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#everyday i wake up covered in sweat and in air that i can only describe as thick
pcktknife · 2 years
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too fucking hottttttt
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vydante · 3 years
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Restart | END | Avengers x Male! Reader
I am discontinuing my Restart series because I've simply lost creative juices for it. That's it, no elaborate or other reason. Anyways, I didn't want to just end it on the last chapter, and as someone who loves to overshare (especially if it's unsolicited), I thought some might like to see what drafts I had in plan, going chapter by chapter.
It goes up to Ch. 20 with additional bonus chapters, and chapters where I wasn't sure where they were going to be placed in the timeline.
If you have any comments, let me know! I'd love to read them :)
Here goes! Warning: very long, since the formatting is weird! The reader will be referred to as (Name) and "you", as in the story.
Right after Ch. 12 (Circumvention), are 2 special chapters (High Caliber Bullet) & (America's Sweethearts).
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(High Caliber Bullet)'s basic plot was that Barnes, now # amount of weeks since the last chapter, has gained some freedoms and can now go out and about with either (Name) or DAHLIA for supervision (via his phone, and through the cameras everywhere).
In this particular chapter, he basically goes out for a typical grocery run with DAHLIA "accompanying" him, since before, he remembers (Name) telling him that "I won't always be there with you". But something bad happens! Wooo! (Maybe an attempted robbery, I didn't have the details sorted out yet.)
Either way, DAHLIA loses contact with him, and she tries to contact you ASAP, but it takes a little while since your dumbass was asleep the whole time! Wow! The suit had to manually power on and shake you awake.
Anyways, the only thing I had "written down" after that was that, after a failed search attempt for James, you go back home and are greeted with a surprise... "Kabedon"? Or, you're pinned to the walls by James... Or, rather, the Winter Soldier! 
You're not sure what's going on, only that, "Wow, Barnes is acting weird. Why is he suddenly Russian? Wh- Okay, wow, he's suddenly gotten a lot closer. Now, wait a fuckin' minute-!"
Either way, you and James make a discovery of a second personality living inside his body- the Soldier! Or Winter, I'm still unsure which I would have gone for. If you're familiar with certain WinterIron tropes, this is one of them. Anyways, that's the end of that chapter, or what I had written so far, anyway.
This chapter is really important to the canon of Restart since it establishes Soldier, but it didn't fit into my initial plans of 10 chapters an arc, so. That's why it's a "special" chapter.
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The next "special" chapter after that was (America's Sweethearts). I had written 2 "chunks" of text for this chapter. The main plot is, basically, you and Steve spent a platonic (promise!) Valentine's Day together. Hence the title. Cute, right? This was referenced in Ch. 9 (Revelation) during Future! Steve's reminiscing.
Anyways, below the next text is what I had written for that chapter. It will be in normal text.
No other thoughts on that, so let's move on.
"You live like this?"
In his defense, Steve's apartment wasn't messy in the slightest. In fact, it was the other way around- everything was too clean, too pristine, too detached. The only saving grace he's getting from standing in the middle of his apartment is the fact that compared to the chilly Brooklyn weather, it was almost obnoxiously warm in his apartment. 
Not only did he have the heater going on, but he had another separate, portable heater blasting hot air in the corner.
(Sometimes, and only sometimes, Steve will stand in front of the heater and slowly spin around like a rotisserie chicken. The heat feels good, in his defense.)
The heat was something that you, thankfully, didn't comment on as you shed your jacket and slung it around the coat hanger near the door. You're wearing an over-sized tee- Thor's tee, he absentmindedly notes- and some sweats, both like and unlike the (Name) he often sees.
(It's not uncommon for Steve to glance at a newspaper or TV still shot and see you with your hair slicked back and dressed head to toe in a suit so expensive he's confident it costs at least a few years' worths of a typical New Yorker's rent.
Neither is uncommon to see you on the front cover of Men's Magazine, wearing a simple tee that shouldn't look that good on you but still does and posing confidently for the camera.
But despite all that, all of the clearly flattering outfits you could possibly wear at the tips of your fingers, often Steve will see you wear a disparagingly obnoxious, dirty shirt, and an old pair of sweats as your go-to outfit.)
(No, he will never admit that he really likes seeing you like that. Even with the mysterious smudged substance often found on the bottom of your sweats, as if you had swing danced in mud and crude oil.)
Regardless, while he often questions your private life fashion choices (and this is coming from a man who willingly wears khakis), he at least knows why you're wearing what you are, given the fact that he's also dressed in an overused tee and some joggers.
"What's wrong with my apartment? Not up to par with your penthouse standards?" Steve jests.
"Steve. Please." You threw him an unimpressed glare, much to Steve's never-ending amusement.
You glanced back to the inside of the apartment and squinted at it with what Steve could only describe as a rich man's scrutinizing gaze, before shrugging nonchalantly. You strolled into his apartment with a confidence Steve can still never get used to, one that reminds him so much of Tony's, and even Howard on his bad days.
(He understands why Tony doesn't like it when he brings Howard up, as he belatedly realizes that Howard didn't die the same man he knew him as, but he never understood why you've suddenly gotten bitter about Howard as well.)
He follows you into the hallway, and if it weren't for the fact that this was his apartment, he would've looked like a lost puppy following its new owner.
His apartment's not really that big, so it doesn't take long before you've both reached the living room. A simple TV, simple couch, simple table. Nothing really exciting in his living room, but it serves its purposes, in Steve's opinion.
(This is the end of that chunk. Next is where I picked up in writing. Short time skip, they both fall asleep and now Steve's waking up.)
It was the change in the smell that woke him up.
It's always the scent of fresh linen that greeted him early in the morning, something that's become so attuned to his everyday life. So when, instead, popcorn and sweets drifts his way, for a brief second his heart rate jumps.
'What?', his mind asks as he opens his eyes, bleary but cautious.
'Oh,' his mind responds back at him when his eyes drift down to your sleeping form laying splayed right on top of him, body glued to his side. You're mainly hogging the blanket, but he doesn't really mind as he runs hot 24/7. 
'Oh', his mind repeats softly, as something deep unfurls from his stomach and rises to his throat, clenching up and unable to say anything as his eyes fixate themselves on your steady breathing. Your lips are too close to his neck, each breath too warm, even for him. His skin burns where it meets yours, and absently he thinks, 'this is nice'.
'Yeah,' he lifts his hand to brush away a strand of hair away from your eyes, 'This is nice.'
Steve blearily throws a glance at the clock on his nightstand. 4 more minutes until he'd typically wake up and start his day with a morning jog.
'No,' his body protests.
'Okay,' his mind agrees without a fight.
He carefully reaches over and presses the silence button on his alarm. Above him, a breathy exhale escapes your lips at the sudden movement, and if possible, you curl closer to him than you were before. He pauses, unsure if you're going to wake up or not, but relax when he realizes that you're still in a deep slumber.
(Another break. Next sentence was supposed to be the final sentence of the chapter.)
In the end, neither of you commented about how Steve had missed his daily morning run as his limbs were straddled in between yours.
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Ch. 13 (Upheaval) and 14 (Airlocked) are short in terms of drafting, so I'll combine them into one section here. Ch. 13 (Upheaval) was about taking down SHIELDRA in a better manner than the mess that was CA:TWS. And (Name) also forces Steve and Natasha to fess up immediately about Tony's parent's murderer. ((Name) threatens them.)
As for Ch. 14 (Airlocked), it's pretty much a filler chapter of sorts. (Name) graduates, there's now an official class-action lawsuit against Ross, also now keeping an eye on Baron Zemo, and we see some progression on Barne's therapy session. Not much, but some.
I really was not looking forward to these two chapters, as I knew they were gonna be boring as hell.
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Ch. 15 (Spiralling) has actual written chunks. It's basically about the early prevention of Ultron. The Avengers go to a Sokovian HYDRA base, take out baddies, and the Super Twins get captured first- wow! But not before Wanda does... something to (Name), causing you to hallucinate and lose contact with the team- uh oh!
But don't worry! You get run over by a car. Lol. Below is what I had written for it, sans minor text.
A/N: In Ch. 7 (Summer), there was a 'dream-sequence' that happened where (Name) was on Titan with Tony, Peter, Stephen, and the GOTG. I've now decided that in canon, (Name) was not on Titan- instead, you were on Earth instead during IW helping at Wakanda. Just a brief plot-hole wrap-up; let's imply that (Name) had watched video footage of the fight at Titan via Tony's suit afterward, and that's where the nightmare came from. Okay bye.
(VERY abrupt start into the story, not meant to be the start of the chapter in the final draft, just where I wanted to start writing. Intro to Wanda.)
You jerked your head, catching a glimpse of brunette hair in the corner of your eyes. You swung your gauntlet instinctively and made instant contact with whatever was next to you. Flutters of red wisps followed your eyes, and you instantly knew what just happened as a body dropped next to you. 
You grunted and leaned onto the nearest wall, watching the girl's limp body with caution. Your shoulder plate lifted, and a tranquilizing dart connected to her thigh.
Just in case.
"Guys, I- I've been- ugh..." You wanted to vomit, the pounding in your head worsening with each millisecond that passes. Already, your surroundings distort you with each blink, walls melting and the floor sinking in on itself. "I've been- com-," you swallowed back your bile, "-compromised... Sending- location... Ergh..."
You didn't even have enough time to hear a response before the whole world around you shifted. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to calm your thundering heartbeat. The pounding got worse as the armor around you dissipated into nothing but the under-suit you were wearing. Before, where there were the shouting and gunshots, is now replaced with an eerie silence filled with just your laborious breathing.
You didn't know the full extent of what visions you were about to see, but you needed to remember that none of this is real. Scientifically, that was your only safe haven from possibly losing your mind for what's about to come. And it was worse because you had no idea what visions you'd see. Would you see Thanos? The Chitauri, just like your father once had? Or would it be something more close to home; the bunker? Tony's dead body, splayed with vomit around him, frostbitten to the touch and still like a marbled statue? 
Ready to go up and arms at whatever it was you're about to see, you cautiously opened your eyes.
(Line break, there's meant to be an "oh shit" line, like "Only, you were met with eyes far too similar to yours." but I still didn't know what I wanted to do for the hallucination sequence. Maybe meeting an older you, a younger you, or your dream life without the Avengers or meta-humans.)
(Below is an abrupt shift in the story; same general setting, but outside POV! What I had was dialogue only, alternating between people in bold, as a POV switch.)
(Name) "Guys, I- I've been- ugh... I've been- com-compromised... Sending- location... Ergh..." 
(Steve) "Apex, do you copy? (Name)!" 
(Steve) "Shit, (Name) isn't answering! Tony!"
(Tony) "Got his location, he's inside the base. J.A.R.V.I.S., what's his status?" 
(J.A.R.V.I.S.) "I'm sorry, Sir, but it appears that I am not in contact with his suit." 
(Tony) "Wha- the hell do you mean you're not in contact?!" 
(J.A.R.V.I.S.) "I cannot connect to his suit; it appears that Young Sir has somehow deprogrammed me from his suit." 
(Tony) "Wha-!" 
(J.A.R.V.I.S.) "However, it seems as if there is an A.I. present nonetheless. Though..." 
(J.A.R.V.I.S.) "I do not recognize the code. Would you like me to attempt at forming a mode of communication?" 
(Tony) "Yeah, just- God, make sure (Name)'s okay, please." 
(J.A.R.V.I.S.) "On it." 
(J.A.R.V.I.S.) "Establishing a connection." 
(DAHLIA) "Mister Stark?"
(Tony) "Wha- I'm sorry- who are you?"
(DAHLIA), ignoring Tony, "An enhanced got to (Name). The operative is down, but (Name)'s experiencing hallucinations. I can't get through to him- you need to get to him, now. I fear he may hurt himself more than he already has."
(DAHLIA) "And if I may be privy to a request?"
(Tony) "What?"
(DAHLIA) "Don't bring Rogers." (I don't remember why I wrote this bit.)
(Steve) "Any updates on (Name)?"
(Tony) "Yep, and by the looks of it," there was a loud boom coming from the base, and as Tony looked up to see an all too familiar suit fly out of the building. Or, rather, flying was an interesting way to put it- it was more of a free-falling more than anything else.
(Steve) "What was that?"
(Tony) "That was (Name), and he's not havin' a great time I'll tell you that."
His voice was light and joking, but he'd be lying if he didn't say that his heart wasn't in his throat by the sight of you flying out of the building and falling back into the forests.
(Line break, another POV switch)
Steve sprinted towards the loud boom, movements quick and calculated, but mind racing a thousand miles an hour. He saw a red and gold glint fly up above him, zipping in and out between trees gracefully. 
(Line break, but no switch, same place. Another story POV shift, sort of. Steve makes contact with (Name), or so he thinks.)
"(Name)? Hey, do you copy?"
The suit was eerily silent, glowing eyes that once gave comfort to the soldier now bringing nothing but an awful, gripping dread; one that he'd get when there were Nazi soldiers nearby, but he couldn't tell where even with his enhanced senses. The suit gave away nothing that usually screamed out everything that was you- no head swaying, no restless and constantly shifting feet, only a stillness that looked so unnatural. Almost as if there was no one in there.
"(Name)?"
There was no response from you.
The hairs on Steve's neck stood up, everything in his system suddenly screaming to get out of there, run, leave, get away from the suit, but he ignored it as he took a cautious step forward.
Again, you didn't seem to react.
Then, the suit took a step forward.
Then another one.
And another one.
"(Name)-"
Before he could say anything more, the suit lunged forward. Only for a moment could Steve react, but even he wasn't as fast as you could be when you're in the suit. He raised his shield, ready to be shot at, but only the sound of harsh metal on metal makes it to his ears. By the sounds of it, it sounded like Tony had managed to land a direct hit on you, from wherever position he was at. Cautiously, Steve lowers his shield to look.
But instead of the familiar red and gold suit of armor greeting him, it's the sight of two (color) suits wrestling on the ground with each other that manages to sucker-punch all air from his lungs.
(Basically, you went bat shit insane and got out of the older suit, then prematurely activating the nano suit instead, in a fit of panicked hallucination. The older suit, now operating by DAHLIA, was trying to protect Steve from being ambushed by (Name), and now they're wrestling.)
(Another big break, but I think I had a hallucination sequence from (Name)'s POV planned here. Not sure what I was gonna do here since I planned this like, maybe in 2018, early 2019. It's... 2021 now...)
"-(Name)!"
Your eyes widened as the world around you suddenly shifts out of existence, and instead, you're outside in the dim, snowy alps once again. Someone called out to you, you don't know who, but there's a light in the corner of your eyes that's so goddamn bright. You turn your head in the direction of the light, and amidst all of the yelling and gunshots, DAHLIA's cool, chilling voice rings the loudest in your ear.
"Aborting protoc-"
And then the world turned black.
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Ch. 16 (Enflamed) also has written text. Basically, you're recovering from being caught slipping by a car, the team is now aware of certain secrets you've been keeping behind their backs, and you realize that you have to get back to Barnes to let him know you're okay.
This chapter was meant to be focused on the twins, but I guess I forgot that as I was "writing" it. Basically, the gist was that their parent's deaths weren't by officially licensed Stark tech (maybe even a counterfeit since Stark weapons are the best, and don't malfunction as it did in WandaVision ep. 8). Maybe HYDRA was the one that did it in order to recruit more people. Or something like that. Basically, Tony wasn't the one who authorized those weapons to be sold and used there, but it was Stane. Either way, they get their own healthy moment to mourn and lament over it all.
Here's the text below. Italics for a dream sequence, since you were unconscious/ in a coma from being bOnked on by a car.
"Hey, sweetheart."
You smile, turning around to face the voice only to be greeted with lips on yours. You chuckle, amused that this was the first thing you'd be greeted with, but lean into the kiss anyways as you wrapped your fingers around their cheek.
They pull back first, but their eyes are warm as they smile, lingering in the space between the two of you. Where their hands laid on your hips, your skin burned bright hot, but you paid no mind to it. 
(There's supposed to be more, maybe foreshadowing, but I stopped here in terms of the dream sequence. Jump cut to another POV, but you're waking up!)
(Name) "Hnng..."
(Steve) "Stay down! You're in no condition to move at all, just- just rest, okay? The doctors- and- your dad are coming."
(Steve) "How're you feeling? You want some water?"
You tried to turn your head to look at the blonde but hissed suddenly.
(Name) "S'nnof'a' b'ch..." (Son of a bitch.)
Steve helped you settle back onto your pillow- which even he'll admit doesn't look like the most comfortable setting in the world.
"Language, (Name)..."
He reprimanded, but there's no heat in his words as he's just so thankful that you're even capable of forming any words, no matter how profane they may be.
Beside him, Clint laughs a bit too loud for comfort. Steve wants to tell him to be quiet, as he's sure you're sensitive to noise right now, but God he can't blame the archer for his overwhelming relief. 
Lord knows Clint wasn't the only one to stress over their youngest Avenger.
"First words after a damn coma, and it's 'son of a bitch'! I told you he's a fighter!"
"Of course he is, he's a Stark after all."
All eyes turn to see the billionaire and assassin walk into the room. They look clean and pristine as always, but by the slight sheen of sweat on both of them, Steve knew they rushed here as soon as word spread that you were awake.
(Natasha) "Tooting your own horn a little much there?"
Natasha's smile betrays her words as she looks fondly from the senior Stark to the junior. Even the ironclad wall she has up 24/7 has a soft spot for the team's junior member.
(Especially for the junior member, but you didn't hear that from Steve.)
(Tony) "It's both of our horns, excuse you."
Tony turns his attention to you and places a gentle hand on your shoulder.
"You sure took a hit back there, champ."
"Mmm... 'm feel like a... Nn... A damn Make A W'sh kid...", (Mm, am feeling like a damn Make A Wish kid...) your eyes, though blown out from still being drugged up, wandered across each Avenger. You frowned, then smirked- well, as best as you could, anyways. 
"Where's th' Hul'k? T'or?" (Where's the Hulk? Thor? (As a joke, since usually the whole gang visits, but they're missing))
"Relax junior, you're not that special. We can only afford so many Avengers to visit you."
Despite his harsh words, Tony places a kiss right on your forehead. Your eyes flutter closed, lashes delicately batting as Tony leans away.
(Big block of nothing, there were supposed to be more text here, more dialogue or something. Same setting!)
(Tony) "So. We need to talk about what happened back there. Y'know. The brand-smackin' new A.I. that's in your suit- she's been awfully quiet. Oh, and the- lord, the thing's a work of art- the- what is it? Nanite suit? That's in a collar- a collar? I mean, I'm not one to judge questionable fashion statements, but-"
(Steve, or someone else) "Tony."
