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fruitoftheweek · 3 years

Text

Little Cherry Book:

Chapter 1: Who is She?

Chapter 2 Here/ Chapter 3 Here

I guess this is a Switch!Spencer (mainly Sub! Spencer)X reader fan fiction this is my first fan fiction I’ve written since middle school so bare with me and feel free to message me constructive criticism. This will probs be multiple chapters but I just couldn’t get this idea off of my mind so here we go! And yes this season 1/2 Spencer because he is just the cutest!

Pairing: Spencer Reid X reader

Plot: Doctor Spencer Reid has heard of little black books, but that pales in comparison to what he has just found in the BAU’s elevator. A sweetly scented notebook filled with salacious journal entries illustrating the writer's sexual fantasies. He doesn’t know what it is about this book but all he can think of is finding its owner.

TLDR: Spencer finds your kinky notebook and uses super sleuth skills to find you.

Series TW: 18+, smut, degradation, piercing, choking, knife play, mommy/daddy kinks, spanking, exhibitionism, Will update as time goes on

Chapter TW: Cumming in pants, Hinting at sex, exhibitionism, no panties, Language, General 18+, Hinting at future kinks

Word Count: 2,439 (gah damn)

𝒯𝒪 𝒲𝐻𝒪𝑀 𝐼𝒯 𝒞𝒪𝒩𝒞𝐸𝑅𝒩𝒮:

𝒟𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹, 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝒶𝓀𝑒, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒷𝑒 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝓎 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝒸𝒶𝓈𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝓇𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈. 𝐼𝒻 𝒾𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝑒. 𝐼𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝓊𝑒, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝑒 𝒸𝓊𝓇𝓈𝑒𝒹, 𝒷𝑜𝓉𝒽 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒸𝒽𝓎 𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎. 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝑒𝒹.

As Spencer read these sentences, he paused. Not for the warning of so-called curses, there was no scientific evidence for such things and Spencer knew magic was just science with a trick of the eye, but for the vehement warning making him feel intruding on whoever had left their journal in the elevator.

It had caught his eye as he stepped into the elevator on his way out of the office. As someone who had lost plenty of books in his days roaming the halls of the BAU, he knew how frustrating it was to not know what happened at the end. As he picked it up, he noticed the cover. It was old, bound in aged cherry red leather, yet too small to be more than a pocketbook. He had found your message while searching for a name to return the book to, and simply reading the first page already felt prying.

Alas, one sentence enticed him “If it comes into the right hands, You can find me.” Where his hands the right ones to come into? The probability of that could be found easily by calculating how many people got on and off of this specific elevator that day, no, in the past hour, with the hustle and bustle of people leaving for the day. Spencer could and he would calculate it he wasn’t so distracted by the message and his voracity to solve this mystery.

Tentatively, he flipped the page, finding a handwritten table of contents. This book had obviously been very important to the reader if they had taken the time to write in page numbers, detailed headings, and chapters. The table was nearly full of chapter titles in scrawled cursive lettering. His eyes stopped on the first chapter title. “Male Needs” with shakey lettering. He could tell by your handwriting that you grew more confident in your journaling as the chapters progressed, the hesitations in your strokes growing few and far between.

As he flipped the page once more he had reached the next floor and a large group of people bustled into the elevator. Spencer shied away from them, not just because he had an aversion to contact with strangers and their germs, but because of the sentences, he had read underneath that first chapter “I do not need a man, a man needs me. Yet, when I am with a man, I have needs. Needs that most men can’t fulfill. I need a man that eats pussy like it’s the only way to quench his thirst-“ and with that Spencer slammed the book shut, earning some confused looks from the others on the elevator. He should have heeded the warning because now all he could think about was the fact that this was your nervous entry and as your confidence grew, it was bound to escalate from there. He wasn’t sure if it was his flustered mind or the heat growing deep from inside him that made him feel dirty; not because it scandalized him, but because these were someone’s fantasies and he had intruded in their secrets and soiled them with his mind.

Ding! He had reached the ground floor and that was when he decided to leave it alone. He couldn’t bring it to the lost and found as it would be more likely to end up in the wrong hands there and your secrets would be for someone else to find, not that he even knew who you were.

On his drive home, he tried to think of anything else besides the book. His lunch, Garcia’s new item she added to her collection, how to get back at Derek for putting salt in the sugar container, but his mind kept wandering. It didn’t help that the notebook sat tauntingly on top of his satchel as if saying “Open me, you know you want to. You want to know who I am. You can find me.” There was no way that it had been there for that long as the janitor was on duty today and he had been on the elevator two hours ago on his way to clean the top floor. Since Spencer had left a little later than most people that meant there were multiple elevators full of people who would have noticed. He knew it wasn’t so but part of him felt as if you had left it there specifically for him to find. Like it was made for him. He quickly shook off the thought and went back to who it could be. He wanted to return it without reading any more. You clearly would miss it but he couldn’t imagine you wanted others to know about what lay in those folded corners of your book and your mind.

As he walked up the steps of his complex, he clutched onto the notebook with all of his strength, he feared that he would look down and it would have disappeared, he wanted to keep your deepest secrets safe as if they were his own. He was only able to relinquish his grip when he shut and locked the door to his apartment. He set it on the table as he got prepared for the night. By now he had limited his pool to 54 women who were regularly in and out of the elevator at that time of day which was a cut down in comparison to the 860 roughly women in that building on any given day. But that number still wasn’t small enough. He had to minimize the sample size even further. That was the only reason he reopened to the table of contents, right? Not because of his own morbid curiosity and definitely not because of the heat burning in his stomach.

He looked down at the page numbers, still too nervous to look at the titles, and saw that each entry was a page long consisting of 23 entries and one with a title but no page numbers. Not chapters as he previously thought but entries giving lascivious details into what he had not yet mustered up the courage to read. He was still unable to look at the titles in fear of what he might find. If graphic depictions of female oral sex were displayed under “Male Needs”, what possibly could lie ahead.

For now, he studied the handwriting. Cursive, not often used by many younger women, was often associated with antiquities and traditional values but he noticed something off. There was a very specific curl to certain numbers. Every even number had a specific extra curl or flourish to it and the zeros had a line through it like a “do not enter” sign. This went directly against the hypothesis that you were an older woman that the cursive provided; as many older women who wrote in cursive stuck to the rules even when it came to numbers. She wasn’t old enough to even be Hotch’s age but she appreciated the charm of the past. 'Who is this girl?' Spencer wondered. He was able to narrow it down to about half of his previous lot, excluding the women on his team. He had seen them write enough to know their handwriting inside and out. And while Garcia’s had similar flourishes to yours, she never crossed her zeros.

Spencer knew that he would have to read at least the chapter titles to grasp a better understanding of your handwriting and who you could possibly and as his eyes scanned the page, for the first time in a while he was actually reading slowly; putting all of his focus into each word and what order they were in. Unfortunately, his focus was his downfall. His face became so hot that he felt as if you could see steam coming off of it.

Table of contents:

Male Needs

Praise

Degradation

Mommy

Daddy

Work

Exhibition

Choking

Collars

Breeding

And that was all he could take. Ha couldn’t look at the thirteen and a half more entries, even this much knocked the wind out of him. He didn’t have much experience with women and certainly not enough to understand what all of those words necessarily entailed but he knew that whatever it was keeping his internal fire roaring with heat.

While he hated snooping, he knew he would need more information. He chose the chapter that sounded the most mundane out of all of them, "Work." ‘What was more normal than work.’ he thought, but he was so sorely mistaken.

"Work:

"Before I move on to exhibitionism, I have to talk about work. Yes, I would love to have sex at work where I and my partner are one step away from getting caught, I haven’t done that yet. I want to tell you what I have done. Almost every day I go to work wondering if the others can tell that I’m not wearing underwear.”

His heat spread from his face down until it pooled in his loins and his cock became hard imagining this mystery girl walking the halls of the BAU with a breeze in her skirt, nearly exposing the secret that lied beneath. Had he sat next to you when you were partaking in this activity? What would he have done if your skirt bunched up your thigh as you sat, exposing the tan lines where your underwear should be. Would he be able to see you in your tight work pants with no pantie lines and be the only one who truly knows your secret?

“I kinda want to be caught someday by Him. I wonder what he would do. Would he tell me off for being unprofessional? Would he take me to that storage closet 3 doors past Garcia’s office, just far enough away that he could teach me a lesson for being naughty at work?”

He felt so dirty, inserting himself into the fantasies of a girl which he did not even know that he almost glanced across the use of Him, capital H.i.m. He wanted to indulge in his imagination that in some way or another that the “Him” in question was in fact the man reading this with trembling hands and an impossibly hard cock. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining situations in the storage closet that he regularly used as a reading nook when he needed time away from the others.

He rested his head on the pages of the book, hoping somehow that his dirty thoughts would be transplanted from his head and back into the pages so that he could stop thinking about you. His efforts were thwarted as this action meant that he could spoil himself in your scent that enveloped the book. As if you had wrapped it in the deepest most vulnerable part of you to hide it away from others. You smelled of bergamot, patchouli, and musk but deeper than that, you smelled like sweet, tart berries and honeysuckle in summer. There was something else that he couldn’t put his finger on at first but it was intoxicating all of his senses. It was saccharine, heat, and sex all combined in one. When it clicked, it no longer felt as if his head was pressed against a book but as if his he sat kneeling on the ground with his cheek resting in your inner thigh, your hot sex waiting for his indulgence, “like it's the only way to quench his thirst” echoed in his brain. The scent was your natural pheromones beckoning him closer with the promise of a treat.

And that was it. That was what sent him over the edge. The purest embodiment of your scent had him cumming, hot in his pants.

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You sat down at the edge of your bed after a long day at work; shucking off your work clothes to get as comfy as you could in your PJs as a way to unwind from the day. You went to grab your lip balm from your bag and noticed that the front pocket of your bag had been left open. You instantly panicked, searching everywhere for your little red book. The one that kept the key to your deepest secrets and darkest fantasies. You tore your bag apart, knowing that you had it at the end of your workday because you took it out of your desk drawer and tucked it back into its home in your bag. You cursed your carelessness for not double-checking that you zipped your bag before leaving. With your forgetfulness, you knew it would happen one day but you didn't realize it would be this soon.

There was an odd mix in your heart and your stomach. Part of you felt your heart drop through your ass thinking that it had ended up in the wrong hands, part of you had butterflies thinking about someone knowing the deepest parts of you, intimately in your own words. You had the assurance that your name was nowhere to be seen in the book but you also knew that you worked with people who analyzed people's dark desires for a living. While none of your fantasies involved murder, they were like precious gems that you kept locked away in your heart. You couldn't dare imagine what would happen if it came into His hands. While you were the youngest at the BAU, only by a few months and you weren't even part of the group because you were still tentative, you couldn't put your dirty thoughts into the innocent head of the pretty boy genius. It was almost more worrisome than if SSA Hotchner or Gideon found it and you were fired. The idea of tainting someone so pure...

You had to literally shake your head to clear your thoughts. Imagining His face tinged red in innocence reading through your lewd writing had your head in a tizzy. Imagining Doctor Spencer Reid sifting through the pages with lightning-fast fingers, stroking down the pages of smut as you had imagined him stroking down your thighs so many times before. You decided to bury your head in your pillow, hoping that would calm your mind enough to slip into slumber.

Unfortunately for you both, your efforts would be fruitless and you would both go to sleep unknowingly thinking of each other.

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Chapter 2 Here/ Chapter 3 here

And that's Chapter one. Hope y'all like it. LMK in my messages and all that <3 have a great week!

#Spencer Reid smut #Spencer Reid imagine #Spencer Reid x reader #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #sub spencer #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid #sub!spencer #mommy kink

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softkuna · 3 years

Text

Sukuna || Concert || Fic

Part 2 (oc) Part 2 (reader)

Content ║ Sukuna x Reader

His vocals held that pompous cockiness he was renowned for. It dripped down with the sweat along his neck and chest. His bandmates followed yet were lost in their own worlds. They let the instruments take control of them. You would never admit that you liked the music, either. It was that 90’s punk-grunge Christian parents thought lead to devil worship. The screams weren’t for the devil, no. They worshipped The King of Curses. Now you understood why.

Count ║ 1,664 words.

Consider ║ Cursing. Sukuna being kind of being a dick. Female reader. Grammar issues most likely ^^”

Creator ║ So uh…. I saw a photo of Rockstar Sukuna and this happened. Enjoy my self indulgence. Also… Song for Reference.

Ryoumen Sukuna positioned himself on stage. The sea of people were glued to every motion he made. You were one of those people in the front. Dead center. Your editor paid a lot of money for that spot, too, but you still wanted nothing to do with it. Sure, you needed a big story to get out of that damn plateau but this was not what you had in mind. You focused on fashion, not punk boys with eyeliner.

His face turned to the stage, knees rocking his body to the beginning of a simple, yet effective beat. Broad, muscled shoulder curled forward, securing his zone. But then the guitar came in. A near feral grin ricocheted onto his features as it did. In an explosive leap, his feet left the ground only for the scuffed Doc Martens to slam into the stage at the second beat. Right hand whipped the mic’s wire out of his way, left arm jostled as he started to sing.

Bitches love me 'cause they know that I can rock

Bitches love me 'cause they know that I can rhyme

Bitches love me 'cause they know that I can fuck

Docs crashed with every step, their synchronicity with the band behind. One hand kept on the mic, the other whipped its wire out of his way. It wasn’t that he was energetic, no. He was captivating, calculated in every step, yet casual. His control over his body and the crowd… immaculate. It was a precarious balancing act that he pulled off with little to no effort at all. Steps were to the beat, his entire torso being thrown into the movements.

He wore a white tank top with a breast pocket. The branding of it was recognizable simply by the pristine floral embroidery along the bottom and hems. It hung past the hem of black leather pants. A custom-made silver necklace beat against his chest with each toss of his built physique. You snapped a photo.

His prowess was obvious, even for someone like yourself who knew not a single lick of rock culture. Even with the vulgar and energetic lyrics, the whirling stop-start slow-fast tempo, Sukuna perfected the music as though he were at one with it. Embodied and embraced it. The sharp smile he threw to the collage of faces before him was the only thing you needed to know that he was in his element.

The song was strong, heady even. It buzzed throughout your mind and swung at your heart like a right hook. Each punch of the drums was exhilarating. Every kick of the bass left you wanting more. As alive as Sukuna was on stage, you were there feeling it with him.

The concert went on, moving through each piece like a surging smooth river. It was hard to tell when one song began and the other ended. Whenever you could, you’d snap a photo. There were some good shots in there. Some of his imposing form dangling at the edge of the stage, arms wide out displaying his designer bracelets. Others when he’d toss his entire spine back. The best, though, were when he’d come face to face with the guitarist, his brother, in a beck and call. In their wardrobe, they were a delicate balance of blacks, whites, and coral.

A certain thrill came about you as you realized the wardrobe of each member reflected their position. They weren’t to outshine him, but they all had a theme. Everything must have been custom ordered and hand tailored. Their entire image was just as important to the show as music. Every photo was set up to illustrated the complementing lights and darks they had set up on stage, a living and breathing portrait of youth.

You couldn’t help but notice how every time you’d point the camera at him, he’d lock those brilliant eyes onto yours. He recognized you before. How could he not? Out of everyone in the front row, you were the only one wearing some preppy knit dress. He never would have expected to see a face like yours in his crowd. Some rising reporter with a side blog. He never cared about press, but you’ve been making a name for yourself due to your precise analysis of social culture and clothes. He actually thought your last article on street fashion was interesting and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t gawk at your Instagram after. All in all, he kept his glances for your camera instead.

The stage lighting shifted, illuminating the beads of sweat sparkling along his tatted skin like diamonds. The unnatural redness in his eyes blew an intense gaze across the still crowd. They came to a complete stop. Unease settled into your stomach. This was your cue to go. You knew what would happen next and you weren’t ready for when it did.

His foot tapped. The guitar started. A mosh pit rioted.

It was a concert tradition according to the fan page you looked at moments before walking through the door. ‘If you don’t leave with a black eye, did you even go to a Two Faced concert?’ they’d ask.

Your frame was shoved against the rail, knocking the wind out of you. Bodies collided behind and you felt trapped. Your lungs squeezed and your hands scrambled for your bag. Inhaler. Inhaler. Tightness inflamed your chest as a particularly bulky man squeezed you into the rail. Your hands clasped to inhaler, but before you could press it to your lips, another body collided into you. It clattered a few feet over the rail, hitting the stage. Fuck.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw it happen. Panic painted across your face as you hauled your torso over the rail. Your arm reached for what was dropped before it immediately covered a coughing fit. What idiot would come to his concert an, his domain, and expect to just come out unscathed? It was your own damn fault if you got the wind knocked out of you, but he had to give you credit for trying. Just as he was about to look away, someone grabbed the back collar of your dress.

Sukuna wasn’t one of those artists who genuinely cared about their fanbase or paparazzi. That was for the other members to do. It was well known, too. He didn’t indulge in pictures if he didn’t want to or wasn’t on stage. He didn’t sign anything without a check. No one knew music like he did. No one performed like he did. No one mattered like he did. Whatever it was that overtook him then, he wasn’t sure, but he dropped the mic. A sharp blare washed over the P.E. system. All eyes turned to him. Bandmates faltered for only a moment.

Two steps back. Sprint. The tips of his shoes left the edge of the stage. Ryoumen Sukuna took flight. Arm reached for him, stopping his prized body from colliding with the harsh concrete below. The hand on you left, desperate to make contact with The King of Curses. The band went on, the crowd’s scream piercing the air as they swayed the singers body this way and that. You clambered over to grab the inhaler, took a hit, and dove for an exit.

That’s how you found yourself where you were now, in a backstage hallway, staring directly into the fierce gaze of the lead singer. He smelled of sweat and cedar. A brow rose, hands stuffed into unimaginably tight pockets. Confidence wasn’t lost through Sukuna’s stature; shoulders back, weight slightly on one leg more than the other. What was lost, however, was the excitement. In fact, you felt like studied specimen, eyes scanning your limbs and stopping on your ribs. The bruise forming under your dress seemed to flare in response. His tongue clicked disapprovingly.

“What do you want? You’re not some rabid fan.” His voice was smooth as a sip of whiskey. He already knew the answer. For a moment you wondered why he didn’t just call for guards. He wondered the same thing. Just as he wondered why he leapt off the stage. Not that he regretted the act seeing as it got him trending for the umpteenth time.

Sukuna had become accustomed to certain responses. Some offered him their bodies in exchange for a few moments of his time. Shit like that was beneath him. If he wanted a quick fuck and a column, he’d find it himself. His free time was his and that was non-negotiable. So, he almost always cut them down to size. It didn’t matter to him if he made them cry or threatened their careers, he’d always say no. Pictures? No. Signature? No. Coffee? Get the fuck out of his face. Attention and fame may have been his drug of choice, but desperation and disrespect were one in the same and you do not disrespect the King.

“No. I didn’t even know who you were until 12 hours ago,” you admitted with a shallow breath. You stroked his ego like velvet rubbed the wrong way. He opened his mouth, ready to toss you out then and there. The look in your eyes was enough to shut him up. Hunger. And he was your dish of opportunity. “However, I do want an interview, maybe even film you for an expose,” Your hand reached for his.

His mouth pulled into a beautiful predatory grin. This one had ambition.

“I’ll allow it.”

