#ten year old me was just THRIVING over this man | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

didhewinkback · 10 days

Text

thirty, flirty and thriving

a something old blurb for the birthday boy. 2 and a half months late but who's counting

word count: essentially 3k, warnings: none

---

He can feel tears prick his eyes the second they all start in on the song. All of his favorite people in one place, just for him, gathered around the cake you’re holding up. Suppose he’s someone who cries at birthdays now.

He’s just…bloody overwhelmed. Perhaps it’s all the tequila flowing through his veins but it feels like more than that. Thinking about how you somehow managed to surprise him with all these people to celebrate his birthday, that his friends - some of whom he hasn’t spoken to in ages, ranging from the lads from school to the friends he made in LA when he was 22 - all made the trek to London to be with him tonight. How he’s often the youngest in his group of friends and how it feels like just yesterday that meant being 19 in a group of 30 year olds and now it's being 30 in a group of friends on the other side of 40.

He’s fucking thirty.

It should send him into a spiral about where the time has gone and how it went by so bloody quick but right now, he’s just grateful for where it’s landed him. Right here. Surrounded by his favorite people on the planet, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of the woman he’s going to marry, his best friend in the entire world. Ten years ago, he was getting monstrously drunk at a club with Grimmy and their mates, feeling both on top of the world and more alone than ever in ways only an incredibly famous 20 year old can. But here and now, he feels settled. He feels good. Like he’s lived a thousand lifetimes but also like he’s just getting started.

“....happppy birthday to yOouUuUou” everyone sings, all eyes on him as they wait for him to blow out the candles. He places his palm to his chest, trying to lock eyes with as many people as humanly possible, trying to say thank you with a look, doesn’t want to do a speech, not now. He just loves these people, he loves this life, he loves his birthday and –

He feels an elbow in his side and looks over at you, your face aglow from the absurd amount of candles you’ve squeezed onto the cake - he’s 30, not 87, thanks - your eyebrows raised in expectation.

“Cake’s fucking heavy, mate” you say and he throws his head back in laughter, smacking a kiss to your head before looking back out at the party.

“Sorry - know the wax ‘s getting everywhere, but just wanted to say -” he says, taking a deep breath, vision blurring a bit. “‘M so lucky and feel so grateful to you all for being here. Thank you’s never going to be enough. But you’ve all made me into the man I am today ‘nd I wouldn’t be me without you. So thank you and I love you, I love you, I love you.”

And with that, he takes a deep breath, squeezing you close and making a wish, wishing for every birthday to feel just like this, for the ability to make everyone in this room feel like they’re making him feel now as he blows all the candles out in one swoop. The party erupts in cheers and whoops and he barely has time to press another kiss to your cheek before he’s pulled back into the fray, bombarded with an endless stream of hugs, kisses, people rubbing his head and pressing glasses of tequila into his hand. He just feels like he could burst, is the thing. A room full of people who know him and love him and don’t want or need anything from him, just want to celebrate him for who he is. They’ve turned the music back on and he sways his hips and stomps his feet as he knocks back another glass, letting the beats wash over him as he gets lost in the crowd of friends.

It’s later, he’s tucked in a booth with the lads as he takes in the room around him, though it’s spinning a bit more than it was before. Tom’s got his arm around him and is telling the 18th embarrassing anecdote of the night, trying in vain to bury the fact that just moments ago he got a bit teary when he spoke about the first time they met. And that’s when he sees you across the way, laughing about something with Johnny. His eyes trace the line of your neck as you tilt your head back, the curve of your jaw, and then, as if you can sense him, your eyes lock with his.

It never gets old, this. It feels like electric currents are buzzing through his system when you smile at him, that just for him smile, as he tilts his head towards the doors leading out back, once, twice, three times, topping it off with a dramatic roll of his neck until you’re smirking, already making your way up to stand. He taps Tom on the thigh before sliding out of the booth and making his way over to where you’re waiting by the doors, instantly wrapping his arm around your waist and burying his face into your hair, breathing you in as the two of you duck outside.

It’s cold, but the heaters and fire pits around the patio help and he wraps himself around your back, matching you step for step as you head over to the corner railings, away from any prying eyes. You lean against the railing, looking up at the night sky, what you can make of it from the city lights. He wraps his arms tighter around you, nuzzling his face into your neck.

“Y’ cold?” he asks and you’re shaking your head but he feels you shiver against him and that’s all the answer he needs, already pulling his suit jacket off despite your protests, and holding it out for you to put it on. “C’mon, ‘s my birthday wish.”

You shake your head and snort, sliding your arms into the jacket and turning around, wrapping your arms around his waist as you smile up at him. He shuffles you a bit closer to the heater, pressing a kiss to your cheek, brushing his knuckle along your jaw.

“Good birthday?” you ask softly and he’s already nodding, can’t believe you’re even asking.

“The best,” he says, “Can’t believe you did all this.”

“You really had no idea?”

“Surprised the shit out of me.” he says. “Y’ always get stressed when we’re running late for dinner so that’s the only reason I thought y’ were being jumpy.”

“Oiii–” you say, slapping him lightly as you laugh. “Not my fault you took ages to get ready. Man’s early for everything but the second you tell him what time to meet at a restaurant, he moves in bloody slo mo.”

“Heeey.” he whines, but there’s no heat behind it, pulling you closer and laughing when you do.

He can hear the party raging on from out here and he still just can’t wrap his mind around it. That he’s 30. That he’s gotten to live the life he has over the last ten years and he has all those people in there to thank. He’s bowled over, the love in that room radiating through his every pore. Not sure he ever knew he could be this loved.

He can feel your eyes on him and knows you’re letting him gather his thoughts, content to just stand there and patiently wait until he’s ready. Letting him do what he needs to do. Never pushing, or prying. Just knowing him. And loving him. And there’s just something about that, isn’t there?

“‘M just like…” he starts to say, stopping himself when he feels emotion clog his throat. “I cried 10 times already. Bloody Cal is here.”

“Easiest party planning of my life,” you say back softly, tightening your arms around him. “Everyone said yes immediately, they were so excited to celebrate you. Everyone in there really, really loves you.”

His breath gets caught in his throat at that, blinking back the tears that seem to permanently reside in his eyes tonight. He rests his hand along the side of your face, dragging his thumb along your jaw. Not sure what he did to get nights like this, to get you looking at him like that. He’s so, so lucky.

“I really, really love you.” you say softly and he just - he can’t explain the noise that escapes him as he crashes his lips against yours, tightening his grip on your jaw as he kisses you the way he’s been thinking about all night. You sigh against his lips as he pulls you impossibly closer to him, lips not daring to leave yours for a second, kissing you over and over again.

He could stand here forever, kissing you like this, but he has to breathe, eventually. He pulls back slowly, kissing along your jaw, cheek, temple before burying his head into your neck. You slide your arms up his back, hugging him around the neck and pulling him close, your hand coming up to rest at the nape of his neck, scratching at the short hairs there. You just stand there for a minute, wrapped up in each other and this may just be his favorite part of the night. There’s something about knowing he’ll always have this. Your arms to fall into. And that’s the greatest birthday present a lad could ask for.

“Thank you so much for all this,” he mumbles into your ear. “Best birthday ever. Proper birthday.”

His heart skips a beat when he hears your delighted laugh, pulling back to get a glimpse of your face, the way your eyes are glowing as they stare back at him.

“I can’t believe you remember that.” you say with a laugh. “You were pissed and burning your mouth on a cheese toastie almost a decade ago when you said that.”

“Mmm, a cheese toastie,” he says, giggling at your eye roll. “Course I remember it. Think it every year. ‘S not a proper birthday unless you’re there. I love you so, so much.”

“Thanks for being born,” you say softly, leaning into his touch. “Greatest thing to ever happen to me. You.”

“Baby - ” he breathes out, but can feel emotion clogging his throat again, trying in vain to blink away the tears your words made spring to his eyes. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, hand shaking not just from the cold. A lifetime of knowing you and you still make him weak at the knees.

“Y’ make every day feel like my birthday, y’ know that?” he says softly, feeling like he’s found the right words for the first time tonight. “This party ‘nd this night is incredible. But nothing - nothing - compares to getting to go home with you every night. Greatest gift I ever got.”

He can see the words hit you, the deep breath you take as your eyes rake over his features, smile twitching at your lips as you look at him with such love in your eyes he feels his heart skip a beat. You’re looking at him like you always look at him, really, really seeing him with nothing but utter love in your eyes. God. There aren’t words for that, are there?

You pull him in, kissing him hard, like you’re trying to pour every ounce of love from your mouth to his and he’s more than happy to drink it up. Drink you up. Drink you in. His favorite taste, his favorite mouth, his favorite person on his favorite day.

His hands squeeze you tighter, living for the way you lean into his touch as it rakes down your back, settling on your bum. He could lose himself in this, in you. But you both seem to become aware of your environment at the same time, deep kisses slowing into gentle pecks before you drag your lips up his jaw, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek as you pull him close, hugging him tightly. His arms wrap around your waist as he sinks into your hold. He nuzzles his head into your neck, breathing you in, as he slowly sways the two of you, the party mere background noise to the sounds of your steady breathing, the feel of your hands carding through his short hair.

It’s a while before he moves, slowly, begrudgingly, pressing a kiss to your neck and tightening his arms around you before mumbling, “I’ve got a crazy idea,” into your skin.

He lifts his head to look at your face, can see your eyes twinkling, already bracing yourself for what he’s about to say, already in on the joke. It’s a bit he’s been doing every few weeks at this point, ever since you set the date.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” you ask, unable to stop the smile growing on your face as you slide your arms down his shoulders, resting your hands on his biceps.

“Was thinking - since y’ did such a good job planning this party… what do y’ say we throw another one? Like, end of June maybe? Right after your birthday?” he says, pretending to actually mull over those dates, trying to remain deadly serious while your lips twitch into a smile.

“Hmm. I think I could be down for that.”

“Yeah? Same guest list, bit more of your friends. Some family maybe. Could do it in Italy, near the house.” he says, trying to keep up the bit but the reality of what he’s saying is catching up to him, the familiar tears making an appearance again as he chokes out his next words. “Y’ could wear white.”

“And you could wear a suit.” you say softly, eyes never wavering from his. “Maybe get a new ring.”

“Yeah. You’d like that?” he asks, bringing his hand up to your face when you nod. “You wanna marry me, baby?”

“I really, really do.” you say, the look in your eyes making his heart beat out of his chest.

“Four months,” he says quietly, almost in disbelief of his luck, his life. “You’re gonna be my wife in four months.”

He can’t tell who moves in first after that, both of you clutching on for dear life as you just about snog the living daylights out of each other. He’s never wanted to ditch a party more in his life. Just wants you, your bedroom, and several hours to even begin to express all he’s feeling right now, all he wants. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you.

You softly moan into his mouth and he just about loses his mind, thinking about he’ll have a lifetime of getting that sound out of you, just for him. He pulls you impossibly closer as he drags his tongue over yours, keeping your jaw in a tight grip. He could die here, actually. He’d die a happy man, being slowly taken apart by your mouth.

“Oiii!!!” Johnny’s voice through the open door has the two of you springing apart in shock, though he doesn’t let you get far, burying his head in your neck as he moves his hand off your jaw to flip Johnny off.

“If you’re both done rubbing against each other out here –”

“Oh grow up, Johnny!” you shout at the same time Harry lets out a “You wish!” that has you smacking him against the head as he laughs.

“The Holmes Chapel lot did promise Hometown Hero over there a birthday shot.” he slurs and Harry begrudgingly pulls away from you to twist towards the doors, pulling your back into his chest as you both face Johnny, his hands resting on your shoulders. “And we’ve been waiting bloody ages –”

“So bloody dramatic,” you huff and Harry laughs, pressing a kiss to the back of your head.