(Tony) "Right- but, we are going to talk about all that, okay?"
"L'ter, ple's? Am tir'd..." (Later, please? Am tired.)
"An' b'sides, chok'r's fun..." (And besides, chokers are fun.)
(Line break, basically, you remember you have a certain Winter Soldier that's been sitting at home without any word from you.)
’Oh fuck.’
(Big line break, basically, you get discharged from the hospital, and now you visit the safehouse Barnes is in to check up on him.)
It was eerily quiet when you opened the door to the safe house. You limped into the door, thankful that the ride on the way back, there were no paparazzi to see you leave at all. (Really, Happy should get a raise.) Lord knows how much of a rile that'll get out of the news media.
'Avengers' Golden Boy: Fatally Injured?' or something dumb like that.
You'd love to roll your eyes, but the tension that's coiling up in your gut surpasses the want as you slowly step into the house. It's warm, more so than the slow brewing chill that's been tempering outside. James never liked the cold, but even so, the house was warmer than you remembered. His shoes are still near the doorway, in the exact place that you remembered it to be, so he definitely hasn't gone anywhere.
(Though, the alerts that were on your phone from DAHLIA definitely show that he wanted to.)
For a brief moment, you were concerned that there wasn't enough food; but even then, DAHLIA would still be up, so she could place an online order to refill the fridge at a moment's notice, so it's not like James (even with his super-soldiered appetite) would starve himself here.
You quietly slipped out of your shoes, slowly as to not incur another cramp in your back, and stepped into the hallway barefooted. You glance into each room you pass by, but not a single sign of the soldier was anywhere to be found.
You stopped when you stood in front of one specific lounge room; yours and James' favorite lounge room.
Lurking into the room, you glanced around.
The room looked exactly like how it did days before when you were still conscious. There are a few mugs strewn about. Most empty, conjoined in one area of the table (James' area), but there's one that's filled with your favorite drink. A drink that you don't remember making for yourself.
And it's placed right in front of your favorite chair, too. Something squeezes at your heartstrings as you couldn't help but smile fondly.
It's gone cold, you absently note as you dip a finger into it. Wiping your finger on your pants, you grabbed it and the rest of the empty cups, making a note to place them into the dishwasher when you make it into the kitchen.
"James?"
You called out, but only your voice echoed back. The cups quietly rattled with each step, and it's not long before you make it into the kitchen. It, too, looks the same, but there's a thin layer of dust only a clean freak would notice. The sink is empty and clear of any beads of water. Unused for a little bit, you concluded.
Yeesh.
You placed all of the cups into the dishwasher, which was also dry and empty as well. Sighing, you turned on the machine and jumped out of your skin when you felt a pair of built arms wrap themselves around you tightly.
It only takes a split second for you to realize that, no, this is not some ax murderer that's about to choke the life out of you, it's just James.
James who, apparently, is holding you flush against his chest, fingers curling themselves against your bandaged abdomen. You held back a wince of pain, careful not to make your breathing waver, as James nuzzle his whole head against the crook of your neck. 
(Honestly, for someone named the Winter Soldier, he sure is warm because whew, boy-)
"Ja-"
"I thought you were gone."
His name is caught in your throat as James' voice- gritty, deep, unused- rumbles into your skin. You freeze, unsure of what to say to that as you shuddered, suddenly breathless as he mouths at your neck. Your ears turn bright red as he takes that moment to speak up, not once letting up on his fingers ghosting a trail on each muscle on your abdomen.
"You were gone. One second you were in my arms, and the next... The next, DAHLIA's tellin' me you're in a damn coma."
You winced, not sure how to respond to both what he said or the growl that accompanied it. You looked up at the camera that was in a nearby corner and threw it a withering glance, feeling slightly betrayed by DAHLIA for telling James that.
Thankfully (or probably not), James isn't really looking for a response as he continues on.
"Моя звездная пыль (My stardust)," Russian slips out, bringing a chill up your spine as bits of Winter spills out from James' fingertips, "The witch got to you, didn't she?"
Goosebumps raised on your skin, and to your silence, James snarled. You can barely feel his teeth graze on your nape, and you really don't know if you should feel embarrassed or something else.
And wow, okay, maybe you should tell James to ease up on the "hug", because holy shit, his grip's getting tighter and it's starting to actually hurt.
(Ah, he might tear the stitches.)
"HYDRA сукa...! Я убью ее...!" (HYDRA bitch...! I'll kill her...!)
You huffed, still red in the face as he hasn't even nudged away from letting you go. You patted his forearm, signaling for him to loosen up his grip, and to his credit, he does. Barely, but it was still something. 
"I dunno what ya' just said in Russian, but I know what Hydra сукa means. No cussing in Russian, only in English."
He mumbles something incoherent into your shoulder, rubbing circles into your stomach with a tantalizingly slow speed. You coughed; in literally any other situation this would be one of the hottest things you've ever experienced, but considering that James was more Winter than James right now, and your stomach is literally burning in pain from the rubbing, you opted to ignore the fact that you really liked that James was this close and spoke up.
"Not to alarm you or anything, but uh, if you keep rubbing my stomach like that," your breath hitched, the pain starting to become a little too much, "I'm gonna pass out from the pain," you said, with clenched teeth.
(End of what I had written down. Anyways, not sure where I was gonna go from here.)
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Ch. 17-20 are relatively short in terms of what I had written down.
Ch. 17 (Reconditioning) has 3 things typed down:
integrating the twins, thoughts of integrating bucky
supreme distrust between you and the twins
meanwhile maybe thoughts from twins abt you? you're around their age 
3rd bullet introduces the idea that they might be love interests. Maybe. Shrugs. That chapter would be heavier on the character developments of the twins, both as their own persons and their relationship with you, specifically. They don't like you because you're Tony's son, still some bitter feelings there, and you don't like them because... Well... there's just a lot of bad feelings. They helped kill J.A.R.V.I.S. in your original timeline. Wanda basically fucked off with Vision. She antagonized Tony. (And there is a hypocrisy there since I would've written you to have done the same thing there. (Name) isn't perfect.)
You just didn't get along with Pietro since, back when he wasn't dead, you were immature and not yet accustomed to dealing with people who're purposefully frustrating/ teasing/ mocking/ etc. Nothing really personal with him, it's Wanda that you had beef with. But you'll get over it one day.
Ch. 18 (Longstanding) is shorter.
you and james have a talk, and after a year or two being solitary, you agree that he should be in the avengers
he joins the avengers
That's it, that's the chapter.
Ch. 19 (Accountability) deals with newer Accords (not a Sokovian one! Just from the proposed need for accountability).
It goes better around this time, as basically all of the Avengers agree to it, with their own caveats of course. Steve especially, but of course, he's willing to work with the governments about it this time around. Also, Peter Parker gets introduced, in accordance with the "underaged enhanced/ superheroes" clause, or some bull like that.
Ch. 20 (Wakanda) is basically the intro to CA:CW but like, civilized. No bombing since Zemo still has his family. Introduces Wakanda, and T'Challa as a potential love interest. If you're interested in IronPanther, I highly recommend reading the IronPanther Collection by Okyverlo on AO3. It's great and got me a lot of interest in T'Challa as a love interest.
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As for official chapters with the plot, that's about it. I wasn't sure what to do afterward.
There were some loose ideas I had about what would happen to (Name). Maybe the truth is revealed, that you're actually from the future, and Dr. Strange separates past and future you into two separate bodies. Future! you into your original future body, and past! you into the current body. Past! you still have the same memories and thoughts that future! you had, but with less angst. Future! you is noticeably more depressed and just a bummer. Lol.
And after that, 2023! you would go back to the future where you belonged, and Past! you would stay in the present since, duh, that's still Past! you's original timeline. It's a little confusing when I type it down haha.
I was thinking maybe 2023! you would pair up with Steve since you realized how burdensome it is to continue to resent someone. Now you understood what Tony meant.
And Past! you would definitely pair up with James, but maybe Steve too. A nice lil' polygamous relationship. 
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Now here's the other, non-official chapters.
2 What If's, and 3 Specials, in the order they're listed at the moment.
What If (2013 Counterpart) plays with an initial idea I had, where Past! (Name) was actually sent into the future into 2023! (Name)'s body during the prologue. Not sure where I was gonna go with this chapter, but I really wanted to mess with that possibility, and show just how immature and teenager-y Past! you were.
What If (Swapped Places) plays with the idea that you and Tony, in the original timeline, had swapped places. You were on Titan with Spiderman, Dr. Strange, and the GOTG, while Tony was on Earth with everyone else. That's all I had planned. Maybe you actually won and managed to get the gauntlet off of Thanos when you realized that Peter Quill was about to go crazy over his ex's death, and you knocked him down in time.
Special (Find My Body, Only At The Oak Tree), deals with you and your depression over the reality that you might have to relive the blip again, and aside from the Avengers, you really don't have anyone else and nothing's worth really living for at this point. I actually have a lot written for this one. Not sure if I wanted this to be canon.
Trigger warning: suicidal tendencies.
(Below is the general idea I had for the plot.)
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(names) birthdays across the years so far
we see slow mental deterioration of (name) as he aches
we see as we reach closer and closer to the deadline, (name) dreads even thinking about thanos and wants to die before even looking at him, a symbol of their failure 
lowkey highkey suicidal
___
The first time you celebrated your 17th birthday was in 2014. 
The second time you celebrated your 17th birthday was also in 2014... Obviously. 
The first time you celebrated your 17th birthday, the whole tower was flooded with people who you knew and people who you couldn't care to know. It was filled with what little was left of your friend group outside of the Avengers; it was also filled with the rich, the pompous, the irritating of New York.
You got into a yelling match with your dad that night, over something you couldn't even bother to remember, and stormed off into your room, fuming as the party still went on without their birthday boy present.
(It's always like that as if you're replaceable. Surely, you must be; the Avengers can and will, if need be, exist without you.)
The second time you celebrated your 17th birthday, you told your dad you wanted it to be small and personal. Only the Avengers were there, as a few days ago did you spend a pre-birthday celebration with some of your high school 'friends' (which only mainly consisted of playing Smash Bros Brawl in your room and eating an ungodly amount of junk food as you fake laughed along with their shitty jokes.) (Steve promptly made you burn those calories off in training.).
(What Steve doesn't know is that you purposefully ate that much to train with him; otherwise, you had the whole day off the next day.
You didn't want to be alone.)
It was sweet as everyone gave their gifts to you (which you already knew what it was, but said nothing of it), and as everyone got drunk off of the expensive liquor or Asgardian mead, you quietly snuck out of the building and back into the safe house where James was waiting for you.
(He waits, but how much of it is because he has no other choice?
It is not like that, you keep reminding yourself.
Who is to say, other than you?
James never says anything of it, and you start to wonder if he feels as if he has no choice.
As if he feels like he's been made another prisoner, once again.
At what point, what is separating the distinction between you and HYDRA, in his mind?
You're not too keen on finding out the answer anytime soon.)
The whole way there, you thought of nothing in particular.
You quietly celebrated with him too, shared a few slices of cake he made just for you before you quietly said goodnight to him. He kissed you on the cheek, said a simple goodnight, and slipped away into his own bedroom.
Meanwhile, you spent the rest of the night drinking too much alcohol, alone, in the dark of your room, staring at nothing in particular, thinking about nothing in particular.
The next morning, you jokingly wished you had just died last night as you're bent over the toilet emptying your stomach contents.
___
The first time you celebrated your 18th birthday, you spent it outside in another country with your friends.
The second time you celebrated your 18th birthday party, you rented out a bumper kart arena with the Avengers.
The first time you celebrated your 18th birthday, you tried desperately to hang onto the remaining friends you had outside of the Avengers, a chance to feel normal for once. You practically went hiking across Europe and into Asia over the week of your birthday, and by God did you visit so many places. From the Louvre to the casinos in New Deli, you trekked everywhere with your friends and acted as a cash pig for their endeavors under the guise of celebrating your birthday. Least to say, you always got 'accidentally' blackout drunk on multiple occasions, oblivious to their actions.
Later you found out and cut them off instantly without another word. They didn't seem to notice that you stopped talking to them.
It hurt.
Pointless of you to try to maintain that friendship.
So on your next 18th birthday, having long forgone those friendships ages ago, you suggested going bumper karting with the Avengers. Bruce operated as the 'coach' of sorts, but he seemed to have enjoyed it as well. 
It was fun, obviously.
It went on for a few hours, as you all had made up mini-games to play along with as they got bored of chasing after each other aimlessly for half an hour. A few games had you pairing up with some of the Avengers; the other had them actually using their skills to try to maim each other.
(Wanda at one point lifted everyone into the air as Pietro zoomed through the rink; though, he did slip and slam into the wall. Everyone laughed, but it was interrupted as Wanda promptly dropped everyone out of shock.
Everyone was too busy in their own shock as well to notice your labored breathes, wild crazed eyes, or how you clawed viciously at your throat at the sight of Wanda's red wisps. Your fingers were tinted a sick vermilion.
Thankfully, the arena was relatively dim, so no one could tell what just happened.)
It was fun. Everyone didn't hold their shoves back, and when things riled up, it turned into who would break a bone first. No one did, but everyone was definitely sore afterward. Of course, the enhanced ones didn't limp as much, but it made your limp nothing out of the ordinary.
(You tried your most damn not to just collapse completely, both exhaustion and pain threatening to snap your spine into little bits and pieces.
You jokingly wished it did.)
Thankfully, during the whole ordeal, no one noticed how you didn't avoid obvious hits, instead opting to just get harshly jostled in your kart and neck snapped haphazardly to the side at the sudden jolt. Or how you 'accidentally' keep forgetting to put on your seat belt or keep your fingers inside the kart.
Or at least, if they noticed, no one said anything as you limped around the tower the next day, bruises marred everywhere on your skin, a sheen of sweat blanketed on your skin throughout the whole day.
___
The first time you celebrated your 19th birthday, you were too swamped with both college and SI to actually... Celebrate.
You didn't even realize it was your birthday. No one did, actually; it took one of your professors to comment on how your name was trending on Twitter to actually get you to realize what the day was.
But even that didn't change your schedule, and as you moved on with your day, so did Twitter and the Avengers. 
You never got to celebrate your 19th birthday, too swamped with other things to care.
The second time you celebrated your 19th birthday, you had too much free time in the world.
It ended up being just like your 17th. The Avengers had a little get-together (they remembered this time; what made it so different?) and all of them got drunk wildly off their asses. Once again, you slipped away from the main lounge, and stalked silently, blank-faced, towards a balcony.
You adjusted your collar appropriately and stood there. You stared outside into the bustling busy streets of New York, the city that never sleeps.
(Strange, that it's named that when often times it's the quietest whenever you're there to see it.)
You spend maybe 10 minutes standing there, staring into the oblivion that is New York.
And then, you climbed onto the railings.
Standing there, there was no rush of adrenaline that coursed its way through your veins, nor was there any fear or dread.
Only an overwhelming and crippling exhaustion that made waves through your body. No longer are you in your 19-year-old body, but your 27th. No longer are you in your younger, former self; one that shone brightly above the others, aspiring as both a heroic figure and one that would help pave the way towards a better, peaceful world.
No, instead, your soul feels like it's settled deep into your bones, an aching tire that keeps rocking and rattling at your already fractured, beaten down body, laughing at how pathetic you look.
(You're so tired.
You just wanted to live normally.
You never can, you eventually come to realize on your first 24th birthday.
That thought, now fully realized, would come to permeate it's way deep into your bones.)
All you wanted to do was to just take one step forward, off of the railing that you're so delicately balanced upon, and dive into air headfirst.
Really, all it takes is just one step.
And truly, you've never felt more at peace as your body dropped from the railings, descended quickly towards the streets below you.
What should've been a quick few seconds of a dive felt like an eternity drowning in a bottomless pool. The lights of New York flashed and beamed at you, but it changed rapidly from one to another. Your throat closes, shuttering, and you want so desperately to start screaming.
Only, no one would hear them. 
The winds would carry away your screams, rushing a sound of its own that would overpower yours.
You wonder, absently, was this similar to what Rhodey felt that day? 
Well.
You'd never really find out, now, will you?
Too late to ask.
(There's no way to get back home.
You can never see Morgan again- the Morgan that called you her big Care Bear, the Morgan that cried and threw a temper tantrum because you forgot to give her a goodnight kiss. 
You can never see mom and dad again- while they're still here, it's just not the same. You'll never get to see the same Pepper who was so relieved just to see you alive after the Battle of Wakanda, even if you were practically on your death bed. You'll never get to see the same Tony who you spent hours crying into the shoulder of after the Blip.
You can never see the same Steve, Natasha, Rhodey, anyone, ever again. 
Years spent just trying to be better, to help the world, to mend and build any relationships you could, gone.
And even if they weren't?
There's just no way to get back home anymore. Not back to the person you used to be.)
The next day, you got an earful from your parents when photos of your falling body appear all over the internet. All the meanwhile, you're not really listening to them, just staring right back at them.
Odd.
('When did you start looking at me with contempt?', you'd ask one day.
Tony just stares at you, then out the window. In his hand, he's holding a cup of coffee; in yours, water. You've since stopped drinking anything remotely sugary, caffeinated, or alcoholic, though you've never told anyone why.
'When did you start mistaking concern with contempt.', he responded, though it was more of a statement rather than a question.
You stared at him, then followed his gaze out the window. 
Neither of you says anything, even as the hours go by in the blink of an eye.)
(That's all I had written down so far. Not sure where I wanted to go with this afterwards.)
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Special (Vapidity, Testament To Absence) deals with future DAHLIA realizing what it means to mourn someone.
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The house is empty.
It is an irrelevant thought, DAHLIA notes.
Technically speaking, the house has been empty quite often than not; after all, you were a busy man with an equally busy schedule. Being the CEO of SI and a huge contributing factor to the world's rebuilding made it more or less impossible for you to stay at home for long. Though, she also doesn't linger long in the house, either. But she's still there regardless, even if she's also with you on the other side of the planet for diplomatic reasons.
She knows of the emptiness inside this house; it was never an unfamiliar concept.
But with this emptiness, she's never once associated loneliness with it either. 
It's a bit better when Virginia occasionally comes around to the house to do some maintenance. She might even bring along little Morgan with her.
("You keep saying she's a pest, but I know I sure as hell ain't the one that keeps shifting the TV to the kids' channels when she's around," you comment, not even taking your eyes off of the pan. DAHLIA says nothing towards your accusations, instead opting to tell you that you're burning your eggs.
You aren't, but she says nothing amidst your panic.)