#this is just me being indulgent #ryoumen sukuna #sukuna #ryoumen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #🍺.fic #🍺.jjk #⛩.sukuna #⛩.fic

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newcatwords · 3 years

Text

where is hawai'i? can you point to it on a map?

if someone asks you to point to hawai'i on a map, where would you point?

before colonization, there was (and continues to be) an island called "hawai'i". the entire chain of islands is called "hawaii" and there is a state called "hawaii" made up of a large number of those islands.

now, because there are too many things named "hawaii," the island of hawai'i is often called "the big island", because o'ahu, the island where the city of honolulu is located, is what many people think of when they think of "hawaii". it's a mess.

on top of that, we have the "main hawaiian islands" (aka "southeastern islands" aka "windward islands") vs the "outer islands" (aka "northwestern islands" aka "leeward islands").

most maps of "hawaii" show only the "main" islands. the map above (created by USGS) shows more of the hawaiian islands, but omits the names of two of the islands in the "main" chain: lana'i & kaho'olawe. these are not insignificant omissions. lana'i is 98% owned by larry ellison, founder & chairman of oracle corporation. kaho'olawe has been relentlessly used & abused by the west. it has been used for ranchland, military training, and most notably, as a munitions testing site, resulting in the continued contamination of the island. after many years of protests & lawsuits by native hawaiians, the island is now only accessible by native hawaiians for cultural, spiritual, & subsistence reasons.

meanwhile, this tourist mug with a creepy colonial-style map of hawaii includes both kaho'olawe & lana'i. good job, tourist mug!

there are actually over a hundred islands in the hawaiian archipelago. the state of hawaii includes 137 of them (source). midway atoll (made up of 3 islands) is part of the archipelago, but not part of the state. it is one of america's territories: an unorganized unincorporated territory.

additionally, some of the islands "are too small to appear on maps, and others, such as Maro Reef, only appear above the water's surface during times of low tide. Others, such as Shark and Skate islands, have completely eroded away." [source: wikipedia page "list of islands of hawaii"].

in the course of writing this post, i failed to find a map that shows & names all the hawaiian islands and failed to even find a list of all of them (plus if an island only appears sometimes or has disappeared entirely, what do you even do with that?). if you find either or both of those, let me know in comments.

so where and what "hawaii" is remains a mystery.

but this has not prevented commercial & official interests from using maps of "hawaii" in all kinds of places! here on the islands, hawaii map imagery is all around.

maps are very common on tourist items:

the hawaiian telcom logo uses dots roughly arranged in the pattern of the islands on a map:

but i guess only five islands are worth including (i understand. branding needs come above all else!).

this souvenir cloth item is interesting because it includes all the main islands (including ni'ihau, lana'i, and kaho'olawe - which are often excluded), but smooshes them into the available space without much consideration for where they are in relation to each other:

the postcard above has the main islands in their rough places, but squishes them all together so that they fit in the space. also the islands are made more similar in size to each other so that you can better see the little illustrations.

here's a more "official" map to show where the islands "should be" in relation to each other, and their sizes relative to each other (although both of those can change depending on what projection the map uses):

in my mind, though, the ultimate hawaii map fantasy lives on the ubiquitous reusable walmart cloth bag (available for 50 cents at checkout to all who have forgotten to bring the right number of bags. there's a plastic shopping bag ban in hawaii.):

in the walmart commercial universe (wcu), the only islands that exist are islands that have a walmart. the general outlines of the islands & their general orientation is preserved (along with a rough topology too!), attempting to convey a sense of adhering to a recognizable reality, but islands without a walmart have been not only omitted, but the space where they would be has been eliminated as well - as if they were never there to begin with. in the walmart version of reality, what makes something "hawaii" is whether or not it has a walmart on it.

i've had a lot of time to think about this remarkable image because i have a whole bunch of these bags. this is the bag of the people - everyone uses it for everything. the one in the above photo is in a typical state - pretty rough - because it probably came from the side of the road. you can almost always find one on the side of the road. so wherever you are, you are probably within sight of the walmart version of the islands.

so why does it matter whether or not you can point to "hawaii" on a map? well, maps are political documents, meaning that they reflect the vision of whoever has the power to put the map in front of your eyes. so if you're the one with the power to make some of the most commonly-seen maps of hawaii and you decide to remove a few islands, well that can really shape what people think "hawaii" is! we're a sea of islands - many people here have only ever been to one or two of the islands. if it wasn't on the map, you might not know that it existed at all.

hawaii is incredibly important to the united states, not just for tourism, but in terms of global strategy. it's the largest outpost of american power in the middle of the pacific. it puts america & its troops half an ocean closer to some of america's biggest competitors, most notably, china. it's a springboard to all the other island territories of the pacific (which you maybe haven't heard of because they almost never appear on maps):

once you see a map of all of america's territories in the pacific, along with the exclusive economic zones (eez) that extend out for 200 miles around each island, you start to get a better feel for the extent of america's power in the pacific.

when a place is left off the map, it can be easy to make it (including its people!) invisible. so if you're america, with bases across the islands of the pacific, with a nightmarish history of atomic weapons testing in the pacific (rendering islands uninhabitable and leaving both land and waters too contaminated for people to use), perhaps you might not want some of these places to appear on the map.

in Foreign Policy in Focus, Khury Petersen-Smith writes:

"Many of us living in North America who are concerned about climate change, for example, have a sense that Pacific Islands are facing particularly severe impacts from rising sea levels. But that knowledge tends to be vague and limited, as actual residents of these islands are rarely invited to the table to speak for themselves.

This is not accidental. Commenting during the Nixon administration on U.S. nuclear testing in the Marshall Islands, which share the same region of the Pacific as Guam, Henry Kissinger said “there are only 90,000 people out there. Who gives a damn?”

The U.S. has long had an interest in Marshallese and other Pacific Islanders remaining “out there” in the American mind. This marginalization helps allow the U.S. to carry out military operations in the region, along with policies that further climate change and other harms, while keeping most Americans unaware of these practices’ impacts in the Pacific." [FPIF]

often hawai'i (and alaska - which is in many ways similar to hawai'i in its relation to the contiguous US) doesn't even appear on national maps of the USA.

here's a screenshot from the new york times homepage on march 21, 2020, just as the coronavirus pandemic was beginning to spread:

there is no alaska and no hawai'i on those maps. so if you were looking for information on the most important issue that was happening at the time, and you live in or are concerned about hawai'i and/or alaska, there would just be nothing. and what does it say about the people who run the top newspaper in america that they decided it was fine to omit these two states? are they not states? do they not matter? do the readers in those states not matter? and this is not an unusual thing at all. it happens all the time.

i'd like to finish by sharing with you a poem by CHamoru poet Craig Santos Perez. CHamoru are the indigenous people of the mariana islands (which include guam, saipan, tinian, rota, and others).

in this poem, Craig Santos Perez writes about not appearing on the map...

“Off-Island CHamorus”

My family migrated to California when I was 15 years old. During the first day at my new high school, the homeroom teacher asked: “Where are you from?” “The Mariana Islands,” I answered. He replied: “I’ve never heard of that place. Prove it exists.” And when I stepped in front of the world map on the wall, it transformed into a mirror: the Pacific Ocean, like my body, was split in two and flayed to the margins. I found Australia, then the Philippines, then Japan. I pointed to an empty space between them and said: “I’m from this invisible archipelago.” Everyone laughed. And even though I descend from oceanic navigators, I felt so lost, shipwrecked

on the coast of a strange continent. “Are you a citizen?” he probed. “Yes. My island, Guam, is a U.S. territory.” We attend American schools, eat American food, listen to American music, watch American movies and television, play American sports, learn American history, dream American dreams, and die in American wars. “You speak English well,” he proclaimed, “with almost no accent.” And isn’t that what it means to be a diasporic CHamoru: to feel foreign in a domestic sense.

Over the last 50 years, CHamorus have migrated to escape the violent memories of war; to seek jobs, schools hospitals, adventure, and love; but most of all, we’ve migrated for military service, deployed and stationed to bases around the world. According to the 2010 census, 44,000 CHamorus live in California, 15,000 in Washington, 10,000 in Texas, 7,000 in Hawaii, and 70,000 more in every other state and even in Puerto Rico. We are the most “geographically dispersed” Pacific Islander population within the United States, and off-island CHamorus now outnumber our on-island kin, with generations having been born away from our ancestral homelands, including my daughters.

Some of us will be able to return home for holidays, weddings, and funerals; others won’t be able to afford the expensive plane ticket to the Western Pacific. Years and even decades might pass between trips, and each visit will feel too short. We’ll lose contact with family and friends, and the island will continue to change until it becomes unfamiliar to us. And isn’t that, too, what it means to be a diasporic CHamoru: to feel foreign in your own homeland.

Even after 25 years, there are still times I feel adrift, without itinerary or destination. When I wonder: What if we stayed? What if we return? When the undertow of these questions begins pulling you out to sea, remember: migration flows through our blood like the aerial roots of the banyan tree. Remember: our ancestors taught us how to carry our culture in the canoes of our bodies. Remember: our people, scattered like stars, form new constellations when we gather. Remember: home is not simply a house, village, or island; home is an archipelago of belonging.

–Craig Santos Perez

----------

thank you for reading this post! please let me know if you see any errors.

if you'd like to learn more about some important issues in the pacific, here are just a few:

july 2, 2020: "US says leaking nuclear waste dome is safe; Marshall Islands leaders don't believe it" - Los Angeles Times

may 30, 2021: "Pacific Plunder: this is who profits from the mass extraction of the region's natural resources." - The Guardian

april 5, 2021: "75 years after nuclear testing in the Pacific began, the fallout continues to wreak havoc" - The Conversation

june 4, 2021: "Guam won’t give up more land to the U.S. military without a fight" - The World (radio program)

aug. 24, 2021: "The US is building a military base in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Micronesian residents have questions." - The World (radio program)

and if you'd like to learn more about how maps are political, here are a couple articles:

june 5, 2014: "The politics of making maps" by Amanda Ruggeri, for BBC

july 11, 2018: "Politics and Cartography: The Power of Deception through Distortion" by John Erskine, for the Carnegie Ethics Online Monthly Column

#pacific #hawaii #hawai'i #islands #maps #geography

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gumnut-logic · 3 years

Text

Where There Be Dragons

Sprouting directly from this post with @writerpyre and @the-lady-razorsharp , let me introduce you to my attempt at a possible Steampunk Thunderbirds AU :D

I thought I would start with a single scene and get a feel for it. Even this little bit required a bunch of research and a lot of conceptualisation. There is definitely more in my head than is written here. There had to be in order to write this bit.

What do you think? :D

-o-o-o-

The footsteps on the metal decking were so obviously familiar fine footwear, Virgil didn’t need to look up to know his eldest brother had finally returned. The fact they were accompanied by wet squelches and the tap of his brother’s cane only informed him further of Scott’s mood.

Not a good one.

Virgil sighed and with a final yank on the bolt to secure it, he pushed his goggles onto his forehead, no doubt adding to the grime already in his hair.

Looking over from under Number Four and her propellers, all he could see was that fine set of shoes standing in a puddle of water. The tempered brass end of the cane, an affectation that was only partly required by his brother and was more for show than anything else, tapped again impatiently and rather loudly on the deck plates.

“You’ve returned.”

“Obviously, Virgil.” The feet shifted. “Where exactly are you?”

“Under here.” His back was on wheels and with a shove, he slid out from under his little brother’s Thunderbird.

Blue eyes as crystal clear as the ocean they were currently floating in targeted him immediately.

Virgil couldn’t help but smile upside down at his brother. Scott was far too serious most of the time and his appearance and dress clearly illustrated that at the moment. Black top hat, deep blue waistcoat, equally deep red cravat, charcoal long coat over black pants and those fine black shoes.

Virgil felt positively grimy in his dirtied shirt, old breeches and worn boots. But then his work was of a different kind to that Scott had in New York.

“What did father say?”

“He did not approve. Claimed the risk was too high and the chance too small.”

Virgil frowned. “But John’s calculations were exact. We have to investigate. If there is land there, I am sure Alan could have made it.”

Scott shifted where he stood. “Yes, well, father disagrees.”

Virgil thinned his lips. Their father wasn’t here. Their father lived in a different world despite the man creating the infrastructure and funding the efforts of International Rescue, Virgil sometimes wondered if he actually understood what his sons experienced.

A sigh and he pushed himself up off the trolley and onto his feet. Several nuts and bolts clattered to the floor, prompting a sigh from his brother.

Virgil arched an eyebrow at him before bending over to pick up the metal pieces of submarine. As his brother shifted again, he was reminded of the squelch of his entrance. “What’s leaking?” More work most likely.

“I believe Eos has been gnawing on the airlock rubbers again.”

“Again? I only repaired them last week.”

“I’ll speak to John about it.”

“He’ll love that.” The pilot of Thunderbird Five, the great docking submarine they were currently standing on tended to ignore a lot of the ‘advice’ their eldest brother offered. Since they had lost young Alan, their master navigator had taken to locking himself away for long periods of time.

Virgil made a point of barging in on him as much as possible with his medic and ‘mancy excuses. John, of course, saw through all of them to what Virgil’s interruptions were – genuine worry.

Unfortunately, Scott was much more direct and arguments often happened between the two of them. Virgil found them stressful. Fortunately or unfortunately, his brothers knew that and would stop the moment he walked in.

But still…

“Are we going anyway?” Virgil eyed his brother.

Scott’s posture was always ramrod straight, but still he managed to gain a few thirtyseconds of an inch at that comment. “We leave at dusk.”

Damn. This was going to cause a rift the size of the Grand Canyon. Their father would be furious.

But Scott had no choice, Virgil agreed, Gordon was inconsolable and John was on the verge of losing his mind. They had to do this.

Scott’s eyes narrowed on Virgil as he grabbed a rag and wiped his hands.

A sigh. “We’re looking at least ten days travel time at Five’s top speed, give or take Cape Horn.” He knew where he would prefer to shove Cape Horn. “Best guess, I’d say a fortnight to the middle of nowhere.” He eyed his brother. “Any word from the colonial offices in the South Pacific?”

Scott’s gaze dipped. “Unfortunately, no. Neither by telegraph nor IR broadcast.”

“John has more balloons in the air.” It was a faint hope. The whole concept was a faint hope. But Virgil, like his brothers, refused to accept defeat. They would find Allie. “And the closer we get, we can launch One.” And Two. There was no way Virgil was being left out of this any more than John or Gordon for that matter.

Scott raised his head again. “If we find Three, do you think you can revive her?”

Virgil’s fingertips tingled at the thought. His affinity for mechanism had helped make this all possible. Hiram built the craft under the direction of their father, but Virgil tended them, kept them alive.

Sparks flickered at the ends of his fingers. “I will.”

Or die trying.

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #Where there be dragons AU #an attempt at Steampunk

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alirhi · 3 years

Text

random story snippet

@goblin-tea this is part of that story I was talking about/sending you bits of. I'll get into the better stuff (imo) in a bit, but this is a much better example of what the main characters are like than what I sent earlier lol

“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto,” she mumbled, still clinging to Audrey’s hand as she nervously followed Fiona’s example and took a moment to study the immediate area.

“No shit, Sherlock,” the blonde growled, yanking her hand away. Rebecca could stand there like an idiot if she chose, but damn it! She was going to explore and find a way home, right now. Clearly, her friend’s oh-so-brilliant spell had backfired quite horribly, and now they were lost, with no idea of where they were, when they were, or what was going…

Her thoughts were jarringly interrupted when Rebecca suddenly let out a short, high-pitched scream, causing both of her friends to jump.

“WHAT?!” Spinning to face the taller woman, she took a deep breath in preparation to chew her out, and then promptly hid behind her. “…Is that a dinosaur?”

“Deinonychus,” Rebecca confirmed in a reverent whisper. Her screech had been from excitement, rather than fear; the giant grin on her freckled face was evidence enough of that. Though she knew she was the only one who cared about the details, she still explained in a rush, “Fast, smart, and very deadly carnivore from the late Cretaceous period, probably the basis for the oversized velociraptors in Jurassic Park… A raptor’s colorful feathers make it look like a ridiculous, disproportionate toucan, which is probably why the producers chose to make it look more like our friend here. Fossils of the deinonychus have never been found with any indication of feathers.”

“It does have feathers, you walking Wiki!” Audrey hissed, stepping back. No way in hell was she going to stand there like an idiot and get eaten by some parrot on crack.

Fiona remained rooted in place beside the other redhead, though she did stoop to pick up Rebecca's forgotten staff, just in case the curious animal decided to attack. A tiny smile played at the edges of her lips at the toucan comparison. It did sort of look like one, in a weird way…

Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, their nerdy friend nodded. “Yeah… Most of this type of dinosaur did, so paleontologists kinda figured the deinonychus would, too.”

The prehistoric bird of prey studied them, almost seeming to ponder something. Just as Rebecca was about to make a Philosoraptor joke, the fascinating – if deadly – beast twitched, letting out a series of loud clicking noises.

“…Huh. Whaddaya know. That dude on youtube was right…” An answering call echoed from somewhere to the left of the three shivering girls, and startled the amateur paleontologist out of her daze. “Oh shit.”

“What?” Both of her friends shot her nervous glances, reluctant to take their eyes off of the giant predator. Why wasn’t it moving?

“Run.” When Fiona shot her an incredulous look, Rebecca shook her head. Normally, yes, she would caution against any sudden moves around a wild animal, but this was different. More clicks from their right, answered by the one animal they could see, illustrated why. “He’s calling in reinforcements – run!”

That was all the motivation the shivering blonde needed. With a terrified shriek, Audrey turned and bolted into the forest, Rebecca and Fiona hot on her heels.

“I think it’s safe to assume,” the oldest woman gasped out, jumping over a fallen tree limb, “that we’ve somehow been sent back too far.”

“Ya THINK?!”

"Now's not the time to get snippy!” Her lungs were burning, her legs cramping, and though she could hear the creature gaining on them, she had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t putting forth much effort. She and her surrogate sister were both overweight to the point of obesity, and as such, speed wasn’t exactly on their side. In fact, it had been one of the things they’d hoped to go back and change; if they never got fat, they wouldn’t have to deal with the health problems associated with it or the hassle of constantly trying and failing to lose it.

Risking a glance to the side, she noticed Fiona keeping pace with them, and winced. She was hanging back to help them, she knew. By far the skinniest and healthiest of the three of them, she was lightning fast compared to the other two. While both her companions were morbidly obese, Fiona was lithe and fit, with legs like a gazelle. She was going slowly so she could defend them with that big stick if she had to. That was the only logical explanation Rebecca could come up with. The fact that the 'big stick' was her own walking stick was momentarily lost on the eldest of the three.

Mother above, she prayed desperately, if there’s even a trace of magic left in my blood, please, please unleash it now to give us speed.

Too angry and frightened to bother with logic, Audrey just rolled her eyes, yelping when it caused her to trip over a rock and nearly sent her sprawling. Fiona caught her by the arm and helped her steady herself, and she managed a tiny grateful smile, even as she snapped at the redhead, “Shut up! It’s your fault that we’re in our own personal Jurassic Hell, being chased by a fucking raptor!”

“Cretaceous!” Rebecca snarled, dodging around a rather intimidating thorny bush. “And it’s not a raptor, it’s-”

“I DON’T CARE!”

“It’s actually quite fascinating,” Rebecca asserted through wheezing gasps for breath, “if you think about it. We finally… get to see… proof… that dino…saurs… were more like…flightless…birds…than…”

“I don’t give a shit if we’re being chased by an ostrich or a crocodile!” Audrey screeched before her friend could finish. “If I end up something’s lunch, it’s your fault! And you know what? Fuck you! Fuck your stupid spell. Fuck your obsessions. Fuck your fucking imaginary friend and the horse you both rode in on for good measure!” Even in a life-or-death situation, somehow an old inside joke popped into her head, and she managed to suck in a deep enough breath to scream, "AND YES, HE'S NAMED 'SIDEWAYS'!"

“Guys, this really isn’t the time to be arguing,” Fiona pointed out as calmly as she could, glancing over her shoulder to see how they were faring. It wasn't good. She could deal with Audrey and her rather offensive temper tantrum later, she decided; escaping the turkey-sized ball of feathers and teeth chasing them took precedence.

“Sorry…” Pouting a little, the blonde risked a glance back, and nearly wet herself when she saw that their prehistoric pursuer was getting closer and closer. “Oh, fuck me…” Something brushed the side of her head, and she jumped, but it was only a leaf hanging down from another large tree.

Wait. Leaf…tree… She glanced up, relieved to see that the branch was low enough for her to grab hold. Circling around so that she wouldn’t get caught by their feathered menace, she pushed herself just a little bit more and managed to haul herself up onto the branch. “Guys!”

“What are you doing?!” Rebecca cried, having been too focused on running to notice where Audrey had gone. Fiona had been taking up the rear, focus switching between the others and the predator, but had been looking primarily in the latter’s direction for a few minutes. When she turned and saw only Rebecca standing there, she froze and glanced around. As they spotted Audrey in the tree, they also became aware of the fact that their enemy seemed a lot closer than before.

“Can raptors climb?” Audrey called out, wincing as she watched the scene unfold. Though she had long legs and strong, muscular calves, Rebecca outweighed her by a good fifty pounds, and it was visibly taking its toll. She was tiring, and the blonde just prayed she could pull herself up to safety before that thing or its as-yet unseen companions ripped her apart. She had plenty of reasons not to worry too much about Fiona.

“Come on.” Urging her tiring friend on, the skinnier redhead decided to take at least this one cue from Audrey and circled around the trunk of a massive tree, making sure Rebecca followed. It confused their attacker, bought them a little time, and kept them from getting out of earshot of Audrey.