“We’ll be right in,” he says watching as Johnny rolls his eyes, holding up a hand to indicate “you’ve got one minute”, as he turns back inside and closes the door behind him.

“Suppose we better go in,” you say, turning to look at him over your shoulder and he all but swells with pride at the look of you, the swollen lips and slightly messy hair. He tilts your chin a bit more towards him and kisses you once more, squeezing your shoulder before taking a step back. You shrug out of his jacket despite his groan, handing it back to him as you bring your hands up to attempt to smooth down your hair.

“Let’s go, old man.” you say and he squawks, sliding the jacket back on before giving you a cheeky smack on your bum, which you try in vain to dodge before reaching for his hand, interlacing your fingers and heading back into the fray.

The night spirals from there in the best possible way and while he may not remember every conversation he had, every song he danced to, every shot he took, he’ll always remember the way that room made him feel, the love radiating towards him, overwhelming him, inspiring him, fortifying him. He’ll always remember the feeling of your hand in his, the way your body felt against his own, and later, the taste of you on his tongue. Feeling like he could do anything with you by his side, your love making him feel like the greatest version of himself. Like the best is still yet to come, if that's even possible.

Proper birthday.

---

a/n: the way i literally had 3/4 of this written on february 1st and then could not get myself to finish it. but here we areeeee baby. hope people are still interested. i really like it and couldnt let it go. let me know what u think love u mean it

taglist:@tobesolovelysstuff, @louyoursins, @daydreamingofmatilda, @jojo-blog53, @marzhshaim, @devilsqueen722, @just-happiness-only,@lomlhstyles, @feestyles, @spock4presidnet, @sunshinemoonsposts, @indierockgirrl, @jerseygirlinca, @kissitnhekitchen, @goldnrry,

#something old #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles birthday #friends to lovers #hbd 2.5 months late i guess #sorry to all the angels in my inbox who requested a lot of other things and definitely not this #ur girl couldnt give this one up #lmk what you think plssss oh pls

137 notes · View notes

minaturefics · 1 year

Text

Once More (With Feeling)

Prompt: Faramir invites an old friend back to Minas Tirith

A/N: It's a little different, just slightly, to how I usually write. It's a rollercoaster, and it's long, so get yourself a hot beverage and prepare yourself for 6k words worth of brainrot.

Faramir x Reader

Fem reader

No content warnings

6.2k words

---

You paced the lavish sitting room, throwing irritated looks at all the doors. Faramir was a busy man, you knew, but he had always been punctual. With a groan you sank into the cushioned bench and stared out of the tall, pointed windows.

Minas Tirith had changed since you were last in the city as a girl. Gone was the heavy atmosphere, the distant encroaching darkness on the horizon, The Dead Tree, its gnarled branches cold and bare, the darkened halls, haunted by Denethor’s bitterness.

The city had thrived under the new king’s rule and the new steward’s management. The white stone glowed in the sunlight, vines grew across walls and flowers blossomed in window boxes, there was chatter in the streets and laughter in the halls.

It was no mystery then, why Faramir wrote to invite you back into the city, now renewed and reborn. No, the mystery was why he wrote to you at all.

You had only known him for a year, more than ten years ago. Just two young teenagers, bickering with each other over readings while the tutor tried to calm the both of you. He had been a scrawny thing then, growing taller, but not broader. Not quite a man, like his brother was growing into, not quite a boy, like the other children in the Citadel. His hair too, had been at an awkward length, shaggy around his ears, falling about his forehead and into his grey eyes.

But while Boromir might have been the bolder of the two back then, when it came to academics, Faramir was just as eager. He had been relentless in his pursuit of knowledge, hounding the tutors and dogging the librarians, and, more than once, your spirited debates with him had drawn a small crowd of curious onlookers in the Citadel. There was even a time where you had to race him to the library to get your hands on some coveted book before he did.

But perhaps, the most infuriating thing about him was his kindness.

How he would smile softly after an intellectual argument, as though consoling you, if you had lost, or congratulating you, if you had won. How he would share his notes with you if you had missed lessons, or gift you with chocolate in return for a peek at your own writings. How he would walk you back to your rooms after classes, showing you shortcuts and asking about your day.

How he had offered you his handkerchief and wiped your tears away the night before you left the city with your uncle.

Your heart clenched and you blinked yourself back into the sitting room.

There were voices in the corridor now, and hurried footsteps. You stood and straightened yourself, smoothing the creases in your dress and schooling your features into something neutral.

The door swung open and a man walked in.

He was tall and broad with the build of an archer, with steady legs and strong arms. His light brown hair fell in gentle waves to his shoulder, and his beard was short and well-trimmed. You took in his sharp jaw, his pink lips, his face, handsome, noble, familiar somehow.

His grey eyes sparkled in the late afternoon light and a jolt shot through you.

Faramir.

You stared at him and his barely-there smile grew.

“You’re late,” you blurted.

His eyes widened in shock before he shook his head and chuckled. “And I was told you arrived early.” His voice was low and rich, inviting and warm.

Faramir. This man was Faramir. Solid, handsome, real.

“You have my apologies,” he continued. “There was a meeting that ran over. I did not intend for you to wait so long for me.”

“It’s no matter, I was just admiring the city. A lot has changed.” You turned away from him, scolding your racing heart and chastising your rapidly flushing cheeks. You sucked in a breath and straightened your spine. It was just Faramir.

He came to join you by the window and you kept your eyes fixed on the plains beyond the buildings. “Your letter surprised me,” you said. “I hardly thought I ever crossed your mind.”

A laugh escaped from him, short and sharp. “You’re still the same.”

Your head snapped towards him and you narrowed your eyes. His easy, unfazed demeanour rankled something in you. “It is quite a slight, being told one hasn’t changed in so many years.”

Did he still see you as that awkward, graceless girl? Someone who had not filled out her dresses yet, who made ill-timed comments in conversations, who battled with her skin, her hair, her sharpening mind and her rapidly fading childhood.

He blinked at you, jaw agape. “I did not mean… I simply meant…” He laughed again and gave you a rueful smile. “Forgive me. What I should have said, I suppose, is that I am glad to see you again.”

That strange, foolish feeling was rising in you, like you were fourteen again and you had said the wrong thing at the dinner table. You fought the urge to cross your arms and you nodded slowly. “I am glad to… to be back. Thank you for your generous invitation.”

The words felt strange in your mouth. So formal and distant. Polite. You gestured woodenly at the view. “My uncle would have been pleased at how well the country is doing.”

“I am sorry to hear about your uncle.”

“It has been a few years now.” You hazarded a look at him. His eyes had melted into something soft. You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “I am sorry about your father and,” your breath hitched, “and Boromir.”

“Yes,” he said, voice low. “It has been quiet in the Steward’s House of late.”

Your chest constricted and you wanted to reach out, to lay a hand on his arm, to say, I too have been left alone by all who loved me.

He cleared his throat and nodded at the door. “Has anyone shown you to your rooms yet? I thought that the one on the second floor, that faces east, would be best. But if you’d prefer your old room, I’m certain we can —”

“No.” You swallowed and flashed him a smile, burying the discomfiting feeling. “I mean… No, thank you. I’m sure what you have prepared will be suitable.”

A bell tower somewhere chimed the hour and he grimaced. “I’m sorry but I have another meeting, the last of the day, in a few minutes. Would you be happy to join me for dinner? It would not be anything formal. We could even dine outside, if the fine weather holds. There is so much I wish to discuss with you.”

It was jarring to hear those words coming from Faramir’s lips. Invitations to dinner were something said between two adults, not adolescents.

But you were no longer fourteen, and Faramir was a man now. A friend.

A stranger.

“Yes, dinner outside would be lovely,” you said. “I look forward to it.”

He broke out into a wide smile. “I shall send someone to show you to your rooms, and please, if there is anything you should require, just ask.”

“Of course, thank you.”

He reached out and took your hand, large fingers enveloping your own, and gave it a light squeeze. “I shall see you in a few hours.”

He withdrew with a smile and closed the door behind him.

You stared at your hand for a moment, heat rising to your cheeks, before scowling and scrubbing it against your dress.

The evening breeze swept through the open doors and the candles on the table flickered. The temperature had dropped with the sunset, and in the end Faramir had settled for dining in one of the rooms that opened up to a courtyard. Trees rustled and crickets chirped and music from another part of the Citadel drifted over the walls. The warmth from the lit fire licked at his back and he belatedly wondered if he should have offered you the warmer seat instead.

Faramir caught his eyes wandering from some vague spot behind you to your face again. You were focused on the last bit of roasted meat on your plate, cutting it into dainty pieces before lifting it to your lips. He let his eyes trail over your hair, braided and pinned, to the softness of your cheek, the angle of your jaw.

When he had seen you that afternoon he could scarcely believe his eyes. He did not expect you to stay the same, of course, and yet… the sight of you, grown, beautiful and striking, made his pulse jump.

Where was the girl he had known? Who had picked up her skirts and clambered up walls with him, whose quick wit had both frustrated and delighted him? Was she gone, suppressed by etiquette lessons and laced up gowns, washed away by time and tempered by misfortune?

But then you had opened your mouth and bluntly stated his tardiness and he couldn’t help but laugh. No, your spirit was still unchanged, your fire still undimmed.

You looked up and his eyes skittered away. His palms grew clammy and he exhaled. Valar, he was acting like a silly boy, sneaking looks at you across the table, filling his mouth with food instead of conversation.

“What is the matter, Faramir?”

“Nothing.” He smiled.

You had an inquisitive look on your face, half-curious, half-challenging. The same sort of expression you used to wear before launching into an argument. “You were looking at me.”

Heat started to creep up his neck and he dropped his eyes back to his nearly empty plate. “I was just thinking.”

He heard your intake of breath and he prepared himself for an onslaught of words, ready for the cajoling comments and prodding persuasions that you always used to coax him to speak.

Instead, he heard the clatter of cutlery and he looked up to find you arranging your fork and knife at the side of your plate. You glanced towards the open door and, something in that small action, so intensely familiar, made the words tumble from his lips.

“Would you like to go on a walk?”

“I…” Your astonished look morphed into one of suspicion. “How did you know?”

“You used to walk after meals, if I remember correctly.”

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

He noticed. Of course, he noticed. Boromir had once pulled him aside, warning him that if he did not get his looks and glances under control, their father might start getting ideas for future marriage matches. He had wondered if your uncle had realised this and that was why he had whisked you off to the family estate back in North Lebennin when autumn arrived once more.

In truth, Faramir never found out the reason; he was never told, and he never asked.

He grinned and stood. A walk would be good. Dinner had been pleasant, with the usual, banal questions asked and answered. Proper and polite. A far cry from shared smirks and ceaseless chatter you once shared with him. Perhaps some movement would ease the atmosphere. “Shall we walk? Is there any place you would like to see first?”

You paused for a moment, biting your lower lip, before a sly smile crept onto your face. “The old lookout tower. The one that overlooked the Houses of Healing.”

“I do hope you won’t chase me up it. I do not think the excitement would agree with the food we just ate.”

“I won’t.” You looked out at the courtyard then back at him, eyes now dancing with mirth. “Are you becoming old and decrepit?”

“More like sensible and wise.” He walked over to the hooks by the door and reached for the two cloaks that hung there. “Here, you are welcome to borrow one of mine. It is cold out.”

He offered you the thicker one and watched as you ran your fingers over the soft wool before throwing it around your shoulders. It fell past your feet, pooling on the floor, and the sight of you swathed in his cloak stirred something in him.

He led you out into the courtyard and then onto the open ramparts. Hundreds of little lights flickered in the city below. It was quiet, save for the distant bustle of the kitchens and the rustle of the guards shifting on their feet. The wind carried your perfume to him and he inhaled the sweet scent of lilies.

“I have always wondered,” he said, “why you left Minas Tirith.”

