man. He would have backup plans for his backup plans. He’d played the nobility like a fiddle, despite having had no prior experience in navigating their shark-infested waters, despite an undeniably checkered past, for years before you’d ever met.

A strategic marriage — or the illusion of one — was all you had to offer. It was all anyone had ever wanted of you. Demanded from you. And yet he'd still chosen to give his seconds to you, too. Days that had nothing to do with appearances, nor charades; afternoons that were for you, and for him, and for moments when you hitched Lucy to a nearby tree and laid in the grass and just breathed.

He hadn't owed you those moments.

You were honest when you told him you had found something akin to a friend in him. You were honest when you said that it surprised you. You hadn’t had the words to properly convey the sentiment; the foreignness not of having a friend at all, but rather of finding someone who you felt was truly your equal, someone who you felt could understand you despite having next to nothing in common with you. Someone who could match you, blow for blow, someone who challenged and invigorated you, someone who didn’t shy away from you when you were at your worst. Someone you felt you could trust even with every reason not to. Someone that some fragmented shard of your soul longed to be near when you were apart. Someone in whose hands you could place your heart and know he would not break it; that he would treat it gently with those storied hands.

It terrified you. It gave him a fraction of your soul you weren't prepared to relinquish.

You couldn't think of him as a friend; let alone that unspecified, mystifying, petrifying more.

Clorinde's voice echoed in your mind, a memory from a lifetime ago. Famous last words.

This was an arrangement, a business deal, and nothing else. You had to make sure you remembered what your mission was and keep any misplaced sense of attachment out of it. You had to remember your goals.

At the end of the next week, the culmination of the summer, Wriothesley would have his vote, and you would let him go.

And you would have to find a different path forward. Alone.

You inhaled sharply at a gentle tap on your shoulder.

Blue eyes looked down at you in concern, his hair slightly more ruffled than usual after his ride. Lucy stood behind him, quietly observing you with her wise brown eyes.

Wriothesley tilted his head as he looked over you. After a beat, he set down his bag and wrapped his hand around your elbow, leading you away from the rest of the gentlemen and under the shade of a nearby cuihua. You went without resistance, but you knew that if you pulled away, he’d let go.

But you didn’t pull away. And he didn’t let go.

"You alright?" he asked quietly, fingers still curled around your bicep.

Kind eyes, disarmingly kind. His fingers seemed to burn your bare skin where they touched you. Every part of you wanted to confide in him. You wanted to tell him everything.

You bit back the urge.

“Yeah,” you said, suddenly finding it a bit harder to breathe. “I’m fine. Just lost in thought.”

His lips pulled into a tight line and he looked at you for a long moment. Worry still creased his face, unconvinced despite your reassurance that nothing was amiss. Finally he asked, “Can we talk?”

You managed to suppress your wince at the question. “Of course,” you said, hoping your false ease was enough to soothe his worry. “What’s on your mind?”

His gaze was calculating but gentle. You could almost see the gears turning in his mind, expertly plucking which words he was going to say. He exhaled slowly. You couldn’t exhale at all. “I need you to tell me what business Lord Paquette wanted to discuss with you.”

You wished he hadn't asked. You wished you wouldn't lie.

Your throat went dry behind the placid smile you offered Wriothesley, burying all the things that burned behind the mask you’d become so comfortable wearing.

“He only wished to arrange a marriage between his son and I, but I declined,” you said easily. “That was all.”

“You’re sure that was all?” he asked, taking your other arm in his hand as he leveled you with a searching gaze that made you want to fidget. Even if you wanted to look away, you couldn’t. The depths of his eyes seemed to go on forever—and it would be so, so easy to fall in. To surrender. “It’s important. If it was anything else, you need to say no.”

Your temper flared at his persistence; your favorite barrier. “I don’t need to do anything,” you clipped, pulling your arms free and taking a step away from him. His hands fell to his sides. “And of course I’m sure. Why would I lie to you?”

“Something isn’t right,” he rasped, voice hoarse, but he didn’t try to move closer again. “I overheard Thibeault talking with someone in the woods. I… didn’t catch a lot of it, but I have a bad feeling about this.”

You felt a pang deep in your chest and gritted your teeth. “Thibeault?” you scoffed. “I'd be more concerned if you didn't have a bad feeling about him.”

His jaw clenched; a muscle jumped. “Just be careful. Please.”

“I always am,” was all you said, and you turned away from him, making your way back to the stable. "See you Saturday."

Saturday came, you stepped out of the unusually silent office, letting the heavy office doors close behind you. The duke had been nowhere in sight. You had come to expect him seated in his usual perch, elegant pen in hand, tea nearby, gramophone warbling away, faithfully at his side.

You sighed, scanning the administrative floor and noting that barely any eyes glanced your way anymore — but when they did, their owners would offer you a cheerful greeting and a happy wave, no longer unsettled by your presence. You barely noticed the underlying scent of brine and rust in the Fortress’ air anymore; found comfort in the crisp clack of your heels against the gleaming bronze of the floor.

Wriothesley didn't seem to be anywhere on the administrative floor either. You sighed, turning and walking off to one of the offshoot pipes, nodding in thanks to the guards standing watch as you passed. They saluted respectfully, eyes warm.

You normally received a letter from Wriothesley halfway through the week to confirm plans for the upcoming weekend sessions. You weren't even sure you wanted an invitation, but when no missives had arrived by that Saturday morning, you made the decision on your own, and notified Molly that you would be making the journey after all. She had offered to come, but you declined; your father hadn't put up a fight either, waving you off from between another coughing fit that made your heart twinge. Chloe had looked at you from over the top of the massive, leather-bound tome she had been studying, waving you off with a blinding smile and a demand that you tell Wriothesley she said hello.

You hadn’t missed a Saturday boxing session in well over two months and you wanted to get some additional training in, so you made the trek down to the Fortress, invitation or not — knowing that if all else fails, Wriothesley would at least be there and you could wheedle and prod your way to a few turns in the ring. He was always easy for you to bully, though you had a feeling that he never terribly minded relenting to you.

Wriothesley hadn’t been in his office, but that alone wasn’t too rare and certainly hadn't caused a change of plan. You knew his work as warden often took him to other parts of the Fortress, but while you had gotten pretty familiar with its layout over the last few months, you had little interest in conducting a manhunt through the dim, winding pipework that afternoon.

You finally reached your next destination, knocking lightly on the heavy metal frame of the room’s entrance. Its solitary occupant was huddled over a desk between tidy, vacant cots, a thick stack of papers clutched in her little hands.

“Sigewinne?” you called softly.

The Melusine turned from her work, eyes wide, and offered you a beatific smile when she recognized you in her entryway. “Oh, hello!" Sigewinne chirped. "What are you doing here today?”

You grinned. “Oh, you know," you said sheepishly. "Here for another, uh. Appointment. Tea.”

She tilted her head, eyes sparkling and deceptively innocent. You were not fooled. “You mean to say you're here for another bout of base violence which I’m not supposed to know about?”

Your smile turned dry and you loosed a fond chuckle. “That too,” you admitted ruefully, shrugging a shoulder. “Though I have certainly appreciated your grace in continuing to pretend to not know about it.”

Sigewinne’s smile was blinding. “Just don’t wind up in my office with any hairline fractures after a spar like someone we are both acquainted with, and my lips will remain sealed.”

“You have my word, Head Nurse,” you said with a grateful nod of your head. Her topaz eyes twinkled playfully. “Speaking of, is he around?”

Her smile faded minutely. “No. He hasn’t been here,” she said slowly, a concerned wrinkle appearing above her brow. “He should be back the day after tomorrow.”

You frowned. “That long?”

Her eyes fell to the stack of papers that still were clutched in her hands. She set them down gently on the desk, laying one small palm flat on the top. Her fingers drummed along words too small for you to read, lost in thought. “That’s what he told me when he was heading out.”

“When was that?”

“Yesterday morning. And no, he wouldn’t tell me why either, even when I asked. He seemed… a little different. Off.”

You shook your head, as if that could clear the cobwebs that lived within. As if that could offer you the clarity you needed.

Three nights away? And he hadn’t mentioned anything about it last weekend?

What could have possibly changed in that time, to have brought about an unexpected, extended trip to the overworld?

Something oily and cold coiled in your gut.

“Okay, I will be back then,” you said, offering him the closest thing you could to a smile. You feared it wasn't very convincing. “Thank you, Sigewinne.”

Her expression was gentle, searching.

“Do take care,” she said at last.

The sun was low in the sky when you finally exited the elevator and stepped out into the terrace of the Opera Epiclese, having had plenty of time on the aquabus to make your decision. You took barely a moment to rest before setting off once more on foot.

By the time you arrived at your next destination, the sun was gone, the only evidence it had ever been there at all in the few remaining fingers of gold on the distant horizon. You passed by three separate pairs of gardemeks on your way up the path, each seeming to observe you warily with cold, unfeeling metal faces.

Your skin crawled under their vacant inspection.

You exhaled when you reached the dozen marble steps at last and knocked on the elaborate front door, knuckles rapping against an elegant whorl of silver maricottes.

The door opened to a familiar, well-dressed butler, who bowed his head shallowly at your greeting and stepped back, gesturing for you to enter the elegant foyer just beyond. You followed him inside.

“One moment, miss,” said the butler, whose name evaded you. “He’s been expecting you and will be down shortly.”

No sooner had he spoken the words had the man in question appeared at the top of the stairs, as though he had known you were coming before you had even known it yourself. He was still fully dressed, crisp and gleaming black suit jacket looking fresh off the rack, tufts of white fabric creeping up his neck.

Paquette’s brown eyes narrowed, lips tugged firmly down at either corner. “Please follow me.”

With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall, giving you barely a second to process before you darted up the stairs after him, your skirts bunched ungracefully in lace-gloved fists. Your thighs ached at the exertion after all the traveling you’d done throughout the day, but you ignored their protest as you fought to catch up with his retreating form, faster than you'd have expected from a man of his age and build. You followed him through winding hallways and finally into the only open door you had so far seen, an intimidating oak number adorned with brass embellishments depicting maritime imagery: his office. You'd never been inside it before, not even when you and Paquette's son would play as kids. The room was always strictly off-limits.

Even now, you felt as though you were breaking a rule by crossing the threshold; couldn't help but anticipate the tell-tale shrieking of Lady Paquette as she came barreling down the hall, equipped with a dainty fan and a thorough tongue-lashing.

But the estate remained silent. Paquette closed the door gently behind you, brushing past and taking a seat at the chair behind an enormous desk, made of a solid, dark wood that demanded respect. You daintily perched in the chair opposite the solid behemoth of a thing, feeling dwarfed by the overbearing presence of the half-dozen faces glaring down at you from within their canvas prisons along the four walls, their similarly-shaped eyes blank and colorless. Paquettes long passed.

“Lord Paquette,” you said by way of greeting, tearing your eyes away from the heavy gazes of the portraits and focusing your attention solely on the man before you. “You’ve acquired more security since last I visited.”

He grunted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms in front of his stout torso. “It's good you've come. I’m afraid it seems that the timeline for our deal has just narrowed significantly,” he said brusquely, making your shoulders tense. He coughed delicately into his hand before folding it back into his elbow; dark, tired circles beneath his eyes. “I have come to learn that there has been some… snooping into my personal affairs.”

Your brows furrowed and alarm bells sounded in your mind, bright and boisterous and warning. “Was there a robbery, sir? Again?”

His scowl deepened. “Of sorts. Though I cannot seem to place what has been taken this time or what the goal was precisely, I can hazard a guess as to what it pertains to.” His face was hard as stone. “And who the perpetrator may be. My office has been rifled through and everything is amiss. I need an answer soon. If you are not... up to the task, I will need to make other arrangements. Swiftly.” He narrowed his eyes at you. "As well as reconsider my alliances. I shouldn't assume that you have betrayed my trust, should I? I have a witness who claims to have seen the suspected intruder, and I must say, their description seems to closely align with a certain... individual you have allied yourself with of late."

You didn’t allow yourself time to ponder who might have broken into the Paquette Estate. Who might have had knowledge and reason to snoop through the Lord’s paperwork. You barely registered the challenge in Paquette's words over the roaring in your ears, the faint anger that crept up your spine like a little, many-legged thing.

Fool.

"I'm afraid I don't know to what you are referring, sir," you said with deadly calm. "I assure you, I have betrayed nothing and no one. And regardless, none of my... allies would ever do such a thing, at my behest or otherwise."

"Be sure they do not. It doesn't bode well for him," he warned, and you didn't fail to note the pronoun usage. "As it would be laughably easy to convince the Courts that he is a repeat offender should he choose to interfere any further. Nor would it end well for you and your family. The dishonor of it. You understand, I presume?"

You understood indeed.

You understood how thoroughly the choice had been taken away from you; even if you doubted you'd ever truly had a choice at all.

Lord Paquette's influence was vast indeed, and if he were to believe you had sold him out —

You had to earn Paquette's favor. To earn Paquette's favor was to earn the favor of the peerage. You had to demonstrate your honor.

The very honor which had you speaking again.

"I came here because I need an answer from you before I give you mine," you said resolutely. "So I ask again: what is the nature of these documents? And why me? I deserve to know."

Paquette's face gave nothing away and he was silent for a long, long while. Finally, he spoke. "...If you insist," he sighed. "The papers contain information regarding certain financial transactions that implicate several members of our esteemed court in some... unsavory dealings. Your father included."

You felt weak as the words hit you one-by-one, like blows to the head. You seemed unable to process them. Your mind felt doused in molasses.

Lord Paquette only watched.

"What?" you breathed.

"I have known you a long time and I know how deeply you value your family. I chose you because I knew you could be trusted if you were made to understand just precisely what was on the line here." He regarded you coldly. "I won't mince words, girl. These papers would destroy me. If you are able to recover them, all of our problems would be fixed. Mine. Yours." He leaned forward then, resting his forearms on the desk. "Since you were so keen on knowing the nature of these documents, you will be the one to recover them. You are complicit. If you do not comply with my request, I will be ruined and I will take you and your family with me. And that wretched so-called duke of yours for good measure. Am I clear?"

Your blood froze in your veins. "Is Wriothesley involved?"

"Not in this... affair," Paquette said, lip curling in disgust. "In this, at least, he is innocent. And I would like for him to remain uninvolved. I will forgive this one nighttime foray of his, as a gesture of good faith and to demonstrate that I am a generous man. But if he enjoys the luxury of his cheap mockery of freedom and nobility, you will bring your rabid dog to heel. I don't care how you do it, but keep him away. If he exhausts my patience, I will not hesitate to ensure that he never sees the light of day again. And my patience is running thin."

You had never imagined Lord Paquette to be capable of such... malice. Such hatefulness.

Your stomach churned and you worried you might be sick.

"You were my father's friend," you said softly.

He only scoffed. "We were never friends. It was just convenient for us to pretend we were."

He would destroy you if you refused. Destroy it all.

You would do it. You had to. Your cooperation would save you; save Wriothesley, even, if you played your cards right; as misguided and stupid as his actions had been.

Celestia damn it all.

You thought, long, hard, trying to find the correct path forward.

You saw only one.

You would acquiesce, but not without getting one more thing from him in return. You weren't even sure you could trust Paquette, but you owed it to Wriothesley to try.

Your eyes blazed as they held Paquette's. “I understand," you said evenly. "But if I am to help you, there is one more thing we need to discuss."

Two days later, you returned to the Fortress of Meropide, once again alone and unannounced.

Everything was about to change if all went according to plan. Which it surely would.

You would do anything to ensure that it would.

Even if it shattered you to do it.

The guards exchanged questioning looks at your unexpected weekday appearance, but made no comment. They observed as you heaved open the colossal bronze doors without assistance and ascended the curving staircase within to the office space above, trailing iridescent navy silks behind you. You were gone before the door had even clicked shut once more.

Wriothesley looked up from his desk as you reached the top of the stairs, eyes sharp as though he had been expecting business — then his pen sagged in his hand when he found you instead, scarred fingers slackening, the only sign you would get from him to indicate his shock.

You felt irrational anger heat your face; at this display of innocence you knew to be false. At how he could sit there, filling out exit paperwork with a cup of oolong like he hadn't a care in the world.

At the fact that he had no idea what his actions had cost. Like he hadn't been a mere hair's breadth away from throwing your family's future away — his future away.

You didn't know what he had found in Paquette's office. But you needed to get him to keep his distance.

For everyone's sake. Your family's. The Fortress'.

For his sake.

Wriothesley set his pen down carefully, eyes never leaving your face.

You scowled. “Have something you want to discuss?”

He sighed and stood from his desk, walking around it slowly, so very slowly to lean against its front. For all his bravado, he couldn't conceal the caution in his blue eyes. Not from you, not right now. “What do you mean?”

You barked a laugh at the absurdity of it all, an unfriendly and abrupt sound that widened Wriothesley’s eyes, putting the tiniest crack in his facade. “Don’t start. Where, pray tell, have you been the last few days?”

The surprise slid from his face so smoothly it was almost like it had never been there at all, his mouth pulled once more into a tight, straight line. Practiced neutrality. He quirked a brow. “It’s none of your concern,” he said evenly.

“I think it is my concern.” You took a step toward him, still casually leaning against the curve of the desk. "That isn’t going to fly with me. Cut the bullshit."

He didn’t look away for a moment that definitely felt longer than it actually was. You tried to gauge his behavior, priming yourself to deconstruct whatever it was he would try to pass as truth next.

Then he shifted, his posture relaxing. “I was investigating this mysterious ‘job’ Paquette gave you that you didn’t want to tell me about,” he said flatly, knocking the air out of your lungs in one fell swoop.

You gaped at his blunt confession. You'd suspected his guilt, but never in a thousand years had you expected him to admit to it. "You had no right to do that."

"I don’t care."

"You broke into his estate, Wriothesley!" you hissed. His eyes flicked to the stairs in brief alarm but you ignored it, barreling onward. "What in Teyvat were you thinking? You want to maintain control of the Fortress, but what do you think they’ll do when they realize the man who is supposed to be in charge is burgling the aristocracy? When they think that I have sold them out?"

He scoffed. “Oh, they think nothing of the sort, and they’ve overlooked worse than breaking and entering, I assure you,” he said dryly. “I didn’t take anything.”

"They do think it," you snapped. "My honor was called into question. He already suspects it was you and that I am the one who gave you the tip — Paquette told me as much. And the nature of the crime doesn’t make it any better, it's still a crime, as someone in your position should very well know."

Wriothesley just shook his head, the dim light still somehow managing to catch the blue of his eyes. You couldn’t identify what emotion it was that glinted off of them. He pushed himself off the desk and took a step toward you, passing under a pillar of bronze light.

You allowed his approach, standing your ground. You lifted your chin, partly in defiance, partly to meet his gaze as he rose to his full height, to not give the impression that you were lesser than. Not to give him the satisfaction of your submission.