A few others occasionally visit, too, much to DAHLIA's internal disapproval.
Rogers used to visit every day ever since she first noted the emptiness. His behavior was also peculiar. He'd prowl around the house, pausing here and there at random parts of the house. He'd often just... Stand there, seemingly looking at nothing for a long period, before jolting back and continue what he was doing. She's thankful that he hasn't noted her silence when he's around.
Often Banner would come along too, and he'd be talking quietly with Rogers. As of recently, they've stopped visiting though. Probably because of the recent news (that (Name) might still be alive, just lost in time), DAHLIA almost bitterly notes.
James ("Just call him Rhodey- literally no one calls him James nowadays." you laugh, eyes crinkling with amusement) visits too. He doesn't linger for long, but he makes sure to check up on DAHLIA, help tend to the flowers... She'd even dare say she wishes he'd visit more often.
Peter also visits here and there as well. He often comes with Morgan and Virginia, but there have been a few occasions where he's come here by himself. He'd spend most of his time in the garden, your favorite place. And when he's alone, she'd given him privacy out of respect, but even at a long distance, she can hear him talking by himself. He'd come back eyes red and swollen, but he's always smiling afterward.
A few others have visited too, but not as often as the others. Though, none of that really helps negate the emptiness she feels as she wordlessly navigates through a routine she devoted herself to after your disappearance.
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And the final chapter, Special (Chemically Compromised) is basically a fluff filler with (Name) chaperoning Peter's field trip, inspired by an Instagram post.
Written in bits and pieces, unfinished. Not sure if I wanted it to be romantic (the name implies it in a nerdy way) or just a fun, platonic, "dude you're literally embarrassing me" way.
(Peter) "I can't believe you're doing this...!"
(Name) "What? What's wrong with this?"
Pan to (Name) dressing like he's a Typical, Normal Civilian Man, but it's clearly (Name) Stark, son of Tony Stark, and an Avenger.
(Peter) "I don't need you to chaperone my field trip...! May could've done this-"
(Name) "No, she really couldn't, sweetheart. She's got a busy shift, and even told me that no one else's parents was free."
(Name) "Listen- this really could have gone worse if, say, Tony, knew. God knows Tony would've dropped everythin' and just embarrass ya- he did that shit to me every chance he got," Peter winces, almost forgetting that Tony was still your dad, and a chill ran up his spine as he imagined what it would have been like for you. 
(Peter) "But still..."
(Name) "Don't worry, I'll just wear a cap and sunglasses."
(Peter) "That can't possibly work."
(Name) "You'd be surprised- Sam's standin' down there, right near that phone booth."
Peter's head snapped over to where you were pointing at, and indeed, right on the floors of the Manhattan streets, there was a relatively built black guy that's wearing a cap, sunglasses, and a brown leather jacket. Peter tilted his head.
He hasn't been around Sam all that much, but he still knows what the Avenger looked like. But even then, he wasn't sure if that man was actually Sam. He's built right, but Peter can't see much of his hair or eyes. Plus, he's kind of far away.
He squinted at the man, before glancing back at you, now unsure of himself.
(Peter) "That's really the Falcon?"
You stared at him, before snorting.
(Name) "Nah, I'm joshin' ya, that's just some random guy...", you glance at the man, sniffing, "... Probably."
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That's... pretty much it. That's all I had for Restart, as far as writing goes.
Now here are some closing thoughts, just to wrap all of this up nice and tight, sort of.
I'm not really happy with how the initial chapters were paced and how they were written. My writing style has mildly changed, and if I had the motivation to, I'd love to rewrite them. But alas, I don't.
I think about this story often; or at least, variations of it. It's like when you daydream, and you restart it but to the left. But unfortunately, writing a plot without too many plot holes while remaining as canonically correct as possible, and making it interesting without being a complete word-by-word remake of the movies, is difficult.
I'm not sure if I would ever pick up this story again, especially since this whole chapter told you what I had in store anyways. 
Thank you to those who took the time out of their day to write nice and encouraging comments about this story. It's unfortunate it had to end this way, but I'm glad it happened anyways. And hopefully, it's the same for you.
And remember: the one thing writers love to do is talk about their story! If you have any other comments, questions, or just general thoughts about the story, I'd love to discuss it further!
Anyways. If you're reading this now, thanks for sticking with Restart for as long as you did.
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Masterlist
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I know I had people on the tagged list, but it’s a bit hard to get them all as URL’s change, so I opted not to. Sorry!
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shprka · 5 years
Text
A matter of time (a merthur fic)
Title: A matter of time
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Written for: MerlinMemoryMonth May 2019
I chose Path 3: A time to consider / A time to act
Summary:  One of the things Merlin never would have predicted was the legendary King Arthur magically appearing into his living room and confusing him with the sorcerer Merlin.
It’s in Merlin best interest to calmly explain to him that they are in the 21st century and Merlin isn’t the person he’s looking for. All the while trying to not get stabbed with Excalibur and ignoring that the legendary king is hotter than any of those scripts ever described. And an incredible prat!
Read under the cut or on AO3
Listen, it’s sounds mental, absolutely bonkers and Merlin would recommend a good psychiatrist to anyone who’d ever tell him that the legendary King Arthur appeared in their living room out of thin air, but. But.
That’s exactly what happened to him.
And the day started relatively pleasant. Of course after he woke up at the fifth alarm, which was at 6:25, and that 25 minute delay fucked up with his everyday schedule. He had to run around the flat, dress himself with one hand and brush his teeth with the other, but he managed to catch the later bus and he was just few minutes late. His friend Maria covered for him and the kids were still sleepy, so they didn’t even care when Merlin burst into the classroom, flushed and panting, seeing his group already drawing peacefully with Maria.
After that everything went great, as it usually did, with the kids he loved and being as childish as he liked all the while keeping an eyes on those restless bundles of energy. Even a few incidents - like Thomas throwing up on his t-shirt - didn’t sour his mood.
Then he met up with Gwaine and a few other mates, who were kind enough to let Merlin shower first at his place before meeting them at the pub. All that Gwaine was always teasing him he had a lot of sympathy for the things the kids did to him and he shuddered at the mere mention of what those little sociopaths could do and say.
But anyway!
King Arthur, right? King Arthur.
Merlin was pleasantly tipsy - it was Friday, he never drank when he was working the next day - and he stumbled into his apartment, giggling to himself and planted his arse on the sofa, turned on Netflix on his laptop just to make some noise, while he was undressing and making his bed and… And he close his eyes and there was that.
Something woke him up. Some feeling he couldn’t discern. He didn’t drink that much, but maybe it was his upset stomach or he just wanted to piss. Righting himself up on the sofa and opening his jaw in a big yawn, Merlin was just standing up, before he fell right back onto his arse as someone appeared into his small shabby living room, just behind his coffee table.
Is “appeared” a right word? Maybe. Maybe more “materialized” or “pop in”, or not - those were just synonyms and not different words.
But yeah, you get the picture - some man came out like some kind of invisible wall, right foot, left foot, torso, two hands clutching a sword, a full body armour.
The man - because it was definitely a man, a knight of some sort - was crouched slightly like he was hunting or expecting someone to attack him any minute. He hadn’t spotted Merlin at first, in the low light of Merlin’s laptop that stopped playing Merlin’s show and now displayed just his screen-saver - a default picture of a cliff.
“Who the fuck are you?” Merlin shrieked, and maybe it wasn’t that great of an idea, because the stranger actually raised his sword and Merlin had a half of a second to think about his life, before the stranger was on him.
The stranger was on him and actually managed to flip the sofa on the back, Merlin falling back with it and the stranger on his knees on either side of Merlin’s ribs, his sword
dangerously close to Merlin’s Adam’s apple. He gulped and wanted to shudder at the feel of the sharp blade at his throat, but he managed to stay still.
And then the laptop screen went black and the whole room with it.
“What did you do?” snarled a voice above Merlin, sword even closer now.
“The light… let me just reach for my phone and I…”
“Turn on the light.”
“I’m trying… Let me go, so I can do that.”
“Just use a spell.”
“What?”
“Or light a torch. Where do you keep the fire?”
“Um… Like a lighter? I don’t smoke.”
That whole exchange was more that a little weird, but he went along with it, because the stranger didn’t actually seem like he wanted to kill him. Or maybe he wanted to see him as he slit his throat with that incredibly sharp sword.
“Listen,” Merlin started like he would start with a misbehaving child in his group, slow, steady and confident, “Let me reach into my back pocket. Or let me go.”
“What if you’re the enemy?” The weight of the man pressed onto him and Merlin gasped.
“I’m not. I don’t have any enemies. At least ones I’m aware of. I’m a kindergarten teacher. Please,” he added, hoping to elicit some pity at least.
The man grunted and the sword was gone, thought Merlin somehow knew the stranger was ready to pounce any second Merlin did something stupid. Merlin tried with all his might to not do anything stupid.
He reached into his pocket, slowly trying to navigate his hand in the darkness and trying to not touch the man, though he was still kneeling and keeping Merlin from escaping. His hand brushed a thigh, a rough material of trousers meeting that thing that knights were beneath armours, whatever its called. The stranger tensed and Merlin stopped, before he quickly grabbed his mobile from the back of his jeans and flipped it on from memory and chose a lighter.
The first thing that came into view was the man above Merlin. He indeed dressed in some kind of armour, held a real life sword and was dirty and bloody and had a cut on his face that looked awful. He turned his face away against the light and Merlin could see a strong square jaw.
Whatever he was, whatever he looked Merlin had to get away. The man, the knight was reeking something awful - stale sweat, blood, dirt. It made Merlin’s eyes water and he had to breathe through his mouth.
“Can I…?” Merlin started and the man clenched his jaw, but nodded.
Merlin crawled away from the couch, slowly, keeping an eye on the stranger in his house and got to the switch and instantly the room became bright.
The knight stood up, still gripping his sword, and Merlin stared at him in utter shock and confusion.
The man was blond, his dirty fringe falling on his forehead and curling behind his ears. His armour was dented in some places, though besides that he didn’t look injured anywhere. He wore that chainmail thing that Merlin felt for a bit and therefore knew how heavy it was, but the stranger didn’t seem to bow under its weight.
He had a light eyes, which was a stark contrast against all the dirt and blood on his face.
“How did you got here?” Merlin asked at the same time the man said, “Where am I?”
“How can you not know where you are? You came here!” Merlin just couldn’t believe. Maybe he was drunker than he thought. Or it was a very elaborate dream and he’d just wake up on the sofa with an awful headache in the morning.
“It was a spell, I got tricked,” the mad said, more grumbled really, then straightened his back, “Which brought me to you, so you must be a sorcerer, too. I demand you tell me your name, sorcerer.”
Merlin laughed despite himself. Who did that weirdo think he was?
“It was you who broke into my flat so late, so I don’t owe you my name. Though you owe me an explanation.” At the unimpressed stare, Merlin rolled his eyes, “My name’s Merlin and that should be enough. I answered your question, so you answer mine. And the truth this time.”
The knight sighed, a heavy sigh, and sat on the edge of the fallen sofa, his sword resting beside him.
“So the prophecy was true. The dragon said our paths will cross again. I didn’t understand the meaning of his words until now. The past and the future… Tell me, Merlin, are you not the same man that helped me over the years?”
“Pretty sure not,” Merlin crossed his arms. “And you better start talking sense. Tell me who are you and where are you from? And why are you so keen to believe in magic? Maybe you’re from Hogwart? Are wizards real and you just apparated into my flat, harry potter style?”
Now it was the stranger’s turn to frown. “Are you mentally afflicted, Merlin? Talking gibberish and accusing me of using magic...” He shook his head. “I could get you executed.”
Merlin was somewhere between offended and amused. “What? Are you some kind of royal? Wait, you’re a knight, I remember from the history books that only nobles could be knights, right? In medieval times.”
“History books? Is it not the law here? Where exactly are we?”
“Err… In London?”
“I’ve never heard of the Kingdom of London. Is it perhaps over the sea?”
“Depends. Where are you from?”
“Camelot.” Merlin snorted at that, but the man was utterly serious. “And my name is Arthur Pendragon.”
Merlin blinked. The name was kind of familiar, yeah. Though quite unusual. It was like a book of a movie character surname. Though Merlin couldn’t put his finger on that. But he knew like five Arthurs, so…
“Are you, uhm, someone important?”
Arthur spluttered, “I’m the King of Camelot, you absolute bumpkin! How can you not know that? I understand you could not have recognized me. I don’t look my best, I admit, and not everyone had seen me in person, but have famed my name on all of Albion and surely over the sea you had to at least heard of me.” Though, he didn’t look so sure of himself anymore. “No matter. I am tired and hungry. Get the servants to prepare me a bed and some dinner.”
“We don’t have servants here, my lord. And who said you’d be staying here?”
Arthur heaved a deep sigh, “Thank gods, so you have more than one chamber. I wondered how big this house is. And it’s all yours?”
Merlin had to laugh at that. “What? No. A lot of people leave here. And this is my little corner of the world, there’s no other ‘chambers’, sorry.” Merlin stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “But I guess you can stay here for tonight, it’s too late to look for a hotel or something. Besides, let me guess, you don’t have any money, do you? Or ID?”
“We don’t carry coins into battle. But I’ll be in your great debt and as soon as I will make my way home you’ll be rewarded with so much gold as you could carry.” Which, he probably though, would not be much, seeing Merlin’s lanky form. Jokes on him, Merlin could swing four four-year-olds clinging to his arms, which was no mean fit. Besides, running around fifteen kids all day kept him in shape.
Anyway, why would he even care what Arthur thought of him?
It was nearing two am and Merlin had an awful headache, all he wanted was to go to sleep. He didn’t think Arthur would steal anything, but Merlin genuinely did not have anything that valuable to steal. Besides, everything pricy he kept near himself in his bedroom and that room was off limits for Arthur.
But he guessed he had to let him use his bathroom, while Merlin had a time to make some sandwiches and think about what evil he’d done in the past that this was his punishment.
“First you must get rid of that thing you have on you. I’ll find you some towels and spare clothes and you can take a shower. You smell so bad.” The king looked so offended it was hilarious, but then he furrowed his brows at the word shower. DId Merlin want to explain what a shower was and how it worked and not being accused of sorcery? Nope. “Or I’ll prepare you a bath.”
“You would make a good servant, Merlin.”
Merlin rolled his eyes and went to the bathroom. He found a spare towel in a cupboard, turned on the faucet and on a whim added some lavender bath salt. God knows Arthur needed anything he could get to get rid of that awful smell. Merlin would have to open a window or something in the living room not to die. He checked if the water wasn’t to hot and went to the bedroom to find some clothes, before he reached it there was a thud from a living room and Merlin flinched before running to check if Arthur didn’t do anything to himself or more furniture.
He was sat on his arse on the floor, pouting. It was kind of adorable. As much as a dirty and bloody knight could be at least. When he spotted Merlin in the doorway he stood up quickly and gestured to his arm covered in armour.
Merlin saw him struggling for a bit longer, grumbling to himself, before he marched to him and batted his hands away. “Stop, stop, let me. You haven’t ever took off your armour before?”
“We have squires for that. It’s not that easy to do it alone,” Arthur said quietly, and Merlin heard him perfectly and unfortunately also smelled his breath. Maybe he would be more away of their proximity if it wasn’t for that. The smell was truly horrendous. He thought he had a spare toothbrush somewhere, too.
He got the hang of the buckles, while Arthur stood still as a statue, while somehow still managing to look relaxed. He had to be used to it. Being king and having a lot of servants.
“You don’t have to scrunch your nose, Merlin. I’m aware of how I smell. I just grown used to it. When on war you don’t have many occasions to take a piss, and baths… are a luxury.” He took a deep breath and as the armour came of realised that he was smelling Merlin. “Which doesn’t seem to be the case with you Londoners. Are you always as fresh as daisies or I came just after your weekly bath time?”
Weekly… Okay, that was too weird even for Merlin. Though to be honest he didn’t smell his best - sweat and alcohol and all, but maybe in medieval times that was considered fresh as a daisy. Shit, maybe they should stop with it altogether.
“Alright, this part came off, will be alright with the… the rest?” Merlin made a motion with his hand at the… chainmail thingy, but Arthur gave him a wry smile.
“Yes, I can take my own trousers off, Merlin, thank you.”
“Then come on,” Merlin grumbled and lead him to the bathroom, trying to hide how warm his cheeks have become.
The water was now reaching about two thirds of the bath and the smell of lavender was prominent in the air. He turned off the faucet and made a tactical retreat when the heavy chainmail made a heavy thud as it fell off on the tiles, hopefully not breaking anything.
“Will you be alright by yourself? Great. I’ll make some sandwiches. You know where to find me. The towels are on the toilet bowl!” And then he closed the door shut and leaned his forehead on it with a sigh.
“Merlin?” Merlin jumped away from the door. “Don’t touch Excalibur, you might hurt yourself. And if you even think of stealing it, I will chop your head off with or without it.”
Then, without waiting for a response, Arthur sunk into a bath with a groan. Merlin covered his ears and run to the kitchen.
Excalibur as in… the sword? And Arthur as in… King Arthur? From the legends? Was he also named Pendragon or… Merlin quickly checked his phone and yep, everything fit, King Arthur Pendragon, Camelot, Excalibur.
Merlin sat on his plastic chair by the small square table and banged his head on it. It was just getting weirder and weirder. Could it be true? But even so, how? And why? And why Merlin? He was nothing special. He had a name of the famous sorcerer and people teased him about it all his life, but that’s it. He wasn’t… He didn’t have any magic in his life, as much as he dreamed about it, since he first read Harry Potter.
On the other hand sometimes… It was absolutely crazy, but sometimes a thing would happen - a perfect parking spot, the last one of his favourite scones in the bakery… It was just plain luck, but sometimes Merlin fancied himself more magic than lucky, because of his name. He thought he was crazy, but he had seen Arthur appearing into his living room. He’d seen it with his own two eyes.
He started to take out cheese and ham and he even found a tomato in the fridge. He took out some slices of bread.
He hoped it was a dream, you know. He would just go to sleep, wake up tomorrow and everything will be the same as it was that afternoon, the same as it was everyday. Merlin’s life was mostly consisted of routines, not much excitement to be had. Even the blokes he’s been with weren’t very good-looking or fit or exciting.
Then he almost sliced his finger off when he heard the bathroom door opening and a footsteps coming closer. “Hi, Arthur, sit here. Probably not what you’re used to, but... Why are you naked?”