“My uncle was worried about me growing up in court. I think he wanted to avoid any pressure that might have befallen me. Marriage offers and gossip and the kind.” You looked away, towards the plains. “I was sorry to leave, but I am glad that I had gone.”

His heart dropped. Had he been selfish? Writing to you and asking you to visit the city when you were clearly happy out in the country? Had you not thought of him once in all the years? He swallowed. “Does it bring you pain to be here?”

“No, not at all.” You shook your head and laughed, and his shoulders relaxed. “I simply meant that I think he made the right decision. It might have been a little boring, but I grew up unrestrained.”

“I do hope you will enjoy the excitement of the city.”

“The change of scenery is refreshing. And I will confess that a break from my responsibilities back home is welcome.”

He noticed then, the shadows under your eyes, the weary tinge in your smiles.

Yes, the both of you were no longer children.

The old, crumbling tower neared and your steps quickened. You paused at the base of the steps, throwing a mischievous look over your shoulder, before vanishing up the stairs. He chuckled and hurried after you, taking the steps two at a time. “You said you would not race me!”

“I said I would not chase you up it!”

He caught sight of the edge of his cloak and the flash of deep purple silk underneath it as he rounded the corner. “So you’ll have me chase you instead?”

Your laugh echoed in the narrow stairwell. “I have no doubt that you’ll catch up. You were always the faster one.”

“And you always the cheater.��

“It is called levelling the playing field.”

The gap between you and him rapidly narrowed, and as the both of you emerged at the top, his hand closed around your shoulder before he could stop himself. You turned, flushed and giggling, eyes alight. Laughter rose in his chest and he chuckled, breathless and buoyant. “You’ll get me into trouble. Like before.”

“Faramir, you are the steward. There is no one to get in trouble with.” You grinned at him before striding towards the merlons. “In any case, I have no plans to lob mushy apples from here so you need not worry about disgruntled guards and unfortunate citizens.”

“I always have to worry about disgruntled guards and unfortunate citizens. It is no easy feat, running a city like Minas Tirith.”

“I can imagine.” Your voice was soft, sympathetic.

He strolled towards you, and you glanced behind at him, shadows from the flickering torches dancing across your face. Your eyes were intense, searching. Valar, he could never stand to hold your gaze when it was like this. It was as though you saw through him.

“Faramir, why did you ask me here?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling boyish and clumsy. “I was… clearing some of the rooms in the Steward’s House when I chanced upon our old classroom. I found one of your old essays.”

“A beastly thing, I’m sure.”

He slowed to a stop beside you, close enough that your cloak fluttered against his legs when the wind blew. “It was rather good, actually. I’m certain you would have made a valuable advisor if you had stayed in court.”

“Well,” you scoffed. “I do not think the court missed us much when my uncle and I left.”

“Boromir and I did.”

“You did not write.”

“I was not certain I was allowed to. Father refused to tell me anything, and then there were other matters. Training, classes, scouting missions.”

He felt a pang in his chest. In truth, he had thought of you over the years, but there were always things to attend to. His father’s growing resentment, his strange prophetic dreams, city matters and trade routes.

The War.

It had been a sleepless night when he had wandered the empty halls, opening old doors and peering into neglected rooms, when he stumbled upon the old classroom. It was still and dusty, books stacked by the window and sheets of paper on one of the tables, abandoned as though someone intended to come back, but never did.

He had been hit with an intense loneliness, a hollowness, an aching.

When he had seen your familiar scrawl on the sheets of paper, along with an unflattering sketch of the tutor, the memory of your playful smile flashed into his mind. And then there was a comforting warmth in his chest, and then for the first time in weeks, he had laughed.

“Faramir,” you said, and he shook himself out of his thoughts. “I am sorry I did not write either.”

“It is no matter.” A smile tugged at his lips. “We are here now.”

“Faramir, if you wobble the ladder I will drop these books on your head.” You gripped the polished wood with one hand and clutched a stack of books to your chest with the other.

“If memory serves, you were the one who had a habit of rattling stools and ladders.”

You glared down at him, scoffing at the grin on his face. He was leaning against the shelf with his arms across his chest, relaxed and languid. That night on the tower had shattered the stiffness between the both of you, and the last week and a half had been filled with nostalgic adventures.

Between his duties, Faramir had shown you the changes in the Citadel, walked with you to the markets and shops, even challenged you to a slingshot contest which he won. There had been dinners on balconies, and picnic lunches in gardens, and midnight snacks in derelict towers.

He had told you about his experience in the war. His heartbreak at finding Boromir’s cloven horn, the near-fatal Osgiliath charge, recovering in the Houses of Healing. And you told him how you had to manage the family estate, the scramble to build temporary houses for the refugees, how many of them chose to settle and work the land instead of returning to the ruins of their villages.

He had smiled at you in that soft way you knew, had given you the unbroken strip of apple skin he peeled, had discussed new theories and topics with you by the light of the fire.

“Are you coming down?” Faramir smirked at you. “Or are you going to add to that dangerously heavy pile in your hands?”

You shook your head and started down the ladder, feeling the rungs with your feet.

The library was empty, the librarian having gone home for the day. Light rain pattered on the windows and a fire crackled somewhere in the room. The library, of all places, had remained the most unchanged. There was something comforting in that, in the musky smells of books and paper, of the plush chairs and rickety stools.

As you neared the bottom, your foot slipped, misjudging the distance to the floor, and you stumbled. Instead of hard stone, you were met with a firm chest at your back and a hand on your waist.

Had Faramir always been this warm and big?

“Are you alright?”

You felt the rumble of his chest, his breath by your ear.

His hand, large, heavy, burned through the thin silk of your dress.

“Yes, thank you.” You stepped out of his touch and fumbled with the books in your arms, rearranging them into a neat stack. Valar, what has gotten into you? It was just Faramir. You shoved the books into his arms and turned away. “Next time you can go up on the ladder.”

“I think I would flatten you if I fell.”

“I’ll be sure to step out of the way.” You forced a laugh and wandered down the aisle. You heard him follow after you, his steps slow and steady.

How could such a simple thing affect you so? It was not as though you were so wholly inexperienced; there had been one or two sweethearts in the past, though most of them were short lived.

Had there been anyone for Faramir? Some pretty thing with a perfect education who could recite poetry and embroider and dance?

Your stomach churned and the twisting feeling in your heart squeezed the traitorous words up your throat. “You know, I am surprised you have not found a partner yet. I would think that the offers must be pouring in.”

“Why would you think such a thing?” He was closer now, just behind you, and you could hear the dismay in his voice.

“The maids, they love to gossip.” You laughed, but it sounded hollow to your ears. “I spoke to a couple of them when I went down to the kitchens two nights ago.”

He fell in step with you and you glanced at him. There was a small smile on his lips but his eyes looked clouded. “There have been offers, yes, but I have declined them all.”

“Unable to find a suitable one?” You arched an eyebrow at him.

“It is not a question of suitability. There is no need for me to choose a partner for their station or standing. Such things never mattered to me, even more so since my family’s passing. I would much rather have someone’s genuine love and affection.”

Of course he would say something of that sort. You smiled to yourself, heart warming at his words. They would be lucky, whoever he loved.

The rain fell harder against the glass and thunder rumbled. You glanced at the window, a memory coalescing in your mind. “Is the little alcove still here? The one behind the curtain?

Faramir grinned and inclined his head towards the back of the library. “I believe so, though it has been some years since I have sat in it.”

He led you to the back of the library where a narrow velvet curtain hung in the corner. He drew the fabric back to reveal a cosy space with a wooden bench built into the wall by the window. The lantern that hung from the low ceiling was dusty and unlit.

You padded over to the bench, bending and inspecting the corners. “It is still here,” you breathed, tracing the two sets of initials carved into the wood. “I cannot believe it.”

He leaned over you, so close that you could inhale his scent. Sandalwood and something, paper perhaps, or mild soap. “So it is.”

You looked up and Faramir’s face was mere centimetres away. Were there always so many yellow flecks in his grey eyes? And his lips… did they always look so soft and inviting?

All you would have to do would be tilt your head, and your lips would connect…

You stepped back and waved stiffly at the lantern. “Shall we light this? We could read here. If you’d like.”

He glanced at the narrow bench. There would be no doubt that the both of you would have to be pressed up in some way to fit.

“If you would like. I think there are might be some oil on the librarian’s desk, and a lit candle, I could —”

“I’ll go.”

You turned around and marched away, pressing your hands to your hot cheeks when you were safely hidden by the shelves. You took a breath. It was just Faramir. You would find the oil and the candles and sit and read with him, and think nothing of lips or kissing or how solid he had felt behind you.

Faramir was in a hell of his own making. Truly, it had been all his fault. For the first time, he cursed his gentle nature. If he had chosen not to speak and steered you away from the instrument shop…

How could he have forgotten that he was not the only friend you had made in your youth?

Elphir, the boy, no, the man who made lutes and drums had been one of them as well. And how could Faramir have denied you when you had lit up at the sight of the old shop and nearly tripped over your feet rushing to the door? And when you had asked if Elphir could come to the Citadel in the evenings to teach you how to play, he could not find it in himself to refuse you, even as discomfort settled deep in his stomach.

In some fantastical lapse of judgement, or perhaps in some foolish notion to watch over you, he had offered the sheltered courtyard below his sitting room to you and Elphir, and now music drifted into the room. Teasing, taunting, tormenting in the way it would mingle with your laughs.

He strode over to the window and slammed it shut.

For five evenings now, you had rushed off after dinner to Elphir, returning to your rooms after your lesson without seeing him. The pot of tea you usually shared with him in the evenings sat unfinished and cold on the table each night. Faramir sagged against the stone pillar and stared up at the vaulted ceiling. If Boromir was alive, he would call Faramir a fool and insist that he go over and chase the man away. But what right did he have?

He was not your lover or your partner, and even if he was, it would be unreasonable to get upset over you spending time with another, especially for something as innocent as music lessons. Faramir was your friend and…

He was your friend.

His breath hitched as the thought rippled through his body. Somewhere in the past three weeks he had forgotten that.

When he had written to you, inviting you to the city, he had only planned to reconnect with an old friend. Someone who got along with him, who understood what his family had been like, who was not a soldier or a subordinate.

He did not intend to be run away with his feelings.

He had grown used to you in the Steward’s House. Your shawl was draped over a chair, the table was always laid for two, you wished him goodnight in the evening before you retired. He had even considered clearing the set of rooms next to his own for you so that you did not have to walk through two corridors just to visit him.

But alas, you were not his.

“Faramir!” You burst into the room with a wide smile on your face and he startled. You slowed your steps, tilting your head and lowered the arm that held your lute aloft. “Is something the matter?”

He shook his head and tried to smile. “I was just deep in thought. How was your lesson?”

“There is something I want to show you.” You wandered over to the cushioned seats by the fire. “Will you sit?”

He nodded and sat in the lone arm chair instead of sharing the bench with you. Your brows creased for a moment before you shook your head and positioned your hands on the lute.

A haunting melody began to fill the room. It was simple, no more than five or six notes that changed subtly every few bars. It tugged at something in his mind, a dream perhaps, or a memory.

A woman humming, a gentle hand on his cheek, the comforting scent of beeswax.

“My mother,” he whispered, frozen where he sat. “She used to sing this to Boromir and me. To get us to sleep.”

Your playing petered out and you looked up at him. “You used to hum it when we were younger, when you thought no one could hear.” You laid your lute to the side. “Elphir taught me the basics of playing. I taught myself the song. In the night, after my classes.”

He felt the corners of his eyes start to burn and he glanced away. How could he not love you now?

“I am sorry, if I shouldn’t have —”

“Please do not apologise. I…” He shook his head and dabbed at his eyes. “ She would be happy to hear these rooms filled with her music once more.”