He stopped not two feet from you. “You lied to me,” he rasped, and you identified the emotion then, as the light from the window cut across the lines of his face, the hard edge of his jaw, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Anger. And fear. “And I knew you lied. I was not about to let you walk into a trap. If you weren’t going to tell me, then fine. I’d figure it out myself.”

Your heart raced. Your blood burned. Your breathing became shallow.

You pushed your traitorous heart aside.

“You're right,” you admitted, bracing your knees against the tremor that threatened to rattle them. “I did lie. Paquette gave me an opportunity which I have never had before and I wasn't about to give it up. This could fix everything, Wrio. And it has nothing to do with you."

The gramophone played a jaunty waltz from its place on the desk, oblivious to the tension in the room. You’d become so used to it being there during your visits that you hadn’t noticed it at all, dutifully carrying on through the smog of your tumultuous exchange.

His jaw clenched. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked at last, frustration weighing on each syllable. “I could help you.”

You didn’t dare look away, didn’t dare let him see how deeply the words cut. How badly you wished you could let him. How desperately you wished things were different, that you had been born into a different world, a different time, that you had met under different circumstances. That you could be honest.

And if you were being honest, you wished that your charade could have lasted just a little while longer, lies or no. You wished you could have held it in your hands and not watched it seep through your fingers like afternoon sand. You wished you could have stolen that final week, placed it carefully on a shelf to cherish on rainy days.

But you couldn't.

“I don’t need your help,” you said petulantly, keenly aware of the distance between you slowly closing in but unwilling to be the one to relent. “I need you to back off," you said, searching desperately for the correct combination of words to get through to him. "Paquette asked me to keep everything we discussed to myself. Certain parties might decide to take advantage of the situation." You gritted your teeth painfully. "A concern you have now validated for me."

His eyes flashed dangerously. He was standing too close. You couldn't think. "What's that supposed to mean?"

“It means exactly what you think it does,” you spat, noting the exposed nerve and winding up to strike it again. “You have a lot to gain and even more to lose. Do you think I'm not aware of the influence Lord Paquette has? How many members of the court respect his word? You would be stupid not to see an opportunity here, Wriothesley, and while you're many things, stupid is not one of them.”

Realization dawned on his face as he took the bait. “You can't be serious,” he said incredulously, the collected mask slipping further away from him. “You thought I was going to poach the job to gain Paquette's favor?”

“Or blackmail him to get your way.”

“Oh, of course," he said sarcastically. "It's so nice to hear what you really think of me.”

"Do old habits not die hard?" you retorted. "If Paquette had thought for one second that I had something to do with your little criminal escapade, or that I’d sold him out, not only would I be finished, but so would my family. As would you, as I'm sure you are well —”

"I was investigating him,” he cut in, his breathing uneven. "I don't trust him."

Your fists clenched at your sides. If your nails pressed any harder into your palm, they’d draw blood. "You don't need to trust anything because this doesn't concern you. Back. Off."

"That man I heard talking with Thibeault — I think it was Paquette," Wriothesley said slowly, deliberately, as if he were speaking to a wild animal he was afraid to spook.

"You 'think'," you said, hating the cruel and mocking tone of your voice but unable to stop yourself. "Convenient for you. Not exactly admissible, is it? You said you couldn’t even hear everything they were saying."

"I heard enough. Please," he said, taking another step, barely a foot away from you now. He lifted a hand toward yours; his open, yours clenched into a fist. "Just this once, please trust me."

He wasn't listening. You weren't doing a good enough job at driving him off.

Stubborn fool. Sweet, wonderful man.

"I can't. You could never understand," you said, hating how your voice broke, moving your hand away before he could reach you. You blinked away the heat in your eyes.

His hand dropped and he exhaled shakily. He smiled, but you’d never seen anything sadder. “You really think so little of me?” he breathed. “I’m trying to protect you.”

Something in you fractured. Your head and heart ached with the words, at the way they seemed to click something into place in your mind, some puzzle piece that you had been purposefully avoiding these past months. The urgency in that one sentence easily outmatched anything you had ever sensed from him before that moment.

There was the desperation.

You had to get him to stop looking at you like that. You had to get him to look away.

He couldn't get involved.

“It doesn’t matter what I think of you,” you said, stepping back. Away. "I have to do what’s best for me and mine, just like you do, and I can’t have you jeopardizing that. I never asked for your protection. I don’t want it."

Wriothesley was deathly pale. "I thought we were friends."

The words struck you like a sword and you felt a crack, somewhere deep in your soul that you had always assumed was safe and out of reach. The rippling fractures allowed the sea to rush in, silt and brine, slowly drowning the light that had lived within, stifling the life that had slumbered there, dormant, before it could properly take root and flourish.

You crumpled.

Wriothesley hadn't meant to hurt you with the words; you didn't think that his intention, at least. He looked earnest, sounded sincere.

Handed you his own demise.

You ached, picking up the blade he had used for the blow and turning it back on him.

One cut, smooth and quick, if not painless, and he'd be free.

It was always destined to end this way, you realized. You were never meant to have it all.

You shrugged, shoulders heavier than lead, schooling your face into an expression of cool detachment. Willing the feeling from your face, banishing the wetness from your eyes. You breathed, a slow in-and-out to regain some semblance of control over your body.

You then allowed yourself to look at him then, really look at him; letting your gaze flick over his mussed, sleepy hair, the scar along his cheek whose story you never got to hear. Let it linger on the gentle, blue eyes that contained an entire world within them, an entire ocean, more captivating than the grand windows overlooking the Fontemer you had still never tired of.

You let yourself commit this version of him to memory, etch the stanzas of an eternal, glittering summer into your heart; You let yourself brand him into your soul for as long as you could get away with it.

The moment you allowed yourself ended.

"We were never friends, Wriothesley,” you said, almost choking on every word — every lie — you uttered, nausea slamming into you as you echoed the words of a man you hated more than anything; anything except yourself. “It was just convenient for us to pretend we were."

Wriothesley said nothing. Did nothing.

You smoothed out your dress absently, desperate to focus on anything other than the man before you, silent as a grave. “I think it’s probably best if we bring our arrangement to an end,” you continued, shattering the roaring silence. The words tasted like ash on your tongue.

It continued for what seemed like an eternity.

“If that’s what you wish,” Wriothesley finally said.

You dared a glance. His face gave nothing away, stoic and even and devoid of emotion.

“It is,” you said simply. “Your vote is next week. Feel free to continue allowing the others to believe we are an item if it still suits your needs. There are no further events to attend. The social season is nearly over.”

“So it is," he agreed. "Thank you for your company these past months." His polite smile didn't reach his eyes as he dipped his head. "And good luck."

“Thank you as well,” you replied, using your years of routine propriety as a crutch, as a shield, and lowered into a deep curtsy. Bowed down, you were grateful you could no longer see his face, at the cold mask he had once again secured there. “Good luck to you as well. Goodbye, Your Grace.”

And you turned away, and left.

The journey back to surface was a blur. You ran, putting as much distance between you and the Fortress as you could, as quickly as you could, not noticing anything as you passed an entire world, a world you had come to love by.

Your dress, dripping wet with stale seawater, snagged on something and tore as easily as wet paper. You didn't spare it a glance.

By the time you reached the Opera Epiclese, the sun had vanished, and it was raining, and your body ached, and you couldn't breathe.

Your face turned to the sky, allowing the water to run down your cheeks, down the column of your neck, to disappear into the collar of your ruined dress. Rain, perhaps. Perhaps not.

For the first time, you allowed yourself to break apart. You allowed the wave that had been creeping up on you wash everything else away, every lie and facade, every false and unkind word that you had sharpened like a blade in order to protect yourself.

When the tide receded, only one thing was left.

It felt like grief.

a/n: title from 'scared' by jeremy zucker. i love that there is no shortage of songs with ocean symbolism for me to osmose like a low concentration solution

sorry i took a bonus week, this one was a monstrosity and really kicked my ass im ngl. i have not been looking forward to hurting them and writing it really did not spark joy LMAO

it took me a bit longer than i expected to get it to a point where i was kinda happy with it but lbr im still probably gonna come back and tweak it once i've let it rest for a few days, as is my wont. i was hoping to get this out on wrio's birthday but i was late :(

#wriothesley #wrio #wriothesley x reader #wrio x reader #genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin imagines #reader insert #reader inserts #lark.writes #🌊

43 notes · View notes

faithfromanewperspective · 7 months

Text

sugar coated brain (the fluid ain’t to blame): unraveling Conor Aurelian

I don’t know if this is me admitting to have read embarrassingly little in terms of Actual Books since I turned 18 but. Wow. I loved sword catcher, and for once I was there eating up the plot rather than only relating to the characters so much I was obsessively hoping for a happy ending for them.

I’ve said before that sword catcher was good, so good it’s almost above fandom discourse (like a Beethoven symphony perhaps, you think twice before making arrangements of a masterpiece like that) but even the best symphonies deserve, actually they’re honoured by, critical analysis of the phrasing and melodies and that which are used. And this is a Cassandra Clare book after all. The beauty comes from beautifully (read: realistic, somehow more human than real humans idk I’m blown away every time) constructed characters, and then from the plot. Which was character-driven and so, so delicious, but we’re not talking those kind of spoilers this early in the game.

While I’ll admit that Kel was the most relatable character, followed by Lin or maybe Ana, there were some things about Conor that just cut a little too close in ways I hadn’t thought about in years. Taking me back to some worldbuilding of my childhood, a ‘reluctant princess’ I came up with based on feeling trapped and overprotected and that fantasy world has long since been archived in my head and it’s entertaining to think this weird kid in western sydney who didn’t get to run quite as wild as some of the other kids (but still did get to run quite wild) felt like that when we were the furthest thing from royalty. I didn’t expect to be reminded of that in an adult fantasy book, but here we are, and I’m being entertained to see all the different takes on Conor: some driven to fascination, some to annoyance, and somehow in the 5 of us who’ve actually read sword catcher already everything in between.

But let’s be real for a second: who hasn’t heard the ‘oh you can’t be depressed you have everything you need’ and been like. Really hurt by it?? Who hasn’t sat among know it all adults in their younger years who would just judge the hell out of other young people who supposedly ‘never got to hear no’ and now they have ‘no resilience’ and ‘no wonder they’re having problems’? Referring to people you actually relate to and thought, well this definitely isn’t a safe space to be vulnerable I’ll just suffer in silence? I’ve grown up enough now to see Lin’s trauma behind the way she says this about Conor but part of me is still a little mad at her. As for Conor?? He’s everything I’d expect from someone in his position and I actually don’t think the majority of it comes from ‘never hearing no’ and ‘getting everything he wants’ but rather the things that those try to make up for: a lack of real autonomy over his life, not being allowed to feel Normal Child Feelings, having no one he can relate to and see as an equal, a heavy burden of responsibility before he was ever old enough to understand it, and the many levels of fuckery that’s all done to his parents making them not just emotionally unavailable but frivolous, trying to maintain their own autonomy and connection doing silly little rich people hobbies that just make the divide between and resentment of them vs Every Other Person greater (constant stargazing or Decoration and Control). Sugar-coated brains: how could they not be when everything revolves around you but there’s so little you can actually do but pursue the pleasure you’re told you’re entitled to?

I didn’t expect to be this mad at the royal family culture within SC but when I look back on it I’m not surprised. Not when the setting of the book is on the edge of a revolution, the unraveling of a society that feels so much like today and allows me to zoom out in a way that makes my little revolutionist heart happy. But oh, the angst and the bad decisions as the world teeters on that razorblade. The lives that are lost in the fray. I don’t know what’s happening in our world now but after Cast Long Shadows and an arc I know that she’s proud of (our dear Matthew Fairchild) I do trust Cassie. And in the meantime I’ll let her convince me of what I already know: the lives of nobility are simply pawns in a much bigger game no one (except maybe Ana) knows how to take the reins of, and the life of a pawn, no matter the luxuries, is a sorry life indeed.

This little revolutionist brain of the 2000s had one thing right, and I feel vindicated to see it in such clarity here: the relationship between social class and genuine connection. From the stark contrast of the opening with Cas and Kel, even also Mari and Lin, against the disaster that is the royal family, it couldn’t be clearer to me: when you’re nobody, when there are no expectations of you, you can be who you really are. Maybe not in the eyes of the authorities, and that’s an important distinction to make, but there’s no need to pretend around your nearest and dearest and sometimes that’s worth so much more than hypothetical safety. Because yes you can get away with things when you’re rich but you’ve also got more people trying to assassinate you for who you are specifically rather than just running the risk of getting killed because you’re unlucky and too unimportant for anyone to think you’d be missed. When you’re royalty (or just have parents with really high expectations or are a gifted kid even) you’re given a mold to grow into and no one really asks if that’s who you really are: why would they, when their worldview depends on you being exactly who they want you to be? So if you’re not it you pretend and even with those, like your children, who are close enough to see behind the ruse, you never quite show them who you really are either. You can see how that would drive one insane. You showcase that the only way to exist is to mask until you snap, or lose the ability to be yourself at all. Which leads me to the second type of sugar coat.

(And I’m quoting songs as my inspo behind this post as always, title quote is empty wallets by 5sos and I’m about to move onto sugar coat by little big town aka the band with an irl fairchild in it): this sugar coat is politeness and etiquette. There’s a quote somewhere in Kel’s narration I believe that I can’t find but basically views social etiquette and the like as you know. War strategy or something, which is another little segment of the reminder it’s cassie writing this and there’s a lot of accidental neurodivergence, or neurodivergence existing in a world so very different to ours, because that’s a very neurodivergent way of viewing it imo. And in this case, the sugar coat is like a constructed mask you spend your whole life trying to perfect, wear it as it’s handed down from your predecessors: in Conor’s case, lilibet (passed down from my mum, she wears it so well, put it on my shoulders said it’s colder out there than you think/would I recognise myself, would anybody else, if I took the damn thing off and burned it up?) who does make the frivolity and politics of being queen into her whole personality. She’s equally a pitiable and annoying character for that.

But as for Conor? He’s a Cassandra Clare Created (TM) young man. Of course he can’t quite manage this kind of sugar coat business. The politeness, the etiquette, the little social dances: he longs for real connection (and now we’re back in empty wallets territory, get you high when I’m high, so we see eye to eye: to me this sums out how he makes connections with those who are nowhere near his equals but he wants to have some sort of equal footed connection with: Kel and *[redacted minor spoiler, see below cut]). He’s snapping from the pressure of it, and that’s exactly the kind of driving force for the narrative Cassie uses excellently. We see him coming undone, and hate it (or at least I do) but hope maybe, maybe it’s the path for liberation for him from the life that’s obviously making him (more) depressed (than he otherwise might be), and as the audience we don’t care if the kingdom burns down for this, as long as it doesn’t cause too much collateral damage. And we know it’s going to be a wild ride to get there.

I don’t reckon this is obvious to everyone else but it is to me, with my experience of Christianity and life and just everything that if you’re a leader in any way, you’re a better leader for being liberated in yourself, having autonomy and appropriate boundaries and Conor has none of that and he’s coming undone and yes there’s a lot of other characters (who I will post about later) with their own arcs and A LOT going on (seriously it’s so deliciously complex and so much more so than tsc ever was with maybe the exception of tec which is kind of adult fantasy anyway). But oh. She really knows how to deliver, all through the first book and I can’t wait to see what the next one has to offer!! And to me the characterisation of Conor is just proof on how expertly the whole world of Castellane and it’s stories is being carried out.

BIG GAP CAUSE CUT ISNT WORKING

*and Lin later on, kind of

tagging: @daisymylove and feel free to mention anyone who might like it in comments/reblogs!

#sword catcher #cassandra clare #conor aurelian #I TRIED SO HARD TO MAKE IT UNSPOILERY #and genuinely don’t think it is?!?#not spoilery #I checked again #sword catcher deep dives #<-is that a new tag I see?

25 notes · View notes

himebushou · 1 year

Note

do you think kazuki will beat himself up over rei irreversibly damaging his own arm? rei did do so for their sake after all...

Hi! So I’m going to have to start by apologising – originally, I was hoping to scoop up some screencaps to underline my thoughts, but it’s a bit late over here so I’ll just go on memory, lol

Long story short: If Kazuki does experience any guilt over Rei’s arm, he internalises that feeling and keeps it very much to himself. For me, I think it’s more likely that Kazuki just accepts that it was something that Rei felt that he had to do – and, as such, Kazuki supports him 100%.

Long story long: I’ve mentioned before that one of the really special things about Rei and Kazuki’s bond is the sheer level of trust they have in one another, even though they don’t always verbally communicate their hardships. Kazuki and Rei are two men who, when they devote themselves to a decision, do so with almost terrifying conviction.

With the exception of Episodes 10 and 11, where their world was thrown into disarray because of Misaki, Kyuu-chan and Ogino, Kazuki and Rei, after committing their lives to looking after Miri in Episode 3, never question their choice. Instead, they both accept their new dynamic as the new status quo and neither of them ever begrudge it (I mean, Kazuki ‘vents’ to Kyuu-chan in Episode 7 about having to do all the housework and there’s some tension in Episode 5 where they try to balance being papas with working, but on the whole, there’s never any ill will about the fact that they’re caring for a tiny person). We can see, therefore, that Kazuki and Rei are both pretty flexible – Kazuki a bit more so than Rei, but if we consider that Rei, who was ‘like a robot’, signalled that he was Miri’s papa within a month of meeting her, we can appreciate that he’s pretty dang adaptable, too.

That trust is communicated in other ways, too. Kazuki’s the one who collects their payments from Kyuu-chan (Episode 1). Kazuki’s the one who keeps an eye on the household finances (Episode 5). That alone speaks volumes. They’re living under Rei’s roof. In Episode 2, when Kyuu-chan asks whether they’re ready to take on a new job, all Kazuki and Rei have to do is briefly nod at one another to know that they’re on the same page.

But here’s the key point: when Kazuki or Rei makes a decision, the other doesn’t question it. For instance, in Episode 3, when the family embark on a quest to return Miri from whence she came, Rei asks Kazuki whether he’s sure, but he doesn’t argue the point (admittedly, this was pre-Papa Rei). In Episode 11, when Rei says that he’s going back to the Suwa mansion, Kazuki is momentarily surprised, but expresses his understanding – and then goes off to vent to Kyuu-chan. Once again, we can see that the pair are forceful with stupid things – such as when Kazuki drags Rei to the daycare interviews in Episode 4, or hauls Rei around the zoo in Episode 6 – but when it comes to big decisions, they respect one another’s autonomy.

The way they respect each other’s boundaries is so, so important. Rei was raised to have zero autonomy and yes, Kazuki takes liberties, but he doesn’t infringe on Rei’s lifestyle or try to force him to change. Similarly, Kazuki’s lack of control over a situation led to the biggest losses in his life – it’s understandable, therefore, that he goes to extreme lengths to try and control what’s going on (as Rei notes in Episode 8, Kazuki’s ‘overprotective’).