And the thing was now that Arthur washed away all the grime and dirt and blood he was… The most beautiful man Merlin had ever seen. That square jaw and straight nose, and light eyes… And it was so unfair that Merlin couldn’t touch him it was like a physical blow. The breath of his shoulders was also unfair, and his bulging muscles. His hair was even lighter than he thought - it was a golden shade, the same colour was also on a sparse hair on his chest and legs and around his soft cock. There were so many scars on him, some faded and old and some new and angry red.
Merlin swallowed and looked up only to flush an ugly red colour, when those eyes met his and stayed there, looking perplexed.
“You said you will find me clothes, but I did not see any fitting ones in the basket. Why are you so red, Merlin? Do men in London shy away from each other’s bodies?”
And that was not something he was willing to get into, but Arthur had a commanding tone and Merlin found himself stumbling over his words, “It’s just very… intimate, to see the other person naked. Reserved for an, uhm, people that are close.”
Arthur looked genuinely interested. He planted his naked arse on the stool and started to eat. At least he had the decency to swallow before speaking again, “You said you don’t have servants in London. So who washes you, then? Or the royal wash themselves?”
“Everyone washes themselves here. There are no servants and everyone are equal. I mean we have a queen and whatnot, but they are also normal people, albeit a bit more reach than us simple peasants.”
Arthur nodded, eating his sandwich, while looking around the flat. It wasn’t anything impressive. Merlin was not the person to hoard things and he was relatively tidy. There was the fallen sofa, Excalibur leaning on it as Arthur left it, the pieces of armour strewn along the floor. Maybe he should’ve tidy up some before Arthur came out, but he was just too bloody tired.
Still, he made his way to his bedroom and found some gray sweatpants from his old boyfriend and a Nirvana t-shirt Gwaine left there ages ago and they both forgotten about it. He brought the clothes to Arthur, who was finished with all his sandwiches and even stole one of Merlin’s, the thief and was now standing in front of Merlin’s bookshelf. It was filled to the brim, and Arthur chose a book at random. Merlin knew very cover by heart and knew it was some old edition of Alice in Wonderland.
When he looked at Merlin, he was impressed. “So you can read.”
“What?” Merlin managed, didn’t know if to get offended or not by King Arthur thinking he was so stupid he was surprised when he learned Merlin actually could read and the books were there not only for display. “Of course I can read!”
Arthur put on the sweat pants quickly and frowned a bit at them for some reason. They rode really low on his hips, indecently low and Merlin tried not to let his eyes wander much.
“I just... “ Arthur seemed to be at a loss for words. “It’s just that not many peasants from where I come from are literate. Even some of the royal servants weren’t taught to do that. To be honest, some of the knights display a lack of ability to do so and aren’t interested in things like books.”
“Peasant?”
“Is that… a correct term?” Arthur wondered, looking at Merlin like he was a peculiar sort of creature. “How do you call incredibly poor people in your land?”
“I’m not that poor! How did you even…?”
Merlin didn’t come from a particularly wealthy family, but he managed to make something of himself, leave Ealdor and take a job as a kindergarten teacher at a public school, which allowed him to afford to live in a decent but small flat in the centre of London.
“Your clothes.”
“What?”
“Aren’t you cold in winter? You even don’t have any sleeves and your trousers are too tight.”
Merlin even forgot he wore those, but they weren’t that tight.
“Those are called skinny jeans. People wear them all the time!”
“Oh. Why? Aren’t you uncomfortable?”
“A bit, yeah. But that’s not the point! They flatter the shape of your legs.”
“So is anyone attracted to those spindly legs of yours, then?”
“Yes, and every bloke I’ve been with said my arse looks great!”
Arthur’s eyes widened. “So you’re a sodomite, then.”
Shit! Merlin just blurted out that… Did people get killed or whatever for liking it up the arse in medieval times? Or was it after? Shit, buggering fuck, and he thought they were starting to get along, even if the king was such a prat, he didn’t mean him any harm.
“You look scared. Don’t be. We do not speak of a congress between men, but it’s not uncommon to indulge oneself with other men, especially when there are no women or whores around and, that is to say… Is it forbidden in London?”
Merlin accepted it as a mean to cheer him up and he smiled, relieved. The last time he felt like that was when he came out to his friends only to learn they knew or suspected long before and accepted him for who he was.
But the last bit caught his attention and hope bloomed in his chest. He wondered if Arthur ever… At last he said, “No, no. We’re pretty liberal here… Well, not enough sometimes, but we’re getting there. I could even marry you if I wanted.”
Which was, evidently, not the right thing to say. Arthur gradually started becoming red in the face and the blush spread on his chest, which was still uncovered. He clutched a t-shirt in his hands.
“As in two men who love each other can marry, not me and you obviously. We should go to sleep.” Then he stopped and frowned.
He had only one bed.
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hazkiwislutt · 5 years
Text
humble beginnings.
{ it’s athena!! this is something i wrote ‘cause i was inspired; my parents both immigrated to the US and i grew up in SF. since the city is so dear to me, i only take people i genuinely trust to see where i’ve grown up because it isn’t exactly “the ritz” and i come from pretty humble beginnings that some people have difficulty swallowing. also,, i’m filipina, so some of the details in here cater to my filipina readers! HOWEVER, if you guys want to request certain types of cultures or have any requests in general, don’t be afraid to ask me ‘cause i’ll most definitely write them. i hope you enjoy!! }
“Hey, H? Can I ask you something?” 
You weren’t a person who was acquainted with nervousness. 
Your voice never wavered when you talked (not even when you delivered an impromptu speech to thousands of people at your college graduation because the original speaker ate bad shrimp an hour before the ceremony). Your hands were never clammy, and they never shook (even when you had to sew your dad’s thumb back onto his hand after he severed it while shucking oysters at your tenth birthday party). Your stomach never filled with butterflies that intended to make you hurl (not even when you had take the blame for your little sister breaking your mom’s favorite china).
Now, though, you felt all of these symptoms of nervousness amplified, because you were about to ask your boyfriend of a little over ten months if he’d like to come home for New Year’s with you, so that he could finally meet your parents and visit your hometown. 
It wasn’t that Harry was a scary person; in fact, he was the definition of sunshine, the epitome of kindness, the pinnacle of love. You knew he loved you, and you knew that you were being a silly for being so nervous, but your past was something you could not shake at times. You weren’t embarrassed, per se, but you were definitely wary that not everybody could understand your roots, and you didn’t want to overwhelm Harry with your family and your origin. 
“F’course, love. Anything, y’know that.” He looked up at you from where he was sitting on the couch, clad in a black t-shirt with grey sweats, legs splayed wide. “But first, come over here. I’d like a cuddle, please.” You obliged, straddling his waist and leaning your head on his shoulder. He squeezed you tightly to him, drawing patterns on your back as you rose and fell slightly with his breathing. 
“So, I know New Years is coming up soon,” you started slowly, calculating your words because the anxious feeling in your stomach was overwhelming. “And I was just wondering if you’d like to come meet my parents, finally. You can say no, of course, it was just a suggestion and honestly, I don’t know why I asked, it was stupid, just forget that I even said anything- oh!” 
Harry giggled as he pressed his lips against yours before pulling back and looking at you. He shook his head, threading his fingers through your hair.
“Silly girl, f’course I’d love t’go. When do we leave?” 
...
The drive to your parents’ house took longer than you’d expected, but it wasn’t unwelcome. Embarrassment had never been the word used to describe your feelings towards your family, your background, and your hometown. Your parents had raised you to the best of their abilities, and although they had little to nothing when they’d first immigrated to the States (though, not much had changed), they worked hard and you were immensely proud and endlessly grateful for their determination to give you and your siblings the life they could never have. 
However, a part of you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that Harry would look at your humble beginnings and think twice about your relationship. You had never allowed any of your past partners to meet your parents out of discomfort, but Harry was different. You were completely sure that your future could involve Harry, even if it had only been ten months. As stupid as it was, you just didn’t want Harry to feel that he was in too far over his head. 
The doubts in your head whizzed around faster than the cars next to you on the freeway, and you hadn’t realized Harry had taken the exit into the Excelsior District of San Francisco. The streets were cramped, and pedestrians braved the sloping hills to run down to the shabby shops and stands on the infamous Mission Street. Your nerves jumped as he made his way up the nearly vertical hills and streets that were so small, they might as well have been called over-exaggerated sidewalks. 
“That’s the one,” you commented softly, pointing at your parents’ dingy house from down the street as Harry had turned onto Vienna. 
Your parents’ house sat at the top of a tall flight of stairs leading up to the chipped front door, and the front yard (if it could even be deemed as one) was littered with random patches of grass poking through the cracked, uneven cement. The house was mostly grey, since it was built quickly and carelessly to satisfy the wave of immigrants that your parents had come over with when they were barely in their twenties. Harry parked in your parents’ driveway, his Range Rover sat slanted worryingly to the right because of the uneven incline of the hills, looking painfully out of place in a neighborhood where the inhabitants could only dream of being able to scrape enough money together to buy one. 
“C’mon, then, let’s go meet the in-laws,” Harry giggled, wiggling his eyebrows at you and scrambling out of the car. If you’d been in a better mindset, you’d definitely laugh at how comical his excitement was, but your stomach was twisting and your palms were beginning to sweat a disgusting amount. He hadn’t seemed perturbed by the scenery and the evident lack of luster of your parents’ house, but you believed him to be covering up his confusion and disgust.
Sighing, you peered at Harry unloading the bags from the trunk through the rearview mirror, and opened the door to help him. You grabbed your bag and began to lead him up the steps to the front door, grimacing at every groan and creak that the eroded wood gave on your ascent. 
“This is so cool! Their house s’like, in the air! Christ, yeh could get a workout from all those steps too, m’already winded.” You smiled shyly at him, and he returned it with a cheeky grin. “S’that why yeh’ve got such a nice a-! Ow, okay! I won’t finish that sentence.” 
Harry continued huffing and puffing until you reached the top of the flight, right in front of the wooden front door that was chipped and cracked in certain places. You knocked, wincing as you reminded yourself to tell your parents that you could help them at least get a better door, since this one looked as if you could tap it and it would fall inward. 
You heard Harry whistle, and felt him slip his hand into yours. He was staring out at the overlook of the city, a view you had the pleasure of looking at every morning before you took off for the bus station to get to school. It showed the neighborhoods across the freeway and the city from where you both stood. 
“That’s quite the view, love! Can’t believe yeh got to wake up an’ see tha’ everyday!” Harry’s voice was filled with such childlike wonder, it almost made you lighten up and smile, until you internally reminded yourself that the view was the only nice thing about this place. 
The lovely scene was harshly interrupted by an aggressive creaking of someone attempting to open the poor excuse of a door, revealing your mother looking physically frail and tired, wearing a shabby housedress she probably had owned since she was in her twenties and an apron that looked as if it were held together by God’s will. You’d missed her.
“Anak! Malamig sa labas, pasok ka!” (Dear, it’s cold outside, come in!) Your mother grabbed you by the hand and pulled you inside, dragging Harry along since your hands were still intertwined. The warm of the small house enveloped you and your eyes watered at the familiar smell that filled the walls. You’d truly missed home.
“Nanay,” you breathed, hugging her tightly, “I missed you.” She smiled at you warmly and patted your cheek with her hand, before you took it from her and blessed your forehead with it. It was a custom that had been engrained into your head since you were a child when you interacted with your elders. 
Your mother peered around you curiously and you stepped aside to introduce Harry, who was grinning and already reaching out to shake your mother’s hand. “Ito ang aking novio, Nay.” (This is my boyfriend, Mom.)��Your mother shook his hand, and you marveled as Harry bent down to bless his forehead with your mother’s hand. 
“M’Harry, s’lovely t’finally meet yeh...Erm...” Harry had straightened out, maintaining eye contact with your mom until he’d realized he didn’t know what to call her. 
“Mom,” your mother piped up, her accent as prominent as the surprise she wore on her face in response to Harry’s gesture, “You call me Mom.” She bumped his hip with her own and gave you a conspicuous side-eye, before telling you in Tagalog to give him a tour and to put your bags in your old room. Harry grinned bashfully, and you gave him a real smile.  Your heart was still filled with an indescribable warmth as you realized Harry had taken a small piece of your culture and used it to integrate himself into your family and impress your parents. 
“Baby, just leave your bags here while I show you around. It’ll take like, three minutes. There’s not much to show.” You mumbled the last part, eyes shifting around to your parent’s squalid home, and you caught Harry looking at you questioningly. 
As soon as you walked into your parents’ house, you were in the living room. It was smaller than you and Harry’s shared closet, crammed with a faded print sofa that sagged precariously close to the ground and should have been thrown out years ago, accompanied by a television balanced precariously on a broken wooden table that you remember your father buying from your next door neighbor when you were ten. There was a single window that was cracked with blinds that were yellowed and brittle, and there were dusty bookshelves that were filled with miscellaneous items that hadn’t been picked up in years. 
“This is just the living room, s’nothing special.” Harry observed closely everything you’d just pointed out, and he smiled again when he caught your eye. You motioned for him to follow you further into the house, which was really only three or four steps, until you showed him the first door, right next to the arm of the sofa. 
“S’just my parents’ room here, I’d show you but they’ve not cleaned it since they first came here, plus my dad is probably changing, and I don’t think you want to see that.” You gestured to the door right next to the first one. “That’s where we’re staying, but I’ll show you after. Come on.” 
You pulled Harry a few more steps to enter the kitchen through a crumbling wooden doorframe. The soft tile of the kitchen was splintered and missing in some places, creating an odd patchwork that made you groan internally. The dining table was flimsy and shoved against the wall so that there was enough room to walk through to the actual kitchen. It looked as if it would collapse under the weight of all the dishes your mother was putting out, but you knew it wouldn’t. You smiled softly as you remembered the time you’d made a running leap on top of it to evade your younger brother after you’d taken his underpants while he was trying to change. 
The chairs that surrounded the pitiful table were all different, ranging from plastic chairs to fold out chairs to a random rocking chair your father bought when you were twelve, each one creaky and old and a reminder of your background. 
“Uh, well, this is the dining room, obviously. It’s also the kitchen, ‘cause the kitchen is literally one step away...” Your mother was diligently stirring sotanghon in a pot in the kitchen, which was nothing more than a few cabinets with the doors hanging off on their hinges, an incredibly eroded sink, and a stove that looked perpetually dirty, even if you’d spent the entire day cleaning it. 
“Nay, I’m going to show him the bathroom. Excuse me,” you said as your mother walked out of the kitchen to allow you both to walk through. You walked a few steps and turned to the right, where one door lay sandwiched between the walls. 
“This is the bathroom,” you slowly started, jiggling the door handle harshly and bumping your shoulder against the door to get it to open. This time, you let out an audible sigh as you took in the sight of the bathroom. The tub’s white enamel was chipped in so many places, it could’ve passed as brown with white flecks, and the bottom of it was literally held together by duct tape. You peered at the ceiling, which wasn’t a ceiling, really, but rather cardboard boxes stretched out and duct taped to cover the holes where the ceiling panels had fallen out. The single window by the toilet wasn’t even a window, for Christ’s sake, but instead, a wooden slab propped up against the broken glass to keep the air out. You looked into the scratched mirror and saw your face burn hot with shame. 
“Love? S’the matter?” Harry was looking at you with his brows furrowed, and he reached out for your arm. You shook your head, pushing him out of the bathroom and ushering him back through the kitchen to the front door where you’d left your bags. Your mom was fixing the food at the dining table, and was painfully oblivious to the turmoil in your mind at the moment. 
You grabbed your bags, and motioned for him to grab his, before leading him to your old bedroom, which you’d shared with all six of your siblings growing up. 
You opened the door, close to tears as you took in the appearance of it, before shoving it shut with your shoulder. The white walls were cracked, and the ceiling was covered by more cardboard boxes. There was one battered twin bed covered in paper thin, threadbare sheets that were pressed up against the wall that the youngest of your siblings used to share, and a stack of thin blankets in the corner of the room that the older ones used to lay on the floor at night. Your only solace was that you were the only one visiting for the holiday, so that you and Harry wouldn’t be cramped in this room with your siblings. There was a minuscule closet with the door hanging off brokenly, and inside you saw a mass of boxes filled with God knows what. 
The room was dark, because the ramshackle blinds that covered the window were drawn shut, and you shuffled your feet along the scratchy carpet as you felt your shoulders start to shake and tears start to fall. You felt Harry attempt to envelope you in his large frame, but you jerked away and reared to face him. 
“Harry, you can leave.” You choked on your last word a bit, but stifled the cry that threatened to come out, because the walls were thin and you didn’t want your parents to worry. 
“What d’yeh mean, love?” His eyebrows were furrowed in confusion, and his hands gripped the bags on his shoulders tightly, wondering what he’d done, or what had happened between now and five minutes ago, when you’d both first stepped foot into the house. He wondered if he’d heard you right, and held his breath as he waited to find out. 
“You can leave,” you gritted out, “because where I come from isn’t what you need, or deserve, and it sure as hell isn’t what you want. It’s ugly, and dirty, and poor, and I’m sorry I brought you here.” 
Harry was taken aback, confused as to where you inferences of his feelings came from, but as he saw the tears falling rapidly from your eyes, he realized this was a deep-rooted insecurity that you’d trusted him with. He knew you were scared and vulnerable, and Harry prided himself on making you feel safe and at home. 
“Love, it’s none of those things. M’being honest w’yeh, I don’t see it like tha-” He was cut off by your disgruntled snort. 
“Oh, you don’t, do you? Don’t fucking lie to me. This house is worth a lot less than your car, Harry. Even when it was first built, it looked shabby and worn down. It’s disgusting, and you know it.” You were still talking low, but Harry could feel the emotions in your voice, even if he didn’t understand them. 
“Love, m’not lying to yeh, swear on it! I don’t mind this at all-” He was interrupted once again by another outburst. 
“Harry,” you breathed in, your lungs rattling with your effort to keep quiet, “I love you. I love you, meaning I love everything about you, every part of you. It’s so easy to love you, and I’m sorry it’s not the same for me, because there’s no way to love this. There is absolutely no way for you to love this part of me.” 
You weakly gestured around the room, not daring to look at him before you continued, “There were twelve of us living in this house when my grandparents were still alive. Twelve people, one bathroom, two bedrooms. You’re telling me you don’t mind this? Even I minded it, every fucking day when I was growing up here, going to a school with other kids who didn’t have to share their room with six other people and didn’t have to live in a slum. My parents barely made enough to keep this place. It’s still hard for them to afford this place. It’s dirty, dingy, disgusting... I’m the first to admit that. I’ve never taken anyone to meet my parents, or see my home. Ever. You don’t have to lie and tell me you don’t mind, because I know, H. I know what the truth is, and I’m not angry that you think so. This is where I come from, and I can’t put that on you. I love you, but I can’t do this to you. You don’t deserve someone who comes from this. You deserve a lot better, a lot more than me.” 