You came over to him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, your thumb soothing the tension in his muscles with its idle strokes. His eyes focused and unfocused on the decorative ribbons on the bodice of your dress. The crackle of the fire and the rhythmic sound of breathing filled the space between your bodies. He felt your hand drift towards the side of his neck, your thumb just grazing the edge of his jaw, and he slowly, slowly looked up at you.

Your eyes were soft and half-lidded, your lips slightly parted.

He did not dare move, did not dare breathe.

“Faramir.” He shivered at the sigh in your voice. “I—”

A knock sounded on the door and you jerked away from him. Cold air replaced where your heated hand had been.

A muffled voice came through the door. “I have your tea, sir.”

“The tea,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “Would you like to…”

“It has been a long day,” you said, snatching up your lute and striding to the door. “I… Goodnight.”

You flung the door open and he heard the startled squeak of the maid followed by the rapid patter of your footsteps.

You slammed your room door shut behind you and leaned against it. Your breaths came short and quick, chest heaving and skin searing.

What had you almost done? What words were going to spill from your traitorous lips?

It was just Faramir.

Just… a friend.

You shook your head and slumped to the floor. There was nothing decidedly friendly about what had just passed between the both of you. And… and what? What could possibly happen between you and him? You had an estate waiting for you in Lebennin, there were people who needed your instruction and leadership. And Faramir was the Steward of Gondor; the people needed him as well.

Your trip to Minas Tirith was supposed to be nothing more than a visit to an old friend. You had forgotten yourself. For so many years you had run the estate on your own, had resigned yourself to quiet meals in the day and lonely nights in the study. There was no time, no place, to entertain such ridiculous notions like love.

And yet…

You stared at your hands, hands that had held him for just a moment, had felt the coarseness of his beard and the beat of his heart.

Want burned in you.

Want for his lips, his hands. For his gentle smile, for his joyous laughter. For a permanent seat at the table, for space on his shelves for your books.

Faramir stared at the tea tray on the table. Two cups, two saucers. A full pot of tea.

He stroked the side of his jaw, his own fingers feeling indelicate compared to your touch. There was no mistaking the look in your eyes, desire mixed with tenderness. Perhaps it was not so ridiculous to think that you might return at least a fraction of what he felt for you.

His stomach swooped and a strangled laugh burst from him.

But was it just a flash of fancy, borne from the moment? A reckless action in the dim of the night?

Were you going to slip from him, retreat back into your shell of polite distance? He would not be able to bear it, to hear your stilted words, to have you shrink away from his casual touches. To have you vanish again, taking your laughter and your light away with you.

Should he go to you? Would that be impertinent? But he had lost you once before with his inaction, and only a fool would not learn from their mistakes.

You tugged the borrowed cloak on your shoulders closer around you. It smelled like Faramir, like sandalwood and that evasive something, ink perhaps. Mist had descended on the Citadel and drifted across the parapets like sheer curtains. Your steps were soft on the stone and you wandered from torch to torch, veering closer for warmth, roaming further for the cover of shadow. The guards paid you little attention, and the stars overhead twinkled unbothered.

Twice you had tried to walk to Faramir’s room, twice you had turned on your heel and fled back to your rooms. In the end, your room had become stifling and you rushed out into the open air.

Your blood had cooled and, now in the starkness of the open night, you felt foolish.

You paused by the old watchtower, leaning on the cold stone and staring down at the Houses of Healing. You would apologise when you saw him next, and then perhaps it was time to return to the family estate…

Muffled footsteps approached and you turned.

Faramir emerged from the mist, still in his day clothes, his hair mussed and his eyes tired.

“Faramir,” you whispered, arms falling to your sides. You opened your mouth to speak, but your rehearsed speech refused to leave your lips.

He came to a stop in front of you, a disarming smile on his face. “Somehow, I am not surprised to find you here.”

“Were you looking for me?”

He nodded, and amusement coloured his smile. “I suppose, in a way, I have always been looking for you.”

“Is there something you wanted from me?”

His twinkling eyes grew serious. “I wished to speak to you.”

You turned away, suddenly unsure, but his hand reached for yours. His thumb caressed your knuckles and you lifted your eyes to him. “What about?”

“I think you already know.”

You swallowed and tried to speak, but the words stayed lodged in your throat, and your eyes fell to your joined hands.

“I have never been good at disguising my feelings,” he said, voice soft and low. “I am sure you must be aware…”

Aware? Aware of what? His feelings? That he only viewed you as a friend, and that perhaps you had taken advantage of his kindness, mistaken it for affection and…

His fingers skimmed your chin, gently urging it up. His grey eyes were alight, burning almost, with an open passion so rarely seen in him. You scarcely dared to look away. Your heart pounded in your ears.

“Perhaps I have always loved you, even before I realised what that word meant. I was too young, too naive.” He cupped your cheek and you leaned into his touch. “But we are older now. And I can say for certain that I… I —”

You surged forward and pressed your lips to his. They were pillowy and soft and carried a trace of bitterness from the tea. He deepened the kiss, pulling you flush against him. You laid a hand on his chest, fingers splaying across his heart. He sighed into your lips, his exhale hot on your skin. You felt him grin and you nudged his nose with yours.

“I think,” you muttered, “I have wanted to do that for a long time now.”

He laughed and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You are welcome to do it any time you wish.”

“Faramir, why me? And after so many years since we last saw each other.”

“Can such a thing truly be explained?” He hummed to himself. “I suppose the simplest answer I can give is that you bring me joy. And perhaps also, I think we make good partners. We have always made good partners.”

You sobered at his words. “Faramir, we are not children anymore. My estate… I cannot leave it unmanaged. And I have neglected my duties already these past weeks.”

“We will find a way,” he assured. “It is only a full day’s ride from Minas Tirith, is it not?”

“Less, if one has a good horse.”

“Less, I think, if you had the reins.” He chuckled. “We are not children anymore, yes, but that only means that we can truly do as we wish. As we choose.”

You mulled over his words. “And you would choose to have a busy bride, to have to make trips out to the country with her?”

“I choose to have you.” He stroked your cheek. “And you, my love? What would you choose?”

“I choose, I think,” you said with a smile, “to remain where I have always belonged.”

“In Minas Tirith?”

“With you.”

He grinned and wrapped his arms around you. He laughed into your hair and you tucked your nose into his neck. You inhaled his scent, thinking of the unknown, familiar note in it that always eluded you. Thinking of how it smelled like rain and books, of apple peels and bitter tea.

Thinking of how, perhaps, it smelled like home.

---

If you made it this far, holy shit thank you for reading.

I characterised Faramir a little bit differently here. I think I have a tendency to conflate kindness with passivity when it comes to him, but I think he can be pretty intense if he wanted to be.

And also, I feel like this entire piece is tinged with the bittersweetness of growing up, but I hope that it veered more sweet than bitter. To you young'uns out there, truly, I promise you, it is not terrible to grow up ❤️

Taglist: @sotwk

#faramir x reader #faramir x you #faramir x y/n #lotr fic #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #faramir

342 notes · View notes

rebelwrites · 5 months

Text

Eight: Highs And Lows

Charles Leclerc x Nova Teller (OC)

Till the wheels fall off Masterlist

Small town meets the fast lane. What happens when two souls meet? Will it end in happiness or will they both crash and burn?

WARNINGS: this is such an emotional chapter, heavy themes of dementia

As always reblogs and feedback is highly appreciated ❤️ if you want tagging in future parts let me know ❤️

Stepping out onto the small wooden stage, I felt the bile rise in my throat as I looked out across the bar seeing everyone’s eyes were on me. I was about to show the world my vulnerabilities, my insecurities and a part of me that I had lost. In a way this was me trying to find myself once again, I had spent far too long trying to be a superhero when in reality I was just plain old Nova.

Wrapping my fingers around the neck of my guitar, I let out a shaky breath trying to remember how free I felt when I sang.

You can do this!

Letting my eyes flutter closed I let the backing track wash over me, feeling the beat take over my soul as I started strumming the strings on my guitar, “So he's gone and left you all alone, think the better of your years were spent with him. The little girl who used to dance, on fire and brimstone, is all but dead,” my voice was shaky to start with but I quickly found my rhythm as the music took over my body.

“Where's the girl I knew that held a lighter up to the radio. She'd do anything she wants, because she can. We were seventeen and wild and we were jumpin' on the Devil's bed, I didn't raise you like that,” finally opening my eyes, I looked over to Pops’ booth, seeing the tears form in his eyes tugged at my heart. “I taught you lessons about freedom strapped to the bucket of a four five five. I lit your hair on fire racing ten mile flats. Where American heavy metal thrives. Oh we were waitin' and wishin' on pink slips and kisses at the end of the line. When you rat-a-tat tatted on the glass, and you screamed on high I'm alive.”

It only seemed right that this was the first song I openly sang, John Teller was the man I called my father, the man that taught me right from wrong, the man that took me in when my dead beat biological parents chose drugs over me. This was the song he always used to sing to me when I was having a bad day, it always reminded me who I was.

“You can say that cat is long gone, I bet you look real hard you can find that girl within. She's probably waitin' in the wings, for you to come along, let her out again. You need a quarter mile, a bunch of horses and some gasoline,” I was putting my all into this song, in a way this was my way of speaking to myself, reminding myself that I needed to be myself. Not hiding behind this superhero image I had made myself into in order to keep my head above water. It was time that I was true to myself, it was the only way I was going to be able to move forward.

My gaze locked with Charles, there was something about the way he was looking at me that nearly made my resolve crumble into pieces. Tears threatened to spill over my lash line as I belted out the song. “I taught you lessons about freedom strapped to the bucket of a four five five. I lit your hair on fire, racing ten mile flats. Where American heavy metal thrives. Oh we were waitin' and wishin', on pink slips and kisses at the end of the line. When you rat-a-tat tatted on the glass and you screamed, I'm alive.”

For the first time in a while I felt free, the worries about showing the world my vulnerable side quickly dissolved as the music wrapped around me like a soothing blanket, as if it was protecting me from the outside world. I knew the final part of the song was coming up, I refused to break eye contact with Charles, I just hoped that he understood what I was trying to express to him through the song, especially with the last line.

“I'm alive. You wanna meet a girl I used to know, let's take a drive.”

Spinning around I let out a shaky breath, carefully placing the guitar back in the stand before turning back to face everyone in the room. Jax was wolf whistling, Pops was crying and everyone else was clapping. Nothing could take the smile off my face right now I was in my element as I jumped off the stage making way over to the corner my family were huddled in.

The moment I got within touching distance Jax pulled me into his arms, pressing a kiss against the top of my head, “that gave me fucking chills, Squirt,” he hummed, squeezing me tight. Wiggling out of his grasp I took Pops’ hands in mine, the proud watery smile that was on his face told me everything.

“I’ve missed your singing,” he whispered, squeezing my hand, “seeing you up on that stage took me back to when you used to put on your own concerts in the living room, singing into your hairbrush.”

Oh god he was going to spill off of my embarrassing moments in front of the guy I was currently crushing hard on. I needed to be sitting down for this, Jax being the ass he was, had taken the space next to Pops meaning the only spot left for me was next to Charles. Right now I wanted the world to swallow me whole, especially when Jax jumped in on the action as well, he loved any chance he could to tease me.

“Oh yeah, you used to make us sit through a whole damn performance, home made tour t-shirts included,” Jax smirked. I could see where this was going, he had a mischievous look in his eyes as he spoke, “you even made him set up the camcorder to make it an official tour, even though it only ever happened in the living room.”

“Now that I would love to see,” Charles chuckled, nudging my shoulder as I sat back in the same spot as earlier.

“I think Pops still has the VHS,” Jax winked, causing me to flip him the bird.