How does this all relate to Rei’s arm?

In Episodes 10 and 11, Rei and Kazuki have their first real disagreements – because they’re literally fighting for their lives, including the life that they’ve built together with Miri. They reach a conclusion quite rapidly; Rei expresses what he wants and Kazuki throws his heart into it, but lays down some ground rules. Having done that, having sworn to Kyuu-chan that they’ll move forward properly and be a family, this time with renewed conviction, I think Kazuki and Rei both knew that the other was prepared to do whatever was necessary to secure that future.

Therefore, when Rei staggers out of the Suwa mansion, bloodied but free, and says, “I did it to myself,” Kazuki… gets it in a heartbeat. He understands. He appreciates that Rei did what he had to do.

And, rather than angst over that and wallow in a fugue, or make Rei question whether the sacrifice was worth it… Kazuki knows any sacrifice is acceptable for protecting the life that the trio have together.

Kazuki, therefore, supports his partner 100%. The same way he always has done. The same way he always will do.

#buddy daddies #kurusu kazuki #suwa rei #asks #this ended up being a whole essay #looking at just some of the reasons why i love kazuki and rei so much #thanks for the ask!

50 notes · View notes

too-destiny-panda · 6 months

Text

Wyllvember Day 12: Astarion

A/N: Argh, I'm late for this one! I promise I didn't mean to, I was tired and went to sleep without realizing I didn't write my daily share. I promise that Day 13 will come out later today! Credits go to @sagscrib, additionally tagging @commander-yinello

WC: 699

Among the Blade of Frontiers’ many duties to the folk, monster hunting was one the most important ones. After all, monsters came in many forms, whether it be a necrotic bear, a rampant demon, or a regular looking person with a kind smile and sharp eyes. Now, Wyll is the first to admit that despite often being swept up in the moment and not listening to his quarry’s justification, not all monsters are, well, monsters. Sure, they may look cursed, with hooks protruding from their spine or far too many eyes to count, but other than their looks, they could be entirely harmless. Sometimes, if luck is on his side, he was even able to lift whatever magic ailed them. Vampires, however, were a different story.

Despite never having fought one or met one, from his travels he knew that true vampires were rarely, if ever, inclined to feel remorse. True vampires were beings of power, always seeking more, always seeking a way to the sunlight. And they had no consideration for those around them, for the lesser beings. They created spawn to serve them, do their every bidding whether said spawn wanted to or not. They were truly cruel creatures. But, whether it be a vampire spawn or true vampires, they had one thing in common other than needing blood to sustain themselves. The couldn’t walk in the sun.

Which is why when he met Astarion, the thought of him actually being a vampire didn’t even cross the Blade’s mind. He looked like one, with his pale skin and red eyes, but seeing as he walked freely in the sun and wasn’t prancing around biting people in the cover of the night, he figured it was just a happenstance of the gene pool, nothing more, nothing less.

That was until about four days after he had met him when Tav got up slowly, head obviously woozy, and immediately made a bee-line for the rogue, sporting fresh bite marks on their neck. His monster hunter instincts were on high alert, but after a brief conversation between Astarion and their leader, with some interjections, it was established he would only feed on their enemies. Anything more and he would swiftly meet his end.

For the next few days, he watched Astarion, mostly out of habit, but also because of his concerns about his presence. Despite the fact the elf was no longer under the control of his master, they weren’t out of the woods yet. True vampires despised losing practically more than anything, loss a testament to the fact that their power was not absolute and that their continued existence was not guaranteed. Cazador would most certainly send someone, something, after Astarion to bring him back under his control. Of course, the tadpole would prevent him from exercising his psychic hold on him, but he likely wouldn’t care, as long as the former magister didn’t stray far.

Once Wyll got over his apprehension of this new revelation, he didn’t pay much mind to Astarion. Their views of the world clashed at almost every turn, with their fighting styles being possibly the only thing to work together. Of course, despite being practically opposites personality-wise, they weren’t at each other’s throats, mostly just acknowledging each other’s presence, throwing in some light banter while on the road. They weren’t friends, but trusted allies didn’t have to be friends.

After Wyll’s forced transformation, Astarion expressed his sympathies. He knew what it felt like to have his bodily autonomy stripped away in just a moment, without having a say in what happens to you by a greater power. They bonded with each other over this, a quiet understanding forming between them, which only deepened after Raphael offered the vampire a deal. Thankfully, it wasn’t a binding contract like he had with Mizora and they got a satisfying, though terrifying, answer to Astarion’s questions.

And when they finally got to Baldur’s Gate, both of them readying themselves to confront their pasts, Wyll vowed to at the very least do his best to make sure that his companion didn’t become another Cazador, while Astarion promised himself he would discreetly suck anyone that looked at Wyll wrong dry.

#wyllweek #wyllvember #wyll ravengard #bg3 wyll #blue writes #astarion #bg3 astarion

7 notes · View notes

naiadnb · 11 months

Text

i truly believe the trans community has got to start openly and loudly supporting detrans folks. i wanna share my story with y'all, and it is long and possibly triggering? and i say at least one nsfw thing. but i feel like a lot of trans people only ever see detrans stories weaponized against them, and therefore there's a good chunk of the trans community that has (understandably) a lot of vitriol towards detrans people. so since it's pride month, i wanted to talk a minute about being a nonbinary detrans person.

when i first started learning about trans and nonbinary identities, i knew pretty much immediately that i was nonbinary. i was in high school by the time i found out that you could be a different gender than the one on your birth certificate, and i was over the fucking moon. problem was, i was a homeschooled navy brat pastor's kid 3 for 1 combo and so my literal Only exposure to any world outside of patriarchal gender & sexuality norms was.... you guessed it! tumblr.

tumblr around 2013-2015 was a pretty weird and vitriolic place to be nonbinary. half the site claimed you were faking, the other half was trying to lure you in by spouting the weirdest genders on god's green earth. (i love y'all go wild with ur genders that's just not my brand of existence.) so like.... i picked a side? i decided when i was around 15 that being nonbinary was kinda cringe and from that point on i identified as a trans guy.

cue fighting with my parents for like 7 years about the whole existence of trans people, the idea that i was a trans people, this weird belief i had that i should have bodily autonomy, and this weird belief that they had that pretty much anything could be cured if you prayed hard enough (from anxiety to cancer to, surprise, transgenderism)

the only way i came out of that fight as myself was through transitioning. i very loudly expressed that i Would do what i wanted with my body, and they had no right to control me. when i started t shots, i was 19, and i loved it.

i was euphoric every time i got gendered correctly by a stranger, i celebrated the first time i shaved real beard hairs from my face, it was beautiful. genuinely. i was part of a community of other trans guys ("guys" here ranging from "100,000% binary ftm transsexual" to "transmasc nb who's just happy to be here") and we loved each other hard.

i think i started consciously having to push away real doubts about continuing to transition when i was pursuing top surgery. i really, truly, wasn't sure. but by that point, it felt almost expected of me from the one side, and absolutely forbidden on the other. and like, i don't know that i would have gone through with it if it was just our weird homoerotic groupthink, i was sick of my tits bc like. they're tits. they suck to live with regardless of how hot they are. i was sick and tired of choosing between binding (over ribs that had already been fractured at least once due to improper binding) or being misgendered. and i was exhausted of my parents telling me, at age 21, that i didn't have the right to do what i wanted with my body.

so i got top surgery. and, like, i was happy. but i think i knew i fucked up as soon as i woke up from the surgery. the surgeon didn't leave me with any areolas whatsoever, which i didn't think going in was even a possibility. and maybe this is trivial, but that sparked something in me that i was terrified to admit, and couldn't, until much later on: i felt dysphoria about not having my tits.

but like, i was committed to the bit, you know? i'd gotten used to being a guy, and it fit well enough, like a second-hand sweater. so i just kinda rode the wave as far as it would take me. i did my shots (with absolutely no regularity because through all 3 years i was on testosterone stabbing myself in the leg really never got less hard and scary) and if i was being real i would admit to myself that i was probably more transmasc than a trans *man*.

and then my brother died! of aforesaid cancer that my parents tried real hard to pray away. (to be clear, they also got him the best medical treatment they possibly could, they aren't full on religious nutjobs.) and, quite frankly, i hadn't realized before then how integral to my identity my brother was. (again, homeschooled military kid with exactly one similarly-aged person who was actually around for more than a couple years of my life.) it kinda broke the shell identity that i'd been hiding behind. i realized i had a responsibility to myself to be myself, and i just wasn't a fuckin trans guy.

so i stopped taking t, and i started opening myself up to dressing how i used to love dressing, before i got all truscummy. and i felt myself come back into my body a bit, for the first time in god only knows how long.

fast forward 3 (ish) long, godawful, miserable years of therapy and grief and more grief, and i'm a pretty well-adjusted nonbinary person. i have a wife and a 9-5 job and my creative drive has been returning in spades. but i'm still dysphoric about my tits. i miss them. i can't say whether i made a mistake in getting top surgery, because my mental health was so completely shot back then that it really might have saved my life in some way or other, but it feels like one now. they were pretty, and soft, and sensitive. i got my nipples pierced last year and literally could not feel it happening. i only have feeling in some parts of my chest. i look fine, and i've accepted that this is the body i chose to live in. but sometimes i wish i wasn't so afraid to talk about this feeling.

some of y'all talk a big game about supporting detrans folk, but i don't see it. in mainstream lgbtq+ culture, is it absolutely taboo to talk about detransitioning, and y'all know it is. and there is literally no one else speaking up for us. a lot of detrans people become anti-trans specifically due to the reception their detransition was given by the community. it is so transparently hostile towards us because we got it wrong. and if people can make mistakes, that might mean (*gasp*) you might make a mistake?? and then it's a Real risk and not a fake one that conservatives made up to scare the parents of trans kids. and we just can't have that.

shouldn't we be telling kids that in your life, you're going to do things you risk regretting, and it's okay, because everyone has regrets? it's not some trans-specific thing. i regret my college boyfriend and not taking better care of my first car. i also regret having top surgery. it's not a dirty word��i'm just some guy, and everyone fucks up, sometimes in life-ruining ways. mine wasn't life-ruining, just kinda hard to process. but man, it sure woulda been easier if literally the only welcoming community for detrans people wasn't coincidentally Extremely anti-trans 🙃

and like........ i'm also.... Still Trans? i detransitioned to the gender i was before i identified as ftm: nonbinary. i stopped my medical transition, i reverted back to they/them pronouns. i detransitioned, but the idea that only cis people detransition is overwhelmingly binarist if you think about it for more than 2 seconds. (idk if that's a word but i'm making it one. you literally know what i mean). i can participate in trans dialogue, but there are areas of my history that i just have to avoid because i'll start getting dirty looks.

so yeah. all that to say. please start including us. loudly. please make a safe space for people who made mistakes, because the only one that exists right now is built to radicalize us against the people for whom those choices weren't mistakes.

#hello to my one mutual i lowkey vague in this post i love u dearly #u def know who u are lmaooo #anyway. yeah idk this was LONG y'all don't gotta read this shit

13 notes · View notes

deathbyathousandcuts · 3 months

Note

hey friend, sorry if this is a little personal or you don’t want to answer, please feel free to ignore, but why did you decide to give up alcohol? i want to myself and i think i should, but i’m having trouble giving myself the push to get there. i’m worried about things seeming bleak, or boring, or that i’ll have to explain everywhere. any advice or inspiration is much obliged. congrats!!!!!

hey! no bestie it isnt too personal at all! im super open about stuff like this so please feel free to ask anytime you have questions! im happy to be a support for you because this has been hard but its also been so so so worth it and i will never look back!! <3 my response may be triggering for some due to the content so im gonna put it under a cut! so trigger warning: alcohol, blacking out.

for starters some people just cannot handle alcohol the same way - its literally a brain, chemical thing... some people just can't do it. for me it was endless nights of blacking out, having no idea what i said or did, sick of throwing up all the fucking time and ruining clothes and rugs. im one of the people that if i have one drink it will almost definitely turn into six which turns into ten which turns into black out. i was a nice drinker, i got real obsessed with how much i love everyone and was super friendly so that wasnt apart of my issue. i just felt like... i dont remember what i did or said. it triggered my ptsd and anxiety, every single day after i went hard drinking i would be an anxious mess and feeling suicidal because i was embarrassed or anxious that i had done or said something super humiliating even though that wasnt my track record. i just dont have a healthy ability to stop. i have no off button once the alcoho hits my system so i cannot control how much i drink. i tried that, may times and it never worked. its an all or nothing kind of thing for me.

i also chase the dopamine hit - every sip of alcohol once you start to feel drunk continues to feel like a dopamine hit! thats why you dont realize youre drinking way more than you want to sometimes, because once your kind of out of your normal mindset it takes over and tells you its a great idea..... at least for me it did!

my girlfriend and i went to a taylor swift themed night a bar just days after our decision to get sober and we thought it would be terrible and uncomfortable and i was like "i cant sing or dance without alcohol no way this is gonna be fun" and we did have a wonderful time! there are so many fun mocktails and almost every bartender ive ever come across will be more than happy to throw something fun together for you if youre worried about being able to go out out.

my father is an alcoholic and he and i are estranged because of it. he has been extremely, extremely sick lately with liver and kidney issues from his drinking. and for obvious reasons, i dont wish to repeat that cycle in my near future.

pro tip: if you're somewhere where you order your own drink privately if you get a soda water/sparkling water with lime and ask for it in a rocks glass no one will ever know you arent drinking! i do this a lot when at weddings or parties because i dont feel like talking to drunk assholes about how great they think being drunk is lmao

anon i am more than happy to clarify anything or answer any further questions you have!! its intense to go at this alone, so seriously i got you if you need anyone. <33

alcohol can absolutely be a fun tool if used responsibly and great for celebrations and all that fun stuff but like... you dnot need it to enjoy it. but its expensive, too - in so many ways! so you save money if you just get yourself a pretty lil soda with lime and prance around and just have fun being yourself without a substance taking control for you.

im actually learning a lot more about myself and what i really want and need out of social situations because im in control of myself and my autonomy instead of not remembering what even happened.

#tw: alcohol #tw: blacking out

6 notes · View notes

thatringboy · 4 months

Note

It is so refreshing to read a story (even a fanfic!) like Flowers, Sounds & Stones. Honestly, and I mean this in the best way possible, I was surprised to find out you were a man because of how well written the women are in this fic. I think anons have said it before but I’m repeating it after the two most recent chapters about Ume and Mitsuri

I don’t think I have words for the emotions those chapters left me with. Ume’s story made me sad because we already saw how it ended, but Mitsuri’s made me sad because quite literally NOTHING that happened to her was her fault even REMOTELY. And the duality between Ume and Ubuyashiki? That Ume acknowledged where she did wrong and showed remorse while Ubuyashiki literally tells people to get over it and think of him as a natural disaster?? FUCK dude that’s why you keep losing to her and her legacy!! And why all these other women keep beating your ass!! Nezuko, Makomo, Shinobu, and Mitsuri won’t be victims. Shizu, Rei Kibutsuji, and Koinatsu won’t be martyrs. Ume, and Tsutako, and Mrs. Agatsuma won’t Rest In Peace. And the women Ubuyashiki directly controlled and manipulated? His wife and daughter? His wife wasn’t strong enough to break free and it never once felt like it was her fault. Susamaru went out cussing and homosexual. She won’t be a martyr either

And I know it’s not a lot but it’s so nice to see women that are just people. Messy, broken, ugly people. Nezuko has a boob staring problem and cusses like a sailor! Nezuko Kamado! And she has a crush on Makomo, who regularly makes Kakushi members like Murata take on demons as a way to force them to train! And let’s not get started on whatever the fuck Shinobu’s got going on with Kaigaku! (This paragraph is completely illegible to people who don’t know anything about this fic, I know)

But like, they’re all still clearly women though. Other anons talk about Nezuko admiring her reflection and beating people up who call her ugly, and I think about Shizu Shinazugawa’s mental spiral being much more heavily criticized by the Demon Slayer Corps than Michikatsu’s. I think about how Mitsuri wears her revealing uniform but covers her mouth so that she can have autonomy over who looks at specific parts of her body that have been violated. I think about 13 year old Kiriena Kibutsuji being forced to find a husband before her birthday or die horribly because the family curse said that’s just what happens to the daughters. How Ume had to have an excuse for traveling with her friend the samurai, that they were related or that she literally had to marry him to continue traveling with him. How Obanai - who isn’t a woman but used to live as one - was beaten down into the mud on his wedding day in his wedding dress after he was left at the altar because the word of his future father in law trumped his own. How Kotoha Hashibira had her face disfigured and torn apart by someone she considered closed family because she did not return his obsessive and creepy advances AFTER she had already had to run away from her abusive husband and raise her baby on her own. How the first thing Shinobu ever says to Nezuko when she literally has a poisoned sword pointed at Tanjiro’s heart was to never plead for mercy because that’s how women get killed.

It’s the little things that I’m obsessed with here and I can’t believe this is just a fanfic of a manga that is basically “what if we shifted every character slightly to the left” so I need you to understand that I call BULLSHIT on your claim that most of the character swaps were at random!! I’m so sorry for the rant but I’m experiencing EMOTIONS.