You were properly sobbing now, not caring if your parents heard at this point. Harry had listened intently, wanting to immediately cut in and tell you that he loved you, and that he really didn’t mind, and that you had the truth wrong, and that he didn’t want anyone else but you because you were already more than enough for him, but he waited until you were finished so that he could give you full reassurance. He dropped his bags and crushed you to him, ignoring the way you initially stiffened in his hold. 
“Remember when we first started dating, hm? An’ we went to your favorite restaurant t’celebrate getting your job? When we got home, there were pictures everywhere of me holding your hand an’ kissing you, an’ people were being terrible to you right? What did I say to yeh when tha’ happened? Tell me, angel.” Your face was buried into his chest, soaking his t-shirt and he felt a muffled rumble against him as you answered. He smiled before saying, “Can’t hear yeh, love.” He heard you breathe exasperatedly before answering louder. 
“’This is what comes with me. I can’t change it, and I can’t force you to stick through it if you don’t want to. But I’m crazy about you, and I want this with you, so I’m going to selfishly ask that if you’re just as crazy about me, to stay and we can both work it out together.’” Your voice was still shaky, but his smile grew as he ran his fingers through your hair, still cradling you to his chest. 
“An’ look wha’ you did, baby. Stayed w’me, an’ we worked it out together, right?” He felt you nod timidly, before pulling you away so that he could look into your eyes. 
“Not going anywhere, ‘cause this is what comes w’you, and m’absolutely crazy for yeh. Can’t change it, and yeh can’t force me t’stick through this, but you’d never have to because I want to. I want yeh.  M’staying, an’ I love yeh endlessly, regardless of where yeh from, where you’ve gone, where you’re going t’be. Don’t know how you could ever think that about your background. S’bloody incredible. This house gave way to the most amazing woman I’ve ever known, and I’m eternally grateful tha’ you trusted me enough to let me in like this.” 
Your breathing had slowed and you were crying for an entirely different reason now. Your heart was full with the weight of Harry’s words and empty of the ugly insecurities you’d harbored a few minutes prior. Harry’s voice dropped even lower as he continued, “Fuck life in the fast lane, I’d let all of our kids grow up like this if it means they’ll end up as extraordinary as you, my love.” 
You crashed your lips against Harry’s as you felt your heart swell even more, and you felt him smile against your lips. You pulled away breathlessly and crushed him to you, murmuring softly, “Thank you, thank you, I love you, I’m sorry, I love you,” until he shushed you with another kiss. 
You both situated your bags and wiped your teary eyes before braving your parents. Grasping Harry’s hand, you pulled him out of your room and toward the dining room. 
Your mom was sitting at the food laden dining table with your dad, and they both turned toward you with smiles on their faces when you entered the dining room. Your dad eyed Harry up and down in a cold manner, and you felt Harry’s hand stiffen in yours. You stifled a laugh, knowing your dad was simply pranking him, but deciding to play along. 
Your dad scooted his chair away from the table, making a loud scraping sound as he limped over to you and Harry, keeping a death stare. Harry’s hand was clammy in yours, and you turned to look at him, taking in his pale complexion and the sweat forming on his forehead. Your dad had stopped in front of you both, and Harry extended his other hand before greeting him with a timid, “Hello, sir, m’Harry.” 
Your dad eyed Harry’s hand with contempt, and you heard Harry stuttering before you dad broke into a broad smile and passed Harry’s hand to give him a hug instead.  Harry’s eyes bugged out of his head and darted to find yours, only to see you giggling behind your hand. Your dad cleared his throat, before speaking, his accent prominent as he continued to cling to Harry, “After a speech like that, you call me Dad, and you give me as many grandchildren as you’d like! No more crying, let’s eat!” 
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writingissues · 6 years
Note
41 “ I need your help” with levy going into labour. Thank you ❤️
It had been two weeks since Levy was supposed to give birth. Two weeks of waiting and nothing happening, only the more growing feeling of being uncomfortable. It didn't help that it was also in the middle of summer during a heat wave. Then again being 'uncomfortable' couldn't even describe how Levy was feeling as she sat on their small couch, in their small hot apartment whose air conditioning had broken, listening to Gajeel as he cursed packing her bags.
"You know." she started as she laid a hand on her swollen belly, feeling a bead of sweat run down her face. "I can stay here just fine with a fan as you fix it I don't need to go to Fairy Hills with Erza." her mouth pressed in a firm line, it wasn't like she didn't want to be with Erza, but she really didn't want to move at all at the moment. 
Even if it felt like she was being boiled alive as well as having to have two babies jump on her bladder like it was some kind of competition. 
"Tch," Gajeel looked at her as he sat the bag down and moved to help her off the couch, "don't star ya complaining now I rather not risk it especially in the heat." Levy sighed as he said this and decided it really wasn't worth another fight, since she knew in the back of her mind she was being unreasonable. She just really didn't want to leave her home being so close to giving birth, well maybe since it seemed the twins rather liked where they were at the moment.
"Sorry." Levy said with a smile as she gripped onto Gajeel's hands as he pulled her up against his chest, or as much as she could be with her condition. "I'm just really tired and hot."
"And that's why yer goin' over there." he gave her a serious look his red eyes locking with hers making Levy laugh slightly as she shut her eyes her hand moving up to her mouth so it didn't spill out more.
"Oi this isn't funny."
"I know I'm sorry." she giggled slightly, "I think the heat is getting to me." Levy said as she pushed a piece of her blue hair behind her ear as she looked up at Gajeel. "Don't worry so much, I swear you've been tense since the day I found out I was pregnant, let alone when we found our they were twins. So please, It'll be okay especially since I'll be with Erza!" she smiled, "I couldn't be anymore safer than if I was here with you."
Gajeel grunted before pulling her against his chest again. It had been two weeks since the due date, who could blame him for being worried?! Especially with how things were now in this weather and as well as the fact she was having twins for christ’s sake.  It was like telling him to not breath, but worrying wouldn't do her any good since despite what she said Gajeel knew Levy, and knew that she was worried and exhausted herself.  He seriously was being a selfish bastard. 
"Gajeel?"
"Ah yeah, sorry." he kissed the top of her head, "Things will be fine, Lev, don't worry."
"I think that should be said more to you than me." Levy gave him a slightly mischievous smile as she poked his chest. "We should go now, or we'll have to worry about Erza breaking our door down if we're not on time."
"Tch can't tell me twice."________________________________________________________________
"Erza, please." Levy pleaded from her spot on Erza's bed. She had forgotten how big these rooms used to be, as her eyes wandered around the other woman's room. "I told you I'm fine, it was just my back hurting a little." she had been there for a day almost and it seemed during the night the pains had started which both terrified and excited Levy that it may finally be happening, but given Erza's ability at times to over react especially when it came to things like this Levy wasn't sure what to do. 
She knew she could depend on Erza for anything, her life even. And that the other woman had nerves of steel and could handle anything and everything. At least that's what she thought as she stared at the red-headed woman who just stood in front of her, in her usual armor but her mouth open as she seemed frozen when Levy admitted that she was having what she believed were contractions. 
"Erza?" Levy reached out and touched her which seemed to wake Erza up as she shook and looked at Levy. 
"We need to get you to the infirmary." her voice shook slightly as she stared at Levy with such intensity she blushed slightly before her body went rigid in pain once again. 
"I told you." she grimaced as her fingers gripped the sheets. "I'll be fine, it might not even be the real thing plus Gajeel should be here soon so why don't we wait?" she smiled but it took effort because she really was scared out of her mind. Things were really like nothing she had planned, damn this heat and damn her body for not doing this two weeks ago. 
"Levy." Erza's voice took a serious tone to it that made Levy look up to her, it wasn't often she saw Erza like this. "This is serious, it's okay to ask for help like this." her expression softened as she knelt down to Levy's level her hand on her shoulder, we're family aren't we?"
Levy felt tears star to slip past her eyes as she nodded her hand moving up and laying on top of Erza's. "I need your help." she grimaced as she said this from another shot of pain going through her lower body. "I'm sorry.... I need your help." she whispered as she felt herself being picked up like she was a bride and rushed off and the only answer she got was Erza holding her closer to herself. ________________________________________________________________
It seemed hours.no days had passed since Gajeel arrived in the waiting room at the small hospital. Even though in reality only an hour had passed since Wendy arrived at the guild out of breath her face red as she panted out that Levy was in the hospital. And that really was all he needed to hear before almost knocking the young girl over to rush out only to having her being flown by her exceed to point him to the right direction. 
And only to find out he wasn't able to see her at the moment since it seemed she would have to be operated on to have the baby which made Gajeel's heart drop into his stomach almost not hearing the doctor after that. Only to find Lily moving him to sit down to explain that everything was okay with Levy it was just standard procedure with these type of births. Which Gajeel didn't understand what he meant by that but it didn't matter at that moment as he sat o the hard chair, his hands covering his mouth as his elbows rested on his knees as his legs jittered underneath. 
Damn him. 
Damn him pressuring her to leave when she was overdue and could give birth at any moment. 
Damn him for wanting to surprise her with the nursery. 
Damn him for not getting her then when he finished early only to go to the guild to drink and relax for a few hours. 
He was never going to forgive himself for this if something...Gajeel clenched his eyes tightly at that moment not letting the thought even pass through his mind for a moment. Because no everything would be fine, Levy would be fine and their baby would be fine. 
They had to be!
"Sir?" Gajeel felt himself jolted from his thoughts as he heard this and felt himself be lightly touched on the shoulder. Causing him to jump up and grab who ever did it by the shoulders holding them tightly as he stared at them. "Well?!" The dragon slayer didn't even attempt to play it cool at that moment especially when he saw the nurse swallow slightly. 
"I just wanted to tell you that everything is okay, She and the babies are ready to see you." her voice didn't waiver as she smiled saying this. Not even paying mind to the confused expression coming over Gajeel's features as the word "babies" but brushed it off as some kind misspoken. 
That was until he reached Levy's room. 
Babies. 
"Gajeel?" Levy's voice was soft as she opened her eyes to look up at him as he now stood by her bed. She tried to sit up but stopped when she winced at the pain, Gajeel soothing her slightly as his large hand came over to brush the top of her head, smoothing back her short wild blue hair. 
"Shh its fine I'm here."
Levy smiled he could see some tears fall slightly as he leaned down to kiss her forehead before looking over to where the babies lay together next to her bed in a small clear hospital bassinet of their own. It was amazing to see and how full his own heart felt at that moment. 
Something that once seemed impossible for someone like him, a long way off far dream he once tried to stifle was now real in front of him. 
"Twins, huh." he said lowly as he looked back down at Levy her brown eyes shining as she nodded. 
"What a surprise isn't it." she laughed eyes closing as she did so. "For once words are lost on me, honestly." she gave another laugh. 
"Heh, can't say I don't blame ya." he moved and walked over to them his large hand reaching down and touching one of the babies small hands. It felt unreal Gajeel was sure he was going to wake up at any moment and be alone and cold in his bed in his beaten down shack.  He looked back at Levy a smile crossing his lips feeling his own tears build up. "Yer amazing ya know that."
Levy gave a laugh as she slowly sat him ignoring the aches her body had after the surgery. "I wouldn't go that far since its something women do everyday." she moved closer to the edge of the bed, or as much as she could as she moved her own hand to hold the other baby's hand between her fingers, and it amazed Gajeel or more like amused him how tiny his hand seemed even between Levy's own tiny fingers. 
"Nah." he looked back down at them, "Yer amazing."
Silence settled between them as they looked onto their babies, it had been a long nine months but it all seemed worth it At that moment. Levy would have to thank Erza deeply for helping her when she needed it the most. She sighed as she rubbed her baby's palm between her fingers amazed at how soft and small he was, how small they both were especially considering how huge she had gotten. 
"Thank you." Levy blinked and looked up at Gajeel then, but he was still looking at their children and didn't say anymore and Levy just smiled and didn't press it, not needing to. 
It was enough.
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maknaes-and-hyungs · 6 years
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mìngyùn(命运)
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Pairing: Yixing x Contestant Reader
Group: Exo/ Idol Producer
Genre:Fluff, Slow Burn, Perhaps angst in the future
Chapter: <<Prev 1 next>>
Note: OMG I’ve had this for like a month or two and I’m sorry it took me so long to get to it. The second week of May was finals and now I’m on break and I wanted to rest before writing again so that’s why I’ve been gone. However I’m back and really missed writing. So I decided to make this more then one part, because you wanted the falling in love to take time. I’m not great at slow burnish stuff, but I will do my best!~Rin
P.S. I forget how I format my post so I always have to open up my blog and look at my previous posts. I am hopeless.
Request: Hi👋🏻 Can you write me a Yixing x reader (kinda an AU) where Yixing hosts idol producer girl ver. and the reader is a contestant there and they fall in love? (You don’t have to rush the falling in Love part haha) It’d be awesome if you could write one xD Thanks in advance xx
“Shhhhh-” One look from your leader and you stopped mid swear. You were being recorded for the second season of Idol Producer after all. Of course everyone claimed it wasn’t lady like, but you would say fuck that bullshit.
“Please behave yourself Y/N. We are representing Yuehua after all and we wouldn’t want to besmirch the legacy that the boys gained us last season.” Eyes rolled, you followed after her and walked to the middle of the floor as the other trainees gazed on the eight of you. Whispers of wonderment drifted through the air, but you were only focused on finding a place to sit.
All of the groups had sat together, but you honestly weren’t too fond of your label mates or the idea that you had to be a team against all others;Here you became individuals all fighting for a spot meaning that label loyalty would do you nothing. So, as your “teammates” walked to the left and up the stairs you stood in place which prompted more sinister whispers to crop up.
“Y/N now isn’t the time to space out silly.” The maknae of your group turned to you with a sweet smile that hid the hatred you faced everyday in practice. The fakeness was sickening and so you gave an unamused look and turned to the right set of stairs. To prevent them from turning around and pretending that this was some game you all played you chose a single seat at the end of the row next to another company.
The other trainees looked back and forth between you guys until the other seven Yuehua trainees huffed and strutted up near the top. You smiled smugly and leaned back into your seat ready to be named as the mean girl of the season. Of course you would turn people on their heels when you started making friends with everyone.You might come off as prickly at first, but somehow making friends came easily to you.
“I’m Y/N.” You put your hand out to the girl beside you and she shook it apprehensively, “You’re Feng Mian right?”
“Uh...yeah how did you know?”
“I saw that cover you did of Pristin’s Wee Woo. You’re super talented plus you fit the meaning of your name and its a great meaning at that.”
“Oh? And what is that meaning?”
“’ Falling asleep in the woods as the breeze swishes through ‘. You really have a calming and peaceful look about you.” Feng Mian looked surprised before she covered her mouth and giggled at how you described her.
“I thought you were rude, but in fact you’re quite friendly. I look forward to hanging out and performing with you. I’m surprised your name isn’t shu.(Meaning “kind” or “warm hearted”)” It was your turn to laugh, but before you could reply the next group was coming out and you both decided to focus you attention back to the front.
Group after group filed in, bowed, and searched for a place to sit while the rest of you whispered about them. The already seated girls commented on the trainees they recognized due to their skills or the outfits that made themselves seem shabby in comparison. It went on like this into the early morning hours and by then most girls were just fighting to stay awake leaving the judging for the mentors who were to come. It was in a lull after the final trainee came out that the mentors finally revealed themselves.
Zhou Jieqiong, Cheng Xiao, Jackson, MC Jin and Li Ronghao all came out exclaiming their greetings into their mics and waking us up. Then the man we had all been anticipating came out, Zhang Yixing, and without any prompting we all became alert and greeted the people before us.
“I know you are all tired, but the show is about to really start now! I am the nation’s producer Zhang Yixing and these are the mentors that will help in fostering the talent in all of you. Before you fall asleep let’s get right into the performances with Yuehua Entertainment.”
Finally you could perform and get these nerves you had been feeling out of your system. The rest of your group had sat lower then you so they arrived on the floor before you. The judges assumed that what they saw was the entirety of Yuehua and began their spiel.
“Sorry, but I’m also in Yuehua.” You cut off Yixing and bowed apologetically as you joined your “team mates” in front. The mentors gave curious looks and turned around to search for the empty seats.
“Why were you off by yourself?” Yixing gave you a strong look that implied he wasn’t happy with this new information he had gained.
“Because I felt it would be better to get to know other trainees since I already know everything I can about my seven label mates.”
“Yes well there will be time for that later. Anyhow let’s see your performance.” Yixing didn’t seem satisfied with you, but you ignored him and got into position. You could feel an impending disaster with the performance that you had felt ever since the day it had been thought up. As the only rapper of the eight of you, you had been given a lot more to do and you weren’t sure you could do it. Your label mates had no desire to support you and cover for the areas you lacked in. You weren’t going to let that get to you though and you set out to do the best you could despite this.
One song later you all were slightly out of breath and slick with sweat. Some had tears in their eyes due to little slip ups they had here and there. You stood up from your crouched position and moved back to your spot at the end of the line and awaited the harsh comments.
“Y/N-”You bowed and stepped forward to hear what Jackson had to say, “you are the only rapper here and I feel disappointed in you a bit. Your skills weren’t lacking, but it seems that you tried to take over the stage since you are the only one with your skill set.”
“I apologize if that was how it seemed. However, I didn’t have a hand in planning out this routine as I was hospitalized. I do know that this doesn’t excuse me though, since I should’ve put in my two sense when I could and I maybe should’ve tried to train on of my fellow label mates so they could rap some of my parts if restructuring was not possible.” I bowed my head before continuing, “This is my fault and I take full responsibility.”
“Yet that isn’t enough.” I stood up from my bow surprised to see Yixing with an annoyed look on his face. “You are a team and yet you sit by yourself and won’t rely on them for anything so they can’t rely on you. I am disappointed in your team work.”
“I won’t make excuses for myself, but that isn’t fair because you have things backwards. They have never let me in and have shunned all my efforts to help them so I can’t rely on them as you have said. I don’t believe I did anything to warrant the treatment I have gotten, but maybe I have and-”
“I’ve heard enough.” Yixing waved a hand at you and the other judges looked at him in slight disapproval. “We will now discuss ranking.”
You waited in silence with anger beneath your skin that only grew as rankings were announced. Your label mates all got a’s and b’s while you got an f. You felt this unfair as the rest of the mentors seemed shocked at Yixing’s announcement like they had all felt differently.