At her friend’s soft, gentle reminder of what she’d been asked, Rebecca frowned. She wanted to remind the treed woman that they weren’t being chased by a velociraptor, but dismissed it as a waste of time. Instead, she considered her question as she doubled back.

Could this breed of dinosaurs climb? “I…I’m not sure,” she panted, one hand coming up to press against her chest. “I don’t think so. Their arms are probably too small to pull them up.”

“Then get your ass up here!”

They reached the tree, and Fiona quickly jumped up like it was nothing, setting the staff aside and braced across two nearby branches to keep it from falling. She and Audrey then each stretched out an arm, hands extended to grab Rebecca’s and pull her up as the youngest of the three continued, “And pray Jurassic Park was wrong about more than just the raptor’s appearance, cuz here he comes, and if he brought friends, you’re toast!”

“It’s not a raptor!” Rebecca reached for their hands, though she harbored little hope that she could actually get her fat ass up there. With or without their help, in her mind, she was dead.

“Please note, you’re the only one who cares,” the other young woman grumbled, grasping her friend’s wrist and exerting every bit of strength she had left to pull her to safety. Rebecca had virtually no upper body strength, and without Audrey and Fiona, would never be able to make it up onto the branch, despite being taller than both of them.

She almost dropped the larger girl when she suddenly yelped. Fiona glared at her, trying to compensate by taking more of their friend’s weight until she got a better grip on her arm.

Still a bit startled, she searched Rebecca’s eyes for some sign of what the hell that had been about, and found only fear. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Pull me up! Pull me up!” Refusing to say anything else, she gritted her teeth and pushed with all her might, kicking all the while. What she knew the blonde couldn’t see from her perch was that the dinosaur had caught up to her while they both struggled, and had grabbed hold of her calf with its sharp claws. Suddenly, she was glad for the long leather boots that, only moments before, she’d been cursing.

As the creature went for Rebecca again, Fiona grabbed the staff and whacked it as hard as she could over the head. It turned on her for a moment, but before it could do anything, Rebecca kicked it in the face. Taking advantage of the opportunity she’d just created, she stood on the hungry animal’s head and pushed off. At last, she was seated on the rough limb, with the deinonychus just barely out of reach. Gasping desperately for air as she turned and clung to Audrey, she glanced down at the bewildered creature and managed a breathless “thanks!” The moment Rebecca was safely out of reach, Fiona crept along the branch and headed for a different one. The tree was old and strong, but the three of them in the same spot could easily snap the branch and send them right to the dinosaur’s clutches.

Once she settled on another perch, they sat there for a moment, contemplating their luck, both good and bad, and watching the hungry animal watch them. All three knew that with a little effort, the thing could probably reach the two on the lower branch with those lethal, powerful jaws. Since it had clearly not yet figured this out, none of them really cared. Audrey was exhausted and sore, the entirety of her plump body throbbing unbearably now that adrenaline had begun to flee her as she had fled the dinosaur. Fiona was desperately trying to get her breath back, and though she felt fine otherwise, she knew she’d feel like she’d been hit by a bus in the morning. Rebecca, too, was exhausted and sore, though the pain in her muscles and joints hadn’t yet registered. Her gaze shifted from the restless animal to the long jagged tears in the back of her skirt, which she studied with a sort of numb, detached fascination.

“Well,” she said finally, still scarcely able to breathe. “That was exhilarating.”

Fiona laughed.

“Exhilarating?” Audrey gaped at her. “Are you fucking kidding me? We just almost became something’s soon-to-be-fossilized lunch!”

Shrugging, Rebecca glanced down at the prehistoric lizard…bird…thing. And suddenly she felt pity for it, and all the living things around them. After a long silence, during which the deinonychus finally lost interest and stormed off in search of easier prey, she finally murmured, “We survived, didn’t we? That’s more than anything else in this time period can say.” Where were its companions? The question bubbled up out of nowhere, and once formed, refused to be dismissed. She'd heard it call to someone, and heard an answer... Or had she? Had she imagined it all?

“We don’t belong in this time period!” Audrey's reply startled her out of her confused reverie. Her voice was shrill, expression aghast as she stared at the other woman as if she’d lost her mind. Perhaps that was obvious. For a second, she considered that maybe shehad gone mad, and this whole nightmarish situation was just a scene playing out in her ever-overactive imagination.

Then she shifted, and the ankle she’d twisted when she tripped on a rock sent a twinge of pain up her leg. The idea of any of this being anything less than horribly, undeniably real was scrapped, and she glanced around. She would merely search for makeshift supplies, she decided. She would rewrite Rebecca’s stupid spell, and get them back to the present. If this experience was meant to teach them anything, she was sure it was that the past can’t be changed, which she was suddenly ready to accept as Gospel truth. Life sucked, but they could make it better if they just focused less on whining about it, and more on actually doing something about it.

A strange weight on her mind drew her from her thoughts and she turned to look. Rebecca was staring at her.

Huffing a bit, she gestured to her shredded clothing. “That’s going to get infected. You’ll probably die before the week is out.”

“Thanks, Captain Optimism,” the other woman growled, rolling her eyes.

“We don’t have anything to wrap it with!” she snapped, interrupting her friend’s attempt to assure her that she was fine.

“I can rip something if you want,” Fiona offered, gesturing to her clothes.

“We have no idea what’s poisonous and what’s not,” Audrey continued to rant as if the other young woman hadn’t spoken, “We’re about sixty-five million years away from peroxide, never mind penicillin. And all of this is assuming you just get some kind of nasty infection. Every carnivore with at least one nostril can probably smell all that blood for miles. If we don’t get the hell back to modern times, you are going to die!”

To shut her up, Rebecca sighed and reached down, shoving her torn skirt out of the way to show the long scratches across her boot. She could see them alright through the slashes in her skirt, but clearly Audrey was less observant. “I’m not bleeding, genius. He was aiming to grab, not gut; he didn’t get through the leather.” She gestured, but wasn’t the least bit surprised when Audrey only shook her head and looked away.

“I’m just worried about you,” she whispered, much more subdued as the fight slowly drained from her. “You got lucky this time, but as long as we stay here, we’re in danger every second, from everything.”

As if only just then remembering that Fiona was there, she whipped around and stared up over her shoulder at her. "And how the hell are you still corporeal? How were you ever in the first place? I mean, nice to meet you, I guess? But what the actual fuck is going on?!"

#claddagh #original writing #crossroads series

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official-weasley · 3 years

Text

Meant to Be (Charlie Weasley x OC)

What happens when Bill brings home a girl and Charlie is completely awestruck by her?

WARNINGS: curse words, angst

Chapter 11

Charlie

I woke up the next morning wishing I was dreaming. I felt like not getting out of bed at all but I will not allow my feelings to interfere with my job. It was the only good thing I had going for me now that I lost all hope of ever being more than friends with Rhylee.

I got up and thanked Merlin when I saw that it was cloudy. If I would go to watch the sunrise and she would be there, I don’t know what I would do. I was so upset last night that I forgot to check my team’s schedule for the next month.

I was still determined to fix my relationship with Bill. I simply have to. It’s time to return to my roots. Being grateful for my job and being the best sibling I can be. That’s what I was all about before I met Rhylee and my world turned upside down.

I sighed and got out of bed. I sat down at the kitchen table, the timetable in front of me. Theo has two days off this week and so does Evan. John and Andrew are free the week after that. And then I could take time off when Rhylee comes back. It was hard to be two people short at once during mating season so we had to plan accordingly.

It’s settled then, I will go and visit Bill at work in three weeks. Hopefully, he won’t slam the door in my face. I still can’t believe what an idiot I am. I really messed up.

I decided to go to the nearby village and check out their library for books I could give Rhylee for her case. I didn’t want to be a part of it anymore but I didn’t want to show her how much she hurt me either. The sooner it’s over the better. And I wanted to help the dragon. I don’t want a single one to be executed if there is anything I can do to prevent it.

I could apparate to the library but I decided to walk instead. It’s supposed to be my day off anyway and why not take it for once. I don’t remember the last time I had a day off and if last night isn’t good enough of a reason for me to take a little break then I don’t know what is.

My mind was completely blank walking there. I didn’t have the energy to think about anything. Every time Rhylee or last night came to mind I tried to shake it off. I can’t think about it because it breaks my heart all over again and I can’t keep doing this to myself.

I only had a broken heart once before. It was when Emma and I broke up the summer after we graduated from Hogwarts. We started dating a month before our sixth year and we were very happy together. She was my first love and I wouldn’t change a thing. When I found out I got a job at the Sanctuary we started to talk about our future. She applied for a position to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Ilvermony and when she got her letter we knew it will be very difficult for us to see each other.

We both started right after graduation and we barely had the time to write to each other during summer. I was busy learning, getting acquainted with all the dragons, and getting assimilated to the working schedule and she had to train all summer and prepare to start the semester in September. When we finally had a chance to see each other in August, we both knew it’s not going to work out no matter how much we would like to try long-distance.

We agreed that it’s better if we go our separate ways and broke up. The only time we communicate now is when we send each other a birthday card.

It hurt, letting her go, but at least I had a choice. At least I knew what I was doing and I had a clean slate. This was nothing like it and it terrified me that I was still so attracted to Rhylee even though I don’t know what she was playing at. It’s like I just can’t let her go.

I spend a few hours in the library, going through books, making notes, trying to think of anything that might provide evidence of the dragon’s innocence. I was glad I decided to go. It was a good distraction and I forgot just how much I love reading, checking facts, and learning something new, especially if it had to do with dragons and other creatures.

I found a book on creature trials and one called Dragons and the Law. I decided to give them to Rhylee so she could see if they could be of any help. I dreaded not knowing when the trial is going to happen because it meant I didn’t know for how long I will have to pretend that I am okay with us being friends. I was planning on distancing myself from her as soon as everything is over.

Besides those two books, I took a few for myself. If I wanted to find myself again, I have to start reading as I used to. It made me happy and I think I will need a lot of those moments if I’ll be working alongside Rhylee for what can be the rest of my life.

I went for a run when I came back and paid Ernie a visit. His positivity and cheerfulness were something I needed to surround myself with. I don’t think I ever spent so much time in his office but damn he made me laugh. He gave me a letter from my mum and Ron and a package from Fred and George. At this point, I wasn’t even expecting anything from Bill.

I am glad that I’ve opened mum’s letter first as she warned me that the twins might send me something from their newly opened shop. They did it! They finally did it! They told me about it in one of their letters and made me swear I wouldn’t tell mum. I wanted to give them some money as I supported their dream but they said they are well taken care of.

I have no idea where they got the money from but I just wanted to be there for them. It made me feel good to be a good older brother to at least 2 of my siblings.

Because I was so ecstatic for them I decided to open the gift they sent me anyway. I carefully unwrapped it and slowly removed the cover with my eyes narrowed and my head leaned back just in case something would jump out. I have learned through the years that with them, you have to be prepared for anything.

It looked like candy. They were joking, right? I took it out of the box and found a little note at the bottom.

Something to prank your mates with.

Thank you for being on our side, Charlie.

Love, Fred and George

I felt like crying. I know to them it was a simple gesture but this meant so much to me. It was right what I needed. At least I did something right. It warmed my heart that they felt supported by me and I couldn’t wait to visit their shop.

Something to prank my mates with, huh?

I picked up one of the wrappers. It looked like regular candy. I squinted my eyes to read the label.

Ton-Tongue Toffee.

That didn’t sound so bad. If it wasn’t their invention I would dare trying it but I knew better. Perhaps I will give one to Theo. He always liked to talk too much, maybe these could fix that.

I spent the rest of the day reading on the sofa. Merlin’s beard did I miss it. How could I not have an entire wall of books in my home? I need to write to Hagrid if he still has that one book about dragons he used to lend me when I was still in school. I would love to reread it and I loved the illustrations in it.

When I finally tore my eyes off the book to check the time, I couldn’t believe it was time for dinner already. I decided to put on some clothes.

Yes, I was reading naked.

I live alone and I felt like it and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

It was the new Charlie!

I tucked the books for Rhylee under my arm and exited my hut.

I knocked on her door and the second I did I heard movement inside.

“Charlie, hi.” She looked even more upset than she did yesterday.

The dark circles under her eyes indicated that she slept almost as little as I did.

“I don’t want to bother you.” I started. I saw something shift in her eyes. “I was in the library this morning and found these two books that I reckon could help you with the case.” I explained.

I couldn’t believe how calm I was. I don’t know if it was because I was still mad at her or I simply didn’t have the energy to care anymore. My heart was still bumping against my rib cage but it was easier to ignore it this time.

“Thank you.” She carefully took the books from my hands, her eyes on mine.

I hated the way she was looking at me. As if she was sorry. As if she felt bad for what happened last night. I hated that I could read her like a book and I hated how much I wanted to ask her what’s wrong and why is she so upset as it was clear, something was going on in her life.

We might be friends but I can’t be there for her right now. I have to get my life in order first. I have to take care of myself and my family. As much as I wanted to, I can’t make her a priority again because I know the second I do, I will fall right back in and I can’t trust myself with getting out.

And she has Nick for that, right?

“Want to come in?” She said as she went to put the books on her coffee table.

“No. I’m going to go have dinner with the guys.” My voice was completely emotionless.

“Oh. Okay.”

Don’t sound so disappointed, Rhylee. You don’t get to sound like that. I can’t feel sorry for you.

“Look, about last night…”

“Don’t.” I shook my head.

I don’t want to talk about it ever again. Especially not with her.

“It’s okay. I understand.” I smiled awkwardly as I didn’t know what else to do.

“It’s just…” She bit her lip and bowed her head. “I…”

“Look, Rhylee. It’s really not a big deal.”

It was but okay.

“I have to go, they are waiting for me.” Without waiting another second I turned around and walked away.

Fuck, why was it so hard! I just left her standing there in the doorway. It was killing me but I knew it was the right thing to do…for me at least.

I sat next to Andrew and started eating my dinner. I just remembered that I haven’t eaten at all today. They were all waiting for me to say something but I pretended I was too busy eating to notice.

“Charlie, we’re sorry about yesterday.” Evan was the first to speak.

“Yeah, it wasn’t our business and we shouldn’t have told you to go and see her.” John followed.

“It’s okay. I’m glad you did it.” I mumbled with my mouth full.

“You are?” Theo looked puzzled.

“Yeah.” I finally swallowed the food. “If you didn’t I don’t know when I would make a move and it already took too long for me to find out she was dating someone.”

“I still can't believe it.” Andrew shook his head. “I know she’s very private but one might think you would mention your partner at least once.” They all nodded in agreement.

“Or at least that she would tell you.” Peter spoke for the first time.

“Why me?” I looked up at him.

“Well, you’re better friends with her than we are. You went running together and you trained her and…you have history.” The lot nodded their heads again.

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” I tried not to sound too disappointed.

“We’re sorry, Charlie.” Evan said gently.

“We promise, we won't mention it again.” Andrew put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it.

“Thanks.” I really appreciated that they understood and didn’t press the matter further.

I couldn’t be angry with them. They only wanted me to be happy and they couldn’t know it would turn out so bad. I definitely didn’t expect it.

“What are you going to do now?” Theo asked after a brief pause.

“I’m going to talk to Bill.” I put my fork down. “Rhylee told him that we slept together so that confirms why he hasn’t been writing to me for so long. I haven’t seen him in two years and I can’t believe I let this happen.” I pressed my fingers to my temples.

“Charlie, everybody makes mistakes. You’re only human.” Peter said slowly.

“Do you think he’ll be able to forgive me after such a long time?” I lifted my head.

“Get off it, Charlie!” Theo slammed the table with his fist. “He’s your brother. Of course, he will!”

I wish I had Theodore’s confidence in that. Bill is the nicest, sweetest guy I know and he didn’t hold a grudge against anybody.

But two years!

I would kick my arse if I was him. And then I would heal myself and do it again.

“Peter, I will take two days off in three weeks to go and see him.” I remembered that I have to tell him if I leave the Sanctuary.

We could take a day or two off if we scheduled it in advance without saying anything like I did today. But if you plan on being outside of the Reserve we had to tell Peter so that he knew that if anything goes wrong or if he would need another pair of hands that he can’t come and knock on your door for you to help.

“Charlie, if you want we can switch days and you can go in two days.” Theo offered.

“That’s very nice of you, mate.” I smiled.

That meant a lot to me.

“But I have to figure out what to say to him anyways and I need to find a way to ask one of my siblings to tell me where to find him. I don’t want mum to know that we aren’t talking. It’s a miracle I was able to keep it a secret for such a long time anyway.”

“In three weeks it is.” Peter made a mental note.

“You’re going to be fine, Charlie.” John said. “Just give it time.”

“Yeah, I know.” I sighed.

First I get my brother back and then I’ll focus on mending my heart.

#harry potter fanfiction #charlie weasley #charlie weasley fanfiction #the weasleys #weasley family #hp imagine #charlie weasley x oc #charlie weasley imagine #the burrow #harry potter imagine #weasley fanfiction #charlie weasley x mc #bill weasley #harry potter #wizarding world

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jmalkki · 4 years

Photo

From head canon to on-screen reality

Episode 6 of Season 3. You, guys.

My. Goodness.

What oddly specific joy.

One has secretly hoped a scene of this nature to eventually make it onto the show, and the promo images promised it was coming now. So, one went in expecting to finally see on screen the sweet sweet scene of the couple all domestic, chilling on their bed, sharing thoughts; the one one has imagined so many times in various forms, be it in text or in illustrations. Seemingly topped with a kiss, as well - gorgeous for the unremarkable mundanity of itself, without any story points or grand gestures tied to it.

Though the promo image promised kiss was not to be seen, what the domestically set scene itself delivered in substance was such a validating treat one could not feel one bit amiss; something one couldn’t have expected, hoped for, or imagined to come worth.

The end scenes of the episode made some major personal head canons true on screen! Namely the fact of Paul immediately recognizing the nature of one talking by oneself as if to a lost loved one, and admitting carrying Hugh similarly with him after Dear Doctor’s death. And, the fact, that both of the men hate the augmentations on Paul’s arms.

Seemingly tiny things perhaps, but these have both been some of the most persistent themes in my past writing of these two. And much as I abhor to go back to my past scribbles, I felt compelled to quickly go through whole of the Honey Mushroom series, and collect below all of the narratives focused on Paul talking to Hugh in his mind, and the instances mentioning the shared bother of the spore drive augmentations.

Which now suddenly as if offer possible context for the on-screen dialogue:

“God, I hated those things.” “I hated them more.”

I realize this is quite individual a glee, specific to curious personal head canon nuggets (and perhaps to those who might’ve enjoyed the nuggets / nursed any similar own ideas), but I am beyond ecstatic for those nuggets to have now made it on screen and/or fit into the canon, complementary to the narrative!

How ever coincidental, I think one must thank at least Anne Cofell Saunders, the writer of the episode, for including these specific allusions / plot directions, and in doing so making reality of one’s particular head canons. And, that gratitude must also be extended to anyone else, who might’ve been involved in what ever capacity in the process of bringing these into the show’s in-universe reality.

Feels like such an immense affirmation of one’s year(s) spent passionately imagining these unmentioned-in-canon dimensions (regardless how ever fumblingly). Such joy to see these once dearly envisioned behind-the-scenes aspects brought on screen, and into the canon.

More small, but notable glees: Paul’s PADD on the nightstand. And the men sleeping on the ‘correct’ sides of the bed, which has also been a theme in exploring the character of Paul. (And, in fact, Paul scratching the augmentations/residuals, too *heehee*).

Okay. Let’s go.

Passages of the augmentations being a bother:

From my second ever narrative, and the first to mention the augmentations, if not yet for the precise shared discomfort factor. Also the first to feature Paul talking to Hugh after the death:

[He shifted on the chair and reached for his forearm. Feeling out the hard plastic augmentation with his fingers. Rubbing it in a circular motion on top of his muscles, letting the gentle pressure push against his bones.

They were another reason - the augmentations - why he had felt so bare at the gym dressing rooms. He had only ever really bared them in the engineering for their designed purpose, and with Hugh around in the sickbay or in the confinements of their quarters. He had showed them to few others of course on occasion, but on his own discretion. He wasn’t comfortable letting them ‘hang out’ like he had just done. It too left him feeling exposed.

“They keep insisting I go in for a medical examination”, Paul muttered out quietly, while skimming through his calendar, like he was expecting Hugh - his resident consultant on all things medical - to actually answer.]