Anon my love I am also experiencing the emotions 😭

It’s 2 in the morning so I’m half awake atm, but thank you so much for your kind words. I’m really happy my silly little fanfiction has touched so many people in so many ways and I’m happy my storytelling is up to snuff. And I really mean it when I say these swaps were random! I based the character swaps on general vibes, not stories, so it’s by pure coincidence and a lot of outlining that the story I wanted to tell about grief and womanhood is coming together like it is. FS&S didn’t originally start out as a narrative about the struggles of womanhood, I just wanted to write about demon slayer characters but Different, but the way that the character list fell had women in the majority of the main roles and I just rolled with it to the best of my abilities. Some of the writing is based off of my own experiences as a trans man (mostly Obanai’s life, but I draw inspiration/reference in other places) but the majority is me just writing out the canon events but with women in the main roles and that’s how we got here. I added some nuance here and there, and adapted the plot to incorporate as much real-world opinions/experiences the characters would have at the time (the time being early 20th century Japan), but other than that Gotouge did all the hard work for me

I’m really happy that my late nights and overwhelmed Microsoft word account managed to string together a narrative coherent enough to earn such praise. Mentally I’m giving you a sloppy kiss on the lips, thank you. I hope you, your family, your friends, and everyone you know have a happy holiday week and have a happy new year

#flowers sounds & stones #asks #love mist & demons #serpents thunder & infinity #sun wind & ice

2 notes · View notes

eclipsecrowned · 6 months

Text

as posed by @lunarscaled, how my galdur bait 3 muses react to meeting their 'bad end' selves:

gale:

well. he's done some egregious things in mine and ax's lore to get where he finally is, a master of his dominion delving the secrets of hell and infernal machinery in a bid to save the woman he loves from her death sentence and allow her to walk the world again. seeing himself as a control freak or god-figure is just a stark reminder that ethics and scruples are a good thing to have in academia. also what happened to his skin care routine, he looks harrowing. he has jokes to cover up just how scared he is of how easily he can see his desperation turning into this even now.

aurelia:

sees herself alone, and less discerning in her pragmatism. someone who chose short-sighted power over enduring balance. a master of the wilds who strangles out whatever encroachment does not bow to her iron will. a controlling, unthinking beast who forces what she once respected to instead kneel before her as puppets and slaves. it is not merely monsters she hunts now, but any dissent or threat to her own reign. down with the oakfather. it is the daughter of the grove that rules now. aurelia is immediately aiming an arrow at her bad end self and then using that distraction to try and fit a sussur blade between her ribs, shut up and DIE--

hel:

while many of these endings are a straight up turn to villainy, hel doesn't really have that. she can make some cruel decisions, but she never really slots into outright evil. her worst outcome is being so broken by the cycle of revenge and blood that she loses herself in pursuit of it, and when she comes to her senses, she's utterly broken. she is tired. she wants another will to dominate her own and tell her what is right, and take the terror of free will from her. most endgames whether solo or romanced will see her start to rebuild from that -- with one exception. a vampire lord and his shattered doll of a consort. she is just a pretty, glamoured accessory to a cruel master, unable to even remember what resistance looks like. hel pities her bad end self, and seeks some chance to help her, rather than harm her further.

sybelle:

i'm having such a hard time with this. she's the token good teammate. even hel has her moments of being needlessly cruel or self-serving. sybelle is just nice and chill. maybe like hel she has that... not turning evil but definitely her bad end is lacking in autonomy and being made a pawn or preyed upon. i have to bake this one out a bit more but i'm thinking she may play directly into bad end gale as an acolyte, enforcer, or straight up mindless pawn under the crown's will. sybelle is screaming crying throwing up apologizing to wyll she wasn't the hero he saw in her when she sees her bad end self and has to be calmed down by other companions because HONEY... THIS ISN'T REALLY YOUR FAULT...

valas:

usurps uncle s and cousin o as grandpa's favorite. he doesn't want this, but it felt right at the time. no longer the prodigal, the outsider, the wanderer. he is tired. he wants peace, even if he must wage war to get it. he won’t find it, of course. his father would be horrified. but he doesn’t want to let the opportunity to be more to pass him by. to strike back. strike harder. he must lie in the bed he has made for centuries after, at the cost of everything he ever was before, degraded under the unrelenting rage and blood his grandfather demands. valas takes one glimpse at his bad end self and, like aurelia, goes immediately for the most powerful spell he has on hand. he has to make this right. he has to kill this thing brutally and immediately. it can't be allowed to go on. he's horrified and enraged in equal measures.

#tbt //

2 notes · View notes

nat-alianovnaromanova · 10 months

Note

this poem reminded me of bucky barnes (i just got into marvel comics like a few months ago lmao). particularly wrt nat. and of course the dog coding of both of them is very interesting to me also. dog as in a tool dog as in a loyal servant dog as in devoid of identity except for their place as a cog in the machine. what do you think?

ohhhhh i love u for this. hm yes obviously this is more bucky than nat but sidebar it has echos of younger nat in the red room/when she first starts out as black widow. i dont think she is as pathetically beaten down as ws bucky bc she’s never had her autonomy & personhood completely stripped away like him so she is not a tool like he is. like yes she’s had her memories altered and tampered with but essentially she could always think for herself and so she could always pick up and go. but when she was younger not really she just wanted to be a good little spy, ergo the dog, until she escapes the kgb and becomes the fugitive dog never to be chained again. however

the winter soldier is literally a nameless dog on a leash. they kick him when he whines. he sits and waits and speaks when he is spoken to and rolls over when he is told to. and it is all insanely brutal and violent but it is all he knows so he thinks ah well this is how the world works!!!! i am either going to be thoroughly violated or completely ignored!!! and so i must be Good and Obedient. good cog in machine. good soldier. and again its literally all he knows. and when i say knows i mean … idk how to explain it but essentially he’s cognitively impaired as the soldier: brainwashing + drugs + cryostasis have obviously done a number on him! and when he’s only let out for hours at a time before being shut back in—which means he can barely begin to comprehend his surroundings let alone figure out a way to approach them—he behaves very mechanically. very doglike in that he obeys cues (ie sit shake roll etc). so over time he is conditioned to only behave in the ways his superiors like (follow this man. kill this woman. mission report. stand over there and don’t speak. or actually no come here us have fun with the good little soldier) bc it gets him the desired reaction: no reaction! to him no reaction = he’s been good and loyal. so bucky is chained. no control whatsoever. and it's learned behavior. when nat happens he's very ill-equipped to deal with her bc she wants him to speak and she doesn't give a shit about his being good and loyal. which is ironic because she is the only time bucky ever WANTS to be good and loyal to another person!! so here he needs to learn different behavioral patterns to earn the 'no reaction' which in nat's case IS reaction. sorry i feel like im explaining this wrong + ive veered off the dog topic. going back to that - the last part of the poem about the dog learning to love is VERY bucky during and after his time as the winter soldier. because he is essentially learning love from nat he thinks love is like. a smile. and he has no idea how to get it so he whatever he tries that works is the thing he relies on - and he does it again again again in the hopes that it will earn him love. he's like when you feed a stray once bc you felt bad and he keeps coming back even though you try to kick him away. so with the black widow he's like. when a dog brings you a dead bird and expects to be praised for it bc he knows no better. and anyway character thesis for the winter soldier is that he's treated more like an animal than a person. he is an attack god foaming at the mouth. someones sharpened his teeth for him but all the biting and snapping is his own. no one gives a shit about his identity or his wellbeing beyond serving his purpose which is to be a good loyal soldier. ergo dog. during recovery bucky becomes soooo pathetic about wanting to be good and loyal. essentially he curls up at the foot of nat/steves bed and waits for one of them to pet him. but also he pretends he doesn't want to be pet so that neither of them can see the extent to which he is desperate for it.

ALSO obviously there is love as biting. like digging into the flesh is an act of affection. where the black widow and the winter soldier think that love is like. hey i killed someone for u! here's the severed head :) circling back to the dog with the bird in its maw. circling back to trying to learn kindness and coming back for the hope of it even after they've been let down (by one another or the red room/hydra or wtv). they get one (1) mildly affectionate gesture and it drives them crazy forever.

anyway in conclusion bucky and nat are specifically dog coded in different ways. nat is more rabid. she is the kind of dog who bites first and back. she bites for fun! (otherwise she risks being bit and she is much too wary to let that happen.) bucky only bites back and that is out of fear. they are both always scared & poised to attack. bucky only knows to wait for scraps. nat digs in the trash for her own. bucky and the winter soldier are also dog coded in different ways. bucky is more of the pathetic one sitting in the foyer while the ws is the one who barks and bites and gives u rabies until one good kick turns him into a curled up whiny puppy. hope this helps!

#sorry this got very long and meaningless. im a big fan of motifs and symbolism and talking✊#i think i got off topic somewhere but uhhh essentially its like. don't sink in me with your dog teeth #also pathetic losing dog. betting on losing dogs. bucky is a bigger losing dog btw #.pdf

3 notes · View notes

anonymousvillain · 1 year

Text

Caliginous accent (WIP first draft)

Drenched in the caliginous deluge, the ghosts of impalpable light clawed their way through the tyrannical blanket of Erebus. I dared not ponder what nameless horrors hid beyond the veil - if there was anything beyond the fog. The Cimmerian figure ascended each uneven step; his tattered cape blew in malodorous wind beckoning me forward. I was obliged to follow. With each step I ascent, I felt my heart beat sullenly in my chest. Thump. Thump. Thump - matching the tempo of my footsteps. I proceeded with the utmost caution; I meticulously altered my pace to avoid alerting the being of my presence. However, the distance between me and the caped never appeared to change, despite my constant variations in walking speed; as if mocking me, He must have known, must have, perhaps I had tripped earlier, and now he was mocking my futile attempts at following him – I assured myself that this discrepancy merely a trick of the light. By now, you are probably wondering why I was following a complete stranger; Rest assured that I am not some common stalker or lunatic; the reason is simple it was because...

Ah yes, it was not out of obligation I followed, but an intense curiosity pertaining to the figure's identity and destination. If I ever felt endangered, I could have gone back at any moment, back to... How long had I been walking? When did I start following him? Why can't I remember? It could not have been longer than – how dare you question my sanity! I have complete autonomy over my actions, could a madman say the same?! I am in control, I could have stopped anytime I wished, my reasons are my own, and obviously, I had gone too far to stop now. Why else would I have still been walking? I was simply curious. That is, it. I was curious. As any rational person would have been. Satisfied? Now I remember I had even tried to ask the identity of the figure before me "Pardon me, sir?" I attempted to say, but no sound emerged.

I could not stop walking

I was possessed by the desire to move further into the fog's claustrophobic embrace. The fog hungrily opened ajar, allowing me to ascend further into its gullet. It enclosed upon the world behind me, slamming shut like the jaws of hell. The sullen wind quenched the fire of my soul. Stygian clouds circled like vultures in the sky. I shivered in the sour wind that bore from each stone's gap; each gust fled from the fog's embrace and penetrated the fabric walls laying siege to my skin. Volleys of tears stabbed at my eyes like countless hot shards of glass. I had been walking for as long as I could remember. After ridding my mind of blasphemous queries, I concluded that there was no world beyond the fog. There could not have been, nor will this document ever be read. There is only fog. You are just a figment of my imagination, conjured up so that I may claim some semblance of autonomy over my life, which will undoubtedly be forgotten much like the men that built this fortress, buried beneath the majesty of the fog

A castle sat atop the seemingly endless staircase; a once noble seat of power stripped barren. It swelled like an obscene boil erupting from the cliffside, oozing its crumbling foundations into the hidden oblivion below. Taunting me with its distance. No matter how many steps I took it always stayed just as far away. The stone brick walls carved elegantly from the mountainside appeared as if bore from the earth herself. time was slowly eroding the stone brick by brick, allowing all manner of vermin to fester beneath, hidden in the perpetual fog. The steps were like faded scars, stains left by human presence. The steps served as a perverted mockery of humanity. The cluttered stone steps were drained of their former color and regality, every brick crumbled as though trying to escape from its brethren, as they all slowly melted away in all directions. Weeds and decaying shrubs invaded every crevice, wrapping their tendrils around the skeletons buried beneath the layers of rock. The fog had choked out any life besides the parasites and unfathomable horrors that hid within – or rather were held prisoner in the Cimmerian Tartarus beyond. The seething hunger and tyranny of the fog could be felt in every molecule that called this obscene region home.

The wind guided all manner of bugs through every open orifice so that they may invade my body. I could feel the spiders crawling up my nose tickling each hair as they climbed. The obese hairy bodies of bees tickled my ears. Ticks crawled into my pores. I felt countless parasites writhing beneath my skin – squirming their way through my veins, biting at my muscle tissue, and laying eggs in my arteries. My interior layer of flesh itched unendingly, I scratched until rivers of blood erupted from my flayed skin flowing down my arms and dripping onto my legs. But despite each scrape, each scratch, the itch would not end as if there were lice in my very bones. Why wouldn't it stop? Where were they hiding? Why wouldn't it end?! I could feel the lice plucking at my hair! I could feel spider webs flowing from my lungs with each breath! Despite my best efforts, I could not discover a single insect, as if they were specters. The fog had blinded me to all assailants – it was as though my very senses had turned against me. Nevertheless, I continued my march up the steps.

I could smell blood.

#gothic writing #horror #writing #short story #draft

5 notes · View notes

romansleftshoulderpad · 2 years

Text

Welcome to the Life of Electra Heart

Track Five: Starring Role

Ship: Creativisleep

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

If you like my writing, please consider leaving a comment! And maybe, buy me a Ko-Fi?

First Chapter / Last Chapter / Next Chapter

Tag List: @poettheythem @iclaimedtobethebetterbard @justablah56 If you’d like to be added to the tag list, please send an ask!

Small content warning that this fic does feature more sexual content than previous chapters, but nothing is ever mentioned graphically. If you’d like to skip this scene, stop reading after “Distraction,” he said and continue reading after the ---

----

You’re hard to hug

Roman was at least used to his classes. From 10 a.m to 6 p.m he was a perfectly functional student. With his skills in acting, he might have even tricked his friends into believing he was well adjusted. He found relief in even the more challenging classes. Math had objective answers. English allowed him to analyze someone else’s problems. He thought that maybe if he studied enough Greek tragedies, he’d be too worn out to analyze himself. But if that were possible, he hadn’t read enough plays. And in the depths of cruel night, he thought of King Oedipus. A man could spend his life trying to do all the right things, only to realize life was never in his control. Or worse, the “right choices” dragging down not only himself but his beloved city.

Roman turned over in bed. His knees were pulled up to his stomach and the light of his phone was drying out his eyes. But at least it wasn’t racking his brain.

At 10 a.m, he resumed his charade of functionality. It didn’t even matter that sleep deprivation made every step heavy. And when he got home, he finally got a break from the heavy cloud of loathing that suffocated his lungs. He fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes. And after a whole day of torture, it seemed sleep deprivation could be a friend after all.

It seemed Roman had yet to learn his lesson.

Tough to talk to.

And I never fall asleep

Remy’s touch was soft. His fingers ghosted over Roman’s skin and he never left marks. Sometimes when they were kissing, Roman would cry. Every time, Remy would stop and ask him, “What’s wrong?”

And Roman would always smile and say, “Absolutely nothing,” and kiss him again gently.

He never told Remy why he cried.

He wasn’t sure he understood why himself.

When you’re in my bed, all you give me is a heartbeat

That first, terrible morning was not the only time Roman saw Janus. Though it might have been the only time Janus saw him. No matter how many times Roman told himself he was better not knowing, he couldn’t help but scan every room he entered. He felt fear when other students entered the coffee shop or the library.

Patton had waved to him once, a kind smile on his face. His eyes were devoid of bad intentions. Roman didn’t think Patton was even capable of bad intentions.

Roman broke down crying once he got to his car.

I’ve turned into a statue and it makes me feel depressed,

‘Cause the only time you open up is when we get undressed.

Roman hadn’t had sex since they’d run into Janus in the coffee shop. Though, he hadn’t enjoyed sex since that night at Lilly’s house anyway. That one night was full of planning and calculations, where sex had gotten to be the reward for his own cunning. But other times… sex was not an end goal or a reward. Other times, there were too many memories pierced into his skin, too much guilt surrounding his every movement. The body he saw in the mirror didn’t even belong to him.

No one with autonomy would have felt sick at the thought of even masturbating— let alone being touched by someone else.

Snake venom ran through his veins, with no sign of fading away.

You don’t love me, big fuckin’ deal

There was something inherently wrong with everyone. Not just him, but with all his friends. Five broken people held together by washi tape and glitter glue. But no one dared speak of the tension looming overhead. If you did, it might swallow you whole.

I’ll never tell you how I feel

Roman was standing in the doorway, staring at the dumpster fire before him. No, a dumpster fire would have been far more organized than Remus’s room. There were clothes and old sketchbooks all over the floor. And what looked like thumb tacks sticking out from the carpet. Remus was barefoot as he paced around.

“If you’re not going to compliment my latest art piece, then you should get out,” he said, gesturing to... something sitting on his desk.

“Is that... A penis?”

“Five penises,” he said. “Made of paper mache.”

“All connected at the balls.”

Remus smiled proudly.

“I hate sharing DNA with you,” Roman said.

“Then why are you here?”

Roman furrowed his brow. “Has... Emile talked to you? Like... about liking someone? “Emile likes a lot of people. He has bad intuition and shit.”

“No, like...” Roman frowned. “Like-like.”

Remus groaned. “God, how old are you? No, he hasn’t gossiped to me about his little crush.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Remus raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s just... He seems to be upset with me lately-”

“You got drunk and told him to go fuck himself.”

“Before that,” Roman said, though he couldn’t help but cringe. He still hadn’t apologized-- he’d hoped Emile would just silently forgive him and they could all move on. “Lilly told me he had feelings for someone and I’ve noticed he hasn’t talked to me as much since Remy and I-”

Remus tilted his head to the side, a furrow in his brow that Roman knew all too well-- and knew it wasn’t anything good.

“...Started hanging out more,” he added clumsily. “And I thought, you know, maybe he was upset because-”

Remus laughed-- a loud bark of mockery. “You think Emile has a crush on you?!”

“Hey! It’s not that wild of a concept!”

Remus was laughing too hard to form a proper rebuttal.

Roman huffed and went back to his room. It’s not that much of a stretch!

You don’t love me, not a big deal

I’ll never tell you how I feel

Roman was almost late for class. It seemed the universe was determined to screw him over even when he wasn’t being self-destructive. (Which then made it even harder to stop being self-destructive.)

He had agreed to meet everyone in the library after class. (And he was almost late to that too after getting lost.) He found a table that everyone’s bags had been piled onto and threw his things into the mess, taking a moment to catch his breath. He began aimlessly walking around the library.

The dusty air and seemingly endless shelves were relaxing. Despite feeling far older and more foreign than any library he’d visited as a kid, he couldn’t help but believe that the walls could keep his secrets. And though he often felt lost in the grand scheme of time and feared that his infinitesimal life would be deemed one of even more infinitesimal importance, this old library whispered a promise to hold the lives of anyone who entered its walls.

He heard whispering in one of the aisles-- and like a high schooler with insect radiation in his veins, he knew something was wrong. He ducked into the aisle on the other side of the whispering and found a small slit between the shelves where he could see blue hair and a shorter blond. Roman stayed there, his breath as still as the dust on yellowed pages.

“--I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be dumping all this on you. I- I just-”

“Shh. Listen, I’m here for you.”

“Sometimes I worry you’re the only one.”

“Well, I mean-” A forced laugh. “Don’t. Don’t tell me it’s true.”

“Have you told anyone other than me?”

“...it’s not that easy.”

“It would be easier if you did.”

Roman’s chest was hurting from holding his breath, but he was still terrified to make himself known. Which is ridiculous, he told himself, there’s nothing illegal about browsing a library shelf. Of course, he knew that would only be true had he been only browsing. He slowly let out his breath, watching the dust fly up from the shelves as he did.

“Remy, I- There’s something I really should tell you.”

Roman’s nose twitched. Please, God, no- “Achoo!” He froze still, and looking through the crack he could see that Emile had as well.

Remy furrowed his brow. “Tell me what, Em?”

Emile’s head turned and for a moment it seemed that he and Roman might have made eye contact, but he showed no sign of recognition. His posture stiffened. “…nothing. Nothing that matters anyway.”