“Y/N you let us down and I hope you change in the future. Next up-”
“I can’t change and improve if an unfair bias is set upon me from the start.” Yixing stopped mid sentence and looked at you in shock,”However, I won’t let that or your unfounded malice stop me. Thank you for your work.” You bowed and walked back to your seat leaving everyone stunned.
This was going to be a rougher ride then you had thought. Yixing was after you for no reason from the start and you had been put at the bottom. You would fight though and make it to where you were meant to be.
Disclaimer: I love my bias, my boi, my sheep, yixing with my heart. I swear he wont be like this always but ummm I need a villain so it has to be him.~rin
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mygiantesslove · 6 years
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Mother & Son: Underfoot by Azra
Chapter 9
The sun beamed down over the city as it baked in the heat of the hottest summer on record. Most people retreated indoors to the relative comfort of their AC or sought refuge at a local pool. Debra had chosen the latter.
The sundeck creaked noisily as she reclined into it. The past few years had been good to her and she'd risen to become president of her own office, meaning she could afford plenty of extra booze, ice cream and other treats that she liked, resulting in a slightly chunkier figure and a much larger bottom. This bottom she now rested on her rooftop sundeck, calling over a waitress from the bar with a friendly nod. Everything had come so easily to her, she smiled after she started keeping her son in her ass full-time.
She recalled with relish the day when she had revealed their relationship to all his friends and family, pulling Phil slowly out of her bottom at his birthday party as Cailie filmed all the guests' reactions. Some of his friends had left in disgust and others giggled and began at once to spread embarrassing rumors about the boy who lived in his mother's ass, but his all-female family had smiled and laughed uproariously at the actions his mother had forced him into. The knowledge that she had orchestrated the six months that he was shrunk and "punished" by being stood on and forced up his own mother's arse had broken his heart, and she took some satisfaction in allowing him to grow back to normal size only to strap his face into her copious butt as she leaned over his birthday cake (smushing it with her copious brests) and his family sung "Happy Birthday" to him and continued the party, chatting politely with each other as they laughed and cheered his mother on to fart and sit on his face. She was only too happy to oblige of course, though she did let him briefly out of her arse to eat some cake - while she and his sister wrapped their huge thighs around his head and neck and headscissored him as he despairingly ate. Watching Phil struggle to eat, to try and pretend things were still normal as his head slowly disappeared between thighs that were much, much bigger than it was so cathartic. At one point eight pairs of strong female legs were scissoring his body at once, his mother always at his head. Phil's despair willed them on, and they eagerly squeezed him between their many thighs. She remembered exquisitely pointing out that Lashondra was here, and the fun they both had as they faced away from each other, locked arms and took turns burying Phil's face between their gargantuan hindquarters. Lashondra liked pointing out how heartbreaking this must be for Phil, but Phil's mom didn't do this because she wanted to hurt her son - on the contrary, she was simply showing him his place in life, and that was between her ass-cheeks, or under her feet as she enjoyed standing on him. His sister was allowed her own career, good friends and maybe someday her own family, but Phil would be crushed under her feet and hidden away up her ass, far away from attractive young girls. She giggled; this torture was sweet indeed!
"You're a very pretty girl," she said pleasantly to the approaching waitress, "my son would be about your age, and I think he'd be quite interested in you! Please, describe yourself so he can hear you."
The busty latin beauty looked down to Debra's enormous rump, to where she had tied her son face-first into her buttcleft 3 hours earlier. "Of course ma'am." The Mexican waitress replied. "My name is Conchita. I'm 19 years old, from Chihuahua, Mexico. I've got long, dark hair, smooth, silky skin, wonderful 36d breasts and my favorite feature is my big, round booty!"
She smiled, causing Debra to giggle loudly."Is something funny, miss?"
"Oh no, it's just that I think my son has had about all the ass he can stand for one lifetime!" Debra replied as she reached over and took a sip of her ice-cold cocktail. "Perhaps we should get you two acquainted?" She said, motioning backward in the direction of her ass, where her thong lay splayed on her twin cheeks. Looking closer, Conchita could see the seat of the lady's thong was, in fact, a little boy with his arms and legs tied and pulled firmly against his captor's bottom. His head appeared to be lost somewhere, as only his neck was visible before disappearing into the crack of the lady's ass. Though wracked with heat and sweat Phil suddenly struggled visibly. Phil was listening intently as he struggled against his mom's bindings - the knowledge that there was an attractive young girl who knew of his plight at once invigorated and frustrated him.
"Oh that's very nice of you to offer miss, but I'm afraid I could never love a person who spends all his time with his face up his own mother's backside." She smiled, as she wandered off to refresh her drinks tray."Funny," Debra laughed as she stretched out on the sundeck, chewing on the little face of her tiny son with her buttocks, "that's just what I always wanted."
Moaning as his dominating mother's titanic butt-cheeks ground up and down around his head and groin, Phil was finally handed a bit of luck as her grinding unexpectedly helped his face to pop-out of her butt-cleft at last. Feeling dehydrated, his face drenched in sweat and beet read thanks to the endless pressure from his mom's hindquarters Phil called out to the retreating figure of the waitress, but only a dry rasp escaped his lips as his face fell exhausted against his mom's right butt-cheek.
"Oh, thirsty sweetie? Have to come up for a little air? Here's a little something for you Phillie, drink it all up now." Debra dribbled a few drops of her cocktail from her curly straw onto her son's face, which he quickly lapped up, licking her ass-cheek greedily and without shame to extract all the water he could from the present.
"Mom," he rasped, breathless and baking in the humid afternoon "mom, please ..." Debra reached back to touch her little, struggling son, who had spent the last forty minutes working his head out of the sweaty, warm clamp of her ass, and pressed forward, gently engulfing his face within her butt-crack with a silent smile.
"Hush now, sweetie. Thongs don't talk." She said, pressing his tiny head into the smelliest part of her buttcrack. She had to admit, if this weather kept up everyday Philip was going to leave a wonderful, permanent tan line on her bottom. The idea of a piece of body-art celebrating her dominance over her son appealed to Debra's sensibilities - perhaps she would get a tattoo; she had been considering getting "Home Sweet Home" drawn at the top of her buttcrack, but she wasn't sure how often her son would see it and she wasn't sold on the idea of getting something tattooed between her cheeks yet. Apart from Phil, she giggled to herself.
She could easily afford to get it removed anyway, she thought to herself. She could easily afford anything now. With her amazing success at work, she'd remodeled their house, bought a new car, a new kitchen, bathroom bedroom suites, a beautiful plasma television and now every pair of her panties had space for Phil to be strapped into in the back. She had twelve pairs of leather underwear to attach her ass to his fully-grown face whenever she felt in the mood. She could afford to have her friends, her sisters, all her family over whenever she wanted, and what was best was she could force her son to stay in her ass or her shoes throughout the entire thing!
She had no need for companionship, for her little son was always with her, whether trapped underfoot in her shoes or tethered to her generous, rounded behind as he was now. And she felt much better knowing she was forcing him to live with his mother standing on him and putting him up her own bum every day. If it had been any other person then it just wouldn't have been the same. It had to be her son up her bum. That was the best place for him. That was his destiny. She luxuriated at the feeling of his tiny head poking up her buttcrack. He must feel so demoralized, so defeated. She smiled and gently began bouncing those big globes of rear-meat on the deck, clapping them around Phil's tiny head. Debra smirked, knowing this was the life she had thrust him face-first into. Cailie meanwhile had been given the chance to go off to college and, making the most of her opportunity, had graduated with a first class degree and together with the many good friends and connections she had made had allowed her to become a successful and hugely popular Hollywood actress. Wedding bells were on the horizon with her wonderful director boyfriend, and though she was now a wealthy, popular celebrity and complete human being she occasionally found time to come back home and give her little brother a break from life between his mother's butt-cheeks. Rumour had it however that she was even now pitching a script to the major studios involving a mother who turns her son's life around by shrinking him and enforcing some ... strict living conditions.
Phil, however, had spent the past 6 years of his life wedged unwillingly up his own mother's ass-crack. He had been instructed to treat it as his goddess and girlfriend. He was to be intimate, servile and reverent. She had made him spend his life devoting himself to her crack and glorious cheeks, and the space between her buttocks became his natural home. After a few months of walking around with Philip's face strapped into the crack of her ass following his wonderful birthday, Debra shrunk Phil down once again, popped him into her bottom and never looked back. Day after day had gone by where he would wake up to the welcoming clamp of his mother's butt-cheeks on his head, or strapped onto her sole with her toes jostling for position on his battered face, either way with his face buried in her skin and his member embarrassingly hard. Every day of his life she had dominated him utterly, using him as an insole for her shoes and as panties to cover her ass. Phil had to learn about foot massages very early and had to become an expert at washing his mom's sole with his tongue every night because she wanted the last thing in his mouth every day to be either her footjam or butt flesh. He learned to tell whether his mom was having a good day at work by whether she put his face in her shoe under her soft, smelly toes or under her hard, heavy heel. If he was in her panties his job was to absorb her farts so they didn't stink or alert any of her clients to her tension, although of course, he had come to realize she simply loved doing this to him too. And certainly, whenever his mom was really frustrated at work she'd bounce on him while he was dropped onto her leather chair, often jumping into the air and tensing her glutes as hard as she could or grabbing the arms of the chair and slamming her rump down as hard as she could on his little body for minutes at a time. Phil had lost count of the number of times her butt and feet had beaten him over the years and made him black out. Three years ago she enacted a new rule that said Phil could only eat the food that she dropped under her feet or into her buttcrack. One year ago she began occasionally feeding Phil on what escaped from her ass. His mom apparently sent Cailie photos of him eating his "Birthday Cake" this year. Oh, that reminded her ...
*
Phil's head was swimming as he came to - he tried to remember why he'd blacked out but it happened so often it was almost pointless these days. It was almost always to do with his mom's buttocks. Sometimes he was sure when she wedged his head between her cheeks she forgot they were the size of houses to him! He thought it was the heat, but he couldn't be sure. He had been allowed to grow back to his regular size at the least and - *clink!* - what was that? Why were his handcuffs on? He looked behind him and his head hit something ceramic. He - he was handcuffed to the toilet-bowl again. His face paled as he turned around and there was his mom, facing away but looking over her shoulder with a grin like the Cheshire Cat.
"Open wide, Phil!" As she began to sit back and spread her cheeks, looking back to make sure she was "on-target" ...
Oh no, oh no no no no ...
*
"Here sweetie! Dinner time!" She lifted one bulbous cheek off the glittering porcelain of the toilet bowl and spread it, creating an intimate little gap just in front of her anus for her son's head to go. Shuffling forward, Phil pressed his lips against his mom's asshole as she let her awesome hips press down over his face. Gently taking her son's hands she placed them on the floor and rested her soft, slightly wrinkled soles on them. They were a perfect fit, her toes intertwining with her son's hands cutely. She relaxed and her anus began to bulge. After a few seconds of laying back on the toilet, she noticed her son's penis start to lengthen. She giggled as she watched his member rise up like a towering spire as she fed him from her asshole. "My, you're really enjoying this these days, aren't you Phil sweetie?" She teased, squeezing his hands with her feet. There was only the sound of his anxious swallowing.
A few minutes later and she was all done. Phil was still cleaning her asshole but she preferred the sensation of his fully-grown face in her ass right now so she didn't shrink him back, and simply walked back to her rooftop pool, naked but for the strong leather strap burying her son's face in her round rump. Phil was forced to shuffle along on his hands and knees behind her, trapped in a particularly awkward position with his puckered lips against his mom's anal ring. Suddenly his face bumped even more into his mom's butt as she stopped.
"Oh wait, sweetie. I've got a little reward for you." She said, bending down to reach her feet and almost breaking her son's neck by pushing her large hips back into him. "I know you like how my big, smelly feet feel, and I love feeling you under them, so I thought this'd be a nice treat for both of us to remind us that my place is to stand on you and sit on your face." She smiled, as she finished working. In the end, she had attached Phil's open hands to the soft, heavy bottoms of her feet with the same kind of leather strap that had kept his face in her ass for years now. The mother's soles now stood on top of her son's palms, their fingers and toes intertwined as if in a comforting embrace between two lovers, but of course, Phil's mom controlled his life and so the lowest part of her body was bound on top of a precious part of his. She took a minute to wiggle her toes between his fingers and ensure he couldn't forget that his mom was walking on his hands as a treat. Despite himself, Phil liked this. It was like holding hands with a real girl. And his mom's feet were so heavy and soft, it was right that she would hold his hands with her soles. By now he wouldn't know what to do with her hands, but her feet, those he carefully held like the tender embrace of a lover. If he tried really hard, he could almost pretend he was on a walk with his girlfriend. But no, he was face-first up his mother's ass. And then she began walking again. His mom wasn't going lightly, and with every extravagant twist of her hips as she stepped her heels drilled into his palms as she sauntered slowly, deliciously slowly towards the awaiting sundeck where she could see someone was now waiting ...
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obscuraxrp · 7 years
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The smoke settles to reveal LEE JOOEUN, also known as SCARLET, a 21 year old dragon-blooded of Sunseong. She is a singer, television, and radio persionality who appears to be adept in shapeshifting, enhanced strength, and fire manipulation --- but like most things in Sunseong, there must be more to her than meets the eye.
FACECLAIM: lee sunmi, soloist
APPEARANCE:
jooeun has a charm about her; soft features, long, flowing hair, supple and bright skin - an ideal type to many. that’s a great deal to her fame, but behind the flowing blouses and pearly teethed smile hides a dragon. quite literally. scales ranging from deep burgundy through bright pumpkin shades, are a normal part of her life. they dominate each shoulder blade where her wings might appear mid transformation as well as around the achilles of her calf. they shift on their own to breathe, and are usually able to be hidden by clothing and shoes, though need be exposed fully to air for at least 5 hours each day in order for her to stay healthy in her advanced well-being. that, alongside sharpened canines and eyes that shift between shades of orange depending on her mood (often covered by contacts, or assumed to be just that when she doesn’t shield them). when transformed, she gains jagged and beastly looking wings, ears pointed similar to an elf’s, with scales covering her entire body and nails that become rough, long and claw like, and fully sharpened teeth. in partner to this, when she is injured, she can only heal at a hastier speed if she exposes her scales in that very area, but will usually find a private space to do this when needed.
BIOGRAPHY:
WHEN IT COMES 2U:
kindly, loving, adoring, occupied - she is the second. born to a larger ‘family’, already filled with overflowing joy with just one son and what more couldn’t a girl add? she was a complete breath of fresh air, whether a good or bad one. unassuming and quiet, she clung to her brother’s side with vigour everywhere they went, never stopping to point out any oddity thy passed as the world amazed her for its every breadth and width.
not often were they let out of the house, and the idea of stepping further than ten metres away from their parents was absolutely ludicrous. every story they were read was plain, blank, void of character and creativity, but that was the poor reality of how the two flowers bloomed. a year difference meant nothing to them, nor did the subliminal education they were given by the wider community they knew to be more so a family than anything else. the religious texts handed to them for every holiday were clutched between their small hands as any other child might hold a toy car or doll.
ancient languages and scripts were imprinted in their everyday lifestyle, waking at exactly six every morning to feed the farm animals, before going to “class” at mrs. seo’s house. they learnt everything any other young might, and school seemed just as a dread to them and their friends as their neighbours, but things were not so seemingly plain out there.
she was only seven when her beloved brother pulled her aside, covering her with one of his full length coats after she had gone running in the hills and gotten bitten by a mamushi pit viper. she hadn’t cried, nor had she made any noise of disdain, but rather watched her thigh cover itself in some foreign reptile-like skin that shifted with the light. it had taken him only a minute to find her and seem crazily underwhelmed by this alien occurrence. no, he gives her one of the most fearful gazes, mumbling repeated phrases such as “don’t tell mom about this - you cannot.”, “things.. nothing.. i won’t let them do anything to you.” and “don’t worry, just know your older brother,” he gestures to himself with shaking hands, temples damp with sweat “knows how to handle this alright.”.
they return home earlier than expected, mary rushing up to her father to tell him about their day, but not before recalling what abel had said, quieting herself and giving him a short kiss on the cheek. not for another two years does she see much sun, abel unable to let her out of the house in fear someone might see something like that happen again. unsurprisingly, all changes in one class trip into sunseong, which seemed to be bubbling with life. mrs seo was teaching all of the attentive students about the dangers of such big places, the influxes of sinners, the dirty reality of such a materialistic paradise as mary’s eyes stay fascinated with the outside world. everything besides their blackened van was so vibrant, so bright - so new.
the air held something more than the smell of grass and fertilizer, but it held a wholesomeness. music played every corner they turned, and from the peeks of open windows, she could even see the scenes of the city on full; beautiful and dazzling, nothing like she had been told. some words she is unfamiliar with, but the obnoxiously large billboards were enough to tell her the place was flooded with colour in every shape and form. there were girls with short hair, and boys with even longer hair than her’s, their style jumping out at her in comparison to the modest blue and white she was all too familiar with back in the countryside.
they are let out for a thirty-minute expedition, oddly enough, as they’d only been offered freedom into nowhere in the past. she wishes to stay by her brother’s side, but he disappears before she could say “lost”. her head goes wild, her feet making jagged steps along the abandoned sidewalk as she feels as though she’s being watched with every movement she makes. was this the feeling abel had talked about? was this why he always had shivers down his spine when he went to the weekly sermon and had to take communion as one of the church’s favorite pupils of their holiest god. at the thought of him, she remembers a new word he’d taught her on the way through the mountains to sunseong: library. a (forbidden) place of learning, peaceful, and what he said might be his favorite place when he moved out.
she couldn’t fathom what he meant by move out a few hours ago. why would they ever leave the safe haven that was their circle of households. but now, she almost understands. she encountered a concerned storekeeper, and all she could think to say was library. thank goodness for coincidence, for she was only a five minute wander away.
abel was not wrong. the place was grand and gorgeous like he had described. she falls easily into the pile of children sitting around reading happily, settling next to a kind looking older girl with a stack of books beside her. instinctually, she starts picking up everything else this girl discards and soon enough catches her attention. not consensually - rather, mary has to ask her what 5 words mean every chapter she reads. what certain places are, movie names mean. funnily enough, they end up getting along swell and sharing what her newfound friend, jieun, had for lunch. something delicious called seaweed, and a very funny looking bread called a bagel with jieun’s favorite toppings. she called them ‘cream cheese and salmon’, and they were most delicious.
for two hours, she is a normal kid, living the life of any other sunseong resident. she even rents some books out she thinks abel would just adore; gulliver’s travels, tintin, asterix, the little prince, and heidi. some hour later, she stumbles across a frantic looking mrs seo, who grabs her arm in a frenzy before dragging her behind her, oblivious to the literature mary assumed that might just be snatched away from her the moment she stepped back into their hyundai. when she sees her brother, he tugs her beside him and seizes her bag of goods, stuffing it under their seat as he gave her a subtle wink. it is all she needs to see to take a deep breath out, and wave goodbye to the darker, but still thriving township as they drove away.