- We Are Undone, But Soldier On

From my only ‘alternative future’ story, with the first ever allusion to the shared discomfort with the apparatus. Also the narrative, which solidified the idea of Paul harboring Hugh ‘alive’ in his mind well after the death:

[ Paul smiled. He put his hand in his hair again, mussed it around a bit, adjusting it from side to side, observing it closely from the mirror. “And you won’t mind this either?” He asked with a faint look of apprehension on his face, “it’s still getting thinner and thinner each year.” “You know I always loved that”, Hugh spoke to him with most affectionate tone, as Paul could feel fingers play with the little swirl of thinning hair on the back of his head, “it makes you look irresistibly manly.”

“Like these”, Hugh continued, as Paul raised his arms in front of himself, displaying the thick, fluffy white hair covering his forearms, “I love falling asleep into this softness.” “Well, you’re in luck then. They sure aren’t thinning any”, Paul snickered, “I think the hair on my head might be migrating there in fact”. He could hear Hugh chuckle and felt a light encouraging pat on his hips.

Paul turned away from the mirror and walked slowly to the small kitchen cabin in the corner of the room. “Always hated shaving any of that off for those spore drive ports, just so you know.” he could hear Hugh’s voice commenting back at him. Paul was replicating his morning drink. “You won’t mind me saying then, how glad I was to get those off eventually”, Paul conversed in his head as he watched the replicator form a cup of tea.

“Of course not, Mushroom”, Hugh sounded to respond from the bed, “we’ve been through this many times. You don’t need to feel sorry for getting rid of those.”

“Yeah…” Paul muttered as he walked back to the room with a fresh cup of tea in his hands, “it just felt then like I was throwing something of you away”, he thought sitting down on the bed, “I know it’s silly.”

“It is. You know I wasn’t too keen on those things ‘hogging’ your arms either”, Hugh let out a little laugh, “and you really haven’t thrown any of me away.”

Paul looked sheepishly down to his tea. He knew what was coming.

“Don’t you think you should?” Hugh asked with a slight hint of worry in his voice.]

- Becalmed

A short, based solely on the premise of the discomfort of the augmentations:

[ Hugh wakes up to it again. To Paul’s arm wrapping around him. Dang, it used to be one of the best feelings in the mornings to wake in the safety of his Honey Mushroom’s manly arms. Now, there’s often this unforeseen complication. And Hugh has in part himself to blame for it too.

“Mushroom”, Hugh tries to carefully arouse the sleeping man’s attention by shaking him a little. He gets no response.

“Honey, can you move your arm a bit”, Hugh tries a little louder and attempts to wiggle himself from the man’s grip, but Paul just mumbles something in his sleep and won’t move. The arm wants to hold on to Hugh. Dammit. He loves it, but just not like this.

“Paul!” Hugh makes no attempt to discretion anymore, “will you let go of me!”

“What!?” Paul wakes up shouting irately at the abrupt wake-up call.

“Your damn augmentation is boring into my hip again”, Hugh lets the understandably agitated response get to him and snaps back in equal tone, which is far more harsh than necessary.

“Well, who the fuck’s fault is it, it’s there!?” Paul huffs back, fiercely as only provoked Paul would - even when half asleep, like he is right now.

“I know, I know. And you’re very welcome, by the way”, Hugh sneers, “just move it”.

“Fine!” Paul scoffs and yanks his arm to his own side of the bed, turning his back to Hugh as he does so. Hugh turns back to face his side as well.

The doctor then immediately feels regret for having gotten so agitated. He’s upset for the situation - lamenting over losing those comfy arms for the good of this ship -, not mad at the man.

How difficult for the man himself it must be to adjust? And Paul hasn’t once complained. Oddly so.

Hugh had just let his own less than satisfactory wake-up ruin Mushroom’s morning as well, hadn’t he?

“I’m sorry, Paul”, Hugh turns to look at the man over his shoulder, "I didn’t mean to yell. I’m not upset with you".

“I know”, Paul’s sleepy voice sounds faintly somewhere behind the man’s back. He’s not turning back around.

Hugh worries his outburst might scare Paul to thinking twice before embracing him again. And he loves his cuddly Paul.

“Of course you’re still welcome to snuggle”, Hugh assures Paul, letting the regret sound in his voice.

But the man doesn’t hear him, he’s fast asleep again. And Hugh’s bed feels that much emptier without the safety of his man’s arms around him.]

- Losing Your Arms

From one, which references events referenced on screen, namely the introduction of the (preliminary) augmentations by revealing them installed on Paul’s arms:

[ Maybe it had indeed been but a dream after all. Like all of this. Perhaps like all the other times he remembers too. Those instances when they had been somewhere quite surprising - and admittedly quite exciting -, getting distracted by each other from their intended tasks.

Like, when at the Medbay, setting up these brand new spore drive ports on his arms, for a brief stolen moment before the evening shift had arrived to relief Hugh.

Indeed, occasionally he had been back as they were in the middle of hurriedly moving that task to their quarters to follow up on those distractions. Like they must have done just now, judging from the state in which their clothes lay scattered around the room and by the selection of tools haphazardly laid on the coffee table next to them. Like they ever really had any intention to use those once here on this couch.

Paul regards the augmentations on his forearms.

He’s getting a lot of extra orientation practice to the devices through these repeats however, Paul muses. Would Hugh notice anything? Will Mushroom have hard time explaining to the doctor after all of this, how he’s so well adjusted to these things so soon after installation?

He realizes this right now as he catches himself cursing them, positioning his arms so that the ports wouldn’t chafe against their bare skins. Is it too late to rethink these apparatus?]

- Come Again

From one, where Paul regards the augmentations at Hugh’s wake:

[ Paul remembers wrapping his arms around that waist each and every night.

He shifts his arms. The spore drive ports on his forearms, beneath the layers of sleeves, suddenly feel so alien again right then.

It’s not his first time in civilian clothing with them (thanks to his insistence on own comfort wear out of the uniform), but it is the first time with them off duty, since he’s off the ship. And they feel grossly out of place in these Earthly settings.

Hugh too had come to dislike them - his own invention - as soon as it had become apparent how they were an obstruction between their embraces.

Paul should get them removed, if they’ll no longer serve a purpose.

He takes his hands out of the pockets, folds his arms over his chest and goes back to staring across the room with what must appear quite a stern look.]

- Honoring One’s Heart

There was also one about the conceiving of the idea of the augmentations, where, however, the bother factor was not yet in sight:

Doctor, Not an Engineer

And this one, which doesn’t technically count for similar 'shared bother’ reasons either, perhaps, but is a whole narrative very much build around the inconvenience of the augmentations:

Performance Issues

Plus, couple saucy ones, which I won’t list here, lest I actually ever want to share this post *ha* More below:

While at it, (and, perhaps more importantly) here are the narratives build around the idea fact (!!) of Paul living with Hugh ‘alive’ in his mind after the death - in narrative order (some already featured above, too). Hardly captured by a single quote, but for a taste:

[ He had finally heard it. The voice. Hugh’s voice trying to calm him down, “Paul. You need to let yourself be upset. You need to let the tears come.” ]

- We Are Undone, But Soldier On

[ ‘Honey? Are you drunk?’

A delightful, relieved curiosity filled Paul’s mind momentarily as he peered into the darkness of the room wide-eyed, to see where the gentle, familiar voice calling him out was coming from.

Then he remembered, and with a loud, derisive scoff sank back into his darkened state of mind, slumping back down on the couch.

“So fucking what!? If I am.” ]

- A Better Man

[ None of this should matter. Not the suit, not the event, not the crowd. Paul is not here, and Hugh is not gone. Not yet anyway. They are still very much together, and just about to leave somewhere off by themselves, once done with this circus. To enjoy each others’ company somewhere away from all of this dreary pretend. Such a presentation, and for whose sake? “You don’t mind, if I’m not honoring you in accordance to the Fleet standards, do you?” He still gets no response. Hugh hasn’t talked to him since Paul disembarked that cursed ship. He’s still here though, isn’t he? Paul would surely feel it, if the man left.]

- Honoring One’s Heart

[ “Yes. We are too damn young to be thinking about retiring yet.” Paul said and turned to look by his side instinctively, only to see there was really no-one there, of course. He let out a little huff and smiled to himself. Then turned back to face the beach in front of him, and paused to think again. “It will surely be painful to be near it all on the Discovery”, his mind went on, “but I’m not quite ready yet to let go of what we had there either”. “Our only home together?” Hugh came back beside him. “Our first home together”, Paul specified, “so far…"]

- First Home

[ “Dear, I’m home”. He can just imagine himself standing there at the door of their cabin, staring into the empty, cold room that used to be. All the pleasant memories now tainted. How exactly will this be helping him to get over? “But please, do remind me again”, Paul whispers to himself, and hears a heavy, sympathetic sigh in reply, as if preparing itself for telling him of all the ways he’s doing the right thing to move on, and how it’s proud of him for not giving up, and how it supports him, and all that fucking sentimental nonsense, it’s had to tell him already, over and over. And which yet Paul needs to hear. To keep faith. To not forget. ]

- Watching Over You

[ “Hmh”, Paul shrugs, taking in the thought, suddenly a slight twinkle in his eyes, “…but I have too much ‘unbridled passion’ you say?” he then yields, disregarding his persistent gravity, as he apprehensively turns his playful smirk at Hugh, readying himself for this blessed dream to end short. But the man stays here. Startlingly, staring right back at Paul’s surprised gaze with almost haunting clarity. Paul’s grip on the newly corporeal man tightens in a moment of incredulity. For the first time in weeks - but which feels like a year - Paul is able to see the man, to look into those loving eyes again, bathe in that radiant smile, and respond to all of the emotions he now thirstily reads from the man’s beautiful face. And fuck, if there aren’t tears on Paul’s own. The man really is right here.]

- Passion of a Vulcan Like Mind

[ He could feel Hugh’s gaze on himself. “You realize, you actually wanted me gone today?”, he heard Hugh speak out gently, “I got in your way”.

Paul’s smile turned to an anguished frown. The tone of understanding in Hugh’s voice hurt him. “Never”, he attested firmly. He lay there as still as possible, staring at the ceiling, afraid to move too much, or turn to glance at his side, lest it chased away this sensation of Hugh beside him.

“You are being stubborn again, Mushroom”, Hugh whispered with a hint of worry in his voice, “why do you still cling on so desperately?”. He was so close Paul could almost feel the breath on him - or was that the sea breeze perhaps - “You said you’d be okay, if I left - why won’t you let me then?”]

- Becalmed (alt)

#star trek discovery #culmets #paul stamets #hugh culber #space boos #spaceboos #star trek #head canon

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thewildsophia · 4 years

Text

.The Consequences of Consuming Paint. Clone High//Van Gogh x Reader

Trigger Warning:

Referenced self-harm, Attempted suicide, Talk about self-hatred.

A/N: I know this might be difficult to read, and if you don’t feel comfortable reading this kind of stuff then I recommend not, but I really felt that this was somewhat accurate to his character. The actual Van Gogh was depressed and tried to end his life multiple times so it felt only fitting that clone Van Gogh be the same way.