“Em, everything you say matters.”

Emile sighed. “Not if it doesn’t change anything.”

“Em-“

“I should go find Remus. He needed my help with an essay.”

Bullshit, Roman thought. Remus never needs help.

“Emile, wait,” Remy pleaded.

“I’m tired of waiting, Remy. I need to go.”

Emile left, as did any sense of hope lingering on Remy’s lips. And Roman was alone, feeling like a spy, feeling like a traitor.

Sometimes I ignore you

Remy and Virgil had come over to study. There was no sign of Emile and only a ghost in the space that once might have been reserved for Patton. The clock on the wall kept ticking, a drummer standing by the sidelines as soldiers marched into battle. The drummer would not face the immediate consequences of the battle he pulsed, but like every good heart, he was doomed nonetheless.

A phone rang. The first shot. Virgil frowned as he picked it up off the table, but he hit “decline” and lost all sense of good posture, melting into some uncanny beast whose face shone silver in the screen’s light. He groaned, like a child unable to communicate that they’re in pain.

“Do you need a ride home?” Remus asked.

“Not home,” Virgil mumbled.

“I’ll grab my keys.”

The defending army begins to fall. The drummer keeps drumming. Roman debates throwing a brick at that old clock.

Roman closed his textbook and headed up the stairs, going for his room before Remus and Virgil even had a chance to leave. A war deserter, maybe, but better than a dead man any day. He threw his door behind him, waiting to hear the click of it shutting in place. Waiting. Waiting for just a second too long. He groaned and turned around to properly shut the door when he noticed exactly why it hadn’t shut.

Remy, with his hands balled in his jean pockets, and his foot between the door and frame.

Air caught itself in Roman’s throat- making it impossible to speak as his heartbeat drummed on, and on, and on, trying to march away from the battle.

Remy’s shoulders sagged and he pulled his foot back in, no longer an intimidating blockade, but now just a boy trying to be something akin to a man. He whispered softly, “Roman, are you okay?”

Roman sighed, though his lungs were tight and his heart wished to escape its cage, he found it much easier to walk over to Remy and fall, his forehead pressed against Remy’s neck and his senses overwhelmed by soft skin and peppermint scent. “I don’t want to think anymore.”

“Your coursework is that rough, huh?”

Roman whined, “Nooo.”

Remy wrapped his arms around Roman, one hand carding through his hair as he did everything he could to make the rest of the world go away. “I’m tired of thinking too.”

Roman lifted his head, his cheek pressed up against Remy’s. “Maybe we could... stop thinking for a bit. You know... distract each other.”

Remy leaned in, laying his lips softly against Roman’s and the two quickly found their gentle rhythm. Roman tugged at Remy’s bottom lip, but as Remy pulled away he whined.

The subtle quirk of an eyebrow and the gentle wrinkle of a smirk-- that was all it took for Roman to be undone. Remy’s voice was soft and low, and he asked, “How long have you been waiting to ask that?”

“Too long,” Roman said as easily and as quickly as breathing.

“Then let’s just stop thinking,” Remy said. He let go of Roman just long enough to close the door, and then his hands were cradled against the side of Roman’s face and everything was back to sweet, rhythmic bliss. They moved like the hands of a clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

It was a dance, really, as Remy kissed him breathless and they took turns taking steps in time. Back. Back. Back. And back, until Roman’s legs hit the edge of the bed and Remy’s hands moved to his hips and he was breathless as skin moved over skin and fingers ghosted over Roman’s hips and under his shirt and he was breathless- breathless- breathless as Remy pressed his fingers into his sides and hooked one leg over Roman’s and he was breathless because it was bliss. And the memories of Janus pushing and pressing and pinning him down were like cuts over his skin, stinging in the open air and threatening to bleed his sanity all over the carpet and Roman was breathless and his heart was racing-- because that’s what happens when people have sex and it’s healthy and normal-- and tears pricked at his eyes and before he knew it he was shoving Janus- Janus- Janus-- Remy off of him. He heard something fall on the ground but didn’t register what it was. Probably a weighted blanket. Probably something he could deal with later. Probably nothing, that’s all any of this was. Probably nothing haunting him in the middle of the night and probably nothing going on with Emile and probably nothing happening with Patton and Janus and probably nothing that’s all his relationship with Janus was. Probably nothing was all he was to Janus. Probably nothing was probably everything he’d probably ever be.

His fingernails were digging into the skin of his knees and the blood bubbling at his skin was the only thing that made him realize he was curled into a ball with tears already drying on his cheeks. His hands and face were tingling from a lack of oxygen and he fought himself for air.

Someone was saying his name.

“No, no, no,” he kept saying, “No,” and shaking his heart. It had to be a hallucination. Just another phantom that kept him awake in the night. Another “Pathetic” branding into his skin and just another love bite that didn’t exist but felt so real when his hoodies ghosted over his skin. “No,” he said to the phantoms, but they kept calling out his name, “no, no, no, no, no, no.” His grip tightened. His skin burned. His lungs felt sore— from choking or screaming? Even as his gasps lightened into a pattern of deep breaths, he could still hear and feel and almost even see Janus. He could even see himself. Like some sort of out-of-body experience. He could see how childish he seemed. He lifted his head from where it had been buried in his arms.

And Remy was sitting on his floor. Blue hair messy. Tears softly falling from his eyes.

“Remy,” Roman softly choked. “I- I didn’t know you were- I thought. Well, that maybe I-“ His cheeks were warm as new tears fell over dried paths. “I thought I was-”

Remy pursed his lips and wiped the tears off his cheeks. He didn’t say anything. Maybe that was for the better. Maybe that was worse.

“I’m sorry,” Roman said. Maybe to Remy. Maybe to himself. Maybe to Janus. “I’m sorry,” echoed through his mind. Maybe to no one at all.

So I feel in control

Where did the time go? Trading days for good grades and losing yourself in a dying highlighter, whose ink has spilled across hundreds of pages for hundreds of hours. Roman gave a strong exhale and threw his backpack over his shoulder. The weight of textbooks pulling down on his shoulder seemed like a problem for future Roman-- he just didn’t know if that future was in five years or five days.

A hand ruffled his hair and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Are you ready, hun?”

He let out a long exhale, deflating into his chair as he did so.

His mom laughed. “You’re a smart cookie, Roman. You’ll do fine.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Well too bad!” Remus yelled, running into the kitchen.

Their mother sighed.

“Get your ass in gear, dumbass!”

Roman gave his mother a look, with a raised eyebrow and that ever-present question, “Why didn’t you put him up for adoption and let me be an only child?”

And she let her head fall with her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, giving that sigh that answered, “Sometimes, I really don’t know.”

Roman took the last swig of his coffee like a shot and followed Remus out to the car. “Just two more midterms,” he said.

“Just two more professors to bribe,” Remus joked.

Roman pulled out his phone and opened up Quizlet. He tested himself every single minute of the drive to campus. He recited equations and vocab terms to himself as Remus parked the car and in every single step towards the campus coffee shop. Unsurprisingly, Virgil was there before them with a pile of pens and notebooks scattered across the table. Roman threw his bag down on the seat and sat next to Virgil, scanning over the notes whilst pulling out his own materials.

“Wow,” Remus said, “you two are a couple of fucking nerds. If you shacked up, you would literally-”

“Okay, Remus,” Virgil hissed.

Roman nudged Virgil’s arm, “It’s fine, we’ll just shame him when we’re both very successful graduates and he’s still trying to bribe his way through his sixth year of a two-year degree.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “I’m getting a drink. Try not to have Virgil inside you when I get back.”

Virgil slumped over and rested his arms on the table with his chin sitting on top of his hand. “I’m going to kill him one of these days.”

“I’ll help you hide the body,” Roman offered.

Virgil laughed and rested into a smile that Roman hadn’t seen from any of his friends in a terribly long time. Not since he and Janus- He was just happy to see Virgil happy, which made it all the more bitter when Virgil’s smile faded away.

“Roman!” Remy said with a smile and his arms open wide.

Roman stood quickly at the mention of his name.

Remy pulled back.

Roman stepped forward.

An entire conversation sat in their half a second glance, but only a word was nestled into their hug. Roman hugged tightly, like he never wanted to let go.

Emile and Virgil shared a glance across the table.

Remus came back from the counter and groaned. “Ew, more gay people.”

“Are you homophobic now?” Emile asked.

“Only for you four,” Remus said.

“Just for us, huh? Kinky,” Remy said.

Roman rolled his eyes and let go of their hug. He settled back into his spot next to Virgil, letting their knees brush and their arms overlapped.

Remus raised an eyebrow.

Virgil moved away.

And Roman silently prayed that one day he’d finally be able to read minds the way all his friends seemed to. He silently prayed they’d never be able to read his. “Hey, Remy, I think I owe you a coffee.”

Remy furrowed his brow. “Do you? I won’t say no either way but- Oh. Yeah, you definitely owe me one.”

Roman let out a deep breath. Under the table, he latched his foot against Remy’s ankle. Remy’s hand rested on his knee. He glanced at the time on Virgil’s laptop. Only one more hour to go.

‘Cause really, I adore you, and I can’t leave you alone

Roman was checking his hair in the bathroom. It had only been a week since midterms officially ended. But he couldn’t stop worrying about them. Sure, the world hadn’t ended during any of those tests, and he felt confident enough walking out. But, nothing was set in stone yet. Yet. Yet. Roman hated waiting on ‘yet’. His dye job was fading, leaving his hair looking far more natural and his brown roots were starting to show. He pushed his hair back and took a deep breath, exhaling as he walked out into the real world of the busy coffee shop.

The line moved quickly enough, but a decent-sized crowd was forming around the pick-up counter. Despite this, there seemed to be no rush or impending doom amongst the baristas. Roman tapped his fingers against the flat side seam of his jeans. He knew he had hours to spare, but anything over a minute felt like a race against the clock.

When he finally got to the counter, he recited his order like a machine. Only halfway through being halfway through the year. He was too tired to be a person, so he let himself just be another cog. He waited for his coffee. Just another body in the crowd.

Until someone said his name.

And his fists tightened at his side. He wished he could have just stayed another body.

“Roman,” he called again. “Hey. It’s, uh, been a while.”

Roman turned slowly, trying to force his breathing to be slow and deep as his heart raced. “Has Janus dumped you into the trash yet?”

Patton was small, though he was the same size as always, the distance made him seem so small. He had enough baby fat on his round cheeks to pass for a twelve-year-old more than an adult of 18. He had so much hope in his eyes. “No,” he said.

“Then it will be a while longer.”

“Roman, just because-”

“Do not,” Roman seethed, keeping his voice down and his fists tight. He couldn’t cause a scene. He wouldn’t grant Janus that satisfaction. “Do not assume that I will bend myself to the sob story of anyone else. I would sooner break you in two than let you splinter me.”

A barista called out, “Hot chocolate with almond milk!”

When Roman allowed himself to meet Patton’s baby eyes, tears were welling over the edges. Patton took a shaky breath and said, “I hope you can see clearly one day.” He grabbed his drink and began to walk away, though so slowly it seemed more like a threat than a real exit.

I hope you do too, Roman wanted to say. I hope Janus is better to you. I hope you leave him before you realize what he can do. “I don’t need your pity,” Roman said. He watched Patton walk away, with a part of Roman’s heart following behind. I miss having your rose-tinted vision.

Fed up with the fantasies

The car ignition started. The seatbelts clicked and the car tested its own ability to beep and blink along to the dashboard to prove it was still alive. (Sometimes Roman thought the old car was more alive than he was.) “So, uh... did you see him?”

“See who?” Roman asked as he scrolled through his Tumblr dash.

“...you know,” Remus said.

Roman put his phone screen down on his lap. “Oh,” he said. “Him, no. But I, uh, talked to Patton.”

Remus twisted in his seat, turning off the ignition and propping his knee onto the cup holders. “You spoke to Patton?!”

“Well, I mean, more like Patton spoke to me. I wanted no part in it.”

Remus’ brow furrowed. “What did you talk about? Is he, like, a total prick now? Did he beg for forgiveness?” He took a deep breath and his voice rattled along the walls, “Did he shove Janus’s dick inside his own rectum where it belongs?!”

Roman winced. “Volume, Remus, please.”

Remus’s head pulled into his shoulders, making him look like a turtle. He muttered an apology.

“And, well, no. To all of it? He and Janus are still... a thing. I think Janus sent him specifically to torture me.”

Remus frowned. “Patton wouldn’t do that.”

“Then he’s just torturing me of his own volition.”

“Patton... Patton would do that.”

Roman asked quietly, “How well did you know Patton?”

“Not well enough.”

That cover what is wrong

Sweater weather. Roman’s favorite time of year. Well, as close as he could get to sweater weather anyway. If he sweat his ass off for the fit, at least he could be hot. In more ways than one. He laced up his red Converse and checked himself in the mirror. Red sweater with the white collar of his button-down poking over the top, blue skinny jeans, and his hair as rusty as ever. He took a deep breath and grabbed a tube of lipstick off the dresser. He’d never experimented with makeup before, and the concept still scared him.

But he’d been too scared lately. Scared of the little things. Scared of things that weren’t even real.

He uncapped the tube and carefully traced the red over his lips. Might as well conquer the little fears. He rubbed his lips together the way he always saw Lilly do, he didn’t know why she did it, but it seemed wrong not to. He held his head high, straightened his back, and stepped out of his room and into a new day.

—

Emile was quiet during the whole car ride and his hands were constantly fidgeting in his lap. As street signs blurred behind them, Roman found it harder and harder to focus on anything other than his eerily silent passenger. The car turned into the parking lot and Roman decided it was officially his mission to make Emile spill one way or the other. He parked and as he turned off the ignition to his car, he turned on the ignition to his scheme. His keychains jingled as he shoved his key into his pocket.

“Emile,” he said, causing his passenger to jump in surprise. “Are you ready to kick ass?”

“You are... more like Remus than you think.”

“Fuck you. Let’s roll.”

The giant banner over the temporary store was no more than a modern-day equivalent of a fairy ring in an old forest. “Spirit Halloween,” Roman read with a smile, “a Halloween-filled party dimension.”

Emile frowned. “It’s just a costume store, Roman.”

“How are you friends with Virgil, Em?”

“Roman,” he said stiffly, “you don’t get to call me that.”

“Oh.” Roman paused suddenly. They had only just gotten inside, but he still couldn’t believe how far in he’d gone without saying it. “Emile, I- uh- I’m really sorry about the whole... party incident. I don’t really... remember... what I said. But I know it wasn’t good.”

Emile gave a small nod.

“And I’m not just sorry I said it, I... I’m mostly sorry it took me this long. I really should have-”

An animatronic werewolf began to howl, and as Roman screamed he realized his foot had been on the trigger.

Emile doubled over laughing. When he came up for air, his face was red and tears streaked over his cheeks.

Roman wanted to roll his eyes, but Emile’s smile seemed to make it all better.

Emile wiped at his face and took a few deep breaths, slowly returning to his normal complexion. His wide grin took Roman back in time, back to the carnival on the night they first met. The memory had become painful over time, but it brought him Emile-- amongst others-- and maybe that was its silver lining.

“Forget the apology, I think that was all I needed,” he said with a teasing wink. “But, uh, I forgive you. Just... try to take care of yourself, okay? If not for you, if not for me, then do it for Remy, please.”

Roman furrowed his brow. “How did you--?”

“I, uh, don’t know what’s going on between you two. I don’t like to speculate where I’m not asked.” He took a deep breath. “But you two... seem good for each other, I guess. I guess he needed you.”

Roman should have been elated, but he couldn’t push past the guilt settling in his chest. “That means a lot, Emile. Thank you.”

Emile smiled and asked, “Can we go look at the Monster High stuff now? I’ve been waiting for months to see it.”

“Of course,” he said, finding Emile’s joy to be contagious.

—

Once Roman’s car was loaded with bags of decorations, he found himself very grateful that Remus offered to pay for everything. Or, more accurately, that they had previously staked this on a game of Mario Kart and that Remus was very, very bad at Mario Kart.

“Hey, Roman, you’re a fan of Taylor Swift,” Emile said, pulling Roman out of his Mario-Kart-ass-kicking memory.

“How’d you know?” Roman asked.

Emile only raised an eyebrow.

“...okay, fine, yeah. Why’d you ask?”

“Wanted to request it for the drive home,” he said. “Also, you’re totally giving Style right now and I needed to know if that was on purpose.”

Roman laughed. “It isn’t, but I’ll take it as a compliment.” He plugged his phone into the aux cord and handed it over to Emile. “You Belong With Me” began to play over the car speakers. “Taylor’s Version?” Roman asked.

“Is that even a question?” Emile teased.

He pulled the shift in reverse. “Tell everyone we’re on our way back.”

“On it.”

“Have you ever thought just maybe? You belong with me? You belong with me...”

—

“Bitch, I will throw this pumpkin spice latte all over your whitest shirt.”

Roman sighed. Virgil screamed. Remus and Lilly were probably fighting to the death. And they all did it whilst completely sober. “Can we all try not to kill each other? Please? Can an effort be made?” Roman begged.

“No promises,” Lilly and Remus said in unison.

“Should we hide the carving knives?” Remy asked.

“Already did,” Emile said.

Roman sighed. “Emile gets the ‘Most Prepared for Remus’ award.”

“He’s already been holding that title for the past three years,” Virgil said.

Roman furrowed his brow. “That was a joke, that’s an actual thing?”

“Yep,” Virgil, Emile, and Remy answered.

“Though, I think he also deserves the ‘Most Prepared for Lilly’ award,” Virgil said. He turned to Emile and added, “I’ll, uh, have to make a new one. I kind of... set the old one on fire.”

“Why did you have the award?” Roman asked. “I’m her best friend! I should have it!”

Virgil shrugged. “I was more prepared.”

“How?!”

A crash sounded in the kitchen, followed by Lilly’s voice screaming a creative string of swear words.

Virgil sighed and muttered, “Through a lot of bad choices.”

Roman decided not to question him any further.

“I still can’t believe your parents actually agreed to this,” Emile said to Remy.

“Why wouldn’t they agree to a quiet and wholesome Halloween get-together?” Remy winked.

Emile rolled his eyes.

Roman just prayed that Remus wouldn’t get murdered by Lilly. Or murder Lilly. Really, he didn’t want any murder to occur at all. But that seemed highly unlikely.

“Virgil, can you take care of Lilly?” Remy asked.

Virgil froze. “I? Why me?”

Remy raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say you have the-”

“I’ll do it,” Emile stepped in. “Virgil can get the music set up.”

Virgil mouthed, “Thank you.”

But Remy only shrugged. “As long as someone gets those two feral cats separated. Roman, I need you to help me move some stuff upstairs.”

Virgil started, “I thought upstairs was off limits for the-” He quieted at what Roman could only assume was a killer glare from Remy.