DON’T BE BLIND, WATCH ME SPEAK FROM MY HEART:
upon her arrival, she doesn’t return home. she has no time to stuff those books beneath her mattress, just like abel did every time he returned from trips to the church, or better, the nearby village.
instead of a mundane, slightly delayed supper, she is torn away from her horrified looking sibling by men exclaiming ‘monster’. screams ripping loud form her vocal chords with chaotic purpose, unlike any life she’d known to live in her 12 years before. her skin rages with heat against the cold, being torn from every sepia-filtered reality she had ever seen, all against her will, an uncomfortable fire rising in the pits of her soul that crawls up the back of her throat. she sees something similar to a pleased smile on both of her parent’s faces, and something clicks. as she is dragged along a dirt road, face smothered in tears, a sharp shiv against the already torn up scales covering her exposed neck and shoulder, the ground begins to move.
well, in actuality, it is her that shakes the ground. things turn a blur for those surrounding her figure, no mary in sight, but instead, some beastly body twisting and turning into something even worse than they could’ve expected from their little girl. covered in jagged scales, horns raising from her skull impatiently, shifting in the light to reveal something out of a storybook, or a thriller, you can decide a preference. fire in it’s eyes, terrifying her audience quite well. during her transition, those same perpetrators do not notice their surroundings burning slowly, breaking out into hellfire at the tip of only a thirteen-year-old boy’s hands. there is not a moment to question anything, mary’s feet moving on their own back down toward the midnight highway pushing through the comfortable confines of flame, hoping to encounter the same presence of her brother she felt strong enough in her frantic sprint.
bare feet press on beneath her, against the rugged and cool dirt road.
no one follows her far enough to see her fall from instant exhaustion at the bottom of the path. for what she can know, anyhow.
CLEAR YOUR HEAD, AIN’T GOTTA WAKE UP TO AN EMPTY BED
when she awakens, she shares a seat with a familiar smelling someone. when her eyes open, adjusting to the light, abel is beside her in his pajamas, two bags crowding his lap filled with what had to be a collection of necessities and reading. the scene is picturesque as she rises to her knees, gazing outside to see an unfamiliar and barren looking view of fields, upon fields, upon fields. not until she is offered a mandarin by a kind old lady behind her does her attention spiral to the events she had just gone through. nibbling away at the sweet, her hands shake her resting sibling urgently waiting for an explanation. something had turned dramatically, and she demanded to know where they were. what’d happened? if they were okay.
it surprises her when all she gets is a sigh, and a minute or so later, he says something barely clear enough for her to interpret right beside him. “that was not home. home is together, now.”. she doesn’t know what he means and continues annoying him with everything she could think of to question, but all she gets is one worded answers until she says something that’d been weighing on her shoulders long enough, “why do i have scales like a snake?”, which at this point he had snapped at her to whisper her woes before she shouts them. he merely says that people like them are different, and cannot be seen like that in society. when they go outside, if they showed what they were, it would only cause havoc and violence, for that is all humans are good at.
he hands her his notebook, offering some further narrative for the next four hours, before telling her the truth. enough of it, anyway. she doesn’t know what exactly a cult is, but she knows to duck if she ever sees anyone of that place again, and that all they wanted from them was the blood of a mag. something higher, godly - exactly that greed they were taught profusely to refuse. ironic, abel chuckled, flipping the pages of his psalms book, not before tossing it out of the aperture above them without another glance. she winces, still not quite comprehending what was happening around her, and why he was being so uncharacteristically crass.
for she was meant to be home. collecting the eggs from the chicken pen, reciting her morning prayer… yet, she felt something very right about not living along that regime. she said rebellion and he shook his head with a laugh, explaining that from now on, they would be able to sleep in just like the characters in the stories he read her nightly. that maybe they wouldn’t be able to live together anymore, but that didn’t mean thy’ never see each other again. that hopefully, they’d become those endearing siblings that relied on each other like the solar system did the sun.
SHARE MY LIFE, IT’S YOURS TO KEEP
certain parts of life are but a dream. hiking to a police station and expecting to be sent straight to an orphanage with nothing but a birth certificate certifying ages and telling the two their real names, is one of those things. they’re received somewhat kindly for children, but seem to be far more of a foreign kind of entertainment for them. all that is offered to them is a motel residence that would be paid for until their situation was ‘resolved’.
suffice to say, abel had them quickly out of that deal by claiming they were merely overwhelmed by the cold weather and were in fact lost on their way home and wanted to find a place for warmth. at far better grips with his abilities, he has a hotel lobbyist invite them to stay in a single room as long as he stopped looking at her with that intense fire in his gaze. they were lucky to both be relatively charming, or their first week in sunseong might have been an even worse of an experience.
though they were severely unaware of anything happening around them, and may more so than abel, her brother seemed to have the place mapped in his mind, and only took a few turns from their residence to find an underground system of those considered more super.
they say dragons are directly related to gold, and they aren’t wrong. the two had been swept up kindly by a man who couldn’t have been more out of place. dressed casually, he was fifteen years older than him and spoke as if the group had been younger cousins that he’d known for their lifetime. with a bounce in his step, he offered abel the opportunity to utilize his natural ability with numbers and picking up concepts, and for his labor, they couldn’t receive a proper education.
holding onto life dearly as things flew past was new for her, but mary figured out in the first few circumstances sleeping in the trees with literal fire in her hands that she had no extra second to question. things, no matter where she was, came in cycles. for the first two years in their new hometown, she learned to reject any knowledge or religious affiliation with her past life. by nature, she was a noble and respectful person, believing that her potential as beast blooded was unimaginably valuable. she doesn’t understand much of who she is, and so does what abel does, and paints herself new.
she’s the theatre junkie, plaid-clad and totally admirable lee jooeun. captain of the junior volleyball team, apprentice of infamous accountant kim tan, a man she recalls saved her from the harshest of street side living. that wasn’t true, of course, and she desperately wanted to credit her beloved sibling but alas, he wished to stay irrelevant. he was happy to see her fitting in, whether it be with the mask of someone he could never imagine loving as a sister. not in a bad way, but in the sense that she was incredibly unfamiliar to him. and to herself, also.
as he learned to study and earn, she was given time to advance what she had. jooeun was particularly talented in the physical aspects of being a beast blooded dragon. her transformations were slowly becoming effortless and flawless, despite leaving her tired and peckish. she excelled in hiding herself efficiently, and that she didn’t enjoy, but saw as necessary. no one ever put her under suspicion, and she intended it keep it that way.
this is exactly how she is discovered. standing in the rain, uniform kept dry by a stranger’s umbrella, asking her what kind of a singer she was. the thought never came to her that music class was so enjoyable for such a reason. within months she was whisked into a life of faux luxury and intense training to be Korea’s next top soloist at 16.
and so it becomes. news articles; tabloid covers; magazine spreads; editorials; runways; dramas - she does more than well. ‘with the face of an angel and the stare of an ever alluring demon’ is one that makes even abel laugh heartily, earring her a whack across the head and a yell telling her to focus more on her homework before being sent off to a recording the next day.
like a high speed train missing it’s final stop, jooeun has been late to everything in life she could imagine. but now, with all eyes on her, she had even less time to stop and smell the roses. she’d have to pick them and store them for later, for god forbid anyone ever get a break around here.
CHARACTERIZATION:
INTO THE ARMS OF ANGELS;
jooeun is someone very frantic and disorganised, thanks to not really knowing what’s happening when she doesn’t have her phone alerting her to reminders every other minute
she still strives to be like her brother though, and tends to get anxious about the smaller things and how those will plan out and usually just lets life pass her by like so
she only now is starting to see the negative effects of this, and tries to practise meditation, but always gets caught up in her thoughts so resorts to a lot of driving in early hours of the morning once she forgets she has a comeback stage six hours in the future
she’s very proud of her heritage, and tried to learn as much as she can about it, but it’s expected that some days she can’t overplay much anything with such a squeaky clean image that she has
though, has fallen through some scandals before with some risky fancams and photos that have had to have been taken down on various forums and shoved under a very crammed rug
DESPITE all of this, she still always finds a way to laugh, and knows better than anyone that enjoying your life while it’s lasts as free as it is makes for the best memories
memories, speaking of, hold conflicting values for jooeun
because she’d never seen the worse parts of what went on behind the childhood she lived but she knows from all the news reports and historical figures on their society how absolutely horrible it could’ve gotten had they not left
even though she had only pleasant things to remember until the final evening where everything just turned into hellfire
though, integrating into modern day Korean society wasn’t easy
she let herself learn as much as possibly and refused to be ignorant or arrogant, but completely dropped religion along with her brother and since she can’t discuss her history she just tries to be there for her fans struggling in unsafe households or upbringings of a different sort
her heart is filled with love for her job as it is her beast blooded-ness, even though it is her income, she can’t help but fall into a trance when she performs
because music, no matter where you are, jooeun believes it provides freedom that anyone strives for. it can form a nation, and keep one together that holds onto slithers of what it once was, no matter the conflicting opinions
and she wants her music to inspire, comfort, and provide a feeling of happiness and joy to her audience, and thus becomes somewhat of a workaholic whenever she has music to produce and perform
to her, money is something that must be treasured and invested well, and belong solely to one person otherwise it becomes a waste of time and space. typique dragon.
the truth is valuably, but lies have been the most constant part of her life and thus, she’s always been one to question the nature of people around her and tries to make her life easy enough to cut people off
when in public, she’s seen as something similar to the nation’s daughter, absolutely adored as she has an infamous rep for no scandalous rumours enough to actually prove anything apart from the fact she was… a dragon
she had her fair share of disdain thrown her way in any advantages she could’ve taken as someone with magic at her fingertips, but she always stood strong in her belief that those like her wished for peace and home, too
as someone from a cult who understand the weight of religion’s extremities, she is very openly atheist and believes in no god, which can become problematic with the wider christian population of south korea when she speaks of it on live television with seemingly no motive to her dislike
feels no debt to the system, and a certain amount of prejudice again human kind, but learnt mercy and naivety once more over her teenage years, and strives to become someone able to love before she can even think of hating.
SPECIALTIES:
from her dragon ancestry, she gains the ability of magical awareness alongside a minor ability of forecasting the weather, though similar to most other young beast blooded it is not well refined enough to be considered special
shapeshifting (rank two, 40 POINTS) she is able to take on both between and full fledged draconic forms; her scales adding durability, hearing becomes enhanced as she has more surface area to discover echo, talons, allows naturally easier access to her natural magics as well as her wings, giving her the power of flight and consequently speed (to certain extents). it is something she practices most, as it is where she’s most confident in the beauty that comes with being beast blooded, not the beast people assume people like her to be. control over her human body is usually well executed, unless she’s particularly tired, mindless or drunk, and consequently ends up in her most comfortable form (currently), her half transformation.
enhanced strength (rank two, 40 POINTS) against most other beast blooded, jooeun often prevailed as one far more physically versed in her heritage. whilst abilities that take more mental strength, such as sensitivity to magical and spiritual activity, are important she has always found it far easier to utilise her body’s advantages in combat. it was born into her, but she has also made it clear and established it is with her own hard work has she begun to uncover her ability to take more straining acts easily against opponents, such as withstanding injury or harm in physical combat easier, a specialty of hers.
fire manipulation (rank one, 20 POINTS) one skill that has taken her what feels aeons to even understand, her control is chaotic, but there. she can, for example, control the lighting and extinguishing of a fire place or lightbulb. jooeun can create smaller flames within her palms in human form. almost all of her fire power is produced from her hands, or at least, thats where she is the strongest, and has also got the ability of being able to raise her temperature and withstand heat/burning at a better level than most other beast blooded in either dragon, natural of human form.
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New Post has been published on https://fitnesshealthyoga.com/6-ways-your-house-is-making-you-sick/
6 Ways Your House is Making You Sick
Image Courtesy : Mark McCammon via pexels.com
This winter has been uncomfortably cold for Hyderabad. Interestingly, prior to the cold was the season of allergy when almost everyone was or still is suffering from cold and cough and flu and what not. Changing seasons are hard on the body, especially when your immune system is not at its best. But, did you know that your house is making you sick?
The dust mites, mold, cockroaches and pollens could be the foremost reasons for your headaches, congestion, sinus and even mental health.The interesting part is that these culprits continue staying in your house making you sick long after the allergy season is over. The situation can worsen to trigger allergic asthma.
Usually, in these situations there is not much you can really do except trying to eliminate the dust mites, mold and pollen from your house as much as possible or prevent their entry. Beware that these miscreants can enter your house along with you, your clothes, footwear and even the windows.
6 Ways Your House is Making You Sick
Letting the Dust Accumulate
Let me start with describing my own home. We get a lot of dust owing to the fact that the area is undergoing lot of construction and the main road traffic. And, yours truly has lately been guilty of not dusting regularly which leads to a good amount of dust accumulation.
Always start dusting with a wet cloth to avoid moving the dust or spreading it into the air.
This increases the dust mites in the house and worse is that they can come from presence of dust anywhere. So, cleaning your window sills and balcony is just as important as dusting your bedside table or the dining table.
Practically, it is not possible to clean everything everyday so creating a weekly routine helps reduce the accumulation of dust and preventing the increase in dust mites.
High Humidity Levels
Our house is on the ground floor with five floors above. Usually, the ground floor houses are colder than the ones above. Turns out the humidity levels and danger of mold setting in are also high.
Whenever we sleep in our guest bedroom, we wake up with cold head, sinus or a bedhead. The reason is it does not get direct light or air and gets stuffy when it is closed completely. You can smell the humidity in that room.
Another reason for high humidity is lot of indoor plants. Keep them outside during the colder months. Get a humidifier, if necessary.
Higher humidity levels can trigger headaches, cold and encourage mold to set in, especially in the mattress. They also affect the sleep quality which is why it is important that your bedrooms are well-aired and well-ventilated.
Open all your doors and windows for proper air ventilation. Change your bed sheets and bed covers often to avoid the mold from setting in. Air your mattress in natural light or let it dry once in a while.
Ignoring Other Fixtures and Furnishings
Anything fabric including carpets, curtains, upholsteries can help trap the dust mites. The other usual places are fans, false ceilings, light fixtures, art pieces and stuffed toys. You can not clean them daily but a regular vacuum schedule should be good.
Clean the Vacuum Cleaner after every single use.
Stuffed toys are fine as long as you stay away from them and they are out of your way. Though if you have children, it is better to keep two or three favorites which are washable for regular use. Similarly, use light curtains which can be washed easily in your machine.
Carpets work great as decor but if you can do without them, even better. Another of the prime sources of dust is vacuum cleaner. Clean the dust bag after every single use to avoid spreading the dust and bacteria back into your house.
Not Washing Bed Linen Often
Our bed linen provides them the perfect place thanks to the sweat and dead skin it accumulates every night we sleep in.
Dust mites and mold spores like to thrive in our bed linen including the pillows, bed sheet and comforters or duvets. This is why you must wash your bed linen regularly in hot water. Use a mattress protector to control dust and mold that might settle on the mattress directly.
Lack of Fresh Air
Whenever I wake up early, my first job is to open all the curtains and doors to let the fresh air in. Nothing feels better than that!
Lack of fresh air causes the house smell musty and stuffy. Make sure to run the chimneys for a little longer after you have cooked to clear out the air completely. Avoid piling dishes or standing water in the sinks.
Let your washrooms dry properly after you have showered to avoid the tiles building up mold. Leave the bathroom door open for sometime to let the humidity escape.
Letting Outside Footwear In
May be keeping the shoe stand outside the house is a better idea!
There is a reason why we are suggested to leave the footwear shoes outside. They can bring in all kinds of pollen and dust and bacteria and other foreign and undesirable elements into the house.
Keep separate pair of slippers for using inside the house. But, make sure you do wear slippers. The dust on the floor can not only affect your health and sleep but it can cause damage to your skin as well. Cracked heels are just the start.
Avoiding dust and allergens in a tropical country like India is impossible but with a few rules of hygiene, you can reduce the chances. Washing your hands and legs, changing the footwear and cleaning the paws of your pet are a few starters. Taking care of your house is a much important as taking care of yourself.
Till then, Swathy!
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dandytanaka-blog · 7 years
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Timeless
A girl struggles against the pain of her memories as she searches for closure from her grandfather and, ultimately, a way to find the road to happiness. 
By Tanaka Dandy~
Timeless
 There is a clock that sits in a field made up of browned summer grass that sticks up like a broken rib through cracks of cement winding and weaseling from fence to fence. Across from a clock that seems to be squatting now is a plain brown bench, made up of driftwood planks and held together by chewed up gum bits and the syrup of coke spit out under the sun.  
 There is a girl who sits here, on this driftwood bench, near this mundane clock, in jeans faded an Easter egg blue and a shirt striped green on white with stains from kids she plays with in the pleasant heat of California days. Her hair is long and her black locks intermix with the brown of the bench and the sunlight that wanders through its aged planks. Around her neck hangs a silver locket, worn and beaten from love and time, and little beads of sweat dance against the back of the chain, gluing it to her chest. She buys the same sugar bread from an older woman who sits on a corner outside a shop named, “Street Shop,” about a five-minute walk away from the park.
 She finishes off the sugary bread on her walk, of course.
 She sits on the bench wriggling open her locket as she sheds a tear or two. As soon as the locket clicks open, it drops from her fingers, and from then on she doesn’t stir from her perch upon the bench until night comes and it’s time for sleep again.
 Occasionally a student decides to take a shortcut home through the park for a week or so, and wonders what exactly this beautiful girl in blue jeans and an almost white t-shirt sees, staring at a perfectly plain clock for the entirety of an everyday afternoon.
 They never ask though, as she continues her staring at the clock, and there’s a feeling, deep down in their hearts, that it’s better that they not know.
 Sometimes words are not adequate answers.
 Today we follow this girl home. She walks in ripped, purple converse up a hill, taking a left and then a right and another right.
 After her door clicks open, she kicks off her shoes using the sole of her left foot and the polished wood of the floor. There are green plants in red buckets, both dead and alive, that surround an entry way filled with shoes and abandoned hair ties.
 We move, and she sits in her room now, propped against a yellow wall with a picture book that begs us in and shows us another time.
 This same girl is little now, next to a grandfather that’s tying a brand-new locket around her neck. They’re both smiling in the mist of the memory as we watch.