“Don’t you fucking dare Jackson Teller,” I growled through gritted teeth, “if that video ever manages to make it to the surface I will personally take a sledgehammer to your Harley and your dirt bike.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me.

“Try me, asswipe!” I shrugged, downing a glass of amber liquid but I nearly ended up spraying Jax with whiskey from across the table as I felt Charles try to slyly move his arm around me. It was the classic fake yawn trick but even so the action caused my heart rate to double.

“You okay?” Jax asked, cocking his brow, I could tell he noticed Charles’ movement by the smirk on his face.

“Wrong hole,” I breathed, reaching for a napkin to wipe my face. My head was spinning and not from the alcohol or performing, this was the most contact I had with Charles since he arrived in town and I was starting to freak out, especially when he scooted over in the booth, his leg pressing against mine. In my head I told myself that it was only to allow Elenor to sit in between him and Pierre.

For the next few hours we ate, drank and laughed. Everything felt natural, the more time I spent with Charles and Pierre it felt like we had been friends for years, the conversation never dried up, there were never any awkward moments even when Elenor spilt her drink all over Charles’ hoodie.

He made out that it didn’t matter when Elenor started to freak out, her bottle lip was wobbling, her bright blue eyes were shield by tears that threatened to fall. Charles ignored his wet hoodie to console Elenor. Watching him wrap his arms around her, running his hand over the back of her head trying to get her to calm down warmed my heart, he was so good with her. Once he was happy she was okay, he attempted to take the wet garment off without making anyone move. As he pulled his arms over his head, his t-shirt rode up giving me the perfect view of his toned stomach.

The sight made my heart skip a beat, I needed to distract myself, I could feel my skin heat up, to the point I knew my cheeks were bright red. Pulling my gaze away from his abs I tried to find anything else to look at but in turn I ended up catching Pierre’s eye, smirking at me knowingly. The moment Charles’ hoodie hit the table I grabbed it mumbling into the air, “let me take care of this,” before I scurried out to the back where we kept the industrial tumble dryer. This thing always amazed me, it dried items super quick meaning I had an excuse to not be at the table whilst I waited for his hoodie to dry.

Stepping out of the back door I placed a cigarette between my lips, the sound of the birds in the trees gave me something other than my racing heart to focus on. The sun was starting to set which provided a welcome breeze, but it wasn’t enough. I was so close to grabbing a pack of frozen peas out of the freezer to try to cool my face down.

My mind was spinning with everything that had happened this evening. I was relieved that Pops loved the performance, I couldn’t lie it did feel good to get back up on the stage. My thoughts drifted back to Charles, I swear the connection between us was getting stronger by the second even though we hadn’t spoken that much. There was just something about him that set my entire world on fire.

It was like our souls had been entwined in a previous lifetime.

I stayed outside until I had got my nerves under control, even if it meant I smoked two cigarettes back to back, dropping the butt into the bucket by the door. I pushed myself off the wall, taking a deep breath, exhaling loudly before heading back inside to check on the progress on the dryer.

Once I had rejoined the table I dropped Charles’ sweater in front of him, the confused look on his face made me giggle, “we have a commercial dryer, don’t worry I ain’t a hoodie thief,” I shrugged. My words caused a large smile to appear on his face as I sat back down next to him. This time he didn’t try to be sly about his movements, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

“Thank you,” he whispered, letting his fingers run over the back of my hand like he was drawing something.

“I wasn’t gonna let you sit in wet clothes all night,” I smiled, boldly resting my hand on his knee, “I ain’t cruel.”

It was like it was only me and him in the room, these small touches made me realize how much I missed the intimacy of being with someone. It was like someone had put us in a protective bubble allowing us to openly flirt with each other. That was until Pierre coughed bringing us back down to the real world.

“You two need to get a room,” he smirked, pouring himself another glass of whiskey.

“What does that mean, Auntie Nova?” Elenor asked, looking up from her coloring book.

“Nothing, baby,” I giggled, before narrowing my eyes at Pierre causing him to hold his hands up in defense.

“You need to watch this one Charles, she’s feisty,” Pierre hummed with a large smile on his face.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the look on Pops’ face had changed, he had gone from smiling to throwing daggers across the table at me and Charles. The knot in my stomach made itself known once again, I knew the expression on Pop’s face all too well.

“You just have to flirt with everyone don’t you Gemma,” he spat, slamming his palm onto the table causing me to flinch at the sudden movement. “You can’t be fucking faithful if you tried!”

Tears pricked my eyes, normally I could deal with his episodes but this one cut deep, it felt personal. The fact he thought I was Gemma made me want to throw up, I was nothing like her, never have been and never will be but for some reason in his head right now that's who he saw me as. I had never moved so fast in my life, pushing Charles’ arm off me, moving so I was crouched in front of Pops

“Pops, it’s me,” I whispered, placing my hand on his arm, “it’s Nova.”

“Get off me,” he shouted, pushing me backwards causing me to fall on my ass.

A single tear rolled down my cheek as I looked up at Charles and Pierre. “Can one of you get her out of here please, she doesn’t need to see this. I have a feeling it won’t be pretty.”

Both boys quickly moved out of the booth, Pierre taking Elenor's hand guiding her out of the firing zone, she didn’t need to see her Poppy like this. Charles was now standing in front of me, offering his hand for me to take, he had an apologetic smile on his face as he helped me off the floor.

“You never could keep your hands to yourself could you!” Pops growled at me, pushing himself to his feet so he could square up to me, “whenever there was someone new in town you would be all over them like a rash, not caring about me.”

I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling freely down my cheeks, I knew his words weren’t aimed at me but they still hurt. Especially knowing that he thought I was his ex-wife.

“Pops, Gemma is dead!” I said, trying not to lose my temper, reminding myself that he wasn't himself right now.

He hadn’t had an outburst this bad in a while, seeing the man I looked up too lose all control like this completely broke me. There was nothing anyone could do, we just needed to ride it out but I knew the way he was looking at me right now was going to be burned into my soul.

My heart was in pieces, the man standing in front of me wasn’t one I recognised. Roughly wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand I tried to stop the tears from falling but nothing was working. The whole bar had fallen silent at Pops’ outburst, I needed to get out of the room, right now it felt like the walls were starting to close in on me trying to squeeze the life out of my body.

“Sunshine, you okay?” Charles asked, placing his hand on my lower back. His touch provided some calmness to the whirlwind of a situation.

“I need to be alone right now,” I sniffled, knowing my make up was well and truly fucked right now. Shrugging Charles’ hand off me, I let out a shaky breath as I tried to move through the bar but it was just my luck that everyone was standing between me and the door blocking my escape.

“Can everyone fucking move out of my way!” I growled, not caring how harsh I sounded.

“Nova,” Jax called out to me, he knew that he shouldn’t follow me, although when I saw a packet of cigarettes flying through the air I weakly smiled at him, catching the smokes with ease, before slipping through the main doors of the bar.

The moment I finally got outside the summer breeze hit my face, my world had just been tipped upside down in the space of five minutes. Feeling the wall take the weight of my body, I didn’t try to hold myself up instead I slumped to the floor pulling my knees to my chest as the sobs took over my body.

Any happiness I felt had now been washed away by Pop’s reaction. I never would have predicted he would act the way he did, seeing me with someone. This was how my life went, one moment I was on top of the world, feeling invincible to feeling the lowest I had felt in a while within a matter of minutes.

@withmyteeth @chibsytelford @stillbreathin @danzer8705 @keyweegirlie @celestialams @dragon-of-winterfell @ohthemisssery @a-distantdreamer @sgkophie @angywritesstuff @enchantedbytomandhenry @scribbuluswrites @dangerouspursepeachbear @buendiabebeta @ferrarifwendvale @theplobnrgone @charlesleclercje @queenslife @panicforspec @justme2042 @liv67 @derpinathebrave @clcspeonies @pleasantducktimetravel @raaaaabzzz @mehrmonga @sbgal @fangirl-lb @pitconfirmbutton @oslokij @tall-tanned-tattoo @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @pumpkin-spice-hate @talicat713 @band--psycho @little-diable @i-love-scott-mccall @fourthwallhateclub @theysayitscrazy @rosieposie0624 @choochoo284 @meteora-fc @beeroses @darklydeliciousdesires @the-jer-bear @extraneousred @youflickedtooharddamnit @babypink224221

#Charles Leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #Charles Leclerc x oc #charles leclerc imagine #sons of anarchy #jax teller #jax teller x reader #jax teller imagine #Jax teller x oc #Jax teller x sister reader

54 notes · View notes

kozzax · 5 months

Text

The Festival of Hope.

Held once a year, over the span of three days following the anniversary of L'Manburg's Doomsday. Organized by the Captain, and by the ex-King. Surrounding the crater of what was once a thriving nation, and filling its valley with joy and community once more.

A celebration of everything L'Manburg stood for.

It's been ten years, now. Ten years from the first Festival-- a small affair, the attendees primarily those who had once lived in L'Manburg, gathered to mourn and honor their past home.

Now, the Festival is a bustling event. Players from across the entire server come to take part in the festivities, to celebrate and honor the spirit of that which brought so many of them together. Children in Snowchester are allowed these days as a holiday from schools, and encouraged to visit the crater. Las Nevadas opens a miniature casino for the adults. It is built up to with delight and excitement, as a reminder of the community that once existed.

You have come to the festival, a young child who can not remember the days of L'Manburg but who has grown up with the stories of its existence. As far back as you can remember, you have visited the crater to pay respects to its legacy.

This year your parents have determined you old enough to attend on your own, and as you step up to the edge of the crater to leave your offering-- a small bundle of wildflowers, picked out of the snow and kept safe and alive for almost a week now, bundled up in warmth and sunlight within your home --you can't help but notice a tall man staring into it.

You've seen him around Snowchester before. He has dirty-blond hair, and he's drumming his fingers and talking to himself as he watches the crater. He's wearing a blue sweater that doesn't quite fit him right. He looks... sad.

You offer your flowers to him, instead. He shakes his head.

"It's just-- I can't believe after all this, people still-- They still care about it all," He says, gesturing to the piles of gifts and offerings left at the edge of the crater. "They remember it. They care about it. It's--"

He doesn't seem to know what to say next, and you can see the tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

"It wasn't all for nothing. It fucking-- it meant something. He was right. It meant something."

You stand there for a moment with him, letting the world be quiet, before placing your flowers where you'd meant for them to go. He smiles at you, then, reaching out to ruffle your hair with a laugh.

You notice that in his other hand, he's holding a pair of taped-up glasses. He sends you back to the festivities before you can ask about them.

"Don't fucking worry about me, bitch. I'll be back down eventually. Go have some fucking-- fun, or whatever."

He's smiling, still. There's something sad about it, but-- you turn to head back down, anyways.

You join in with a game some of the other kids are playing. You're soldiers, revolutionaries, fighting for their independence and freedom. Wooden swords and paper sashes become your battle gear, as you laugh and play with each other.

And, as you play, a grown fox offers to join in. He says you can't be soldiers without an enemy to fight. Without someone you can stand up against. And so he takes up the role of the bad guy, with an over-the-top laugh and a sly grin on his face. He seems to be having fun. You know you are.

When he's defeated, he tells you you fought well. You're not sure you did, but he's playing with you and nobody else is willing to be the bad guy, so you guess he's alright. Still, as he walks away, you hear him mutter something under his breath.

"Good kids. Clearly their parents didn't leave them for some dumb war. Maybe-- maybe this isn't so bad, after all."

You forget about what you heard quickly enough, though, as you're swept up in the excitement of reenactments. This has always been one of your favorite parts of the Festival: watching as the stories of L'Manburg are told through theatrical productions. You know them all by heart.

As you watch, this year, you can't help but overhear comments from some of the other attendees. A pair of people-- a woman with pink hair, and a man wearing a headset --keep up a humorous, if not... entirely kind, commentary throughout all of it.