Suicidal!Van Gogh x Depressed!Reader

Word Count: 5151

~~~~~~~~~~

To put it simply, there was something wrong with Van Gogh. As of late, he seemed more irritable and tired, didn’t enjoy doing activities with you and, one of the more concerning to you, wasn’t eating as much. He was already a pretty small, thin guy, and the thought that he wasn’t eating made you worry more than normal.

You already knew Van Gogh was depressed, it was part of the reason you became friends, but it seemed that his symptoms were getting worse. With everything going on, you were scared that he would try to do something he’d regret.

You thought this because, like Van Gogh, you too were depressed and knew how impulsive people could become when they were hurting.

You were currently in Painting II with him. He was getting his work done, but he was lacking the normally present enjoyment he usually had. He seemed distracted, simply idly correcting a few mistakes in the piece he had made the day before. You had tried to start a conversation with him, but it was difficult to hold it since he wasn’t really interested, only offering a few word responses.

It left a bad taste in your mouth. Even if he wasn’t a very outgoing person, he would normally converse with you like there was no tomorrow.

You eventually left it alone, opting to work in silence for the rest of the class. He never made an effort to talk to you afterwards.

Class ends and you notice how slow Van Gogh gathers his things. You decide to help him, putting the paints and brushes he was using away. When you turned around you noticed that he had left before you could walk him out.

For the rest of the day you tried to get your work done in your classes, but you just couldn’t help but wonder if he was alright. At first you were simply worried about him, but after that class you were terrified. Since you two didn’t have anymore classes after that you tried to look for him in the halls while transitioning classes, but to no avail.

It was the end of the day and you at your lockers grabbing the books you needed to do your homework. You were planning to head over to Van Gogh’s dorm to check up on him before heading over to yours for the night. Before you close your locker, however, you felt a tap on the back of your shoulder. Turning around you were met with the blue eyes of Van Gogh.

“There you are!” You said while closing your locker, “I’ve been looking around for you.” You finished. He looked away a moment and scratched the back of his neck.

“Yeah, sorry. I haven’t exactly been myself lately which…I’m sure you could tell.” He said, shifting from his right foot to his left, “I’ve had a lot to deal with recently and have had a crap ton of things on my mind. I just…wanted to thank you for being by me and supporting me all this time.”

You stayed silent; it was a technique you learned in psychology where if you stayed quiet someone would keep talking. And sure enough, he did.

“So, thank you for always being there to help me,” He looked up at you and smiled.

But it wasn’t right.

It seemed a bit forced and the emotion behind it didn’t convey joy or happiness, but despair and regret instead. It was a smile you knew all too well, and you had a pretty good idea about what he was planning to do. However, you decided to play dumb.

“Of course,” You started, “I’ll always be here for you, Vincent. Even if you’re at your lowest, I’ll be there to dust you off and pick you back up. I’d…be lost if something were to happen to you.” You said, hoping that your choice of words would get him to reconsider. You saw his smile drop slightly.

“Is there…something you need to talk about?” You ask after a moment.

“No, no, I just wanted to thank you for standing by me,” He said, “You were really the best friend someone could ask for.”

Were.

“Thanks,” You said, trying to ignore the nauseous feeling you had in your stomach, “If you ever need to talk just stop by my dorm or send me a text, got it?” You ask him, receiving a nod.

“I’ve got to get going. My teachers didn’t hesitate to assignment a bunch or work.” He said turning around and walking away.

“Alright, see you tomorrow!” You shouted before he left. He only turned to look at you and smiled. He turned back around and continued walking.

He already had his mind set.

You felt that coiling in your stomach and this time you actually felt like you were going to be sick. You gave him some time to get to his dorm -- you knew how long it took since you and him constantly walked there after school -- before you made your way there.

You shifted on your feet a moment before giving a hesitant knock. You waited a moment before knocking harder, calling his name.

“Van Gogh? You there?” You shouted, “It’s me, Y/N.” You waited another minute before you decided that it had been long enough. You quickly searched for the key to his dorm, finding it and opening the door quickly.

The lights were off but you could see the mass on the bed that you assumed was Van Gogh. You turned the lights on and quickly made you way over to him. While running over there, a note on his desk caught your attention.

You looked over at it briefly, only reading the first line and you quickly realized what it was.

His suicide letter.

You quickly looked over at him, ignoring the tears that were welling up in your eyes, grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

“Van Gogh?” You called out, shaking him a bit harder, but there was no response from him. That sinking feeling returned as you quickly removed the covers finding no blood, but instead…paint?

You looked down at your feet and saw that, in your haste, you had been standing on empty tubes of paint, most of them being yellow.

“What did he…?” You questioned, before seeing an empty bottle of turpentine.

“Did you…!” You asked out loud before checking his mouth and, sure enough, there was a collage of different colors. Blues, greens, purples, reds and yellows -- all matching the tubes scattered around the floor -- mashed together, illustrating his despair.

“You-IDIOT.” You shouted as you quickly picked him up, relieved at how warm he still was, and made your way to his bathroom.

You gently placed him in the bathtub and turned on the water. You got in, sitting behind him and placing him in between your legs. You held him close to you with your left arm as you, despite wanting to, shoved your fingers into his mouth.

You hated doing this, but you knew that this had to be done. You had to get the paint and turpentine out of his body.

It was disgusting, feeling the warm paint slide between your fingers as you pushed them even farther into his mouth. You didn’t even try to hold the tears and sobs back as your attempt to help him seemed to fail.

“Van Gogh…VINCENT!” You sobbed into the back of his neck as you kept prodding at his throat. “PLEASE. Please. please, please, please, please, please…don’t leave me.” You cried.

“Please…I love you. I love you so much so PLEASE…stay. Stay so that I can tell you that to your face.” You were still screaming, sobbing and about to pull your fingers out in defeat before it happened.

You felt it, warm and wet, before you actually saw it.

A jumble of bright colors, with the distinct color of vomit, decorated your arm and was quickly dragged down the drain by the water.

“Van Gogh…” You said, removing your fingers and listening to him cough for a moment.

“Who…?” He asked quietly. You barely heard him over the running water. Relief quickly ran through your system, tangling with your anxiety and fear, as you wrapped both arms around his middle section, feeling him take gulping breaths of air.

“Me-It’s me. It’s Y/N.” You said while gently rocking him in the water. The paint and vomit had stained your long sleeve shirt and was most likely getting on Van Gogh’s coat, but you didn’t care.

“Van Gogh,” You said as his breath evened out, “Vincent, I love you. I love you so damn much. Don’t…don’t leave me. Not like this. Never like this.” You said as the tears of relief mixed with the ones of despair on your cheeks. Neither of you moved or spoke for a moment before you felt his arms on your own that were around his waist.

“Okay,” He began, his voice a lot more hoarse than normal, “Okay, I’ll stay.” He said while shifting in your arms to face you. His own cheeks, although difficult to tell with the water, were stained with tears. His face was flush and eyes red and you assumed you looked the same.

“I love you,” Were his next words, “I love you too.” You felt that coiling return and this time you didn’t ignore it. It didn’t feel bad this time, but instead somewhat enjoyable. You pressed him to your chest, embracing him tightly. He returned the favor, wrapping his arms around your neck. You heard and felt him cough a few times on you but it didn’t bother you.

You stayed in there, water pouring over you, until your fingers pruned up and the water turned cold. When he pulled away there were paint stains on your shirt where his face had been pressed into it. You stood up, turning off the water and helped Van Gogh out of the tub.

The two of you awkwardly stood there for a moment. Both of you were soaked to your core. After a moment, Van Gogh spoke up.

“I’ll…get us some dry clothing.” He began ringing out his clothes over the tub and, hesitantly, started to take his coat off. Upon doing so revealed the orange-cream color v-neck shirt you had bought for him. It also revealed the soaking wet bandages that covered both of his forearms. You frowned, but didn’t stare since you knew how annoying it was.

He squeezed the rest of the water out before saying,

“I’ll be right back.” He left the room and you stood there for around a minute before the door opened again.

In his arms were a few towels, a plastic bag and clothing. He handed them to you explaining,

“Sorry, these were the only clothes I had that would fit you since you’re taller than me and all.” He scratched the back of his neck, “Uh, I’ll leave you to it.” He said awkwardly before leaving the bathroom again.

You hadn’t even looked at the clothes until after you had stripped down and dried yourself off. Upon inspecting them you encountered a problem.

They were short sleeved.

Specifically a short sleeved t-shirt and pair of shorts.

You felt yourself frown as you looked at the clothing and then at yourself in the mirror. You may be a lot better than you were before, but you were still very, very, self conscious about how many scars you had. You were especially worried at how Van Gogh would react to seeing them after…that.

You had never told him you were depressed and telling him that you were this way wasn’t exactly appealing to you.

Nonetheless, you put the clothes on deciding that revealing clothes are better than wet ones. You placed your wet clothing in the bag before making your way to the door. You hesitated a moment, before slowly cracking the door open and looking out.

You spotted Van Gogh in new clothes undoing the wrappings on his head before he noticed you peeking out.

“Do the clothes fit?” He asked, pausing his movements.

“Yeah…” You said opening the door all the way and stepping out. His eyes widened and his shoulders slouched, his hands still in his hair. It was quiet for a moment.

“So uh…” You started after a minute, “I guess you were bound to find out someday. I had just hoped it wouldn’t be like…this.” You said, gesturing to yourself. He looked away from you, returning to unwrapping his head bandages. Once done he pulled the bandages away, revealing his ear to you.

It actually wasn’t as bad as people had said it was. A little over half of it was gone and there was dark scarring around the edge of it, yet it still didn’t look “disfigured” per say; just different.

“I’m not really one to judge,” Van Gogh said, pulling you out of your thoughts, “I’m sure you could tell by now that I’m no better.” He finished with a nervous chuckle. He idly picked at the bandages around his arms as he met your gaze.

Neither of you were sure what to do, simply looking at the other wait for them to do something.

“Here,” You said after it became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything, “Let me help you rewrap everything.” You made your way over to him and sat down next to him on the bed. Hesitantly, he offered you an arm and you gently began unwrapping it. You felt his eyes on you the whole time.

It was an all too familiar sight, one that usually didn’t faze you anymore. It did this time since you knew that this was Van Gogh and that he did this to himself. You couldn’t help the tears that began to well up in your eyes, but you did your best to ignore them. It was only when one of them hit Van Gogh’s did you do something.

“Y/N?” Van Gogh asked but you held a hand up quieting him.

“I’m fine.” You said, gesturing for him to give you his other arm. He did, and you began unwrapping that one too. You held both arms together and briefly looked at Van Gogh to see him staring directly at some of your own.

Normally, something like this bothered you, but it didn’t this time.

You rubbed his hands with your thumbs before you leaned down to press a kiss to both of them. When you looked up you saw Van Gogh staring at you with tears in his eyes. You took both of his hands into your own before stroking his cheek. You pressed a kiss to his other cheek before standing up.

“Where do you keep your bandages?” You asked.

“In my desk. Middle drawer on the left.” He answered and you made your way over there. The note briefly caught your attention before you turned it back to finding the bandages. You scrounge around for a moment before finding what you were looking for. You walked back over and set the bandages, along with rubbing alcohol and cotton pads, on the bed. You brought his hands into your lap before you got to work, first cleaning them with alcohol and covering them. You did your best to ignore the small whimpers of pain Van Gogh would make when you cleaned a particularly fresh cut.

Once done, you threw the used cotton pads away and returned the other supplies to the drawer. You looked back over to Van Gogh noticing that he had curled up into himself, pulling his legs to his chest and resting his chin on his knees.

“Hey,” You said, getting his attention, “Let me cook you some dinner. You’ll feel better afterwards.” He looked away a moment before asking,

“Do you think we could cover my ear first?”

“No,” You began and for a moment he looked taken aback, “Wait for your hair to dry first and then we’ll cover them. Otherwise the bandages will just get wet again.” He frowned, but you could tell he understood.

“You know, I always thought you had cut off the whole ear, not just part.” You say. He looks up, “This is honestly an upgrade. In my opinion at least; it gives you character, makes you stand out in a good way.” You say while slowly walking over to him before taking him into your arms.

“Come on, don’t look so sad.” You said while laying back on the bed on your side, Van Gogh pressed against you. He wrapped his arms around you and held onto you tighter as tears threatened to spill from his eyes. You stayed quiet for a moment before speaking up.

“Look,” You started, feeling his eyes land on you, “I of all people probably understand what you’re going through. Hell, I probably know what you’re thinking right now. Probably something like, ‘What do I do now?’ and ‘Where do I go from here?’. Something like that, right?”

He looks at you shocked before asking, “How do you know this?” It seemed that he realized the answer before you actually said it because you saw his jaw snap shut after asking.

“I…also tried to, you know, end my life. Twice actually.” You added with a nervous chuckle. “I’ve been doing my best to get better and, even though I’m not all the way there, I’ve begun to like living again. And I think that’s possible for you to achieve that too.” You look down at him and notice how the tears had fallen from his eyes, but he had a blank stare.

He was probably spaced out you figured. You knew he heard what you said but he just could really respond.

“Listen, I know you don’t want to talk about this tonight and we don’t have to, but let me take care of you. Please?” You explain. He shifts in your arms a moment before saying,

“Alright.” You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead and, reluctantly, pulling away from him.

“Great. I’ll cook some dinner for us.” You walked over to his kitchen to see what you could make. Upon looking around, you noticed that he didn’t have much to cook with, most of the things he had were prepackaged or frozen.

“Wow, you’ve got nothing.” You say under your breath as you close the cabinet, “No wonder you’ve gotten so thin.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He apologies from the bed. After a moment of thought an idea pops into your head.

“Alright, put your shoes on, we’re going to my place.” You said as you made your way over to the door, grabbing your backpack and bag of wet clothes.

“What?” He asks.

“You heard me,” you said, grabbing his usual black dress shoes, “Dinner’s at my place tonight.”

“But,” He said pausing for a moment, “I really don’t want to go out there with my ear…exposed like this.” You stared at him a moment while handing him his shoes.

“Look at me,” You stared, “I don’t want to go out like this either, but I was going to have to eventually. So, we’ll go out together, exposed.”

He was quiet for a moment before he sighed.

“Alright, let’s go.” He said while putting his shoes on. The two of you walked out and thankfully there wasn’t anyone in the hallways at the moment. The two of you made your way up to your dorm, only running into a few people. Once there you set your things by the door and made your way to the kitchen. Van Gogh followed you and offered to help you, which you gladly accepted.

You looked around to see what you could whip up quickly and decided to make a simple beef stew. You gave him a few vegetables asking him to peel them before you got to work cutting them, along with the beef, up and cooking them. You added the beef broth to everything and had to wait around 15 minutes.

In that time, the two of you had decided to lay on your bed, holding each other ‘til the alarm went off. Both of you had gotten up and walked into the kitchen. You had Van Gogh sit while you cut up some bread and served both of you.

The two of you ate in silence for a bit and it was nice. You were happy knowing that he was eating something, especially after having to empty his stomach like that. You also made sure he was drinking a lot of water.

“Thank you, Y/N,” Van Gogh said after a while, “I really appreciate this. And I’m sorry about what happened. About…you having to find me like that.” You felt your stomach clench at his words.

“There’s nothing for you to apologize for,” You started. Van Gogh looked as if he was going to protest, but you continued before he could, “When people are in pain the way that you are, the way that I was, they do impulsive things; things that don’t accurately reflect them. So, don’t apologize to me, there’s nothing for you to be sorry for.” You finished and he looked down at his empty bowl.

“Are you finished?” You asked as you stood up with your bowl. “Yeah.” He said and you took his bowl to the sink. You briefly looked over to the clock that read 9pm. You looked back over at Van Gogh, watching him idly trace the bandages on his arm. At least he wasn’t scratching them.

“Do you need any night clothes?” You asked. He looked over at you confused before answering,

“No?”

“You sure?” You asked, “Because you’re spending the night.” You added and you smiled at the blush that spread across his face.

“I-Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to take up any space here.” He asked nervously.

“It would be my pleasure to have you stay here with me.” You said walking over to him and pressing a kiss to his forehead. You ran a hand through his bright orange hair before saying,

“We can wrap your ear up now if you’d like. Your hair’s dry enough.” He smiled before looking you in the eye and saying,

“You know, I think I’ll leave it as it is.” You smiled before hugging and picking him up.

“Thank God, because your hair is soooo soft.” You said as you rubbed your cheek against the top of his head. You placed him down, giggling at the bright peach color that dusted his pale cheeks.

“Come on, I have some unused toothbrushes you can have.” You said leading him over to your bathroom. You dug around your bathroom cabinet before finding a still packaged toothbrush and handing it to him.

“Are you sure you don’t want a different set of clothes? I know mine will fit you.” You said before you exited the bathroom.

“I’m sure, but thank you again.” You heard him shout through the door.

You waited for him to finish. A few minutes later he walked out of the bathroom. You turned the lights out before getting into bed. You noticed how Van Gogh just stood by the bathroom door until you motioned for him to join you.

“Get over here, I’m not gonna have you sleep on the floor.” You said and he started to walk over to the bed. He slowly, almost hesitantly, got into the bed with you. He stayed close to the edge of the bed farthest from you.

“Do you want to…” You started, opening your arms. He looked at you for a moment before quickly scooting over and into your arms. You wrapped him up in the blankets and gently rocked him when you heard him quietly cry.

“It’s alright. It’s okay to cry,” You say as you run a hair through fluffy, orange hair, “I’ll make sure you get help, okay?” You felt him nod into your shoulder.

It was quiet for a while, you had assumed he had fallen asleep, until he asked,

“Do they have to know?” Before you can ask who ‘they’ are he clarifies, “My foster parents. Do they have to know about all of this?”

You knew what he wanted to hear, but you had to be honest with him. You sighed before answering him.

“Yeah, they have to know. Along with the school and your general physician,” You said and you felt his grip on you tighten.

“But don’t worry,” You said trying to comfort him, “It’s really not as bad as it sounds, and I’ll be there to help you through it.”

“I just don’t understand,” He said, catching your attention, “Why would you try to…end your life? You’re so…perfect, I just…don’t understand how someone like you could feel this way.” You looked down at him in the dark.

“The one thing about mental illness is that it doesn’t discriminate,” You begin, “It doesn’t matter how great, or shitty, your life is; this is just something that can affect the best of us.” You explained. He remained quiet, so you decided to keep speaking.

“Something I was told that helped me understand this is that a butterfly is unable to see how beautiful the colors of its wings are, but us as observers are able to see the colors of its wings. Using that logic, people are always able to see the good and beauty in others, but not in themselves,” You explained to him. You trailed a hand through his hair, traced his jaw and tilted his chin up to look at you, “But I’ll be here to tell you how beautiful and…and perfect you are.”

You saw his face flush as tears gathered in his eyes.

“God,” He whispered looking away, “Sometimes it's hard to believe that you love me.”

You grabbed his face and quickly pressed a kiss to his lips. He was stiff before melting into your embrace. His lips were chapped, yet oddly soft and you taste the lingering tang of vomit. I was kinda gross, but you didn’t care as much as you thought you would.

It was gentle and chaste and you pulled away stroking his cheek saying,

“Then I’ll keep saying it ‘til you believe it.” And that’s what did it for him. He let out a choked cry before full-on sobbing into your chest.

You let him and only when his crying seemed to calm down did you say anything.

“Are you feeling better now?” You asked, receiving a nod from Van Gogh, “Good. Now, get some rest. You need it.”

“Okay.” He whispered before curling back into your embrace. You pressed him tighter to yourself, resting your chin on his head and continuing to run your hand through his hair. It was something he seemed to like since you noticed how he would lean into your hand.

It was quiet and before you knew it you had drifted off, asleep with Van Gogh in your arms. In all the time you knew him, you never thought you’d ever have this.

~~~~~~~

You woke up the next morning sometime around 8:30am. Classes start at 8:45am but you didn’t make a move to get up or to wake Van Gogh up. You simply stayed there with him, stroking his hair again.

Seriously, that may have just become your new favorite activity. Running your hand through his soft, bright orange hair, feeling the weightless locks slip in between your fingers.

You were the only one awake for a few minutes before Van Gogh slowly opened his pale cyan eyes, rubbing the sleep out of them. He looked up at you and smiled, and you couldn’t help but smile yourself at the dopy look on his face. His smile vanishes, however, as he quickly asks,

“Shoot, what time is it?” He sits up in the bad and makes a move to leave but you grab him by the shoulder, stopping his movements.

“It doesn’t matter, we’ve got the day off.” You say while pulling him back into you.

“What are you talking about,” He begins, letting himself be pulled back into your embrace, “It’s a Thursday.”

“Maybe so,” You start, sitting up in bed with him, “but we have some things to…workout.” You finish, rubbing the back of your neck. He shifted in your arms before say,

“Okay.”

The two of you talked it out, he explained everything that was happening and why he did what he did. In turn, you gave him a run down about what the two of you would have to do now. You also explained how he might have to spend some time in a physical and then mental hospital due to the severity of everything that transpired.

When you were done explaining everything, he was silent, most likely processing things.

“I know that this is a lot to be introduced to so fast. Honestly, I wish I had known the first time what was going to happen with me.” You added with a slight chuckle to try and ease the atmosphere. I didn’t work seeing as Van Gogh seemed as tense as he was before, “Look at me.” You told him, and he did.

“Listen, I really wish I could say that this will be an easy thing for you to do, because it won’t be. I’ve been getting help for over a year and a half now and I still struggle sometimes, but I’m so much better than it was before,” You explained and, for once, he seemed interested, “I still don’t love myself, but I definitely don’t hate myself anymore, and that’s something I want you to be able to say about yourself. Because I love you, and I want you to be able to love yourself.”

You watched as tears began to well in his eyes. He quickly lunged at you and pressed his lips against your and morning breath had never tasted better than in that moment. You were momentarily taken back at his boldness before kissing him back with just as much intensity.

When he pulled away you could see the tear tracks on his face and feel the cooling of his tears on your own.

“Thank you,” He said, “I love you. I love you so damn much Y/N.” He finished, cupping your face in his petite hands. You smiled, pressing your forehead to his and cupping his face.

“I love you too, Vincent Van Gogh.” You said and you ignored the ache in your cheeks as your smile widened when his face broke out in the lovely peach color. You pressed another kiss to his lips, one he quickly reciprocated. You pulled away, getting out of bed and stretching.

“Come on,” You said looking back at him smiling,

“I believe we owe your foster parents a visit.”

#clonehigh #clone high #clone high van gogh #clone high vincent van gogh #clone high x reader #van gogh x reader #clone high van gogh x reader #thewildsophia writes

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psalloacappella · 4 years

Text

Red (oneshot)

Title: Red Pairing: SasuSaku legit i don’t write anything else Word Count: 3400~ Rating: E, for like explicit, not for everyone. NSFW. Ya get it. Tags/What you’ll see: Sakura getting the office and oral she deserves

Summary: An old dress, a new office — Uchiha Sasuke offers regards to both.

Ao3 | FFN | ↓

(I have to preface when I post this that my top-tier amazing friend convinced me to do so and reminded me not to delete it this morning in the cold sober dawn lol. I consider this absolutely self-indulgent)

“Ah, Sakura?”

Jade eyes alight and ringed with red, her subordinate regrets interrupting what seems to be a bout of sickness or sadness; she’s been busy lately. They all are.

Spine bent in bass clef camber, in exhaustion, she straightens at his words into a ramrod illustration of diligence. Over scrolls and haphazard paperwork, empty mugs sitting in their own fossilized dregs, she snatches up a fountain pen to preserve her dignity and reputation. At her age she’s been handed enormous tasks that she only imagined in her wildest dreams, and most of those, in the past, were of love and marriage and not the nightmares and duties which replaced them.

Extreme stress manifests in mysterious and chaotic ways; she intuitively knows this, especially today, as she basks in the quiet glances, the way their eyes follow her long, long legs leading into ankles in heels that feel like cages. Her choice of a dress underneath her white coat today feels like a wanton beacon, but her battle reputation precedes her, legendary and terrifying; no one will dare blithely approach legs like those or earn the ire of her dangerous hands, so delicate until they’re crushing mountains and throats.

Electricity, a buzzing in the marrow of her bones; she taps the pen on the desk in a stilted rhythm.

She regards the young medic with a hazy gaze for a moment, then waves a hand. “Sorry, I’m just—”

He steps over the threshold; Sakura raises her chin, lips taut.

“No no, I’m sorry,” he insists. Under her bright eyes he feels the beginnings of idiocy and bumbling; his boss makes him tongue-tied, stupid. Younger than him, in a league of her own as she stands at shoulders with new legends; lethal, inured to all the stories about herself.

He notices the ochre on her lips like an invitation.

“I wouldn’t come too close today,” she says. Grants him a demure smile, the type that doesn’t quite fool her friends but still works with fools like him. “I’m not feeling the best. It could be contagious, and that wouldn’t be helpful to our operations right now.”

“Yes, of course.” Agreeing, nodding fervently with the obedience of a particularly compliant breed of dog. “If I may — you work so much. Too young to be feeling so tired.”

A laugh, it bubbles — starts from her chest as a giggle and drips from her lips as honey. Makes her quake, mottled red seeping through the skin of her chest as a sieve, collarbones sharp.

She looks feverish; she looks like a dream.

In turn she struggles to keep the waver out of her voice, knowing she’s lit up as fulgent as rouge festival lanterns and there's no way to kill the current.

I’ll never live this down — have to get him out of here

The cough she musters up is weak and if this was Ino, or gods forbid, her teacher, they’d call it pathetic. For a young man trapped in her sphere of admiring attraction, it does nothing but induce sympathy. But her legs are shaking, the situation is dire, and she’s loath to have another round of torrid rumor on the flapping lips of civilians and staff.

“Ah!”

At her cry, she lets her temple fall into her hand and her subordinate rushes forward. Gasping, she raises her other one, trembling.

“No, please. That sounded worse than it was. Just a headache coming on. In fact,” she rasps, “if you can let Shizune know I’ll be taking the next hour to recoup? A nap, maybe that’ll help.”

“I don’t know if I can leave you like this.” His tentative step earns her sharp gaze again, pursed lips that start his mind wandering in a way that makes him blush. Physically shaking his head to clear it, he nods slowly, finally, backing out of the doorway.

The hollow sound of Sakura’s kneecap hitting the underside of the desk rings in the space. Her gullible underling starts forward again, but the foreboding slap of her hand on the desk stops him cold. Acute, like it’s one to the face.

Sakura brings her knees together, swift, crushing his damn near regal bone structure and the handsome high bridge of his nose between the muscle of her thighs. A warning.

She glances down at him, he’s slicked with sweat — the glimpse of his glittering black eye and swirling purple one bring her too close to a wave she can’t indulge; she’s still this unwanted visitor’s boss until he closes the fucking door.

“Just me being clumsy! Do as I’ve asked and let her know, and,” here her breath hitches, hand leaving the desk, fingers burying themselves in dark messy hair, “th-thank you for worrying. I appreciate it.”

She’ll pay for the smile she gives this man, a sparkle of hope, like he’ll ever earn his boss’s favor in that way, as if he’ll measure up in any lifetime to the man that has her heart, the man on his knees under her desk.

“Sure. I mean,” horrified at his own too-familiar tone, “of course, right away, ma’am. Miss. I—”

“Oh go now. ” It stutters out in jete musical meter, resembling pain — or other things. “Please.”

She doesn’t have to tell him to close the door, though she’s surprised he didn’t find another excuse to stay with her. Oh, he has it bad. But there’s no time to think —

Sinking into her chair, her hands grip the armrests with an intensity that forces music from them, cracking underneath her fingers. And now all the words of the last few minutes tumble from her lips, an unintelligible medley of curses and pleas cradling the half-formed shell of his name.

Without warning, she yanks him back by the hair and almost comes right there: His eyes scalding her, the mess on his stupid and incredibly fuckable face, a talented and dangerous mouth settling into a smirk as he thumbs an errant bit of her off his lip.

“That was close. Ah, so are you.”

He says it with such smugness and vanity. Quivering in her office chair under nothing but his stare, still in the grips of the unrelenting buzz and hum he’s enticed, and he absolutely notices.

“One of these days, we’ll be caught!” Tries to sound stern even as he rolls his neck and shoulders with a pithy nonchalance. “Stop that. So arrogant, preening like that—”

“Me? That’s rich.” He lazily trails a finger from her swollen, hot clit to her opening, lingering and lush to force all the heat and sounds he’s craving — her fingernails dig into her thigh while the pallor of her skin and dress seep and marry, reflections of one another. “Why did you wear this, Sakura?” Nudges the fabric with his nose, and she mumbles something hazy under his resumed touch; lost in orbit, in a void, in a place unearthly.

He starts the routine again, pressing his mouth to the inside of her thigh. Frowns at the irritating strip of fabric that constitutes clothing; it’s been twisted and pushed aside anyway. Her skin burning against his face, a lean cord of muscle taut underneath her pale skin. Vaguely threatening, but she’s yet to crush him to death and he’s on the second round of bringing her there and back again, and close calls such as those seem to stoke something smoldering. Some days, it feels like the only thing worth pulling himself out of bed for.

He fucks like he fights: Relentless, consuming. But that essential difference for the former is he never gives an inch; here, he pours it all in, something like an endless apology. Maybe she knows and that’s why she wears the red dress he won’t admit he prefers and paints her lips and runs the entirety of this village hospital system with grace and her own brand of gentle ascendancy — why he’s desperate for just the ragged edge of danger.

One of her legs shudders, the frenzied tap-tap-tap of her heel stammering against the floor in a cadence fit for instruments. “Sasuke-kun.”

Between the presses of his lips leading a hot, agonizing march back to her core, an arrogant noise in his throat escapes, rich and amused. “So this — is your new office?”