Without another word, Remy started up the stairs, and like his obedient puppy, Roman followed. They went into Remy’s bedroom and the door slammed shut as soon as they were inside. Remy grabbed Roman’s cheeks and pulled him in, kissing him roughly. Roman melted under his touch, his hands settling against Remy’s waist. He took a breath as they broke apart. “Not that I don’t love the surprise, but what was that for?” “Distraction,” he said.

“Well, the part doesn’t start for a while,” he said. “We could, you know, take some time. Moving things.”

“What are you saying?”

“Just fuck me already,” Roman pleaded. He took off his sweater and tossed it on the floor.

Remy laughed and wasted no time returning his lips to Roman’s mouth. His hands explored Roman’s chest and his fingers made quick work to undo the buttons of his shirt. He kissed along Roman’s jaw and moved down to his neck.

Roman whined. “No- ah- no hickies. Please.”

“Duly noted,” Remy murmured, his voice reverberating over Roman’s skin and his lips so soft but so torturous.

Roman worked to undo whatever buttons and zippers or whatevers that were between him and Remy. He wasn’t thinking straight-- he was never thinking straight at moments like these-- he wasn’t even thinking at all. He was just being an animal, doing only what pleased him the fastest.

“Do you- ah- wanna move things- hmm- to the bed?” Remy asked between moans.

“I’d love to.”

They broke apart and giggled breathlessly, the rush of adrenaline from secret keeping and from knowing what came next was enough to leave them intoxicated. (Roman preferred that- the kind of intoxication that didn’t leave you with a headache in the morning.) They both stripped to their boxers and climbed onto the bed. The mattress sank under their weight as they sat on top. Too far apart to initially do anything; right where Roman felt safe.

He watched as Remy settled against the pillows and he crawled closer. He lightly kissed Remy’s lips, trying to comfortably settle into the gaps between Remy’s limbs. His arms shook against his weight and the uneven mattress.

Remy broke the kiss with a laugh. “Roman, you don’t have to keep hovering. You’re not going to crush me.”

“I- Are you sure?”

Remy gently placed his hands on Roman’s sides, gripping just hard enough to hold his weight.

Roman took a breath and lowered his weight with Remy’s guidance. Their chests were pressed right against each other and their faces were tragically close. Roman kissed him again, moving so slowly and so gently. Gone was the world beyond the locked bedroom door. Gone were the stress and memories and singeing at his skin that usually came with sex or the expectation of it. (He would have supposed that was the saddest part if he’d been thinking at all. But the ability to stop thinking and just feel needed by someone, that’s why he stayed.)

Intoxication came in waves. He moved past Remy’s lips, kissing him everywhere his own skin had once been marked, but moving like a phantom without a trace.

Roman paused between kisses, resting his chin on Remy’s hip bone and flashing a devilish grin. “Where do you keep your-“

Remy held up a bottle of lube and a box of condoms. “Already ahead of you,” he said.

Roman pulled himself up just enough to kiss Remy’s lips, throwing caution to the wind and not wasting time finding a rhythm. He stopped thinking. His fingers traced the waistline of Remy’s boxers. He deepened the kiss and let his hands move with a mind of their own. He was a conductor, orchestrating that beautiful music that came from Remy’s moans. He was a million different metaphorical things creating art, or music, or whatever else one might call it.

He was a twenty-year-old having sex. Plain and simple. Just doing whatever it took to cope. He pulled on a condom. Apparently “whatever” was named Remy Cho, and if Roman’s mind wasn’t busy melting into mush and television static, then that simplification would have horrified him. (But simplification was all he had wanted for months. He didn’t have the patience to be horrified.)

Remy’s back was pressed up against his chest, and Roman was pressing kisses all along his neck as they fucked. Remy had asked for a distraction. Roman had given him a hell of a lot more than that.

—

“Do you think they’re looking for us?” Roman asked. He and Remy were laying face to face in the bed. Roman could hardly keep his eyes open.

“Fuck ‘em.”

Roman smiled and said, “A little too worn out for that.”

Remy stifled a laugh. “I hate you so much.”

“Hmm. Do you do that with everyone you hate?” he teased.

“Only a select few.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

Remy reached out and gently traced over Roman’s jaw.

“If you want a round two, you’re out of luck.” “Just wanted to say thank you.”

Roman pressed his forehead against Remy’s, not bothering to open his eyes. He was so tired. He didn’t want to think about the party that was supposed to start downstairs. He just wanted to sleep. “You don’t need to thank me. Our transactions are mutually beneficial.”

“Transactions.” He laughed softly. “Are we just some cheap whores?”

“I think I am,” he admitted. He was too tired to joke. He was too, too tired to lie.

Remy laced their fingers together and pressed a kiss to Roman’s knuckles. “You should take a shower before heading down. I, uh, have a costume for you. I’ll leave it in the bathroom for you.”

Roman hummed. “I really am your cheap whore, huh?”

Remy sighed. And for a moment, they just laid there. The silence taking over the air.

Roman shivered as the sweat on his skin began to cool and the fact that he was laying naked in someone else’s sweaty bed was starting to sink in.

“They’ll be wondering what’s taking so long,” Remy said quietly, but to the point. “You should shower. While there’s still time.”

Another deep breath. One foot after the other. Roman pulled himself out of bed and pulled on just enough clothes to make himself legally decent. Remy led him to the bathroom, which must have been the most minimalist part of the entire house. He pulled back the grey shower curtain and turned on the water.

“I’ll bring you a towel,” Remy said. He stepped out and kept a hand on the doorknob, “I’ll- uh- give you some privacy.”

The door closed behind him.

Privacy, Roman thought to himself, bold words from someone who had my dick in his ass. But at the same time, he was almost grateful. Roman took off his clothes and let them stay wherever they landed. He stepped into the shower and his muscles relaxed instantaneously. He decided he was grateful for a moment alone. Had Remy stuck around, cleaned him off, or even allowed them both to stay in their own little bubble of reality, then Roman would have been stuck. Their relationship was like super glue, if you weren’t careful it could trap you together. It was good they were apart.

Then it wouldn’t hurt when it all went down in flames.

Super glue is flammable, after all. And Roman didn’t need anything else coming between his heart and the walls he’d built to protect it. He massaged shampoo into his hair and gave it time to sit, pumping Remy’s body wash into his hands and rubbing it over his skin. (Sure, having sex in someone’s bed is one thing, but using their loofah? Far too intimate.) Suds and water ran down his skin, sending the sweat and feelings down the drain. There was a soft click and squeak as the door opened and then closed. Most likely Remy leaving a towel behind.

Roman washed his face. And he rubbed down his body once again for good measure.

But it wasn’t of any real use. Whatever he was hiding from, he’d still be smelling Remy’s body wash on him all night. There was no running away from this.

He turned off the water and dried himself off as best he could, not thinking about how the towel was warm and soft and how the only logical reason for that was that it had just come out of the drier. He didn’t think about how Remy was caring about him, from a distance, in his own little way. Refused to think about it, even. It was easier to pretend he’d been abandoned. It was easier to have his walls chipped rather than broken.

His dirty clothes were gone and a bag hung on the door knob. He picked it up and inside saw a note that said, “I promise the boxers are clean. Never worn, keep them if you want.” He pulled out the clothes, all folded neatly and all with the same clean smell of Remy’s detergent. The costume was brand new. Remy must have washed it straight out of the bag.

“Mooom,” Roman screamed. “I’m dying!”

His mom walked into the bathroom, with Remus practically attached to her hip. “Roman, you’re not dying,” she sighed.

“Eww, you’re turning into an ugly monster!” Remus yelled, pointing at Roman’s back.

Roman was spinning in circles, trying to see his bare back in the mirror. His skin was red and covered in bumps. He began to cry. “I don’t wanna be a monster! I don’t wanna!”

“Monster brother!” Remus chanted. “Monster brother! Monster brother!”

Roman cried harder.

“Enough, Remus,” their mother scolded. She gently placed a hand on Roman’s shoulder but he screamed and started scratching where her hand had been. “Roman,” she said gently, “can you take a deep breath for mommy?”

Roman sucked in as much air as his little lungs could hold and nodded.

“Does it itch?”

He let out all the air in one big exhale. “Yes! Like a million bajillion fire ants!”

“He’s cursed!” Remus yelled. He tugged on their mother’s shirt and begged, “Save me, Dragon Witch! Kill the cursed monster!”

She sighed. “Remus, I am not going to kill your brother. Why don’t you go find your father, okay? Can you do that, my little knight?”

Remus saluted. “Yes, ma’am!”

She ruffled his hair. “Good boy.”

He ran out of the bathroom, and his voice echoed through the walls as he yelled, “Dad! Dad! Roman got cursed!”

“What’s wrong with me?” Roman pleaded.

“You’re just having an allergic reaction,” his mom explained calmly. “Yesterday, you wore that new shirt grandma bought you, right?”

“Mhm-hmm.”

“And you wore it before I had a chance to wash it.”

“It wasn’t dirty,” Roman protested.

She laughed. “No, it wasn’t dirty, but you do have very sensitive skin, Roman.”

“Sensitive?” he asked.

“Remember when you and Remus got into a fight over the last cookie?”

He nodded stiffly, “You told us sharing is caring.”

She smiled, “Very good. But, before you shared the cookie, you felt very upset. And it made you cry. Well, this is like that. Your skin isn’t happy with the detergent the store used before grandma bought you that shirt. So now it’s acting out.”

Roman wiped the tears off of his cheeks. “Does my skin need to go into time out?”

“No, sweetie,” she said, “but we will have to put some anti-itch cream on it so you don’t scratch and make it worse.”

“But I don’t like that stuff. It’s cold.”

“I know, Roman, but let me make you a deal.”

He perked up. He always got good things when he made a deal with his mom.

“You can pick out your very bestest favoritest movie, and we can watch it while I help your skin calm down from its little temper tantrum. How does that sound?”

Roman pretended to consider. “I think... those terms are agreeable.”

She laughed. “Go get the DVD player set up, my little prince.”

He smiled. Another successful deal.

There was a whole week after that incident where people could finally tell the twins apart- Remus was the one who wasn’t covered in calamine lotion every single day. Roman couldn’t even remember how many years ago that was. He couldn’t remember a time when his only problem was who got the last cookie.

But Remy remembered.

And after Roman finished putting the costume on, he was wiping the tears from his eyes. He stepped out of the bathroom and made his way down the stairs. Going from one floor to the next felt like hopping dimensions, from the dark quiet upstairs to the loud and bright party. But maybe the sensory overload was what he needed-- a distraction from his distraction.

“There he is,” Remy announced, as Roman made his way into the kitchen. Remy was decked out in an astronaut suit, save for the helmet. And glittery stars were pinned into his midnight blue hair.

Roman walked towards him, not sure what to say to a complete stranger, a childhood friend, and a one-night stand rolled into one.

But Remy did the talking. “I, uh, have some things for you.”

And that was enough.

Remy handed him a glass bottle with an iced coffee inside, one of those Starbucks “frappes” they sell at grocery stores that never have the consistency of frappucinos. Lilly would hate it. But Roman cracked the lid and took a sip gratefully. “And, uh, one more thing.” He pulled a paper bag from behind his back and took out a plastic golden crown. “What’s a prince without his crown, am I right?”

Roman smiled as Remy crowned him. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

“How could I forget, Princey?”

Roman opened his mouth to speak, though even he was unaware of what he might say.

There was a knock at the doorway. “There you two are!”

Roman closed his lips and swallowed his words. Whatever he wanted to say, it wasn’t worth listening to anyway.

Lilly leaned against the counter. Her flapper dress cast little rainbows onto the floor. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. It took you a really long time to-” She raised an eyebrow and lifted her hands to do air quotes. “-move some stuff upstairs.” She gave a hard, fake cough.

Emile awkwardly shuffled behind her. “Uh, Rem, some people are smoking in the backyard. Should we--?”

Remy sighed. “Send Remus after ‘em. He’s been looking for a good excuse to yell at someone for weeks now.”

“Please do. He thinks we can’t hear him rage screaming in the showers,” Roman said.

“On it,” Emile said. He was gone as quickly as he appeared.

Lilly glanced over her shoulder at him, then turned her attention back to the two before her. “Virgil and I were going to put on a movie, if you two can go without giving each other hand jobs that long.”

Roman was certain his face was on fire.

But despite Remy also blushing, his voice held no sign of embarrassment when he said, “I’m glad the two of you are finally getting along.”

Lilly pursed her lips. “We’re not,” she said and solemnly added on, “we’re both just really good liars.”

“I wouldn’t mind a movie,” Roman said softly, reaching out for Lilly’s hand.

She looped her thumb over his. It was a start. It was enough.

“I’ll tell everyone else the party is over,” Remy said.

“What? Why?”

His mouth gave the tiniest bit of a quirk. “I think I just need some time with my real friends.”

Roman smiled at him and tried to communicate with their eyes the way everyone else seemed to. It didn’t really work. But by the time the house was quiet with only the five of them and a couple of blankets (after Lilly insisted that Remy and Roman be apart), all that mattered was in that room.

Roman sat on a single chair, Remy and Emile shared the love seat, and despite the extra cushion between Remus and Virgil, Lilly was lounging on a bean bag chair she’d found elsewhere in the house. Popcorn had been launched at more than one jump scare. And most of them were asleep before their movie marathon had ended.

But Roman was content to watch the credits. Roman was content to have a moment alone.

Come on, baby, let’s just get drunk

Forget we don’t get on

Roman saw more of Emile in the days after that party. That was on purpose, though they still hadn’t gotten to where Roman wanted to be. (Roman had suspected that his ‘end goal’ didn’t even really exist and that he was doomed to constantly feel dissatisfied with some feeble attempt at spying.)

“I’m so tired of gen eds,” Roman groaned. They were studying in the back of the library, a semi-abandoned section that seemed to exist only to their little group. The lights were always a little dimmer and there was always a bit more dust in the air, but it quickly became home. “I just want to get my AA and do something... better. You know?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Emile said. “I have all these plans, you know? Major in psychology. Get my Ph.D. That kind of stuff.”

“I’m sensing there’s a ‘but’ in there,” Roman said. He capped his highlighter and pushed his work to the side.

“I’m afraid to leave all this behind, I guess. My friends, my hometown. There just isn’t any way I can actually get what I want without leaving.” He looked up, meeting Roman’s eyes, and looked away just as quickly, with something sheepish in more than just his gaze. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be venting to you.”

“While I appreciate the self-awareness,” he said, “I don’t mind. I know what it’s like to bottle things up.”

“Are you sure?”

Roman leaned back against the plastic seat and motioned for Emile to relax as well. “Go for it.”

Emile crossed one leg over the other, resting his ankle over his knee. He pulled a pillow from the back of the chair next to him and held it in his lap, his fingers fiddling with the old fringes on the edge of the fabric. “It’s been weird living on my own. My sister helped me get the place and I’m so grateful she did but... I’ve never been alone before. I’ve always liked the quiet, but I’m not a fan of silence.”

Roman nodded along. He’d always dreamt of freedom, but it had never occurred to him what it would be like to be completely separated from his parents and Remus.

“And things keep changing,” he said with a frown. “I can’t always explain it but... Patton is gone now. And for the first time, I’m realizing that things aren’t concrete. The person I’ve spent years with and- and maybe I-”

Roman frowned. “You what?”

Emile said, “It doesn’t matter. At this point, I think I’d just do anything to make sure he doesn’t leave. And I... I’m worried I’ll be too obvious. Too anxious about losing him. And that’s going to be the reason he leaves. Because the rat got too clingy.”

“And who is this friend?” Roman asked.

Emile brought the pillow up to his chest, hiding part of his face behind it.

“You don’t have to tell me, Emile. But is it at least someone we both know? One of our friends?”

Emile nodded. The motion was so small, Roman didn’t even know if he’d meant to do it or if it was entirely reflexive. But the only answer he’d needed was that nod.

“Then, I can tell you that won’t happen.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’m not a mind reader,” he said, “but I know our friends. Remus, Virgil, Remy? They’re good guys. Loyal, to a fault even, but loyal nonetheless. You’re going to have all of us, man, whether you want us or not.”

“But what about Patton? I- I’m sorry. You probably don’t want to hear about him.”

“Patton is your-” Roman took a breath. “Patton was our friend. I’m not going to fault you for missing him. Or even still being friends with him.”

“I’m not,” Emile confessed. “He told me that he and Janus were a package deal.”

Roman furrowed his brow and the room must have been depleted of oxygen, but Emile was breathing with no problem. “He... said that?”

“I don’t like to gossip, but-” Emile leaned in forward. They were the only ones to be seen, but he whispered all the same. “Between you and me, I think Janus asked him to choose between him and me. Or us. I haven’t heard a word from Patton since.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

Emile frowned. “I mean, Patton still-”

“Not Patton.”

“Oh.”

Roman’s heart was pounding against his chest, his blood boiling in his head while his chest froze over. He felt dizzy and his mind was a blur. His thoughts had never had such clarity.

“I’ll help you hide the body,” Emile whispered.

Roman let a single laugh escape him. “You spend too much time with Remus.”

“You would know, huh?”

Roman took a long, drawn-out breath. “Tell me about it.” He tried to let the anger out with each exhale. He knew that would never really work, but pretending the scars weren’t there felt like his only option at times. “Speaking of, uh, gossip. Anyone, you have a crush on?”

Emile furrowed his brow. “What are you doing, Roman?”

“Trying to avoid my homework,” he confessed. Trying not to think about Janus.

“Okay, then you first,” Emile said. “I want something out of this. Who do you have a crush on?” Despite the question, though, Emile looked bored. Like he already knew the answer.

“I... I don’t think I have a crush on anyone,” Roman said. I don’t think I’m capable of loving.

Emile’s brow furrowed. “Really?”

Roman shrugged. “It’s not like you choose when to have crushes.” I think Janus broke me. I don’t think I even know what love is. “Now you spill.”

Emile frowned, his gaze falling to the floor. “I’m afraid saying it will make it true,” he said.

You and me both.

You’re like my dad

You get on well

“One more month, then one more semester,” Roman repeated to himself over and over like a mantra. “One more month, then one more semester,” he said when he woke up. “One more month, then one more semester,” he told himself on the way to school, on the walk to class, and at every study break, he got. One more month felt like a year. One more semester felt like a lifetime.

He was spending less time with Remy. He didn’t know if that made things better or worse. He just knew what needed to be done.

...but maybe he’d push that off until after he passed his classes. No use wrecking what little social life he had left until finals were over.

Every time he waved to Virgil between classes or saw Emile’s latest over-analysis of some cartoon on Tumblr, his heart felt heavier. When he bumped into Remy on his way out of his last class of the day, he was elated. He was going to be sick.

The cycle was dizzying. Roman wanted out.

But how do you escape a self-fulfilling prophecy? How do you escape yourself?