We move again, to another scene filled with a handshake between the girl’s grandfather and a tall, lanky man in a suit.
 Post handshake, he sits in his office at a large, black desk made from the wood of what used to be a surely strong tree. His little granddaughter from earlier is propped up at her own black desk cut from the same tree just a few feet away. She plays with toys, building a skyscraper out of yellow and red Lego pieces, heavy on the back of the wood her elbows press against.
 “Why are you so happy today, grandfather?” the girl asks.
 “I’ve got my first job in a very long time,” her grandfather answers back.
 Circled around the room are drawings and sketches of rather large buildings and warped clock faces with interesting hands shaped more like pipes than tellers of time. They are all rubbed with charcoal on yellowed pages and held up by thumbtacks and the frayed ends of next-door neighbor pieces.
 Our girl gets up, rubbing her fingers like pulled rubber erasers over the charcoal that floats off the pages and into the air.
 “Aren’t designs supposed to be sharp drawings, grandfather?” the girl asks. For a brief moment, though, the little girl we see asking her grandfather questions has aged into her older self, and turns around to hear her mentor’s answer.  
 Her grandfather looks up and smiles; he hasn’t missed a beat.
 “Darling, I’ve got a secret to tell you, and it’s that I’m not very good at making building designs at all,” he responds.
 “Then how could you ever dream of making a clock tower?” the aged girl asks. She can’t look at him now, her eyes stuck to wood floor that rests, satisfied catching charcoal dust at the bottoms of her sockless feet.
 “I think that’s just it; I’m only dreaming, Love. Sometimes, though, life has a way of spinning those dreams up and into stars,” he says, smiling as he looks up at her.
 Our girl’s aged veneer vanishes here, and a little girl looks at her grandfather, bearing a timeless smile that we’ve never seen before.
 We watch from behind our clock-watcher girl from before as her younger counterpart scampers back to her own desk to work again on her very own skyscraper buildings, pushing away her Lego pieces in favor of long cuts of paper.
 The clock-watcher girl smiles at a photo of her grandfather with his arm wrapped around his little girl as she sketches buildings from her runaway night dreams, wondering just how far back her memories go.
 Back in our picture book world, the old man moves back to his desk and his trusty charcoal.
 “Do you know Love, what hard work really is?” he asks his young girl.
 “You keep going and going grandfather,” she answers back.
 “That’s very close,” he responds.
 “No I mean you keep going on and on about hard work, grandfather,” she quips.
 “Well that’s true, but I think it’s important, you know,” he says, getting up to hang another drawing on his wall.
 The sketch is simply the first layer of a very tall building.
 “Everyday you wake up, you become a different person, completely separate from the person you were yesterday. All the work you put in, say on a Monday, is really going to benefit you on Tuesday, and the same goes for every day, day after day,” he starts.
 The little girl, with eyes that dart across the room in search for answers, rubs her fingers back and forth across the right corner of her drawing paper.
 But our picture book-viewer is glued to the aged pages of her book with fingers fraying against the jagged corners of a leather bound cover, as she struggles with ears that seem quite ready to bleed to hear her grandfather’s words.
 The back of her skull feels tight, stretched with anxiety as her memories fight against the passage of time.
 “Until one day, this drawing I have will finally be complete, and not just on paper, but in the world we walk in; there’ll be a clock that we can look at together, my darling,” her grandfather’s words finally seep back into her brain.
 “What will it look like grandfather?” the little girl asks.
 Her grandfather turns around, with a huge smile on his face.
 He sees his little girl, we know, but it feels like his eyes look far beyond, out of the range of his pasted black and white photo to the eyes of his granddaughter, grown now, crying with her shoulders against the back of her bedroom door.
 “It’ll be oh so beautiful my dear,” both the grandfather and his older granddaughter say.  
 “Let me describe it for you,” her grandfather says, taking out a big piece of a paper from a huge roll.
 “There will be water that shoots out of the hands that tell time and staircases that move like elevators, leading up to the very top where people will play cards and tell stories about dragons and dancing. And there will be food, so much food!” the grandfather shouts, drawing huge plans with crumbling charcoal on ripping paper. The design seems still on paper but the charcoal flying through the air makes the building feel alive and breathing.
 The little girl laughs and cracks around the room like a freshly lit, popping firecracker. Her grandfather grabs her by the hand and dances her around in circles.
 Magic permeates throughout the room now, and the dust that has gathered on the edges of every corner of the room floats up, filling the space and transforming the air into a mass that looks quite like outer space. Here a girl and her grandfather dance on the edges of galactic existence.
 “And the tower will stand high above the land so as soon as you walk out your door, from your very own steps you’ll be able to see it, hanging in the sky, and you’ll know I’ll be there, too, enjoying my very fine clock,” the grandfather lets out, smiling with his eyes closed as the space around him moves and vibrates.
 “Will people come from miles and miles away to see it grandfather?” the little girl asks.
 “Oh certainly my dear, it’ll be a grand ole thing to see. People will come from all over the world,” her grandfather replies.
 And so they smiled and danced the night away on the surfaces of stars and planets with exploding cores and funny rock faces.
 They stayed for months, just like that, in a process of school ending and dream building. A summer spent in an old office, just a grandfather drawing and telling his granddaughter all about the music his design would bring to the world.
 She listened and he talked and together they created happiness in and for each other.
 We move forward now, to another page of this picture book. Here among the charcoaled pages is a picture of the girl’s grandfather, sullenly shaking hands with a lanky man in a dark suit just outside his office door.
 The picture moves and changes, and we see the little girl’s grandfather picking her up from school, and as they walk, she talks.
 “Why do you look so sad today, grandfather?” the little girls asks.
 “Oh, it appears the plans for my clock have been finalized, Love,” he says, cracking a smile.
 “That’s great grandfather! Can you show me where it’ll be?” the little girl asks, dancing and shaking in front of his heavy legs.
 There is a grandness of not knowing across her face, solidified in the levity of her eyelids as they move up and down freely. The whiteness of her teeth reminds us of all the coffee we’ve ever had, and we’re glad she’s never had a sip.
 “Sure, my dear,” her grandfather replies back.
 They pass through the park we visited with our older girl earlier, now empty save for the bench. There is no clock to pass the time.
 “They can fit your tower here grandfather, can they?” the little girl asks, shrugging her shoulders as she crunches through the grass, examining the confines.
 “No, I don’t think they will, Love,” her grandfather replies. He wears a smile, like someone who’s preparing to say goodbye, just as the door cracks open for their big, scary adventure.
 There are tears running down his face, but he is tall and mighty and no little girl will see the hands of this old clock run down.
 “Then why’d you agree to put it here, hmm?” she asks him.
 “Well, I think, it’s timeless, and no place should be so,” he replies.
 “What funny phrases you know, grandfather,” the little girls says.
 She pulls him forward, tugging his hand home.
 “Let’s go back and talk more about the clock grandfather!” she shouts, a finger pointed in the wrong direction.
 He smiles, as he’s pulled back home by the happiness of youth, so utterly out of time and sucked out of space.
 And here we are again, in this studio, as a little girl dances alone while her grandfather sits, sweating over a piece of paper at his desk. He never draws, and he never speaks; he only drinks coffee, occasionally laughing at his granddaughter’s dancing the winter away.
 We turn another page, and the smell of spring wafts in as we watch a grandfather picking up his granddaughter from school.
 “Today we’re going to see your clock, right grandfather?” the girl asks, twisting around in her scarf and school uniform.
 Her grandfather doesn’t answer, his eyes glued to the sky above as they walk side by side through the park gate.
 Directly across from the bench stands a single clock face, devoid of stairs like elevators and water spout hands, planted on the cement of a single pole.
 “I’m sorry,” her grandfather cries, as his little girl approaches the clock. He falls to his knees, bone against the hot pavement, beaten.
 He lets go of her hand.
 “It seems that for all of my pretty words,” he continues, “all I could muster for you was this rackety thing.”
 The girl has moved forward, and she dances around the clock.
 For a moment, her grandfather swears he can see drops on the tips of her hair form waterfalls like clock hands as she dances in the sky above him.
 “Do you think I’ll ever be able to climb all the way to the top grandfather?” the girl asks, jumping and reaching for the very tip of the clock.
 “Oh darling, I think one day you’ll fly,” her grandfather replies, getting back up off of his knees.
 The brilliance of his smile returns as they dance one more time in the heat of a yesterday summer. We can see the brilliance of a simple clock in a timeless park with an ordinary bench like one of the gigantic wonders of the world, with waterfalls for hands and lights that shine like a morning sun over high mountains.
 We move forward again to a photo of a simple note left on a desk that, undoubtedly, our little girl will discover.
 I’m sorry.
 There is a bottle of pills, opened and emptied next to the note. Our little girl looks to her left, through an open door, and disappears.
 We jump from the picture book, barely escaping as its ends slam shut, and see our older girl, her back pressed against the cool wood of her door.
 She holds a worn version of her locket in her hand.
 I think I cried too much.
   The sun comes out over the park once more, and we, out of her memories, see our girl walk into the park and find her bench. She sits, hauntingly still, against the brown bench held together by melted coke syrup and abandoned gum.
 We expect that as her eyes move towards the clock, we will see that same plain, cement statue, erected atop the ashes of her grandfather’s greatest dream. We expect to remember, just as she does, the pain of memory, born from the pages of that magical photo book she keeps at home.
 This time is different.
 When we move our eyes, just as she does, we see the clock as she truly sees it: a grand clock with waterfalls for hands and a party scene erupting from the very top, taller than any skyscraper in London or Japan. The scene is complete with a grandfather and his little girl dancing through the mist gathering thanks to the waterfalls above.
 “You’ve made a beautiful thing, you have,” the little girl laughs, twirling in the shadows.
 The magic of the moment fades, though, and our little girl and grandfather are whisked away like dust in the night’s breeze, leaving only the cement clock and brown bench behind. The pain of a love long gone remains.
 Rain begins to fall over the scene, and just as our girl is ready to gather her emotions again and retreat, a small boy made only of bones and a black jumper with a rotten violin resting on his left shoulder glides like a ghost over the cement to the bench where our girl sits.
 As he floats atop the cement like a bird skimming against the foam of a lake, notes play into the scene and the cold air of the night begins to shift; the change makes the scene feel like a painting, full of the colors, tints and shades that make up memories like the ones we saw in the picture book of a grandfather and his granddaughter.
 Instead of passing through the park amidst the rain like the average passerby from every day since her grandfather’s passing, the boy with the violin chooses to take a seat on the bench next to the girl as musical notes erupt from his skinless fingers and breathe life unto the scene.
 Time seems incapable of passing in this moment, and our girl’s heart begins to burn with an inescapable heat, rising from the deepest wells of her chest the more she watches drops of rain slip into the absolute coldness of the skeleton boy’s abandoned eye sockets.
 There is fear beating in her chest, amidst the flames of the rising heat, and she can feel it in the shaking of the raindrops around her, too. But she doesn’t leave, and it feels like she never will.
 Notes continue to play, and she sits still, attempting to figure out how to truly hear them.
 In this new world, filled with notes and spinning on an axis of sound, our girl escapes the drowning rain of her usual life. The crumbling of the ground beneath her stops, and the loneliness of her memories is filled with the togetherness of the music that dances around her. This skull boy has given life to the field around them, but more importantly, has given life back to the girl who sits on the bench.
 Here she is happy.
 As the feeling in her chest grows and the music plays on, the dancing pair, whisked away before, returns to the space under the clock. Water begins to cycle through the clock again and voices can be heard laughing from atop the growing clock tower.
 She listens to the skeleton boy play his songs and even as she closes her eyes, she still feels her younger self moving through the air and spitting on what the world says should be.
 She slowly opens her eyes, and though her grandfather continues to move some safe distance away to the rhythm of the song, her younger self proceeds to move towards her.
 “Would you like to trade places?” her younger self enquires, a hand outstretched.
 The notes around her push her forward as she stumbles up and off the bench as her younger self takes her place.
 The little girl sits with a smile, and reaches for the hand of the skeleton boy who has played his last note for the night. The cold sockets in his skull have never looked more like eyes.
 “I’ll be watching for a while,” the little girl says, disappearing with the skeleton boy into the black night behind our girl as she moves forward toward her grandfather.
 A new rain begins to fall, as our girl stands, breathless, in front of a recently materialized, huge clock tower.
 “Come on, Love, it’s time we go inside,” she hears from behind her.
 There, standing behind her and admiring the façade of his beautiful clock tower with hands made like waterfalls, is her grandfather, with a worn down palm outstretched and a welcoming smile.
 “It’s very cold out, in this rain, you know,” he says, motioning towards the door.
 The pathway she remembers from her own world has turned into a busy street, filled with cars that rush and zoom past them.
 “Just walk, my dear, and you’ll be quite alright,” her grandfather says.
 And so, she walks amidst the traffic with her own hand outstretched, perfectly balanced in a blend of rushing cars and precious space.
 We move forward, after she steps onto the concrete sidewalk, as a scene of the two in an elevator emerges from the rainy fog.
 “I’ve missed you grandfather,” our girl says, clicking her heels together under her very own watchful gaze.
 “Oh my dear, but not nearly as much as I have missed you,” her grandfather says, putting his arm around her shoulder.
 “That simply cannot be true, you in your tower and all,” she replies.
 “You know, the interesting thing about hard work, Love,” he says.
 “I know, I know grandfather,” she interrupts.
 “Is that looking back on it can make you so very sad,” he finishes.
 The elevators open, and he beckons her out with a smile on his face that rekindles the heat in her chest. There are questions she knows not to ask, but she can barely keep them inside the stretching of her stomach.
 We see here, atop the grand clock tower, people dancing, eating and singing alongside beautiful scenes of boys playing violins on beautifully brown, big benches and couples kissing set to the backdrop of an imaginary world’s skyline.
 Our girl stands with her grandfather, gazing out at the skyline through the rain, a rich ice cream in one hand and her head resting on her grandfather’s coat-covered shoulder.
 A cup of coffee shakes in his right hand as he enjoys a beautiful view of the city from his very own clock tower.
 “Why do you still drink coffee grandfather?” the girl asks.
 “Why does the sun shine?” he responds.
 “Well it’s not burned out yet, I suppose,” she replies back.
 “And I’m not quite burned out yet either, I suppose,” says her grandfather.
 “I don’t think you’re quite the Sun grandfather. I think this tower is the Sun,” she says, rubbing her fingers along the grooves and edges of the statues that sit atop the building. She can feel charcoal dust singe the very end of the skin on her fingers.
 “Being the man who created the Sun would be an awful gig, I think,” her grandfather replies.
 “That’s the one thing you can do grandfather. You always say the dandiest things,” she replies back.
 Those dandy words bring a smile to our girl’s face as she tries to bury her nose in her grandfather’s warm coat shoulder.
 “How does it feel to have your own tower, grandfather? Exactly the way you imagined?” she asks, nestled in his coat.
 “It feels timeless, and that’s not a feeling anybody ought to have, I think,” he responds.
 “How’s that?” she asks. Her face contorts up and away from his shoulder and we see them now, standing under the awning of the tower, shielded from the rain, more distant than ever.
 We zoom in on her grandfather.
 “You want to know the interesting thing about life my dear,” he starts, “it’s like every time you find something you quite like, you come to find it’s not really there at all. It’s not like you can reach out and touch it; you can’t grasp it and you can’t feel it. The average person who walks by can’t see it or smell it, and sometimes even your friends don’t know it’s there. That is, unless they’re special people.”
 We see our girl, mesmerized and taken back by her grandfather to summer heat office days.
 “But the fact that it’s not there, like right in front of you, well, I say that doesn’t matter one bit, you know,” he argues with himself, “because if you close your eyes, it’s all around you.”
 “Finding a good song, well maybe that same meaning isn’t something everybody else can hear, but you hear it, and you hear it the most when you close your eyes and really listen” he says.
 “Sometimes you make a clock that sits on a cement pole in an ordinary park and that clock has ordinary hands,” the grandfather continues, “and the people you thought loved you can’t help but laugh at you.”
 He stops here, his sky-gazing coming to an end as he turns toward his fully-grown granddaughter.
 “But then you close your eyes and you dance around with your granddaughter, and it feels like you’re moving under a clock with hands like waterfalls and lights that stretch for miles, and it’s real all over again,” he closes.
 “You sound like you’ve been reading too much poetry grandfather,” she responds, trying not to hang on his every word.
 “On the contrary, I sound like I’ve never read a bit of poetry in my life,” he answers back.
 They stand here for a while, watching the rain slip over the edges of the clock tower awning.
 “If you thought dancing with me was really that beautiful, grandfather, why’d you leave?” she asks, not exactly hoping for an answer.
 “I was weak, it seems, Love,” he responds, “and sadly, there isn’t too much more to life than that. Moments of weakness and strength and not much else in-between.”
 “I would have danced with you forever, under the light of our very own clock tower” she says.
 She looks at him, entirely unafraid.
 “Life is made of beauty my dear, all kinds of it. But none of it should be timeless. There is beauty now, in this moment, and we’re living and feeling it, and there’s beauty tomorrow that we’ll chase for as long as we can, as long as we’re alive,” he starts out.
 He stands up now and outstretches a hand under the rain.
 “But if you keep looking back, at the beauty of yesterday, and what was, then you’re simply looking at beauty that doesn’t belong to you anymore. It belongs to all the versions of you that came before, that felt yesterday’s beauty in the moment,” he ends.
 “You make things seem so wonderful, sometimes, grandfather,” she says.
 She clutches the locket around her neck.
 “It’s only because you’re here to listen,” he answers back.
 “Wouldn’t you like it if I stayed here forever?” she asks him, facing him now.
 “Living in the past is like stealing all the happiness from all the people you were before. There is a you that lives here, forever with me, but you’re not that person, that memory. You are moving forward, forever changing and altering and seeking beauty,” her grandfather responds.
 The black around her lightens and she seems to be moving so far away from her grandfather, bony shouldered and in the rain.
 “Do me a favor and bring the girl back who danced with me and made buildings in the summer heat. I miss my granddaughter, you know,” she hears him say.
 We open our eyes again, just as our girl opens hers, sitting against the brown back of an empty park bench.
 All we see now is a girl playing with her grandfather, not under waterfall clocks hands and bright city lights, but under an ordinary cement pole with a clock that breathes time into the park.
 Our girl gets up, pacing over to the little girl and her grandfather dancing around the mundaneness of the clock, and she ties her pretty locket around the pale cement pole.
 We see her leaving, her back turned, and we know she’ll never return again, to this park, so utterly timeless.
Tanaka Dandy
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