“Mmm,” she confirms, still clinging to the chair. The only support she has; the room’s spinning and every cell is vibrating, pink eyebrows knitted as she fights to remain upright and solid and somewhat human because the door’s not locked and she knows he knows, knows he doesn’t care and frankly neither, really, does she. Melting like basalt in unending, stifling heat.

Calloused fingers walk up the soft skin of her calf, catching and searing, sundering the delicate layer where they brush to release the pent-up steam underneath.

He’s fire; she is earth.

Always, all of him ablaze — possessive in its own discipline but a thing begging for taming. He builds the pyre here, as he has been for the last hour or so, to focus himself, patiently coaxing it into something chaotic but fruitful. Lately all he’s felt is the joyless, sober embodiment of a tool to be used though perhaps this is the same, a compulsion by any other name.

But it can’t be, not with her looking like this. Striding down her hallways with purpose while bending the horrors and ills of the world to her indomitable will. Certainly this dress is no accident, as it never is, not with him coming off a mission full of blood and necessary evil.

Dragging the thin, sorry excuse for fabric down the burning skin of her leg, Sasuke’s tongue finds her clit with terrifying precision and rips a moan from her throat, pulling a jerk of her hips against his mouth. The shockwave shared, vibrating as wires intertwined, a forcible current.

Leans back, takes her in: Her trembling, knuckles white from the fatal grip on the arms of the chair, knees sinking inward toward one another. The sight of this rich red dress against the stark, starched white of her coat blending with the mottled pinks and crimsons painting her cheeks and chest. Unraveling before him, extraordinary, even while this space belongs to her.

This, sometimes, feels like undeserved forgiveness.

Because she is always, always in living color.

Adjusts his own knees, shifts, a catch of air in his throat as he accommodates the hard length of his own caged cock. They’re no stranger to claiming desks and other surfaces as their own, but she has strings on him and there's authority in here now, where she holds men at the door with a flicker of her gentle jade eyes borne of the grueling process which created her.

Sliding the useless fabric into his pocket, raises his chin to her. Stares as she bites her lip and struggles for composure, though it’s difficult under the gaze of a man like this.

He waits, and the only sounds are ragged breathing from both.

“Please,” she whispers. Quivering, even at the ask. “Before someone comes back.”

“You worry so much,” he says. “Relax.”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“What did I tell you,” he hisses, “about apologies?”

She blinks, startled, and her lips part. A sparkle, a brilliance emerging in her eyes as she clenches and unclenches her fingers. Still, they shake a bit, the anticipation and remnants of the rise and current before still lingering, lying in wait. Predatory. A wetness floods to her lips and she swallows it down, leveling her eyes to his glittering, savage gaze.

With a deep inhale, she spreads herself before him, knees apart. Blushing invisible, lost in the red that’s already dappled every inch of her, she exhales the rest of her timidity with an edged, sharp expression and hopes she’s being clear—

Sakura just barely glimpses the fierce red in his gaze before he answers with his tongue, deft, ardent, and divine.

Breaking the chair arms beneath her delicate hands again, scrabbling to stay on the beautiful planet before it turns her loose. Sinking, again, the boundaries of atoms dissolving — they are nowhere but bliss.

Like before, the careful building of a fire, the agonizing escalation: He drops a kiss here, employs a firm tongue there, skirting the easy option in favor of the tease as he peels her back, layer by layer. Running it the length of her slit, heart skipping a bit at the dangerous quake of her thigh muscle; how long it's taken to differentiate between pleasure and impending crush. Again, the sensation of crawling into the den of something prized and feral. He feels it, her writhing and the pace and canter of her breathing and she’s liquid gold, fucking melting —

Her hips jerk, hard, when his tongue swirls around her clit, the cry coming from her jagged as broken glass and trembling like music, all things that make his own situation difficult to manage but he will, because these sounds entrench him firmly in reality. Alive. Knees screaming on the hardwood floor, unyielding as his cock cradled only by fabric and not as he wishes, by her hands or her red, red lips like the kind she’s wearing now.

Instead he slows her down again, pendulum swings between teasing and a furious rhythm that coaxes the full spectrum of human sounds from her beautiful throat. Rewarded for it with a whiny gasp as if breaking the surface of water, mingling with his own as he catches his breath. The end of it careens into words, something rough, he’s not even quite sure what he’s saying but he imagines, neither does she.

This—fucking dress—!

Nice, isn’t it?

Gets you attention

But only from you, S-Sasuke-kun

And her hand lands on his head again, thin fingers yanking his hair and guiding him as he splays her open, lays her bare. His name never quite fully leaves her lips, dancing with fragments of alternating pleas and curses. Just for that, for something he’d never thought he’d ever hear in his life, he grimly knows he’d write a fucking sonnet just to hear her like this — and with his tongue, he does, or at least approximates. The tremors of her shift deeper now, approaching release; she’s so slick it feels vile, indulgence in sin. All of which is smeared on his lips, his face, tasting of tang and salt; how many times has he been told he’s selfish? Guilty. Greedy, too, as he pauses to breathe—

looking up at her, he has an idea but can’t possibly know the extent of this, how she’s absolutely wrung out and beyond this dimension, hell, this galaxy, every inch of her humming in tune with the universe and brimming with absolute, inescapable heat, muscles taut and and begging for climax. Though the soft edges of her green eyes that see through him and everything else, rolling back, mouth open and lips parted in mimeo of an oracle, sunken in the weight of divinity, might give him some clue.

Don’t stop, please—!

— he’s there, with his fingers buried and soaked and deep, playing that just-right rhythm with a thumb on her clit that’s been worked to the edge and back again over the span of her busy afternoon. Hairs part from his scalp without remorse; her nails scrabbling and fingers clinging as she prays and sighs and curses occasionally, quietly, into the limp back of her hand. As if she’s really still trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism in the throes of being launched into orbit.

So very close. He knows by the slightly erratic rhythm, the pulsating of muscles inside and out and around him, tight and he steals a quick breath to endure and ease his fingers out to redouble effort with his mouth because the way she’s sounding, that sharp icy note on the ragged edge of pleasure and pain, tends to be the signal, the tipping point. The tremor her free hand sends through the bones of the chair. Knees apart as far as she can manage and desperately meeting him at the hilt —

Steady through until the end.

Release comes as glass shattering, atoms splitting. Unintelligible words trapped in amber, in a moment, in desire. With a mouth full of fire, he rides it with her through every wave, persisting through her slow and ebbing tumble back down to earth. To him.

He leans back at last, groaning at the pain in his knees. Watches her tremble and twitch, wringing out the very last dregs of her orgasm, displacing everything coherent left in her head.

Seconds stretch into minutes, and he gets to his feet as she languishes in a pool of pleasure, steeping as scalding tea.

At some point her hand rises to her own lips, limp and wavering, to clean her own unabashed drippings with an expression of dizzy surprise. The white dissipates from her vision and she finds his eyes on her again, one still richly red in its sole mission of memorizing the glowing after.

“Oh.” That’s all she says, breathless.

Sasuke brings fingers across his own mouth, rolls his jaw side to side, and something about his expression of smug satisfaction resonates, strings of a plucked instrument, a pull again of desire that threatens to ruin the sanctity of this brand new office and the role that comes with it.

For a moment she leverages the chair to rise, then loses strength — she lowers herself back in it, arms still quaking.

She reaches for him, plucking at his shirt. Hair flyaway, askew from her frenzied fingers, still in his mission gear.

Yanking him down by the collar, she crashes her mouth against his, red and hot, the tang and taste of herself immiscible with his own. Whatever sound he makes, this growl or rumble or ache, splits them open.

What pulls them apart is the grating sound of their former sensei’s voice: “I heard from a bird that someone in here was sick?”

Sasuke feels them in the room now and pulls away. Half-turns, finds himself leaning on her desk in a way that’s almost too casual, but necessary — his knees are shot through. Sakura smiles too widely, masking a secret; after all, both still feel the pinpricks of liquids drying in the new air.

“From your darling subordinate,” Kakashi twinkles, grinning underneath his mask.

“That one who follows you around like a puppy,” Naruto supplies, pouting.

Kakashi tilts his head toward him, both still lingering over the threshold. “Terrible, hm?”

Naruto misses the jibe and instead turns his wide ocean eyes on her new space. Whistles. “Man, Sakura-chan, this office is niiice. I’m jealous.”

“You’ll be in your new one soon enough,” she says, and there she is, her usual self. “I have faith. Anyway, this office comes with responsibility.”

“Well if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“He was under the impression you were sick. Looking at you now, though,” and here Kakashi pauses in a manner all too deliberate, eyes sweeping over Sasuke’s cloak and belongings in a chair, and ends it with looking right at him, “you seem all right. Exhausted, I imagine.”

Her flush threatens to undo them both.

“He’s . . . sweet. To care.”

“He’s a fool,” Sasuke mutters.

“Perfect, you’re dressed nice,” Naruto crows. “How did you know we’d come make you celebrate? You didn’t eat, I bet you didn’t!” He eyes Sasuke up and down, at his unusually ruffled appearance, and clicks his tongue. “You didn’t even go home first, did you? Shitty boyfriend.”

The damage he committed on his recent mission pales in comparison to the crimes Sasuke wants to indulge now.

“Anyway, we’ll wait out here. After all,” Kakashi says, inclining his head, “this is your space now.”

Sakura exhales long and slow as they step out into the hallway. Covering her face with her hands, she groans. “No matter my job, I’ll never escape embarrassment, huh?”

Standing at last, she readjusts her clothes and kisses the underside of Sasuke’s chin. She reaches for his pocket and he moves easily out of her grasp.

“Sasuke-kun!”

“Pointless now. I’ll keep it.”

No matter what time, season, dimension, he regards all of her — the dress, the lips that held their color, the new flush simmering on her neck and chest — and craves, endeavors, to always love her red.

#sasusaku #psalloacappella #sasusakufanfic #smut #sasusaku smut #uchiha sasuke #haruno sakura #sorry it's shameless #whatever ya'll #give me good head or give me death

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z3llous · 3 years

Text

𝓡𝓮𝓭𝓪𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓬𝔂

@burnthoneymint

This is my entry for Sanjifest! I started working on this in January, but it fit the prompt well (oof a few months put into this). It has both text and illustration (Lol I hope the difference in quality over time isn’t too bad). I hope you love it!

Prompt: “That is definitely not what I was expecting.”

---

I can't be late

They quickly rounded the corner only to crash into someone, the briefcase previously in their hand hitting the pavement and sliding away.

Shit

They scrambled to get up, looking to see an outstretched hand. Hesitating for a moment, they took it.

"You dropped this." The pretty blond stranger said holding their briefcase.

"Yes, thank you. I'm sorry I really don't have time to talk." They grabbed it and turned to leave.

"Wait, what's your name?"

"It's Y/n!" They answered before rushing away.

He sighed watching them vanish in the distance.

"Y/n...Damn, they're beautiful. At least I got their name..."

---

Bright colors of flowers decorated the town. He was normally too busy to stop and smell the literal roses that florists put out during the first week of summer.

His eyes trailed aimlessly over the crowd and recognized a familiar form he'd been seeking every time he visited the area.

He couldn't miss such an opportunity.

"Y/n!" He waved excitedly catching their attention.

SUCCESS

"Why hello, I didn't expect to see you again." Y/n said once they reached him.

"You remember me!"

"Of course, how could I forget. Your look is quite signature." They laughed.

"True, very true." He laughed in return and rubbed the back of his neck.

"I was in a bit of a hurry last time we met, so I didn't get a name."

"Oh, it's Sanji." He was sure they weren't from around there, but still hoped they wouldn't recognize it.

"Lovely to officially meet you, Sanji." They gently took his hand and placed a soft kiss upon his knuckles.

He froze. The gears had stopped turning in his mind, that was a first for him.

"Hello, Sanji?" Y/n tried not to laugh and snapped their fingers to bring him back to land of the living.

"Huh? Uh... Oh...OH! Yes?" His eyes flitted everywhere except them when he realized what happened.

"Would you like to join me for the rest of the evening?" They leaned in, looked up with a playful expression, and offered a hand.

"O-of course" He timidly accepted their hand.

I'm going to die of a heart attack before the sun sets.

---

Hues of pink and purple spread across the horizon, coating the atmosphere in serenity. A zephyr caressed their skin affectionately as they traversed toward the pier.

The remaining rays of the day highlighted his distant form in an ethereal manner. It left them frozen in an entranced state, thankfully he was yet to notice them.

Once Y/n returned they had to muster the confidence to approach him and begin their implied "date".

With my job you'd think this would be easy for me, but no I can't even walk up to him. Damn pretty boy, had to look angelic...

Fortunately, he turned to see them and the problem had been solved.

"Oh, Y/n! I hope your trip was pleasant. I wish you'd let me pick you up though." He said excitedly.

"Yes, the train ride was pleasant. I've told you before, the hotel I'm staying at is out of town. I'd rather not have you making such a trip over me." They stated calmly with a mild smile.

"But Y/n I want to~"

"I know you do. Alright, once I've finally quit my job and moved into a house I'll let you pick me up." They pretended to be deep in thought.

"I won't forget it!" He laughed.

"Yeah, yeah. Now, c'mon I'd like to start exploring before everything closes. I don't normally get to visit the seaside." Y/n held out their hand, trying not show the excitement bubbling within.

"I thought your job required travel." He grabbed their hand.

"It does, but not normally more relaxed areas, like here."

"You never told what you do." He thought aloud looking to the warm colored wisps of cloud.

"I would if I could. My work often involves rich people, who don't like me talking about their business. I should be out of there soon, anyway." They sighed.

"Oh, that makes sense. I wouldn't want to get you in trouble." He lightly tightened his hold of their hand.

"Don't worry about it. Let's just enjoy the moment." They squeezed back.

---

Their time spent in town was sweet and filled with playful teasing.

As the sun sunk into the sea they bought warm drinks from a cafe and decided to spend the remaining time together on the beach.

Sand underfoot made pleasant sound as they walked, steam from the cups swirled off into the cool night air.

"Y/n?" He stopped walking.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sure you've heard of the upcoming ball at the palace... Would you be my date?" He lifted their hand up, thumb rubbing their knuckles, and eyes glistening under moon light in anticipation.

"That's definitely not what I was expecting. Yes, of course, I'd love to be your date." Y/n gave him a soft smile.

Sanji set their drinks down carefully, before turning around to excitedly wrap his arms around and lift them slightly off the ground in an embrace. He was so happy he couldn't help but laugh a bit.

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you-" He chanted.

"Alright. Alright. I get it." They laughed.

---

Piano wafted through the air seductively as they took sip of the golden fluid glowing under the citrine light above.

A figure dressed in auburn approached from behind to sit across from them.

"Rue, late as always." Y/n stated swishing their drink around to admire it.

"Yes, well one doesn't wake up looking this good." She joked, her ruby nails searched through her bag.

She pulled out and slid a sheet of paper across the table top.

Y/n's eyes trailed over the words taking in the information.

"So Mr. Zero wants me to go out with a bang, huh?" They mused glancing up to meet Rue's Amber eyes.

"It would seem so. He doesn't want you to live to tell the tale." She laughed. Her burgundy lips slowly formed a devilish smirk and she leaned forward. "Surprise him."

---

Y/n stood outside staring at the paper.

"I might not be able to keep my promise. I don't know if I'll live long enough to have a home of my own. I'm sorry, Sanji."

They took one last look before setting the page alight.

Text of page:

COMMISSION NO. 7326

DEAD OR ALIVE:

DEAD

PREFERRED METHOD:

NONE

LOCATION:

SUNNY PALACE

TARGET/S:

STRAW HAT ROYAL FAMILY

---

Click

The sound their shoes hitting the marble floor echoed in Y/n's mind. The crowd surrounding was nothing more than background noise. The butterflies that fluttered about inside them were far too distracting. Tonight was the night. Be it the end or the beginning, They didn't know.

The people gathered around the stage hoping to sneak a glance of the royal family behind the curtain.

A man with spiked green hair walked up, introduced himself as Bartolomeo, and began a long fangirly speech about the royal family.

Y/n took this moment to look around for Sanji and Rue.

There She was sitting and sipping a glass of wine, classic Rue. She must've sensed Their eyes, for she gave them a smile and thumbs up.

Sanji was no where to be seen, Crowd: nope, Tables: nothing, or maybe the food table? No, not there either.

They took a deep breath and chose not to worry about it.

Finally a foot peaked out from under the curtain and kicked him, effectively causing the ball to begin. Piano played, Bartolomeo stepped off stage, and the curtains were drawn.

One by one each butterfly once aflutter now dropped dead and began to rot.

There he was, sitting on a throne with the rest of the Straw Hats.

The blade grew warm as their stomach twisted itself into a tight knot. The joyful music felt to be coming from another room.

They were too dazed to notice the people preparing to dance and the royal family walking off stage to join in.

"Y/n?" Sanji called their name again. When he did he get so close?

"Yes...?"

"There you are. Sorry, was that too shocking? I didn't know how to tell you." He rubbed his neck, the tile below seemed rather interesting to him.

"That's...Alright. It's not like you could've brought it up easily." They too found the tile to be interesting.

As nice as the tile was, no solutions to the new problem could be found in it.

"Um, would you allow me a dance?" He offered his hand, glancing at them.

"How could I say no?" They took his hand and smiled, sweeping the dead butterflies under the rug to be dealt with later.

They gracefully swirled around and around, hands intertwined, hearts racing, and warmth rising to their faces. Though they tried to rid of it, a dull ache lingered deep beneath.

The song met its end which led to the beginning of another.

"C'mon follow me." He whispered as they slipped through a door and into a photo filled hallway.

Y/n paused for moment to look at a picture of Sanji running with who they thought to be King Luffy on his back. Many other pictures with others just as happy surrounded it.

I wish I had something like that

He walked ahead and opened a door.

"Here it is." He motioned for them to step through.

"Oh my-" They had lost their words.

An intricate ebony fence wrapped around the garden keeping the delicate flowers safe as they admired the ivory fountain in the center.

"Beautiful isn't it? I often come here to escape the king's insatiable hunger." He joked taking their hand and leading them to the center. "Nothing compared to you though." He smiled and traced along their cheek to move a strand of hair behind their ear.

They grew flustered and took a step forward, only for their foot to be caught on a brick in the path. They both tumbled down.

Y/n had him pinned to the ground. The two stared at each other for a moment to take in what had just happened and then burst into laughter.

Their laughter died first. The pain quickly settled in.

I can't. I can't give him up.

He noticed their expression and panicked.

"Y/n, what's wrong? Are you alright? Did you get hurt?" Concern dripped from every word.

"I- I need to tell you something." Tears welled in their eyes.

"Yes?"

"You know that job I've been trying to get out of?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Baroque Works. They're in the assassination business. They gave me a suicide mission yesterday. I'm supposed to kill your family. I- I can't do this, but they'll kill me if I don't. I can't I don't know what to do I'm-" Their words grew messier and more fearful the longer they talked, until he cut them off from anymore scared rambling.

"It's going to be alright. Everything is going to be ok. You are going to ok."

He lifted his free hand to wipe away the tears.

"It is?" They mumbled.

"Yes, I promise we'll help you. You're not alone anymore, alright?" He lowered his hand to gently hold their wrist and rub reassuringly with his thumb.

"Alright."

He smiled lovingly up at them.

"Together." They whispered leaning down catching him in sweet kiss.

"Together." He responded going in for another.

---

Epilogue:

Luffy, as always, was excited to have a new member of the family. Y/n quickly grew accustomed to the chaotic crew (Pun intended).

Rue was interrogated by Nami. Which, surprisingly, went smoothly. They got along quite well, too well. Within the month of them working together they were caught making out by the unfortunate Usopp.

He never forgot it.

---

"To the end of Baroque Works and the Freedom of Y/n and Rue!" They Cheered holding up their glasses together in celebration.

Rue turned to Nami and pulled her in for a kiss.

"How did you two even get together?" Usopp groaned.

"Simple, I've always loved shrewd women." Rue joked and slid an arm around her girlfriend's waist.

The devilish couple laughed while Usopp died inside, now he had to deal with two of them.

Y/n sat at the bar where poor Sanji was most frequent the whole evening. He took every chance he got to stop by with a small treat and chat with them, but the demand was high and his visits were few and far between.

---

Finally the sun had set, everyone had turned in for the night, and Y/n finished helping Sanji clean up, regardless of his wishes.

After preparing for bed Y/n pulled him under the covers and turned off the light.