I send my best regards from hell

If Roman didn’t die from stress, he’d consider it divine intervention. “Finals and then one more semester,” he told himself. But screw one more semester, finals were hell enough.

“Coffee?” the waitress asked with a full pot in hand.

“I think my heart will explode with any more coffee,” Roman said.

“I think we’ll all take refills,” Remus said. “I’ll tip extra if he explodes.”

Emile patted Roman’s hand in some attempt at a comforting gesture. And it might have worked, if Roman wasn’t immediately focused on how ice cold his fingers were.

The waitress poured their mugs, leaving only enough room for cream and not a drop more. Emile removed his hand from Roman’s and gripped his ceramic mug.

“Can you even feel with those?” Roman asked.

Emile rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious, dude. There’s like… no blood in there.”

Emile started, “My mom always says-“

“The colder the hands, the warmer the heart?” Remy supplied. “It’s true, you know.”

Emile’s face grew pink with a blush. “No, actually, she told me to do more cardio. Something about cold hands means I don’t get enough blood flow.”

“If we cut open your hand, I think we’d find penguins. And the penguins would be trying to warm themselves,” Roman said. “I’m buying you gloves for Christmas.”

“So has every relative for like eight years straight.”

Roman nodded, pretending to agree. “But consider this. I’m buying you new gloves.”

“Interesting,” Virgil mumbled. He uncapped a pen with his mouth and scribbled something in the margins of his notebook.

“What is?” Roman asked, furrowing his brow.

Remus interjected, “Probably the fact that all these study sessions are your idea and you never study shit.”

Roman stuck his tongue out at him.

Remus replied with a single finger.

“Anyway,” Roman said with a large eye roll, “what’s interesting, Virgil?”

“Oh, um.” Virgil’s cheeks grew pink. “That your love language is gift giving. I’m, uh, doing a spreadsheet. For statistics.”

“Strange thing to study,” Remy said monotonously.

Virgil shot him a glare. “We could choose our topic. I chose love languages.”

“Well, I think it’s a wonderful topic,” Roman said.

Emile nudged Virgil’s arm. “I think that’s a point for ‘words of affirmation’.”

“I think that’s a point for ‘I’m going to shove my foot up your ass’,” Virgil retorted. But he scribbled something on his paper nevertheless and Emile gave a loud snort.

Roman couldn’t help the smile that tugged upwards at his lips or the simultaneous guilt that tugged downwards at his heart. He loved his friends. He was so certain he was going to lose them.

Sooner or later.

It always happened.

I never sang for love, I never had a heart to mend.

Roman was sitting in the library. Roman was always sitting in the library.

But he wasn’t home. He wasn’t sitting with old pillows in that place only they knew. He was sitting by the printing station, so close to the exit but so awkward to leave.

And maybe that’s why it happened. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he trapped himself and he was jumping through hoops trying to make someone else the villain. But he was sitting at the library.

“Hello, darling.”

And so was Janus.

“What are you doing here?” Roman asked with all the strength he could muster. It was nearly a whisper. He wasn’t even sure he’d made a sound at all.

“I’m a student here,” Janus said very matter-of-factly. “I’m studying.”

“What are you doing here?” Roman repeated.

Janus crossed one leg over the other. Despite most students wandering around in pajamas or whatever they could find to avoid doing laundry, Janus was still dressed like every class was a fashion show. His black skinny jeans and half-buttoned yellow shirt were the most formal thing for miles. But the gold buckle on his black loafers made him look like a Founding Father. Roman chose to focus on that. It was easier to look at Janus’s flaws than anything else.

“I simply wanted to catch up,” Janus said. “It’s been so long. How are your classes going? What are your plans for the break?”

Roman could feel his fingernails digging into his skin. His knuckles were turning white. He’d be lucky if his palms didn’t bleed.

Janus leaned forward, meeting Roman’s gaze no matter how hard he tried to fight it. “I meant it, you know, when I said we would still be friends.”

“And I meant everything I didn’t say after that,” he retorted. “After we broke up, I told you I needed space.”

“And I provided it.”

“Not enough.” Roman’s voice cracked and he hated himself for even the tiniest show of vulnerability. Janus didn’t deserve his weakness. Not anymore. Not ever again. “You- You kept calling me. You sent Patton after me. You didn’t listen! You never listened.”

“Ugh, here we go again with the dramatics.”

“Seriously?” Roman scoffed. “You’re not even listening now and you expect, what, a high five of recognition? You seriously expect to be my friend?”

“It always has to be about you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Roman bit. “Because this is about me. This is about me not wanting to talk to you after we broke up and it’s about me not wanting to talk to you now.”

Janus opened his mouth to speak.

“Ah, I don’t think so. You are going to listen to me when I say this: Go to hell, Janus. And stay the fuck away from me.” He stood up from his chair and swung his bag over his shoulder.

“No wonder no one ever sticks around,” Janus said. “You’re going to die alone, Roman. Do you realize that? You make it so hard for anyone to love you.”

Roman dodged the printers, making his way out of the library. He held his breath. He wouldn’t let Janus see him cry, nor allow him to hear a single shaking breath. Roman held his composure all the way off campus, finally letting the pieces he’d held tightly fall apart on a street corner downtown. His heart was racing and despite knowing damn well what a panic attack was, he couldn’t calm himself down. He just needed to let it out.

He didn’t let Janus see him be weak. And he never would ever again.

Because before the start began, I always saw the end

Yeah, I wait for you to open up, to give yourself to me

They were at that park again. The same storm threatening the skies. The same childhood memories, now with the ghost of that kiss. Roman wiped his eyes. He wanted to relive that kiss. He wanted to do it all over again.

But, for once in his life, he had to do something on his own terms. Even if that something was breaking his own heart.

The metal squeaked as they moved back, and forth, and back, and forth, never still but never quite leaving the ground. “Remy, I don’t think I can do this anymore,” he said, ripping off the metaphorical bandage.

The metal squeaked roughly as Remy dragged his shoes through the dirt, forcing himself to stop. “Are you okay?”

No. “Y-yeah, I’m fine.” He took a deep breath. “I guess, you were right. Is all. I know we were never actually dating, but... It was still, I guess, more than I knew how to navigate. And I know there’s someone out there who can be the partner you deserve. Not just the fuck buddy you feel bad for.”

“Roman,” he said, “don’t belittle yourself for me. You were never pity sex.”

“But I was never more than that,” he said, more to convince himself than to remind Remy. “And you’ve always been such a supportive friend, Rem. I think that’s what I need right now.”

Remy stepped off the swings and stood in front of Roman, with his arms open wide.

Roman jumped off the flimsy metal and wrapped his arms around Remy before he could second guess himself. He rested his chin on his shoulder, staring at the old, plastic playhouse. If he squinted, he could almost see the ghosts. “I saw Janus earlier. We talked.”

“Oh, Roman,” Remy sighed. He hugged him tighter.

“I hated every second of it.”

Roman was tired of fighting. He let the tears flow freely. Remy held him steady as the hyperventilation shook him.

“I’m here for you,” Remy said. He kept repeating it.

Roman almost believed him.

“I’m here for you.”

But nothing’s ever gonna give, I’ll never set you free

No, I’ll never set you free

Remus was quiet when Roman got home.

He hadn’t said a word. And Remy promised secrecy. Their affair wasn’t his to tell.

But everything, the whole week, must have been written on his face.

Roman hadn’t said a word to his brother, but he stepped into Remus’s arms anyway.

It almost feels like a joke to play out a part

When you are not the starrin’ role in someone else’s heart

The Barnes Family Christmas Party was a yearly tradition. Roman was convinced Christmas simply couldn’t go on without it. Unfortunately, Roman also had a tradition of negotiating with Lilly on how well she could behave. This year’s deal? She would refrain from killing Virgil if Roman let her orchestrate party games. They eventually settled on one game, set long before any of their parents’ guests would arrive.

Roman settled on it. It was the first year all of Remus’s friends could actually make it-- and it was the first year that they were Roman’s friends as well. And Roman was determined not to disappoint any of his friends.

They were all set up in a circle (though Remus and Lilly did some negotiating of their own) with an empty plastic soda bottle in the middle.

“Can I spin first?” Remus asked with a twisted grin.

“Are you just that eager to use your exception?” Lilly asked, the exception being that rather than kissing whomever the bottle chose, Remus would instead get to slap them with no repercussions.

“Yes!”

“Then, no,” Lilly said. “Virgil goes first, then we move clockwise.”

Remus groaned.

The game started. And for the first few rounds, the bottle never landed on Roman. He considered that a miracle. The bottle landed on Remus in one turn, and Virgil’s cheek still had a red handprint on it a few rounds later.

Roman elected to skip his spin. Lilly looked pissed off. Remy looked understanding.

The game continued.

A few more spins and it was Remy’s turn. He spun the bottle and it turned and turned and slowed and slowed and stopped just in front of Roman.

Roman faked a cough, nudging the plastic with the toe of his shoe, not enough for anyone to notice it had moved, but enough to definitively point one person over. All eyes were on Emile. If he was trying to hide his blush, he was doing a horrible job.

“You don’t have to,” Remy softly reassured.

Lilly groaned. “You guys all suck at this game.”

Emile leaned forward, pressing his hand onto the floor next to the bottle and holding himself up as he and Remy kissed in the middle.

Lilly’s eyes were on Roman, her brow furrowed and a question about to form on her lips.

Roman looked down at his watch, his timer still had five minutes left. “Oh, shit, I gotta go run to the kitchen. Cookies are done.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. He glanced at Emile and Remy, then at Roman. He softly nodded.

“Whatever, this was getting boring anyway,” Lilly said.

“Remus, you got-” Roman started to ask.

“Go prevent that house fire,” Remus said. “Be good for Santa and all that.”

Roman rolled his eyes, but it was only for show. Sometimes, only sometimes, Remus could be good to have around.

You know I’d rather walk alone

Lilly had left before the party had really started. She hadn’t said why-- at least not to Roman or Remus-- just left a couple of presents and a card sitting under the tree and went home for the rest of the night.

The rest of the group settled into watching Christmas movies and playing board games they only half paid attention to and never seemed to finish.

“Hey, Roman, where are your blankets?” Remy asked. “It’s kinda cold-”

“Ugh, fine,” Remus loudly groaned. “Pull my leg off, why don’t you? If you really insist, Remy, I guess I have no choice-”

“What is he doing?” Virgil sighed.

“Just go with it,” Roman told him.

“No choice,” Remus repeated, glaring at his interrupters, “but to give you and only you your present early.”

Remy smiled. “Fine, you caught me. I’m so pushy and all that jazz.”

“You really are,” Remus said. He was a shit actor, but a decent enough comedian. He grabbed a wide, flat box wrapped in black paper with glittery green ribbon from under the Christmas tree and handed it to Remy.

Remy tore the paper carefully, trying only to open the taped sides. It was obnoxious, Roman reminded himself, so as not to risk finding it adorable. Remy smiled wide as he opened the box. He pulled the fabric out quickly and pulled it over his head in what seemed like an instant. It was a black hoodie with bleached tie dye spirals and a skeletal version of the Starbucks logo over the chest. It was so perfectly the two of them on one item, Roman was almost jealous that Remus had such a knack for gifts.

“I owe you a coffee,” Remy said.

“Oh, please,” Remus replied, “I’ll just take payment in the form of you telling everyone how great I am.”

“Deal,” he said.

“You know, Remus,” Virgil butted in, “I wouldn’t mind a present.” He batted his eyelashes cartoonishly.

Remus threw a blanket that landed on Virgil’s head and covered his face. “Know your place, peasant,” he said.

Roman pulled down the blanket and Virgil’s hair frizzed in a messy pile. Roman laughed, which became harder to hold as Virgil blushed in embarrassment and tried to look angry. “I’ve got you covered, Hot Topic.”

Virgil forced out a laugh and asked, “You think I’m hot?”

Roman momentarily froze.

“He thinks you’re emo, dipshit,” Remus said.

“Oh, yeah, right,” Virgil said at a million words a minute. “Obviously.”

Roman handed him a white box, unwrapped, but it did have a red gift bow and a little paper tag hanging off the side. “It’s, uh, not perfect. I also have a gift card inside in case you don’t like it and-”

“Roman.” Virgil took the box. “Shut up.”

“Right,” he said abruptly.

Virgil smiled at him and opened the box, pulling out a purple velvet choker with a spider charm in the middle. Plastic jewel-shaped beads hung off the edges.

“I made it myself,” Roman said. “I, uh, actually made everyone’s gifts.”

“Show off,” Remus muttered.

“Don’t listen to him,” Emile said. “I think that’s sweet, Roman.”

I think I’d rather you all tell me to die, he thought. He tried not to fidget as he waited, but the silence as Virgil looked over the gift seemed like enough to kill him.

“It’s beautiful,” Virgil said, his voice weak. He gently touched Roman’s hand and said, “Thank you.”

“There is also a gift card,” Roman blurted. “For, uh, Hot Topic.”

Remus barked with laughter so hard that Roman swore they’d all go deaf then and there. But somehow, their hearing remained. Which was the real curse, because it meant he’d still have to hear Remus.

“And, um, Emile.” He grabbed a bag stuffed with tissue paper and passed it across the room. “I found out gloves aren’t super easy to sew.”

Emile pulled out a mitten, the outside made with a fabric covered in cartoon characters. He gasped. “Encanto. Mittens.”

“I, uh, know you like cartoons,” Roman said. “And buff women.”

“It’s true! I do like those things!” he announced as he pulled the mittens over his hands.

“Now you’re like Amity,” Virgil said.

“And, seriously, fix your blood or whatever,” Roman said. “They’re ridiculously cold.”

Emile flapped his mitten-clad hands. “Not anymore,” he sang.

And Roman was able to breathe. For the rest of the night, he could finally breathe.

(Rather walk alone)

New year’s eve. The last line of the last page. Roman was ready for a new chapter to begin.

Florida wasn’t known for cold winters, but there was still a chill in the breeze as it ruffled Roman’s hair. He kept his hands shoved in the pocket of his jacket. A preemptive firework went off somewhere in the distance.

“So… anyone have any resolutions?” Roman asked.

“What are you, my grandmother?” Lilly asked.

“Since when are you so cynical?” Virgil asked.

“Since you,” she mumbled.

“I have a resolution,” Emile piped up. “I’m going to try for a four-point-oh on my last semester.”

“That’s a good one,” Roman said. “You should, uh, let me know if you ever want to study together.”

Emile smiled at him. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I want to fix my sleep schedule,” Remy confessed. “I’m tired of being so… tired.”

Remus quietly said, “I’m going to try going to therapy. Stop letting my intrusive thoughts keep me up at night.” A few of them clapped. Remus rolled his eyes and said, “Drop the bullshit,” but Roman could see it in his eyes that he appreciated the support.

“I want to be braver,” Virgil said. “Say and do things I wouldn’t have before.”

“And you actually believe you will?” Lilly bit. “Resolutions are complete bullshit. You might as well just accept that it’s a fantasy, Virgil.”

Virgil began to speak.

“Lilly,” Roman asked, “what’s your fucking problem?”

“All this self-aggrandizing jerk off of a pity party,” she said. “You know just as well as I do they’ll all be crying themselves to sleep over their failures by February.”

Virgil mumbled, “Like you’re so perfect?”

“I am, actually,” she said. “Because I don’t need to pretend some stupid, arbitrary time change is going to have any real impact on-”

“Get out.”

Lilly turned on her heel. “Excuse me?”

“Get out,” Remus reiterated. “Leave. Begone. Go away.”

Lilly opened her mouth to speak, glancing over to Roman for assistance.

Roman’s gaze fell to the ground. But Lilly’s look of betrayal would forever be burned into his memory. Lilly stormed off without another word.

Remus stayed silent, but turned and went inside the house. The door slammed loudly.

No one said a word. For a moment, they were frozen in time. No one spoke. No one dared move a muscle.

A preemptive firework cracked in the distance, casting red light over them. The only indication that time had continued at all.

Then play a supportin’ role

If I can’t get the starrin’ role

It was 11:40 pm. Everyone was inside, eagerly watching the tv. Everyone, except for Remus, who was no doubt brooding somewhere by himself. Roman swirled the glass of wine in his hand, watching the sugar rise and settle over and over. The holidays were the one time everyone’s parents let them drink without a care, but this wasn’t a privilege Roman felt he’d really earned. He just felt guilty about all the times he got drunk without their permission. ...and the things he’d said that he could never take back.

But he took a sip. The wine was sweet and nowhere near as strong as the things he’d downed to try and escape himself. Roman crossed the room and took a seat next to Virgil, whose face was lit white by some screen he was clutching in his hands. Roman looked over Virgil’s shoulder. Some cartoon boy with purple hair was running around with a net in his hand, chasing a butterfly.

“You’re such a dork,” Roman told him.

Virgil frowned. “I’ve dealt with enough judgments tonight, thank you.”

Roman rested his chin on Virgil’s shoulder. The cartoon boy had yet to catch the butterfly. “I meant it as a compliment. Most people on New Year’s are slamming shots or making lovey eyes at whoever they’re going to kiss at midnight.”

He pressed a button. The cartoon boy slammed down his net. Just a few pixels off. The butterfly disappeared, uncaught. Virgil sighed, “Yeah, yeah, and I’m playing Animal Crossing. Don’t have anyone to kiss. Not interested in a hangover tomorrow.” Virgil stuck out his tongue and pressed buttons to move through a menu of objects. The cartoon boy pulled a watering can out of thin air and began watering a group of red and purple flowers. “So I just want to make my island pretty. Before we get to the virtual fireworks.”

“You should send me screenshots sometime,” Roman said. “They’d make some nice painting practice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he mumbled.

“For what it’s worth, Virgil. I think you’re very brave.”

“You’re just saying that out of guilt,” he said. “I know how guys like you work.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true.”

Virgil glanced over at Roman from the corners of his eyes.

Roman stood up straight. He raised his glass to take a sip of wine, but instead took a steadying breath and put the glass down on the table.

Virgil furrowed his brow and put his Switch next to Roman’s wine.

“You told me things that I didn’t want to hear and you probably knew I wasn’t going to listen,” he said. “That’s brave, Virgil. Saying things even when they won’t always work for you.”

“I’m not brave, I just-” Virgil’s fingers fiddled with the strings of his hoodie. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“And I wish I were braver,” Roman said. “So you wouldn’t have gotten hurt. And I wish I’d listened to you all those months ago.”

Someone yelled, “It’s almost time!”

Virgil’s cheeks were pink. “You never said what your resolution is.”

Roman opened his mouth, about to speak but not before his mom hurried over to them. “Roman, honey, come help me get the champagne ready.”

“I- uh-”

“Now, Roman,” she said.

Roman stood up and sighed. “We’ll talk later,” he promised Virgil, and he quickly followed his mother to the kitchen.

“I’ll pour, you start handing out glasses,” she said.