"They always forget to talk about the anteaters," The pink-haired lady insists during the initial revolution, half-snickering as she does so. "We had to sit through that rant so many times. You'd think they'd remember it."

"Yeah, or the time they counted rations wrong and we were left eating fucking coconuts for a week. D'you think that's where Fundy got the idea for his campaign name?" The man replies, a matching grin on his face.

You don't know quite how to feel about their commentary, but-- at the very least it's funny, and you've heard the stories enough times to enjoy them. They seem to be having fun, too, and-- isn't that the point, of it all?

The man laughed at anything involving Jack Manifold, Tommyinnit's friend, and the woman seemed to pay no attention to the story of the baker-warrior Niki Nihachu. You aren't quite sure why. You always liked those stories, but-- well. Nothing's perfect for everyone.

The festival continues. You find yourself enjoying every moment of it, as you play games and sing songs and listen to the tales of L'Manburg. Here and there you spot the Captain, guiding people around and ensuring everything is moving smoothly. Her wool is dyed with L'Manburgian colors, as it is for every year.

You catch up with her properly, once, and ask her for a story. A real story about L'Manburg.

She tells the tale of a knight, too slow to protect the country the first time and too slow to protect it a second, but finally able to protect its legacy. She talks of how the knight set the captive heroes free, by protecting their legacy in their place. She talks about children, finally allowed to just live, because the knight swore to never let Doomsday happen again.

You don't quite understand how it connects with L'Manburg properly, but she's called away for the closing ceremonies before you get the chance to ask for more stories.

And as the final day comes to an end, you attend the closing ceremonies the same as everyone else.

They're led by Eret. They're always, always led by Eret. Every year, she tells the story of her involvement with L'Manburg, and of her work to repent for what she did to them so very long ago. And every year, he closes the speech with a simple enough request: to remember.

To remember what the country stood for-- freedom, and peace, and hope, and community.

To remember what happened to it-- to never let it happen again.

To remember their errors-- so that you can be better.

This year, ten years after the first Festival, she adds a new statement to her closing speech. A statement that you don't... quite understand the weight of, though the surface of it makes enough sense.

"I remember everything. I regret hurting my brethren, I have always regretted it. I know that you will never forgive me. I do not deserve to be forgiven. But I hope that-- that I have given you some amount of peace. The chance to live your own lives, comfortable and quiet and happy. I hope that you can heal. I hope that the ideals we fought for stand strong, and true."

Were you to look at the entire audience, you would have noticed the people you've been speaking to this entire time staring at Eret. The sad man with the sweater, holding his brothers' glasses tighter than ever. The fox just letting a soft laugh out, muttering under his breath that he'd forgiven her a long time ago. The woman with the pink hair and the man with the headset, exchanging thoughtful glances with each other and murmuring between themselves.

And with that, the Festival of Hope is over. The attendees begin to disperse, and you move back towards the transport to Snowchester with the rest of the kids you came with.

You're excited to see your family again. To go back to your quiet little community, and tell them all about your time at the Festival. About all the people you met, and the stories you heard.

To live your life, safe and happy and comfortable.

Just as they'd always hoped the people could.

#my writing #dsmp #c!tommy #c!puffy #c!eret #c!niki #c!jack #c!fundy #this is nothing. but also . i think it's everything #i just think that they should be allowed to heal #and that lmanburg would never be forgotten #and that. puffy and eret at the Very least would fund a festival to remember it #and that the players for the most part. wouldve wanted to fade into the background #i think they deserve to fade into the background. to live calm lives.#i think That's what eret's last gift to them wouldve been #what puffy would've offered after everything else failed #a chance to just. be.

8 notes · View notes

georgiapeach30513 · 1 year

Text

Rumplestiltskin, Epilogue

Summary: ...a few years later

Pairings: Andy Barber X Walter X Chase Collins, Lance Tucker X Branwen Barber

Rating: 🥺🥺

Warnings: a bit of gaslighting and manipulation, sad!Andy, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 1.2K

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

“Walter, how long has it been?” Andy tiredly asks the horse as they wander around the forest. Every day. All day. Nothing ever changes and he didn’t feel as if he was getting any closer. The forest seemed oddly bigger than he recalled.

“It feels as if it’s been hundreds of years with you,” the horse deadpans, and stops abruptly in the woods. Andy lets out an annoyed groan, “He’s coming,” Walter whispers. The horse backs the two of them up, while he and Andy wait with bated breath for Chase to make his monthly visit.

Chase dramatically lands in a crouch, and stands up slowly looking at Andy, “Care to guess?”

“Go over your rules again, trickster.”

“I don’t get anything past you anymore, old man. Should you give me my brother’s name that he told your precious queen, you get your family back. Should you give me his birth name, this all becomes a dream, and you have your baby back in your arms..”

“And I walk around on two legs again,” Walter blows out a puff of air, letting his hoof pound the ground.

“Yes, of course. How long has it been Andy? Your daughter won’t even remember you, would she?” Andy’s nostrils flare as he glares at the faerie. “Oh, that’s right, ten years. No doubt you’ve heard the rumblings in the forest.”

“You sack of shit! You’ve cursed the entire forest for what reason? So your baby brother could have a fantasy with my wife and child. They’ll never belong to him.”

“Hmm, doesn’t matter to me. I thrive and feed off of chaos. Your mistake has made these woods even more interesting. Had you had kept that tree standing, there never would have been the green apples. You did that Andy. Now you rush to the edge of the forest and hope some maiden won’t enter. They always do. The creatures in these woods are too enticing. Prey on the world outside without lifting a finger. Their very essence beckons those weak women in,” Chase throws his head back with a maniacal laugh. His eyes now as black as the feathers on his back and the heart in his chest.

“Bernard.”

“Wrong.”

“Steven.”

“Very wrong.”

“Theodore.”

“Oh, not close at all. Two more guesses, and I’ll see you in a month.”

Walter snorts, wiggling his back. Andy didn’t know any direction to go with these names. Didn’t have a clue what to say. It was always wrong. “Tick tock goes the clock.”

“Azriel.”

“One more guess, King Andrew.”

“Lancelot.”

Chase’s eye twitches for half a second, but then that devil turns his mouth up into an evil grin. “I’ll see you in a month.”

“Ahh!” Andy screams, letting his head collapse on Walter’s neck. “Keep going.”

“Andy, maybe it’s time…”

“Keep going. You’re under this curse until she gets her happily ever after. This is her fate and it was always destined to happen this way, which is why you’re still a horse,” a raven caws in this distance, and Walter backs up a moment.

Looking where the bird had come from, but it was already gone, and he was definitely dreaming.

Lance stands over your body, using a cloth to clean you. A new fresh vase of roses beside your bed. His thumb traces over the features on your face, and he wonders if this was even worth it. He had you, but only in part. You were just a memory now. And he’d forgotten the sound of your voice. Or the way you never hesitated to touch him or show him kindness.

A black raven lands on the window, trying to get Lance’s attention, and he looks over at her, “Come on, princess. Come see your mother,” a ten-year-old Branwen transforms back into a little girl, and she straightens out her dress, walking over to you.

She was getting so big. Changing nearly daily. She gets next to you and leans over, pressing a kiss onto your forehead, before sitting on the bed beside you, “Have you drank your apple juice today,” she turns and scowls at Lance, and he throws his hands up in surrender.

“Let me see your eyes,” with a quick caress on your hand, she goes to sit in his lap, while he examines her golden eyes, “Still the same.”

“Why do you make me drink that juice everyday?”

“Because, princess. The apple is what gives you your power. I’m afraid that should you eat the golden apple, you’d…”

“Be like you and Chase?” Lance nods his head, but his eyes move back over to you. “I saw him today,” she grimaces as she looks up at him, “I’m sorry. He was guessing.”

“I told you to avoid that man,” he looks back at her. His eyes flit around her face as he tries to figure out what she knows.

“Chase went to him first. He wanted to know your name. What’s he looking for,” Lance holds up his hand pointing at you, “Why does he want my mother? Can he fix her?”

“No, let’s not worry about that.”

“But I want her, Papa. It’s not fair that I don’t have her awake. What can we do to wake her?”

“Only one thing, my beautiful little raven,” Branwen sighs, assuming that Lance will never tell her, “True love’s kiss.”

“Then it’s my dad?”

“I suppose.”

“So I need to find him. And he can wake her up, and we can live happily ever after?” She smiles up at Lance. Her cheeks dent in with her dimples. “What does he look like?”

“We shouldn’t worry about that. Should your dad want to find your mom, here she is. And if you, her, and your father live happily ever after, where does that leave me? Have I not been good to you? I make sure you have time with her.”

“It’s not the same. That…that child in the forest. She has seven dads. Why can’t I find mine? Would one of them be mine? Can I ask them? Papa, I want my mama,” she pouts up at him while her eyes fill with tears. “It isn’t fair. Princess Orla has all these dads and her mom, and I have neither. And she said her mother is having another.”

“Am I not enough?” She shakes her head, before laying down on Lance’s chest. Her fingers wipe away the tears that just won’t stop, and Lance has to look up at the ceiling.

It wasn’t fair what he was doing. But he couldn’t lose his little raven. The thought of showing up at the tower with you gone, just didn’t feel right. So instead he fights the need to reunite your family. “Orla said her father is Beck. He’s a doctor. Can I bring him here to my mother? Maybe there’s another way.”

“Shh, you need rest. You’ve been flying all over the forest, and you're such a small Raven. But a beautiful and fierce one, my darling Branwen. Go to sleep, child. We’ll go home in the morning.”

Branwen doesn’t want to close her eyes, but when Lance starts singing to her softly, her eyes become heavier, before she drifts asleep on his heart. He looks down at his wings at the bottom feathers turn white, “I won’t give her back,” he says to himself, as the white feathers drift to the floor.

“I can’t. She makes me feel normal again,” he knows this back and forth game he was playing with his soul couldn’t be good. Gain his humanity back, only for him to prove he was in fact a cruel faerie. But he had raised Branwen. She was his daughter now. And Andy could search the forest for a hundred years, and he would never give you back. You and her belonged to him.

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @sstan-hoe @peaches1958 @whimsyplaty92 @xcaptain-winterx @bambamwolf87 @lavender-annd-lilac @thedarkplume @duuhrayliegh @rebekahdawkins @johndeaconshands @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @feyfantome @athena-penrose @smile1318 @royalwritersoftheuniverses @andydrysdalerogers

81 notes · View notes

cabezadeperro · 10 months

Note

I got so many ideas once again from (our) inspo tag. SparMij and honestly any of these: https://cabezadeperro.tumblr.com/post/687487402674094080 — MBW

hi friend!!!

i chose this one:

pre-relationship, right at the beginning of the war. ~730w, T. age difference, former teacher/student (but worse) relationship :D

---

Mij leaves the speeder at Erda’s and makes his way down the cliff towards the lake, his buy’ce in the crook of his arm. It’s hot and muggy, the sun hanging up high in a cloudless sky, and his face feels warm. Sweat drips down the back of his neck and down his nose: when he finally reaches the trees he sighs in relief.

He’s beginning to regret not paying attention to Erda’s warning. He hesitates on the edge of the trees and looks back up the cliff to where he can see the forge’s chimneys releasing a steady stream of black smoke.

In the end, he keeps on walking. The air under the old veshok trees is cooler, darker—it smells of wet wood and wetter earth, and Mij finds himself breathing it in. It takes him back ten, twenty years into the past, to the first time he visited Krownest, to the man he used to be.

He smells the lake before he sees it. He then catches the reflection of the sun on the waves, the noise of the water against the rocky shore, and then he’s stepping out of the shadow of the trees and into the sun again, his boots sinking into the black mud of the edge of the water. Mij breathes in and out, trying his best to kill the dread at the root.