"Shhhh You've worked hard. You must be so tired. Let me take care of you." They whispered holding him close, placing a soft kiss on his forehead.

He mewled and nuzzled into their touch.

They mumbled sweet words and ran their fingers through his hair until they both fell into peaceful slumber.

---

The wattpad cover:

All the illustrations:

Click

#sanji vinsmoke #sanji #love sanji #black leg sanji #kuroashi no sanji #cute sanji #blackleg sanji #sanji x reader #sweetsanji #vinsmoke sanji x reader #blackleg sanji x reader #sanjifest 2021 #sanji fanart

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my-happy-little-bean · 3 years

Text

The Bookkeeper - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Wuthering Heights

pairings: logan/patton (logicality), roman/virgil (prinxiety) words: 3216 chapter warnings: mild swearing, mild existentialism chapter summary: once upon a time...

[read on ao3] [masterlist]

—

“I know a lot of kids who’ve endured Civil wars and famines These kids are wise Aware And they’re searching for a little beauty in the world Because life without beauty is unbearable”

– Jordan Tannahill, Concord Floral

~*~

Imagine for a moment, the process of a songwriter. One picks a key, uses the notes within the key, and tinkers with the piece until it sounds pleasing, familiar; until it sounds like anything.

All art is, to some extent then, structured and formulaic. So if that is the case, is there any ‘magic’ in art’s rigid form? In practice, art disrupts the very foundation of its being; creating something out of nothing. Hence, is there any true value—under the nihilistic impression that life bears no meaning—in pursuing art if it, at its core, has no purpose? Where could one derive significance from the way notes scatter on the staff, when it holds no initial meanin–

Logan Fray cursed as he slammed his pen into the counter. He gripped onto the surface of the paper he was writing on, crumpled it, and squeezed it out of the spiral binding of his notebook. Without looking up, he hurled it towards the garbage can to his left. He heard the soft sound of it hitting the metal rim and sighed, flicking his wrist without much thought.

A small spiral of shimmering navy dust shot out of his index finger and caught the balled-up paper before it could fall. He glanced over to his left, realization clicking in his head. Logan sighed and, annoyed, steadily moved his finger across his line of sigh. The crumpled piece of paper followed suit until it hovered over the garbage can.

Logan narrowed his eyes at his magic. The blue coated the creased edges of the balled-up paper, as if contemplating the survival of this draft and its feeble grasp on the edge of the tin-can cliff.

“Oh isn’t this quite the show!”

The loud, triumphant voice behind him jolted Logan forward. He lost concentration on his spell and the paper dropped helplessly into the bin.

Logan pushed his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Christ, Roman…”

“Sorry, sorry! Didn’t want to disturb the almighty Wizard Fray and the extraordinary use of his powers! Fray and Far Fables is in for a treat today, fellas!”

Logan rolled his eyes, spinning around in his chair and watching as the small, fairy-like form of Roman floated in front of shelves. Roman’s red magic formed some sort of feather duster.

“Anyway, don’t mind me! I don’t mean to be a heckler — just doing some spring cleaning!” He exaggerated a flick of the magical duster against a book.

“You don’t have to dust the spines of books, Roman,” Logan drawled. “It is illogical. With your magical wards, nothing here collects dust. And even if it did, your size and your...general aura deems you an ineffective housekeeper.”

Roman gasped, twirling around in the air to float over to Logan’s face. He hovered in front of his nose with his hands on his hips.

“I will pretend you did not just hurt my feelings just then!” Roman smiled smugly as he dusted Logan’s nose. Powder puffs of his red magic fogged Logan’s vision. “I will instead pretend you said ‘thank you, Roman, oh dashing bookkeeper!’”

“A happier reality, I’m sure,” Logan huffed, rubbing his nose and holding back a sneeze. Roman floated back to the shelves.

“Besides, someone has to tend to the nooks,” Roman hummed pointedly, landing on the edge of the shelves and leaning against one of the book spines. “Each one is a ghost town at this point.”

“They were always ghost towns,” Logan gritted out, annoyance growing. “There’s nothing in there.”

“Yeah yeah.” Roman stuck out his tongue. “ ‘Art has no meaning in a meaningless life’ or whatever, which means there’s nothing in art and there’s nothing in books, yada yada yada – you keep telling yourself that, Specs.”

“I am not the only one saying that. If you read Virgil Aries’ work on nihilism and its implications on art as a sort of void—”

“Yawn, Logan,” Roman groaned, “uber yawn. I’m not going to read some sad philosopher’s existential crisis.”

“Virgil Aries was not sad, he was brilliant–”

“I’m sure he was.”

Logan sighed, standing up and sweeping the books off the counter and into his arms. He walked around the counter and across the store, placing the books back on the other shelves. Roman flew closely behind him.

“It is nice to see you using your magic again, even in pitiful displays." Roman nonchalantly tilted his head up. "Almost thought you forgot how to.”

“It was just an impulse, Roman,” Logan muttered, letting Roman dust the floor of the shelves before sliding the books into their proper place. “I was deep in thought and wasn't thinking I will not make a habit out of it.”

“Ugh, when will you understand that I want you to make a habit out of it– I want to have cool magic duels with you!”

“More the reason why we don’t need these ‘pitiful’ displays of magic. First of all, I’m not even supposed to be using my magic while we’re open. What if someone walked in? What would you say to them then, hm?”

“ ‘Hey, do you want to see the coolest thing in your flimsy, mortal life?’ ”

Logan rolled his eyes. “ ‘Cool’ is not how I would describe it.”

“Ouch!” Roman turned his red feather duster into a small, sparkly sword. He dramatically stabbed it into his chest, bits of his red magic exploding in a small puff around him. The sword dissipated upon contact. “What is up with your...your spiciness today?”

Logan slid the last book into the shelf and leaned against it.

“I’m just stuck on this speech again .”

Roman deflated. “Oh, here we go…”

“I just don’t understand what my problem is. I have all my research in place, I know what I want to say about art, I know what I want to do, but nothing I write has any substance! None of it makes sense. I can’t answer the fundamental question of my own damn argument.”

“Which is…?”

“ Why, ” Logan hissed, running both hands through his hair. “Why do people pursue such meaningless tactics of escapism if– if they’re escaping from nothing. That, in turn, makes art nothing. Right?”

“I don't know, Lo. Maybe that actually means it’s not entirely meaningless then,” Roman hummed idly.

Logan glowered at Roman, whose face was plastered with a shit-eating grin.

“I just need to get this speech done,” Logan stiltedly said, evening his breath. “If I get any of it done by the end of the month, I can be reassured that I won’t make a complete fool of myself at the university conference.”

“It’s a convention of sad, young nihilists with student debt. Everyone there is a fool.”

Before Logan could respond, the bells above the front door echoed across the shop. Roman and Logan exchanged frantic looks. Shit. Logan didn’t even realize what time it was.

“Book nook. Now,” he hissed. Luckily, Roman already beat him to it. Roman pressed his hand onto the spine of a nearby book on the shelf. His red magic spread across the surface until his hand could go through the spine. Then, with a small yelp, Roman tumbled into the book and disappeared from Logan’s view.

“Logan! Hi!” a peppy voice rang out at the same time. Logan spun around on his heel to face the front door and forced a smile.

“Salutations, Patton,” Logan replied, awkwardly leaning against the shelves. He snuck cautious glances to the book Roman had hid himself in, making sure he was completely out of sight.

“I’m here for a book!” Patton chirped, tipping his hat at Logan. He looked up at the shelves around Logan with a smile. “And I have a feeling you have just the one for me!”

“You come here every week, Patton. You do not have to repeat the same thing, I know what you are here for.” Logan, despite everything that was occurring, found himself smiling warmly at Patton. “Please roam around as you see fit.”

“I shall!” Patton said, moving past Logan and starting on the opposite end of the shelves Logan was leaning against. Logan’s eyes widened.

“Um, did you end up finishing the book you bought last week? The one by Elizabeth Gilbert?” Logan blurted out as he moved closer to Patton, his back covering the book he knew Roman was hiding in. Patton looked up at him and smiled.

“Oh! Yes, The Signature of All Things, right? I really enjoyed it! I can’t believe you made me enjoy historical fiction — I’d usually fall asleep a few pages in, but Alma’s life is just so interesting!”

Logan nodded tensely as Patton moved closer to him. He pressed his back against the shelves as if that could further hide Roman. “Truly.”

“And I actually brought you a painting!”

“Oh?”

“Yeah!” Patton fished through his messenger bag, his hat nearly slipping as his head tilted down to find it. Logan could hear a small thump! muffled behind his back. Logan winced. He hadn’t even considered the conditions of the book nook. While he knew none of them could ever hurt anyone—especially Roman—he definitely knew some were not ideal.

He tried to quietly grab the book Roman had escaped in, slowly turning around to take it off the shelves while Patton wasn’t looking.

“Here it is!” Patton exclaimed loudly, animatedly pulling out a rolled piece of paper. Logan jumped at the abrupt action, ducking to the side to avoid getting hit by Patton’s arm. “The book took me longer to read– I didn’t even think I’d finish it within a week– so sorry that the painting is a bit crude!”

“That is quite alright, Patton,” Logan said, adjusting his tie. “It is a gift that you do not have to keep giving yet...you do. So I appreciate the painting regardless.”

“Of course! Take a look and tell me how you like it!”

Logan took the paper out of Patton’s hand and unrolled it.

Sprawled across sketchbook paper was splashes of watercolour making up an array of botanical illustrations. The flowers and plants overlapped each other on the old-yellowed background in a way that didn’t seem too suffocated; each plant had space to breathe. Thin, cursive descriptions sprawled across their stems. It almost felt like a map of some sorts, navigating through each individual aspect of a garden.

“It’s a bit reminiscent of my collagist days,” Patton said with a small giggle. “But I like it! I actually drew a lot of inspiration from the cool sketches of all the plants scattered throughout the book.

“Evidently,” Logan hummed, smiling at the painting. He looked up at Patton. “It is very nice, Patton. You capture the book’s essence very well here.”

“Oh, well I know how you feel about the art stuff– but thank you for humouring me, Lo!” Patton giggled. Logan’s smile faltered, but he fought to keep it upright.

Logan kept observing the painting, idly walking away from the shelf, as if mesmerized by Patton’s work.

“Ooh, this book looks interesting!”

Patton’s voice suddenly snapped Logan out of his daze. Roman.

Logan turned around to see Patton standing in front of the book Roman was in. Instinctually, he shot a small burst of magic at the display table behind Patton, sending books tumbling to the floor with a loud thud!

“Oh!” Patton whirled around at the noise. He gave Logan a sheepish grin. “I must’ve bumped into the table or something! Sorry ‘bout that!”

“No worries,” Logan said with a tight smile. Patton crouched down to start picking up the books as Logan tucked the painting under his arm, quickly moving to the book Roman was hiding in. He pulled the book out slightly.

“Roman,” he hissed as quietly as he could. “Get out of there.”

Almost immediately, Roman hopped out of the book, all his clothes dripping wet.

“An unfortunate choice,” Roman muttered, shivering. Logan shook his head.

“You can clean yourself upstairs, just go now– ”

“There you go!” Patton announced, standing back up in a swift motion that knocked his hat off his head.

Logan watched as Roman, clearly panicked, jumped into the back cover of the book and flattened himself onto its surface. Logan, startled, pulled the book off the shelf and pressed it to his chest, attempting to cover the new picture of Roman on the back cover.

“Everything’s in its place!” Patton continued, brushing off his hands. His stare flitted over to the book in Logan’s arms. “Oh! That’s the book I was looking at! Do you mind– ?”

“N-No!” Logan blurted out. Patton frowned at him, and Logan squeezed his eyes shut, clearing his throat.

“I...I mean, no problem. That would be...no problem at all.”

“Cool!”

Patton took the book from Logan, who kept his eyes glued to the frantic 2D-Roman next to the book synopsis.

“Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë,” Patton read aloud. “Huh! Sounds interesting.”

“Y-Yes!” Logan slowly reached to grab the book back. “How about I get a bag for y–”

“Let’s see what this is about!”

Logan paled as Patton turned the book around, almost in bullet-time. Logan caught a glimpse of Roman’s eyes widening and, horrified, watched as Roman slid his flattened form into the spine of the book, becoming squished within its confines.

“ ‘The wild, passionate story of intense and almost demonic love between Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff’,” Patton continued to read. “ ‘Brontë captures the evocative, conflicted interplay of nature and culture in her’– wow, ‘masterpiece of English literature’!”

Patton playfully tossed the book in the air, catching it by its spine. “Sounds like I found a winner!”

Logan yelped, snatching the book back from Patton, who tilted his head to the side. Logan broke into a sheepish smile.

“Er, let me check you out!”

Patton winked. “If you insist!”

Logan flushed red, hurrying to the cash register. He crouched down behind the counter, lowering the book out of sight and disguising his attempts of freeing Roman as him grabbing a bag for Patton.

Logan knocked firmly on the spine, sending Roman disappearing through it and into the book. He then opened the book and Roman emerged with a gasp, as if he was swimming in the pages.

“Good Fantasy- Gucci–”

“Shh!”

“What was that?” Patton asked from above. Logan’s eyes widened as he stuffed Roman in his pocket, despite muffled protests.

Logan shot back up with a small paper bag and a forced grin.

“Shhhh-ure is a great day to buy a book!” An unnatural laugh escaped his lips. “That...that is what I said, heh.”

“Ah, it is!” Patton slid a few bills across the counter and brought the bag to his chest in exchange. “I’m excited for the new book! Sounds good for a rainy day.”

Logan tensely nodded, feeling his pocket slowly dampen. “Mhm.”

Patton’s stare floated over to Logan’s open notebook, his smile faltering.

“Still stuck on your speech, it seems?”

Logan blinked, following Patton’s gaze and sighing. “It appears so, hm?”

Patton nodded slowly.

“I know you explained it to me once, but I still don’t really understand your plan for the speech. Wasn’t the prompt supposed to be ‘finding the meaning of art’?” Patton’s stare flitted towards the shelves behind the counter with all of Logan’s various philosophy and aesthetic texts. “Yet you’re tackling what seems to be the opposite and...and I admittedly don’t get it. Just ‘cause it’s for a bunch of art students doesn’t mean it has to be all deep and dreary, heh.”

Logan shrugged helplessly.

“I just need something new to say,” he mumbled. “You can’t understand art’s meaning without understanding the implied lack thereof.”

“So you’re stuck in the lack thereof?”

Logan looked up at Patton and frowned at his slightly-amused smile.

“It’s a lot more complex than that.”

“Uh-huh.” Patton’s smile felt filled with pity, or perhaps sympathy. “Maybe the solution– just a suggestion– is to go outside? Touch the grass? Find meaning in the world rather than bury your nose in a book?”

“Ironic,” Logan scoffed, though regretted it instantly. Patton, however, just laughed.

“Touché.” Patton shrugged. As he was about to leave, he turned his head over his shoulder. “And hey, I’m sorry that I keep pestering you about the speech, heh. It’s just…”

Patton lowered his gaze, shifting on his heels. In an uncharacteristically hushed tone, he said, “I care about you, Lo. More than you think. I would hate to see you unravel yourself in trying to find the answers and...well, I fear that you already have.”

“That’s impossible,” Logan mumbled, though averted his gaze from Patton. “If I were to unravel, it would be because the answers ended up in me, in which case I would need to access them." Logan tugged his collar awkwardly. "But...but they are not.”

Patton rose an eyebrow. "Maybe we both need to get out there then.”

“ ‘There’? As in...the world?”

Patton grinned, holding his new book close to his chest. “And all the other ones too.”

The door closed swiftly, bells chiming in Logan’s ears. Logan heaved a deep sigh of relief as Roman floated out of his pocket, arms-crossed, unamused.

“We have to be more careful,” Logan muttered. “Who knows what would happen if he figured out about you, about the book nooks, about me… ”

“Come on, Lo. It’s Patton , we’re talking about.”

“Still.” Logan grimaced at the thought. “He could see everything in the wrong way and I would prefer to keep some things normal around here.”

Roman just nodded, shaking off like a dog. Small drops of water splashed against Logan’s cheek.

“Soooo….that Patton sure is a character, hm?” Roman eventually asked, looking at Logan coyly. Logan felt his cheeks heat up.

“That is what you want to focus on?”

“I just think he has a lot to teach you. And it seems as though your heart is telling you the same.” Roman winked. “Maybe it’s time for you to listen.”

Before Logan could rebuttal, Roman flew up the stairs to clean himself off. Logan shook his head, walking over to the door to close up early. On his way, he nearly slid on something on the floor. He frowned, picking the item in question up.

Patton’s hat. He must’ve forgotten about it.

Logan stared at the hat for a few seconds. He held it up and then, without really thinking, held it to his chest. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and then opened them to see a blurry view of the world outside his shop doors.

‘What does it all mean?’

Logan sighed, shaking his head as he flipped the door sign to ‘closed’. He stalked back to the counter, sitting back in his chair and tossing the hat to the side. With a flick of his wrist, a small stream of magic shot out of his index finger and landed on a book behind him, lifting it off the shelves.

He continued to levitate books without turning back, and Logan began to write once more.

—

next chapter >

#TS Storytime 2021 #gabbie writes things #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfic #logicality #prinxiety #logan sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #logan/patton #roman/virgil #logic/morality #creativity/anxiety

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dolphindiluna · 4 years

Photo

𝗜 𝗪𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗡𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗕𝗲 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗮𝗺𝗲 The cell continued to ring. He should talk to Sam, let him know that he was alive. He laughed bitterly at the thought, was he really alive? He didn't feel that way. He was flesh, bones, tears and blood. But alive? No. Living had just taken on another dimension. The point is that he died so many times that he lost count, but for the first time he knew what it was to really die, this death that people talk about, death in life.

How many important people fell on the way?

His mind returned to the day of his mother's death. Even though he was not in his room that day, his father had counted on so many details, on a night of drunkenness, that he didn't even need to see with his eyes, his mind "saw" much more than he wanted.

Then the father. That father obsessed with killing the damn demon who took the life of his beloved wife. The father who raised his children to save people, hunting things, the family business. The father absent for loving too much.

And Ellen and Jo. Pamela, Bob, Kevin, Charlie. And so many others. Many…

And again the father and mother.

And Sam. Each time he lost his brother, a piece of him died together. Sam, who kept calling over and over.

- Sam, I'm fine.

- Dean! What happened? Why did it take so long to answer the phone?

- Sorry, Sammy. Are you ok?

He heard the sound of his brother swallowing the words, those few seconds hanging over them like a sharp sword. Dean knew, he always knew.

- Sammy?

- Dean, everybody's gone, everybody. Charlie, Bob and even Donna. It's just me and Jack.

The brother's voice was weak. Sam who was so dedicated to protecting everyone, even with the weight of Eileen's loss on his shoulders. He wanted to hug him. He wished he could go back in time when he carried Sam in his boyish arms and rocked him, promising to protect him from danger. "Take care of your brother, Dean" had been the main task his father had given him, and he, as a good soldier, never deviated from his mission. Taking care of Sam, protecting him, was what gave him the strength to get up every morning.

- Sammy, come home.

- Dean, is everything okay? What happened to Billie?

- Billie is dead. You and Jack, come home soon.

- Okay, Dean.

He hung up the phone and put his hands on his face again. He was not able to tell Sam the whole truth, because telling what happened was having to face reality, and he was not yet ready to say goodbye.

The silence in the dungeon choked him, but he didn't have the strength to leave. Maybe he didn't want to leave. Somewhere in his heart, a fragile flame continued to resist. He looked at the wall, hoping the black hole would regurgitate what The Empty had stolen from him.

"I annoyed an ancient cosmic being so much that he sent me back."

Dean remembered those words as if they were said yesterday. He clung to them in despair. But deep down, he knew, he knew that The Empty would not give up again.

Why didn't he tell the truth? Why?

Why did he push his feelings into some dark corner of himself, not even allowing himself to think?

Why didn't he give himself the right to believe that he could be loved, be happy?

All that fury that has weighed on his chest since childhood, that anger that he thought defined him.

"Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love."

Even now he couldn't see himself that way, because that meant he was always a coward for not having struggled to take on what he felt.

Coward. He had been a coward until the end. And now he paid the price for being afraid to say the same words he had received.

The chest pain increased. He needed to get out of there, he needed to breathe. Shivering, using the wall as a support, he stood up slowly. The first steps were unstable. He managed to reach the chair in the middle of the room, held it in search of something solid to keep him on his feet until he felt he could walk without fear of falling.