“Because you don’t trust me not to spill?”

“Exactly,” she said with a smile. “Now go be a good host.”

Roman grabbed two glasses and began handing them out to anyone who came near the kitchen. But he kept thinking about Virgil, sitting alone playing Animal Crossing. I don’t want to be a good host. I want to be a good friend. By the time all the glasses had been passed around, it was 11:58 pm. Virgil was still sitting on the couch, but there was too much of a crowd to make his way over to him. 11:59 pm. The counting had begun.

Roman pulled out his phone. He typed frantically. He typed out every word that came to his mind: of admiration, of jealousy, and-- yes-- even of guilt. He typed it all out and hit ‘send.’

“Ten!” everyone shouted.

9...

8...

7...

6...

Roman’s wine was abandoned, lost in the crowd. He took an early sip of champagne. He squeezed his eyes tightly. He’d forgotten how much he hated champagne.

3... 2... 1

Everyone cheered. Husbands leaned to kiss their wives. Virgil was certainly watching the virtual fireworks. And Remy was caught up in a kiss with Emile.

Roman’s stomach twisted in knots. He was happy for them. That was the sour taste of happiness rising in his throat.

The cheering subsided and Roman grabbed another champagne glass off the counter. He climbed the stairs, moving slowly to maintain balance. His mother was right not to trust him to pour. In the darkened hallway, Remus’s door was easy to find with the faint green of glowing stars stuck to the wood. Roman held both glasses in one hand and slowly opened the door.

Remus was sitting by the window, watching the fireworks through the mess of trees in their backyard. It wasn’t a good view, but it was quiet. Roman couldn’t fault him for hiding.

Remus was quiet, only giving Roman a sparring glance before continuing to watch the window. “Close the door behind you,” he said quietly.

Roman pushed the door closed with his foot and kicked off his shoes, letting his feet sink into the carpet. He handed Remus the untouched champagne and sat next to him on the floor. Remus took a sip and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the wall. Fireworks went off in the distance, but Roman could still see the colors through the shadows in the room. Red. And blue. And red. And blue.

The starring role

#welcome to the life of electra heart #electra heart au #sanders sides fic #tss fic #I can finally post the memes now #creativisleep #roman angst #I feel like we're far enough in that I don't have to add every single tag to each chapter #anyway enjoy because I've been losing my fucking mind while writing this

13 notes · View notes

monk-of-mystery · 1 year

Text

I've realized why I've never had any friends. It's not because I don't know how to make them, though that might be true too. But it's not really that I don't have the opportunity.

It's that I'm never a friend back. I don't try to engage.

Why? Is it because I am afraid of being rejected, like I've always believed?

Is it because I think myself a monster that no one would care for, if only they knew the truth?

Is it that it takes gobs more energy than most, just to be around people; is my self loathing so strong to disable me so?

Maybe it's because I was rebuked for trying to support friends in my formative years.

Or is it simply that I don't care about the people that would be my friends?

I'm afraid of that last one. And the more that time goes on, the more I fear it true.

I don't try to support, for all the empathy and sympathy I claim to be capable of. A large part of me is fine going on in life alone. Is that my natural state?

I used to believe so wholeheartedly but over the years I've tried to challenge that, at the behest of my therapists. That I'm not some hermit, but merely a damaged, normal individual.

Even with that effort, I've felt I've been of the two natures: one that yearns to be left alone and the other terrified of being invisible. Like the parable of the wolves, I've done my best to feed the one that believes I am capable and worthy of love.

An I labouring in vain? Am I acting against my very nature?

No, it must not have been, not always, with how much I yearned to help my friends in my youth, when I had them. But was it perhaps eroded beyond repair? Was the tissue to damaged by the fires to ever move the way it once did?

What I can say is that I don't know how to face the revulsion at the thought of opening up. And of being opened up.

I don't know how that links to not reciprocating care. I feel childish making the claim that I've not been adequately cared for, so I do not return the gesture. I don't think that to be true. I've pushed so many away, how can I know that all of their care was not genuine?

One thing that's become more and more clear to me is that it's both an attraction to solitude and aversion to others.

One should feel safe with their friends. That seems implicit. So why has there not been a soul in life I feel truly safe around? Is that not the definition of a monster, that they will never feel accepted enough to bare their whole self? Or is this a curse of all of my fellow humans as well? Are we all secretly monsters?

It makes me feel alone in this existence, not merely as an emotion but a state of being. So much of life is gated off by this solitude. So much of who I could be can never be realized. And in the end, the most difficult thing to live with is that it's nothing but myself standing in the way of depleting it.

Perhaps there are inner workings beyond my conscious control that hinder me, but ah, those are just as much a part of me as the ego writing these words, are they not? I am not distinct from my body, it is every bit a part of me. This, indeed, the largest thing stopping me from resolving that which feels like inescapable torment is simply myself.

And I have to live with that. It burns every day. Because it also implies, rightly, that the only one who can truly free me is myself. I can, and must, fine the correct tools that will enable me to do so but ultimately, if it is actions that must be taken with those tools to enact change, –while I still possess bodily autonomy– no one else can force me to take those actions. I alone am accountable.

I alone am accountable for my loneliness.

Can I force myself to care more? To reach out, to be vulnerable?

Maybe. Maybe it is a reflex that feeds back into itself, that the more I am around people, the more I will care for them. That does not feel to be the truth from my experiences thus far.

Maybe it is a muscle that must be strengthened, like mindfulness or like the dance of social interaction.

Those are the kindnesses my mind is trying to put forth, to write stories other than those of hopeless despair. But the one that it is all fruitless, that I am a nocturnal being trying to live amongst the diurnal, it is still present, and it is still strong.

I feel trapped. Trapped because I need to not be alone to get better. That feels an undeniable truth, and one with reasonable backing. But I cannot engage. It feels as though I don't know how, that I've forgotten. Maybe I can remember, or maybe I can teach myself, like I had to do with the simple act of being around people.

But life feels pointless alone. It's hard to describe in a way that rings true, nearly ineffable. What I can say is that if there is no one to witness your deeds, your actions, your life events– with no one to care as to the outcomes, to your thoughts, your feelings, your dreams, it feels as though they don't even exist.

#inside my mind #loneliness #friends #hopelessness #emptiness #my diary

5 notes · View notes

onggi · 7 months

Text

Eyes Wide Shut

It’s a mellow autumn afternoon, the floorboards creaking in time with Blue’s footsteps as he makes his way over to his desk. Through the window, glimpses of the astral oceans cling to the outside of the ship. They’re going somewhere, but Mattias has realised that he’s better off not knowing where. Paimon and Blue spend entire days deliberating over the course of the ship, sometimes raising their voices in argument, and Mattias, for once, resists his urge to control. He’s accepted that here, it’s not his place. Both on Paimon’s ship and in Blue’s life.

“I don’t know how you can stand it.” Mattias watches Blue rearrange the curious items on his desk. He watches the way one of his hands freezes in its place on a pocket watch, his fingertips lightly grazing the engraved golden shell.

“Stand what,” Blue says flatly, more of a statement than a question. They’ve both grown up, but it’s especially evident in the way that Blue’s more serious now.

Mattias shrugs, sitting up on the bed. He dissolves the knife he’d been spinning in his hands. “The halv curse.” Mattias stares into Blue’s back, tracing the muscled curves as they stiffen. “Knowing that you’re slowly losing control.”

Blue laughs a little, the stiffness bleeding out of him like an open wound. When he fully turns to face Mattias, there’s a little glint of something in his eye. Not quite hurt, not quite regret. The distance between them yawns, an open maw.

“I never had control in the first place,” Blue sighs, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know what that’s like.” He shifts his weight from side to side.

With a thin smile, Mattias thinks that’s a little funny. Blue certainly had him curled around his very fingers years ago, sinking deeper and deeper into an obsession with no end. He also knows that’s not what Blue’s talking about right now and that were he to bring that up, it would shatter the uneasy tightrope of a truce that they’ve been walking since Mattias crashed onto Paimon’s ship with a knife and a target.

Besides, Blue probably doesn’t see it that way. That’s one thing Mattias has learned: there isn’t only one way of seeing things.

Blue furrows his brow slightly. “Kinda dark topic for a perfectly nice afternoon.” He flickers his gaze up to meet Mattias’ eyes. “What prompted this?”

Mattias can’t say what he’s thinking. That he’s always been curious about Blue’s nature as a voidtouched, from the first time he saw that blood dripping down his arm like ink in the dingy bathroom of his shitty Neon apartment. That he saw Blue just the other day, shirtless and making almost surgical cuts across his eye markings with a razor blade. His blood bubbled up to the surface, sizzling with intention, as he fell into the rhythm of stitching them back shut. Mattias had no idea what he was watching, but he knows the importance of eye symbols as well as anyone else — that they represent the eye of the universe itself, that bisecting them brings bad luck. Years ago, he dismissed it as superstition, but he’s learned a lot over a decade, including the fact that sometimes, magical superstitions carry more weight than the average cynic might assume. Why cut only to stitch?

“You know how I feel about halvs,” Mattias says instead. A nonsequitur. “How I felt. No control, no autonomy, slaves to the Abyssal Void.”

Blue bristles slightly. Some hurt doesn’t heal.

Mattias clears his throat. “Some of it was true. There were times that— well. There were times that I saw it for myself.” He’s talking around it, trying not to rile anything up in Blue. “But it’s not the same for everyone.”

Huffing slightly, Blue seats himself in the chair by his desk. Mattias takes note of the long sleeves he’s wearing, something he never thought to question before. Now, he imagines the stitches puckering the skin beneath. Maybe Blue has healed already; he always did have accelerated healing. There might not even be any scarring left.

“You were the first halv I ever met.” Not the only one, and they both know what happened to the others.

Blue blinks slowly, thinking. Then he sinks into the chair, melting against its form. He’s decided to talk.

“They used to say I had the heart of a demon,” Blue begins. “I’m not sure they were lying. I felt like it was the truth for a long time.” One hand reaches up to scratch at his arm absently. “And Lucifer—”

“We don’t have to talk about Lucifer.” Placating.

Blue’s eyes light up with something indignant at that, fire licking at his irises and burning Mattias from the inside out with shame. “And Lucifer,” he continues, “was the first one to make me feel like I wasn’t that. What other people made of me, I mean.” Blue scrubs a hand across his face tiredly. “I can talk about him sometimes, you know. It’s not— It’s not like it was before.”

Before. Mattias tries not to think about it and fails. Blue, barely coherent and tucked into the bed at Mattias’ Sun District apartment, clinging to him like a limpet. Begging for love and then casting Mattias aside, over and over again. Selfishly, he had thought that now that Lucifer was dead, he might finally have a chance. In reality, Lucifer’s death only immortalised him.

He could spit vitriol at Blue for things that happened a decade ago. Things that he has no closure on, that he’ll probably never be able to truly forget, not when the image of Blue’s tearstained smile haunts the corners of his waking mind. He doesn’t, though.

“Maybe,” Mattias says after a long pause. “But some things don’t change.”

Blue fires up again at that, the fur of his ears standing on edge. When he speaks, it’s a grating hiss of barely contained frustration. “I don’t know why I even bother with you,” he spits. “Every time I think things are different, it’s like you’re forced to remind me of what an asshole you are.”

Mattias swallows. “Maybe.” Cold as steel.

“Maybe? That’s all you’re going to say?” Blue runs one hand through the shag of his hair, blowing air out of his mouth sharply. “You start shit for no reason, Mattias. I don’t even know what prompted you to bring up any of this in the first place. And Lucifer — you always were so weird about him, you know?”

Blue glances at the window. Lightning crashes, illuminating his profile for a moment. Mattias hadn’t even noticed that it had started to rain.

“Was it insecurity?” Blue laughs sardonically. “Or something else? Control?”

His throat is dry as a desert and itching for a drink, his hands are aching for a cigarette, and his teeth are grating from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. Mattias looks at Blue, really looks at him, and watches as he twitches in anger. Anything to do with Lucifer really set him off for a time; maybe that time really has passed. Mattias inhales deeply.

“Forget about it.”

Blue scoffs. “Forget about what? You’re not entitled to anything here, Mattias. Not even answers. It’s my life.”

Mattias wrinkles his brow, then reaches for the journal he stashes by the bedside — the only space in the room that belongs to him. Everything else is Blue’s, from the threadbare carpet on the floor to the candles hovering in the air around their heads.

“Are you taking notes? What the fuck. Were you testing me or something?” Blue’s incandescent with rage like this, his hair blazing out like a wildfire behind him. His eyes glow bright, piercing beams that once made Mattias feel like he was being torn asunder. Now, it feels like they’re looking straight through him.

Mattias knows he’s pushed his luck, but there are things going on here that he doesn’t understand. Things he doesn’t know. Things that Blue won’t tell him. He wakes up feeling disoriented but shaken every morning and dread settles into the pit of his stomach every night. Blue is bisecting his eyes, and it’s only after he saw him doing so that Mattias realised there were no eye symbols in sight anywhere on the ship. Blue’s a liar. He always has been. But it’s easier to get the truth out of him when he’s angry.

Blue takes one, two steps across the room and then he’s gripping Mattias by the collar, lifting him up ever so slightly and forcing him to meet his eyes.

“I may have put up with your shit once, but I will not do it again.” It’s practically a growl, so low in his throat that it’s almost monstrous. Blue’s always known how to intimidate.

Mattias tosses his journal aside. “I think I’m the one putting up with your shit this time,” he spits back. “Or are you going to pretend there’s nothing going on with this?” In one movement, Mattias raises his hand to Blue’s arm and feels the flesh beneath with his blood magic. Just one little push of energy and he’s knitting it back together, healed as good as new.

He watches the way Blue freezes, anger morphing to shock and then — fear. Then Blue’s collapsing to the ground, clutching his forearm and screaming in pain.

Immediately, Mattias drops to his side. He doesn’t know what’s going on, doesn’t understand anything, and this is why Blue should have explained from the beginning— but no, there’s no time for that. His hand hovers over where he healed Blue and he feels blood. Quickly, he rolls up the sleeve, revealing an angry welt where there once was an eye marking. It’s bleeding, inky blackness spilling into Mattias’ palms when he tries to cover it, forcing all the energy he can into the wound, but it’s not healing. Still the blood comes and still Blue screams, his teeth elongating when he arches back. His halv form — a reaction to the pain, or is there another trigger?

“Blue. Blue, it’s okay. Tell me what’s going on.” Mattias pretends he can’t hear the shake in his voice. “What’s happening? How do I stop it?”

Blue’s gasping for breath, his eyes wide and panicked. “It burns,” he chokes out. “It’s him.”

“Who?” Mattias grips Blue tightly, squeezing him as hard as he can. “You’re not making any sense, älskling.” God, he feels something screaming in his head.

“Cut.” Blue’s clawing at Mattias’ back in either pain or desperation. “I need you to— I need—”

Mattias shushes him gently, prying himself away from Blue to find something, anything he can use. On the desk, a letter opener glints at him. He lunges for it, then bends over Blue’s arm with a grimace.

“Förlåt.”

He plunges the blade into the centre of the eye. Immediately, Blue stills, though his breath still comes heavy and harsh in his throat. His eyes slip shut slightly. It feels like hours pass before either of them speak, Mattias still holding the letter opener in a tight grip and Blue stretched out across half of him.

“I didn’t know you knew,” Blue breathes out at last, coughing and pushing himself upright with a slight shake. “It would have been better if you didn’t.”

Mattias screws up his face in something that could be apologetic, but is mostly guilty. “I didn’t really know. I just saw you once.”

Blue grins a little. “Fucking stalker.” It melts into a frown. “Well, he’s seen us now. I’ll have to tell Paimon to change our course.”

There’s an urge to push Blue’s hair out of his face that Mattias very valiantly resists. “Who’s seen us?”

A grim expression overtakes Blue’s face, the likes of which Mattias has very rarely seen. There’s a cold resignation in his eyes, normally so bright with life.

“I said it was better if you didn’t know,” Blue says, “but it’s too late for that now.”

Blue cups Mattias’ cheek in one hand, the saddest of smiles curving across his face.

“Matti,” he says with a deep sigh, “it’s your father. And he’s hunting us.”

#oc #writing #celestial seas #mattias hellström #blue © noctuary-eyes #lucifer © noctuary-eyes #paimon mentioned heehee #another browtober!!#ub #txt

1 note · View note

snowchannel3 · 2 years

Text

tw 🧿

my senior year of college I was completely unhinged.

not really in a good way?

but I love it, looking back now.

I had gone through probably three of the shittiest years of my life, up until that point, that I had been aware of at that time...

...I had been raped and abused my senior year, but honestly (and only those who have recovered from sexual abuse/trauma understand this) I’m past it.

There are days, yea. There are days when I don’t understand. My humanness reveals itself and my spiritual connection to the “why” of it all falls. But it’s because I’m human. It’s also because of the effect abuse has on the body.

Overall my connection to the rape I experienced in college (which again was so profound for me at that time because it was the first sexual abuse my MIND was aware of in the third dimension), the person who raped me, the sexual abuse, emotional manipulation, and overall peer rejection I was subjected to in college, I am past. I am now completely connected to HER. WOW! What she powered through!

I’ve been waiting so long to have the awareness to express this and praise her.

She was and is such a brave soul. Full of passion, honesty, and love.

She deserves every bit of peace and serenity she has today.

My senior year was the first time I stood my ground, it was the first time I wore what I wanted for me, slept with who I wanted for me, was friends with who I wanted to be friends with. I let myself be sick, I let myself cry, I let myself scream. I stopped fighting everything. Not all at once, it wasn’t a complete letting go, but it was a start. I had gone years without feeling a single drop of autonomy and all of a sudden life was like preschool and I was the king of recess. And for someone who was sexualized in preschool, who never got to experience childhood as an untouched entity, I felt like I was cleansing my “badness.” Detoxing the evil. None of it was conscious, everything is in intuitive. All of my life has been either dissociative of intuitive. When I’m completely (body, mind, soul, spirit) in the third dimension, too conscious of reality, I honestly feel like I’m dying. Mostly because the pain of everything that has ever happened is in my body. Dissociation isn’t helpful. But intuition and inner wisdom, my highest self, removing the ego, consciousness of the universe’s guidance for me at all times, that is helpful. It’s either I live in the present with the cosmos or I feel the doom of all that is human, of all the earthly matters that have crashed upon me. Sounds pretty radical, because it is. It doesn’t make me any less human. It makes me brave. It shows my strength. It shows my ability to have and accept vulnerability. And my favorite of all, it shows my willingness to hand over the need to control my own life. When I control things, nothing gets done. When I allow the universe to take over, get out of my own way. Miracles happen.

0 notes

Last Seen Blogs

zhoppaink

Sin título

sunkingwrites

The King 🜲

chariottt

──── n o v a

jxsminek

Princessa.

lovecatalog

Joyful In Hope