Spar won’t be happy to see him: of this, he has no doubt. Mij has made his peace with it. He can’t find it in himself to regret agreeing to Jango’s plan, not when that plan saved the boy’s life. Spar has thrived on Krownest—unlike the rest of Jango’s clones, he’ll have a full life.

He knows Mij is there, but he takes his sweet time. Mij exhales, annoyed despite himself, and steps back under the shade of the trees. He takes a seat on one of the big rocks strewn all over the shore and rubs his face with his gloveless hands, his buy’ce watching it all at his side.

He’s a good, strong swimmer. Mij watches his dark head disappear the lake’s surface and pop up again, and when he finally reaches the shore he just stands there, at ease with himself and barely breathing hard, dripping lake water back into the waves, his curls in his eyes.

It’s been almost two years since the last time they saw each other. Mij’s intimately familiar with how fast they all grow up, how fast they grow old, but he finds he isn’t quite ready for the knowledge that Spar no longer is that scrawny seventeen year old he helped smuggle off Kamino.

Spar’s mouth quirks up and then he looks away, ignoring Mij in favour of the ratty towel that waits for him on a nearby rock. He pads barefoot out of the lake, his bare feet sinking in the mud like Mij’s boots did earlier.

He’s taller and broader. Mij feels himself falling into that old, familiar mindset and tries to shake it off, but it’s too late: Spar looks healthier than he ever did on Kamino.

He can’t help but notice that it looks good on him, and that Spar knows it. He’s browner and more freckled, his hair almost too long, his dark eyes sharp. He perfunctorily dries himself and then he turns to look at Mij, arms folded over his chest.

He’s still smiling, a tiny, knowing thing that reveals very little. It occurs to Mij that he doesn’t look like Jango at all.

It’s in the way he holds himself, in the set of his shoulders and in his bright eyes; in the freckles on that familiar nose and the flash of white teeth when his smile grows.

“Gilamar,” Spar greets him. Even his voice has changed—it’s rougher, deeper. “You here to take me back home?”

Home. Mij raises an eyebrow. His Mando’a is better—he sounds like a native.

“No,” he replies in Basic. Spar scoffs. He turns around, starts reaching for his clothes. His dark swimsuit clings to his thighs and to his ass.

It takes him a bit too long, but then it all clicks into place. Mij makes himself look away, back at the lake. His mouth is dry, and his heart is trying its best to beat itself out of his chest.

That is going to be a problem.

#maría writes #june prompts #sparmij #mij gilamar #spar

7 notes · View notes

fifteenleads · 10 months

Text

where happiness lies

Bungou Stray Dogs | Miyazawa Kenji | Pre-canon | Character Study

No one in the Armed Detective Agency knows about Kenji’s coconut plantation.

Its existence is a puzzlement to the few who’ve heard of it in passing, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders at the nigh-impossible endeavor of growing tropical plants in temperate, volcanic soil— out in the nowhere of Ihatovo, no less. Yet it still grows and thrives, a couple dozen tall trees with long palm branches that bow to the weight of the sweet, white fruit.

To the even fewer who know of it, it’s a miracle that stands the test of time and a memento of a friendship that lives forever.

Kenji had never presumed himself more than an applauding audience to this brotherhood of old, yet bore witness to it he has, and the sacred duty of honoring its legacy has fallen on his young shoulders. It is a task he willingly undertakes with delight and reverence, every minute in the sun and every bead of trickling sweat a testament to this undying labor of love.

When night falls, he rests under the shade of the biggest tree, losing himself in pleasant musings not unlike the gentle swaying of the low-lying branches. The golden yellow flowers will be bearing fruit soon, and there will again be a plentiful harvest. This humble patch of sloped land has seen its fair share of disasters since its soil was first tilled, yet the trees grow back again the next spring, resilient as the Mother Nature that had warmly accepted them.

A fond smile crosses Kenji’s lips at the thought. “It’s just as you said, Mister Juan.”

They had met four summers ago, when the rice paddies were still young and green and everything was still right with the world. During those days, every able-bodied villager would rise at dawn, share breakfast over tea, and pray together for a good harvest before setting off to the fields. Sometimes the women would bake bread, and everyone would savor the soft, chewy treat with fresh milk and boiled eggs, or pack it in their lunches instead so they wouldn't be late for the sunrise.

Kenji also helped out however he could, a mere youth of ten years already a powerhouse with his uncanny strength of ten men. Back then, he had no concept of the wide world beyond the borders of his small village, where the only truths were the circle of life, the changing of seasons, and the sense of common identity and belonging to which everyone ascribed.

He had been guiding a small herd of cattle across the shallow riverbank, staying with the youngest calf that had lagged behind due to a prior hind leg injury it sustained at birth. “Just a little more,” he coaxed the animal, taking a few steps forward before motioning it to do the same. Patience is a good thing, Mother says, so no one ever gets left behind.

They were almost at the other side when a worn, bloodied scarf got caught in his leg. Kenji regarded it with concern, wondering if anyone from upstream had gotten hurt while crossing the river themselves. He untangled the wet cloth and wrung it dry, then left his herd to go check the situation for himself, just for a little while.

From far away, he spied an old man beside an overturned cart of fruit, nursing what seemed to be an injured ankle by the riverside. Immediately he made his way through the rocky path, climbing over some of the larger boulders as he did. “Hello, Sir! Do you need help?”

The old man grunted in response, slowly craning his neck in Kenji’s direction. “Never mind me! Can ya fix my cart an’ put back the coconuts innit? There should be thirty of ‘em.” He then pointed with his nose and lips towards the mess of plywood and round green fruit, some of which had begun to roll downstream towards the river.

“Got it!” Kenji grinned, then quickly caught up to the couple of runaway fruit, scooping them up one at a time with his free arm before they got swept away by the current. He then set them down by the old man’s feet before working on the wooden cart. It wasn’t too badly damaged, all things considered, save for a side wheel that had come loose after the impact. Most of the fruit that had been trapped underneath were likewise still fine, sustaining only light scratches on the outside thanks to their sturdy wooden husks.

“... Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!” Kenji triumphantly called out as he returned the last of the coconuts into the cart. Beside him, the old man sighed in relief, hobbling towards his restored fruit cart on his injured leg before falling forward into Kenji’s arms. “Please don’t force yourself, Sir!”

“Ah, ‘s fine,” the old man mumbled, waving him off and reaching for the handles to use as a support to right himself. “‘Twas a close one. Thank you, boy.”

“You’re welcome! You’re also headed this way, right?” Kenji then went over to the front side of the cart, lifting it up only ever-so-slightly, enough to help the old man push it along the riverbank. “Us men of the field are always proud to pull our own weight,” his own grandfather had once said, even after already injuring his back multiple times during past harvests.

The old man bared a toothless smile at him in silent gratitude. “Aye, boy. Let’s go there.”

“Say, you’re not from around here, are you?” Kenji asked between mouthfuls of coconut meat, watching intently as the old man slurped down the clear juice like he would a bowl of cool water. The fruit was perfectly ripe, with just the right amount of freshness and sweetness that hit the spot for parched throats and sore muscles on a hot summer afternoon.

They had taken up shade under a nearby cherry tree overlooking the rice fields while the small herd of cattle grazed nearby. The green stalks had almost reached their full height, though they had yet to begin to flower. The young farm hands still remain under the sun to tend to them; now is the most crucial time to ensure a good harvest.

“Hmm. I live along the border on the other side of the village, actually,” the old man answered thoughtfully, setting down his emptied coconut husk and wiping the juice that had dribbled down his chin. “I jus’ don’t come down the mountain often. Been busy growin’ these little ‘uns, ya see.” He then gestured towards his cart sitting nearby, the coconuts in it seeming to glow in response as they basked in the afternoon sunlight filtered by the yellow-green leaves.

“—Though, methinks that wasn’t the answer ya were lookin’ for, huh.” He then propped his elbows over his crossed legs and laced his bony fingers while staring intently. The sudden seriousness with which he said this line took Kenji by surprise, and he likewise set down his half-eaten coconut on his lap, rubbing his index finger along the rough edge of the husk along which it had been cut in half.

“Yer called Kenji, right?” He asked gruffly, doing the lip-pointing thing again. “Listen carefully, boy. This probably the first an’ last time you’ll hear it.”

Kenji gulped audibly at this, nodding and leaning in to hear more. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” There was that toothless smile again. “Name’s Juan. I grow coconuts. And I wasn’t born here, no.”

Ihatovo, he said. And he sent a photograph of him with coconut trees. Can you believe it? Grew ‘em bukos all by himself! There was no mistakin’ it, I would know those bright eyes anywhere, despite everything else of ‘im grown old an’ all wrinkled up.

“So I packed my bags and moved here— all the way to Japan, to Ihatovo. And we hugged when we met, cried many, many tears ‘til they all be dried an’ gone. I couldn’t believe it. My best friend was alive. My best friend was here. And we were together again.

“Livin’ here was like a different world altogether. Didn’t know no Nippongo an’ all. But I was excited. It was like school all over again, and I was a young boy all over again. Kampanito felt the same. He and I would talk about all sorts o’ things, from our good ol’ school days to grown-up things. He did become a doctor, but only for a while. He didn’t want to talk ‘bout what happened after that, though. It didn’t matter anymore, I said. All that mattered was that I was with my friend again, ya know? And he said yes.

“We split a coconut between us for our first dinner together, a fruit he grew an’ harvested himself. Can you believe it, Juan? He said. This small patch of foreign soil on a sloped hill managed ta bear fruit that reminds us of home. It’s amazing! Still don’t know how it happened. It must be a miracle.

“I agreed with him with tears in my eyes. An’ the North Star shone brightly over us, remindin’ us that no matter where we are, or however long has passed, wherever we are happy is home. ‘Tis true even now, boy. Here— Ihatovo— is home.”

Kenji didn’t realize that tears had fallen from his eyes until Mister Juan gently wiped them with his thumb. “Ah, I’m sorry,” he stammered as he pulled back in surprise. He really enjoyed hearing the old man talk about his life, both heartwarming and heartrending at the same time. Moreover, he found himself identifying with him a lot more than he had expected.

“Nah, ‘s all good,” Mister Juan only laughed heartily, grabbing the other coconut he had set aside and cracking it open in one fell swoop. “Here, have some more buko.” Kenji accepted the proffered fruit, appreciating its weight in his hands. He bit off a small part of the thinned-out fruit on the top, before sipping the juice in it. For some reason it tasted a little different now— of youth and friendship. Of life, love, and of home.

“This is really delicious, Sir,” Kenji said after finishing off the rest of the fruit.

“‘Course it is,” Mister Juan bragged. “I grew it myself.”

It was already sunset by the time they finished talking and eating, and it was time to go home. Kenji offered his hand to Juan once more, leading him back to his cart. “Are you sure you don’t need me to carry you back?”

“Bah, us men of the field can pull our own weight ‘round here. I’ll be fine,” Mister Juan waved him off dismissively, despite limping on his good leg. “You go home, boy. Yer mom’s gonna scold ya if the cattle ain’t home by sundown, yeah?”

Kenji chuckled to himself at that; he was absolutely right, of course. “Can we meet again tomorrow afternoon? There’s a lot of things I’d like to ask you.”

Mister Juan only bared a toothless grin in response. “Well, who knows?”

No one in the Armed Detective Agency knows about Kenji’s coconut plantation.

It has already been four years since Mister Juan had passed, and apparently eight years since Kampanito had before him. Even the village elders had found Mister Juan’s last will strange, indeed: a single coconut fruit, completely emptied out except for the seed inside it. So Kenji planted it, just as Mister Juan had taught him to, dutifully tended to it, watched it grow alongside the others, and harvested its fruit every year. And just like that, the circle of life continued amidst the change of seasons, and the buko fruits remained to be part of him— of Ihatovo.