When he finally reached the door, he couldn't resist and looked back again. That flame in his chest had just gone out. The pain increased, crushing his heart.

"You changed me, Dean ... I love you."

He ran out of the room, his hand over his mouth to stifle his sob.

He didn't want to be that anymore. He no longer wanted to be the Dean who assumed all the responsibilities and suppressed any feeling that his enemies could use against him. He was tired of being strong, of trying to be invincible.

He heard Sam calling for him. He needed his brother, needed this time to reverse logic, needed Sam to take care of him, to protect him from pain.

- Sammy.

Your voice so weak, so different from your voice of thunder.

- Sammy, Sammy!

He arrived at the library without strength. His brother was near the big table in the lobby.

- Sammy, please.

Sam ran towards him, followed closely by Jack. His frightened eyes were filled with concern. There, in the center of the library, the two came face to face.

He couldn't take it anymore, everything around him spun. He saw Cass in every corner of that place. Cass hugging him when they met after Chuck and Amara left. Cass sitting next to him in one of the few moments of peace, celebrating Jack's life.

Cass, smiling through her tears, saying goodbye to never come back.

- He's gone, Sammy.

Finally, the heavy tears broke through the barrier and he fell to the floor. The weight of defeat weighed on his body. He punched his chest several times in penance.

Sam didn't know what had happened, but he suspected it had to do with Castiel's absence. He knelt in front of his brother, pulling him into his arms. He always feared that this day would come, the day when Dean would accept his own feelings, but that Cass would not be there to receive them.

- He's gone, Sammy, gone. And I didn't say. I didn't say, Sammy.

- Put it all out, Dean, don't keep it anymore.

The brother's words allowed him to be the Dean that Castiel once loved.

- CASS!

The aching cry tore at his chest.

Jack watched his parents' pain and felt powerless because there was nothing he could do. All he wanted to do was bring Cass back, but he had no more powers. He no longer had Castiel. His father had died.

The strength with which the angel's name was said in that place full of magic, had the power to transcend the walls and resonate beyond that plane. In heaven, the angels wept for the loss of yet another of them. Castiel had been a friend and also an enemy, in the end being just another puppet in the hands of God.

In hell, Rowena stopped in the middle of a lustful laugh. His eyes watered. After all, the angel also became his boy.

But it was Chuck who was pierced by that spear of pain. He, who in his arrogance despised his own creations, who played with their lives, now felt the agony with such violence that it surprised him. In her mind, Amara's voice, full of bitterness, prophesied:

- Brother, you can lie to yourself as much as you want. But the truth is that you lost your most loyal son, the one who loved you so much, the one you wickedly despised. And I know it hurts you. We feel Dean's pain. And as long as we exist, we will carry that pain as a reminder of how bad we can be.

Chuck turned his eyes to Dean and for a moment hesitated in his firm intention to destroy everything. The weight of loneliness as a reminder of your choices. Sitting on his mythical throne, he was the image of a defeated god.

In the library, Dean continues to cry hugging his brother, his face buried in Sam's chest. It was sad to see that they had switched places, Sammy was taking care of Dean as Dean had always done for him.

- Dean, you need to vent, you can't have all that feeling with you anymore.

The pain, like fire, rose in his throat and was finally released.

- Cass, you are the only one I want to have, my true happiness. Cass, I love you ...

Words can transform. Words heal.

In The Empty, where angels and demons rest, dreaming eternally of their past, Castiel, in his serene sleep, dreams of the words he wanted to hear so much. His lips curl in an affable smile, while a tear escapes his sleeping eyes.

- I always knew, Dean … ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- I wrote this story a few days after the episode aired, listening to "I Will Never Be The Same" (which became the title of this story) by Melissa Etheridge, because this song, for me, is the synthesis of what happened to these two characters. These were, as they have been ever since, days of sadness and anxiety. The question the fandom keeps asking itself: is it really the end? Did the series make Destiel canon to kill Castiel soon after? As a fan, especially as a fan of Destiel, I am still waiting for the return of our beloved angel in the last episode, to finally find happiness with the man she loves. Because these two definitely deserve to be happy after everything they've been through. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- English is not my first language. Please forgive any mistakes I may have made. And I don't know whose illustration it is. If anyone knows, please let me know so I can give the artist proper credit.

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hanawrites404 · 3 years

Text

Wynne's Diary - Journey With Asra

(@sweetalnazar HAPPY BIRTHDAY SWEETHEART)

"Gosh.......how long is it?" I groaned and threw my hands hysterically.

"Just a few miles more, Honey. We are almost there" The whitehead held the map of the city in front of him and steered the paper around to find the right direction of the path. We were touring, since today was the day Asra wasn't being too cautious about my health and neither did I need to dispute against him for not ever bringing me to one of his journeys. But who told me that it was going to be this boring and exhausting?!!

We were walking during midnight on the lonely streets of a hamlet far away from Vesuvia for leisure. We were supposed to reach before evening, but due to some extreme weather, we had to stay back. It was only after five hours the sandstorm had settled down, but when we did reach our destination without any further problems, here we were irrationally strolling just anywhere, Asra being the slowest and worst navigator ever.

"Ugh, are you sure your broken compass is working?" I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms.

"Hey, it's not broken. It's just taking its time. Be patient, will you?" He blew onto the compass to remove the dust and shook it for the needle to gain some movement. He then kept it flat on his palm, but just as I already expected, it didn't work. The pointer fell back dead as before.

"bE pAtIeNt WiLl YoU?" I repeated after him. Asra sighed and kept the compass back into his pocket. He focused on the map instead, trying to find out which road we were on and where would the next milestone be. It had only been twenty-five minutes of us walking from the inn, but because of his sluggish navigation skills, we were sure lagging.

"Ugggh why don't you give me the map instead?" I suggested him.

"Wynne, you have never been in this town before. And the map has branched roads and connected at different spots, which makes it difficult to search for the right route. Give me some time to figure out" he dismissed me. But I didn't take it well as I scoffed and snatched the map from his hands.

"Was twenty-five minutes not enough for you???" I angrily stated with a pout on my lips.

"U-Uhhh....." Asra stammered. He didn't have anything to assert against me, so he just looked down and rubbed his neck. I didn't want to shame him, but damn I loathed his obstinacy and wanted him to just shut up and listen to me for once.

I sighed again and took a look at the map myself. I glanced at the entrance and remembered every turn we took to conform with the illustrations on the map. I noticed the pattern, thanks to the landmarks and me paying attention to the pathways unlike one stupid guy and dragged Asra by his sleeve to show him what I found.

"You see this here?" I pointed at the entry gates. "This is how we came in, after some kilometres, we reached the inn and from here, we went straight down and turned to our left, then we continued on that line at that's when we took a right, walked over that, and again right, and through the roundabout, we made our way to the left, then straight, again straight, and finally, to the right.

So according to me, we should be at least five miles away from the rocky beaches. Also, there must be a brothel somewhere like......" I looked up from the map and scanned around.

"no....no...no........no.....Ah! There" I pointed to our northwest where a grey and tall construction made its place at the corner.

"Oh! I....I never noticed that before" Asra rubbed the back of his head.

"Of course you didn't. If only you had brains like me, we wouldn't have been wandering around in the middle of the night looking like passive thieves!" I pouted again and flicked his forehead, earning a short yelp from him.

I adjusted the scarf around my head and closed the map. I We had figured out the whole passage so I we didn't need it anymore. I handed the map back to Asra and stretched my body for a bit. Seriously, walking continuously for twenty-five minutes may sound like a short interval, but you try it once, you will start feeling like weeping in the middle, especially when you realise that you don't know where you are going and how you are going to make your way back.

And people say that the journey is more beautiful than the destination. Heh, fucking bullshit. Let me hear someone say this when they almost died in the way and I'll fucking slap the morals out of them. I dare you.

"Now then, let's continue on our journey, shall we, My Beloved?" I swear I wasn't being sarcastic. Trust me.

"O-Of course. Sorry for earlier" he apologized timidly. I scowled at him for a moment but let it slip away. It was useless getting furious over him anyway.

"It's alright, at least we know our way now and we aren't lost. That would have been a waste" I snorted and carried forward on our steps, Asra following me shortly.

"Heh...I can't believe our time was saved by an unknown brothel" I kidded.

"Yeah... funny indeed" Asra snickered. I nudged him with my elbow playfully as we walked beside each other, my resentment finally melting away and being replaced with solace and comfort, with him and the starry night.

"So this is how you travel all the time? With no sense of direction and a broken compass??" I mockingly asked him.

"Well, not always. Sometimes I do get lost, not going to lie. But Faust helps me find my track back. Too bad she is not here with me since she wanted to stay back with Ichigo at the inn" I stuffed his hands into his pockets, his bright coat and the black hat he always wears during treks lightly fluttering in the subtle wind.

"And I know this local city well, yet I have no idea why my mind went blank so badly today. I'm sorry for the inconveniences I caused you, Wynne. I wanted you to show you the wonderful places this town has, but I only ended up making it worse for both of us" He held his forehead in his hand, his fingers mushing against his hair.

"Hey" I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "This is not your fault, you have been travelling for hours barely with any rest. I can understand why you suddenly couldn't think of the path. Your mind must have gotten tired too, and there is no one to blame for that. And so, you shouldn't blame yourself too" I comforted him.

"But, I did waste your time. I know how particular you are about time, yet I consumed everything of yours so mindlessly" he shook his head again.

"Oh well, you are right on that" I truthfully agreed. Asra shot his eyes onto me. His expression of disbelief and bafflement.

I raised my eyebrow. "What? You thought I was going to say, no you didn't consume any of my time and then hug you tight and strangle you with kisses? Really, Alnazar??" I cocked. Asra's cheeks flared with ruddy as he looked down at his feet again. My smirk got wider, and I heckled him again.

"Ahhh so you were looking forward to it huh, Asra?? You naughty, wicked boy" I pinched his bronze cheek and laughed. He didn't reply to me and continued shying away and trying to escape from my tease. Looks like I embarrassed him this time. And I don't admit guilt of it as always. It was fun bantering him. But I think I have had too much fun because he was feeling awful, and I cannot just ridicule him anymore. That might just be plain rude, and I didn't want to be an asshole to my only husband.

"Fine, listen to me" I began. "Yes, I agree you did 'consume' my time" I specifically added quotations marks.

"But, you didn't waste it. That's absurd! You would do anything with my time than fritter it. Because.....every minute I spend with you is like magic. I get to learn more, experience more with you. And I discover my interests with you, Dear. You have never wasted my time. And neither did I ever said that to you, but you always assume wrong things and make me worry along with you" I raised my shoulders.

Asra stopped in his tracks, making me imitate him and stop walking too. He turned to face me again, his tanzanite orbs connecting with my golden ones. I peered closely into them, only to find myself in there. There was nothing else in him and that was very odd. Because usually his eyes were the real door to his true emotions and feelings, deeply hidden in like a prize of a maze, so I always stare into them when I want to know what he truly conceals into his deep irises, and I never cared how much time would it need to find them all because it was always worth it.

But.....I saw nothing in them. Just me. Me and my stupid face. Now, why would his eyes show me myself? What did he want to convey?? Was he feeling.....me?? Was he hiding.....me??? Was he............

Looking inside me????

I really had no clue. Asra though being more hospitable and extroverted than I was, always was the one to be more mysterious and secretive than the two of us. Maybe because he had more enigmas than I had?? I guess so. Or maybe he wants to wait for revealing them the right time comes for both of us. But because of never finding such a chance, he ends up being solitary though he never intended to be one.

But who knows. If Asra doesn't open up to me, I would be both courteous and disappointed with his boundaries. Complicated right? But that's how I am. A nasty unsatisfied bitch.

"Look" I held his cheek and stroked him. "If you don't believe me, that's fine. But remember one thing, Alnazar. You are my husband. We are bound together, and I'll never break apart from you, you hear that? And you have never, ever, let my time to waste. Because you are too sweet and cherishing for that, Asra. I adore you, and I'm willing to spend my whole life with you. And I had decided to since the day I yelled at you in the Lazaret for sacrificing your heart"

I sighed bitterly. That Lazaret occurrence had to be one of our bitterest times because we both impaired each other without acknowledging how we both felt at that time. But to be very honest, I never want to forget this. Because I want to remember how we were before and how far we have reached now. And I think that's plausible, and I guess Asra would approve with me on this.

"But back to the topic, you will never be a waste of time, My Love, Never. Mark my words, all this time I have spent roaming around with you and following that cursed compass which never helped had to be one of the stories I would remember and laugh about it every time. And you know why I would laugh at it? Because you were being nuts of course. But also because you were in it" I gently jabbed his nose.

"Every moment with you is like my treasure, Asra. And I don't want to lose it. I want to be greedy about it, and never let you get out of my sight. And I'll stick with you no matter what happens, and whether you like it or not" I tittered.

"I......" He opened his mouth.

"Yes, sweetie?" I tilted my head and innocently yet lovingly peeped at him.

But he ignored me again. He just pulled me closer, grabbed my waist to lift me to his height, and smashed his lips onto mine.

"Mmm!!" My voice became faint and my cloak dropped from my head, but I didn't protest against him and kissed back. My arms snaking around his shoulders and embracing his warm body closer. I was looming over him, and my hands slithered from his shoulders to his cheek, my lips working and pulling onto him.

Asra was a tremendous kisser, by the way. And how do I know? And is that even a question?

Both of our faces were red hot as we pulled back, my lips quivered from incitation and we both were panting away.

"I believe you...." He answered me and roughly kissed me for one last time. I moaned against his lips, wallowing in the pleasure I received from him, my hands curling around his hair and tugging it gently. He then pulled away and hugged me back as he breathed against my neck.

I exhaled with him, enjoying his sweet lips on me. But then I gently patted his shoulder to get his attention.

"hmm?" He replied.

"Hey....take me to the beaches....we came this far now" I told him.

"Ah....sure, Milady. Let's not keep you waiting" he sneered at me, but I was worried, to be honest.

Because I knew very well that it was a sneer of mischief he had on him.

I expected him to keep me down on my feet, but he abruptly let go of my waist and swung me up into his arms to hold me and carry me to the beach like a bride.

"You scared the fucking shit out of me there!" I caught my gust on time. The way I cried out as he took hold of me was the moment I want to shirk so badly. Meanwhile this white fucker was laughing away to glory at me! How fucking dare he?! Ugh I hate him when he does that!

"Tit for tit, sweetheart. I didn't forget the way you pinched my cheek" he winked. Blush swelled around my cheeks and I hid my face in his chest, Asra lightly giggling and resting a small peck on my head.

"Whatever" I muffled.

"Sure, suit yourself" he shrugged.

"Now let's show you the rock beaches" and there he was, holding his beloved wife close to him, never letting her go, never letting her feel alone. Because he was always there for her, and he valued every second with her like golden coins.

And they say, journey is more beautiful than the destination.

Heh, I guess they were right. But to me, both the journey and destination were marvellous when he was around.

And damn, I deserve a fucking slap for disagreeing with such a truth. Honestly.

#the arcana #the arcana game #fan apprentice #wynne toprak #arcana apprentice #arcana mc #arcana oc #asra alnazar #asra the magician #the arcana asra #asra x mc #asra x oc #asraweek2021

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rebelwheelssoapbox · 4 years

Text

Why I'm Voting For Biden (As An Activist On The Left)

Now, before I begin, despite what Trump likes to insinuate, Biden is not a part of The Left. And if this needs to be said, he has no connection to Antifa. Antifa, is not some dangerous terrorist group. It isn't even a group. It's a philosophy, that means you are anti-fa or anti-fascist.

[image description: colorful image based on a vintage ad. the background is a collage of floral images, but the main image is a field of flowers, with a blue sky of flowers. There is a vintage illustration of a young woman smiling, holding up a green bottle on the right. The text reads (top) "Fascism Is Bad". (lower left) "Nazis are fascists. Hitler was a fascist. Antifa ='s Anti-Fascist. Antifa is swell." Under the F in the word fascism on the top text, is a vertical white line that goes down the side of the image. Under the word swell, is a horizontal line that leads you to the image of the young women. Behind the young woman in the far right corner is a diagonal black square. ] So, I am not voting for Biden because I am on The Left, I am voting for him, in spite of the fact that I am on The Left. And believe me, Biden was not the one I was rooting for. I wanted Warren, Castro and Sanders to unite as The Unity 3, but the idea never took off.

[image description: a graphic featuring Elizabeth Warren, Julian Castro and Bernie Sanders. On top it reads : The Unity 3. Underneath their photos, the text reads “It’s time to come together”] And if I am to be honest, when I see videos of Bernie Sanders, it still breaks my heart because of what could have been. If you’re like me, you were angry when Biden joined the presidential race. I knew he would be a distraction from real progress, and he was. I mean, with the 4 years of massive protests across the nation, with the progress we made, with the #MeToo movement, this is what the old school democratic party have to offer? In the words of Bob Dylan Your old road is rapidly agin' Please get out of the new one If you can't lend your hand For the times they are a-changin' But they didn’t get out of the way. Part of me strongly feels that the old school corporate democrats (not to be confused with newer more activist-based democrats) are way too content to remain the lesser of the two evils. I am often convinced that the old school corporate democrats don’t actually want real change. And what about Tara Reade? The woman who said that Biden assaulted her. I can’t just ignore that or brush that under the rug. And yet today I filled out and sent my absentee ballot where I voted for Biden/Harris (under the Working Families party.) So, how did this happen?

[image description: photo of my absentee ballot, where I have filled in the circle next to Biden / Harris under the working families party] It was something I thought long and hard about. To say I felt immensely conflicted, is a huge understatement. Part of me was resistant to the idea. But I also know as an activist, that in the present state of the system, there is never a time where you can be truly pure with your ethics and activism. There are always hard choices to make. It’s crappy, but it’s what is, and to say otherwise is not living in our present reality. At best, we can do the least harm. Now, does this mean that another world is not possible? No. It is most definitely possible, but it’s going to take time. Does it mean that we should just settle for what the democratic party is offering us? No, but I do think that as activists, and people who want better for this country, we have to dig ourselves out of the current mess and pending sinkhole, which we are slowly sinking into, before we can work to change the system, so it’s a system for the people, not just for the few.

The way I see it, Biden is a ditch, Trump is a sinkhole, and it’s just easier to create change from a ditch, then from the depths of a sinkhole that has swallowed us whole, where we can’t even openly protest without federal troops attacking us (as they did in Portland, Oregon.) We saw what happened the moment Trump seemingly suddenly discovered the existence of the executive order button. That is just a taste of what is to come, if we don’t defeat Trump. I hate that we’re in this mess, and I greatly resent the options, but this is where we are at. And I know, for myself, the idea that I somehow stayed true to my ethics and beliefs, will not comfort me nor my community, nor the other marginalized communities, when we are neck deep in fascism. That’s the truth of it. So let me say this. You don’t have to feel excited to vote for Biden. You can even be immensely conflicted, and vote for Biden. I am voting for Biden because I feel that if Trump wins, we will have a fascist dictator running this country. And that is terrifying. As a fellow activist recently said, it is much easier to quell and dismantle fascism when it’s at the start, then it is when it’s full on in power. I know some people who don’t like it when I really speak my mind on this particular issue, as they are scared that I am going dissuade people from voting for Biden. Like I am somehow obligated to sell it to people. I sometimes feel this social pressure to portray myself as more excited about voting for Biden than I am. And I get the fear. A lot of us are afraid for the future, and we are all dealing with it in different ways, so I am not disparaging people’s coping mechanisms. And maybe in a way, in the name of avoiding full on fascism, we do need to “sell it”, but I am not going to do so in a way that is not authentic. And so, I will leave things with the words of Bernie who is planning on voting for Biden, despite the fact that Biden is certainly not his first choice.

youtube

[image description: A video thumbnail showing Bernie Sanders next to Joe Biden. The text reads Listen to Bernie. The background is a collage of various images like windmills and possibly the sun - not sure what that is to be honest. In the upper right hand corner, it reads Really American] P.S My grandparents lost a lot of family back in the day in Austria & Poland when the Nazis rose to power. I don’t even know how many people we lost, as it was too painful for them to talk about, so we didn’t. So, I’ll be damned if I don’t fight the rise of fascism in 2020.

#voting #voting for biden #leftist voting #why I am voting for biden #crip the vote #disabled voter #disabled writer #disabled activist #biden harris #bernie sanders #elizabeth warren #andrew yang #Julian Castro #pete buttigieg

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