He returns to Yokohama today, having tended to the flowering trees on the small patch of sloped land after paying his respects to his friend. Everyone is surprised at the haul of tropical fruit stacked on his desk, with Ranpo begging Mister Fukuzawa to slice one up for him with his blade. Kunikida tries to get everyone to settle down while preparing the kitchen for the surprise afternoon refreshment.

“Mmm, I must say, this goes perfectly well as a cocktail,” Yosano remarks while sipping the juice directly from the fruit with a straw. “Something light for a summer afternoon, perhaps.”

“You drink too much,” Tanizaki grumbles from beside her, while Naomi adds condensed milk to her bowl of shredded coconut. “And that’s way too much sugar already!” As if in response, Kyouka holds out her bowl to Naomi, as well, who gladly drizzles more milk into it.

Kenji watches the daily squabble unfold with much amusement. He has to admit, their motley bunch of misfits work really well together, despite all the odds. It has barely been a year since he has joined the Agency, but he already feels comfortable with everyone. He has always made friends easily, after all, whether within his village or outside of it.

He walks over to the window overlooking the street, and offers Atsushi an opened-up fruit, a small metal spoon in it. “Where’s Dazai?”

“Dazai will be back in the evening, I think,” Atsushi says, gratefully accepting the fruit. “Said he had something to take care of earlier.” His grip on the fruit tightens as he looks downcast. “Truth be told, I can’t help but worry about him sometimes, especially when he takes off so suddenly like that.”

“Hmm.” Kenji sets down his coconut on the desk and leans back on the windowsill, feeling the draft of warm wind blow into his hair. “Dazai will be all right. He probably just needs a little thinking space for himself is all. Don’t we all?”

“... I guess you’re right.” Atsushi carves out a small portion of fruit for himself. “I mean, we all consider this place home, one way or another.”

“Yup, that we do,” Kenji agrees. “No matter where we are, or however long has passed, wherever we are happy is home.”

Just as Mister Juan said.

“Eh, did you say something? I don’t think I caught that,” Atsushi suddenly asks. For some reason, everyone else turns to Kenji, too, probably expecting some form of explanation, as well.

He merely laughs at that. “Oh, it’s all right. Just a long story, if you all want to hear it.”

END

Some references used in the story: 1. Night on the Galactic Railroad by (IRL) Miyazawa Kenji 2. The legend of Daragang Magayon (Filipino folk story)

Dedicated to my friends at the Buko Stray Dogs Discord server. Miss you all!

#bungou stray dogs #bsd fanfic #miyazawa kenji

2 notes · View notes

meg2md · 2 years

Text

Finished 5 weeks of L&D, which included 3 straight weeks of nights. Wow, what a trip. I've delivered over 60 babies, done countless cervical exams, reached about 50% foley bulb success rate depending on the dilation and effacement of the cervix, and gotten my AROM technique down. I've also done one cesarean delivery. I started off being a total idiot and became reasonably competent (at least for an intern) by the end.

Thankfully I had a golden weekend this week - my first in about a month. I just started gyne and it's wild because now I'm starting over in terms of competency. And let me tell you, while hysteroscopy is a minor procedure, it's NOT EASY. I'm so clunky. I've only tried about two but I can't get the scope in and focused.

My partner also came to visit this weekend - he left this morning. Turns out the distance is hard for him. Really hard. Like, almost too hard. So we're giving it another go and hoping for the best, but man, turns out nothing is ever guaranteed. It's pretty depressing because the timing on our relationship is just ass. Everything else about it besides the timing/distance is so, so beautiful. Mind-blowingly beautiful. I had such a good time with him this weekend. He makes my heart feel full and happy; he makes me want to improve myself intellectually, emotionally, and physically; and he has helped me get over some of my old scars. I'm trying really hard not to be too depressed and hopeless about it. There's no sense in moping about an outcome I don't know for sure yet, and also why not enjoy the time that I have, even if it's limited? I really want therapy to help me not only navigate this but also my toxic thought patterns. It's nearly impossible with resident hours, though. I mean, we have protected time... but our protected time feels more like "protected time". Lol.

In the meantime I'm trying to really capture that feeling I had when I broke up with my ex - the feeling of being free, of re-inventing myself, of re-defining who I am and how I interact with the world. It's hard when I feel mildly dependent on and sad about not being with my partner, but honestly, how can I truly be in a healthy relationship with someone else when I can't even be in a healthy relationship with myself? At least my mood has leveled out to a normal level of depressed from the horrible chaotic depressed I was when I started nights.

So here I am once again trying to get my feet on the ground. I feel like I start from scratch a lot, but that's just life, ain't it? I bought ten passes to the rock climbing gym and bought a pull-up bar. I've lost a lot of weight recently: five pounds since starting residency and a total of eight pounds since I broke up with my ex back in January. While it's good to be back at my medical school starting weight, I unfortunately have lost a lot of muscle. My goal is to do a pull-up, so I'm going to need to navigate maintaining (or at least controlling) my weight while building this skill. This is a LONG-STANDING goal of mine, and one of my co-interns is interested in it as well. And a lot of my co-residents are into rock climbing, so that will both help with my pull-up dreams and also help me have a life outside of medicine. I'm also trying to rally some people to do trivia this or next week, and I want to hang out for dinner/drinks after work more frequently. Maybe next weekend I'll go to a park or on a hike during my one day off.

This is my first time moving totally on my own to a completely new city with completely new people. It is actually really exciting, once I sort through the terror and depression. It might be a long, long time before I have this experience again (well, at least four years), and I really want to make the most of it. I want to seize this chance and really thrive, carve out my own life, grow into someone I can be proud of.

"You feel like you've been waiting for someone for so long, but that person was you all along."

#medblr #residency #gradblr #medicine #premed #reflections

3 notes · View notes

mysticbxrn · 2 years

Text

( madeleine madden, female, she / her ) did you hear? [ YSEULT ] is in town. a [ HUMAN ], i hear that they’re a/an [ ROYAL SERVANT ], rather impressive considering they’re [ TWENTY SIX ] years old. their friends say that they’re pretty [ FORGIVING ], but i’ve heard rumors that they’re also [ OVERLY PROTECTIVE ]. it might just be me, but they remind me of [ LOOKING FOR JUST THE RIGHT HERB TO CURE AN AILMENT , A WOMAN PROTECTING HER LOVED ONES AT ALL COSTS , A ROSE GROWING DESPITE IT’S CONDITIONS. ].

BASICS.

NAME : Yseult of Blue Field

AGE : Twenty five

SPECIES : Human

ORIENTATION : Heterosexual

REGION : Originally of Frosthold , now lives in Queensvale

OCCUPATION : Royal nanny ( to daphne’s baby <3 )

STUDY.

Yseult of Blue field has been down with a broken heart since the day she was born. The God of Death gave her a crooked start when his kiss gave her weak lungs , a coughing mess of a babe she was. It wasn’t expected that she would live through the night , with the cold winds that blew through the Frosthold Mountains biting at anyone’s skin. But she did. She screamed all through the night , not allowing her parents nor the village more than ten minutes of sleep. This would set a precedent for Yseult of Blue Field. She was match for any man.

The first decade of life was one filled with sickness and determination. The chills bit at her skin and made her bones brittle , but Yseult survived. She loved the days of summer where the sun would warm her skin and bones. She thrived in the warmth , spending her days outside from sunrise to sunset , only to be shut in once the winds of winter came back with their cruelness. She had to find ways to entertain herself. So she picked up many things. Yseult was an intellect , not by nature but by work. By the age of 13 , she had mastered horseback riding , herbology ( to what extent she could ) , arithmetic , reading , and whatever else was thrown at her by her parents. It did not earn her many friends , but it did give her something. An out. From the age of 13 , she knew what she wanted , and that was adventure. Her eyes looked over mountains and she wondered what was out there. Her mother was from out there , the woman she gained her dark skin and dark hair from. What was it like where she grew up?

Her thoughts were put to rest when she found Tyrion Amora. It wasn’t that fun of a story , really. Yseult was not the nicest of children , nor did she have many friends , but he didn’t seem to care. He stuck by her side , even through all of the mean words of children that she threw at him. Looking back on it now , she yearned to be there again. She loved him , but she didn’t stay. Yseult was no wife , no mother , no sister. She wanted something better. Only through the eyes of a young woman would she learn what she actually wanted. Yseult loves Elianna and the family she works for , but only through them could she learn what she truly wanted.

INSPIRATIONS.

Darling ( Lady and the Tramp )

Lady ( Lady and the Tramp )

Egwene ( Wheel of Time )

#yseult || intro #erethide.intro

6 notes · View notes

afteriwasmad · 12 days

Text

It's my 17th summer now.

I never fully understood what does it mean when they say enjoy it while it last. It's not that I don't know what it means, it was just a phrase that old people tend to say when they remicnise on their youths. But today, I understood it today while taking my last leisure walk in the coast of Mexico.

What would life would be now? The wind was gushing softly, the sky is dyed in the color of a Pomegrate with a subtle tint of aurete color. Just three days from now, I will have to bid my bittersweet goodbye on this place I called home over the past ten years. You get a strange feeling when you're about to leave a place. And no, you won't become the very same person in that moment, you just can't.

Just like how others defines a home, it isn't always a place nor a person, the concept of home is also not limited to the four corners of our old ancestral house where we spent the early years of our childhood. Home isn't limited to the stereotype concept they show in movies or we read in books. Believe me, it's more than that. Sometimes, home itself are the memories burried in the pits of our consciousness.

I know that this isn't the time to remicnise over past years but the sky didn't always look this beautiful... Is it perhaps its way of telling me to not leave? Please, I wish that time will stop, because what is there to comeback for?

Like a hand waving from a train, the clock didn't falter ticking. It didn't stop, it was fast and rapid. Hence, time passes like a prose; untangled and free. My footsteps were heavy as I walk past the doorstep of my apartment. I have to leave Mexico now.

Time passed like a feverish manner. Until now, everything feels like a fever dream. Especially when I found myself sitting in the three-wheeled vehicle they called "tricycle", it wasn't just me here. A woman in her late 30's who calls herself "Tita Leng" fetched me on this town's old airport. She was holding a cardboard on her hand as she stood patiently on the waiting area while waiting for my arrival.

"Hija, dayo ka?" the man maneuvering the vehicle curiosly asked. I frowned at the question because I have no idea what was he talking about, and thank heavens because Tita Leng, which I find it awkward to call her that, she answered instead of me.

"Naku, Manong Toto, she's from Mexico! Kalagu na diba?" She looked at me enthusiastically, her eyes beaming with earness to know more about the country where I came from. Not long after that, they converse in a language I couldn't comprehend. Everything sounded so foreign except for the words apo, buhay, and taon. The rest that followed sounded like jargons to me.

The tricycle stopped moving. It stopped in front of an open gate which is painted in a vibrant red color. The gate was open so I was able to caught a glimpse of what's waiting for us.

A cottage style house, Manggo and Tamarindo trees, thriving plants and flowers welcomed my sight. The house looked oddly strange, it gives of the kind of ambiance we see on houses near riverside. It's not that its weird, I just couldn't find the right term aside from calling it beautiful. Un hermoso refugio, I thought.

Soon after, an old woman wearing an orange color daster with coral patterns took me for an embrace. Her white hair that she wears like a crown made of snow was blown by the wind, her scent which smelled like crisp sandalwood, and her skin already passed its youth. She's old. Way older than I can remember.

Her warm hands held my face, I was taller than her, than them. Meaning, she had too tiptoe while doing it. Still, I stood bewildered.

"Leng! Ito na siya?" she asked her daughter who nodded while taking out the bag in the tricycle. Then a wide smile crept into her thick lips. "Hija! Anim ka palang noong huli kitang nakita!"

"Ma! English mu aintindihan na!" Tita Leng spoke, then soon turned to me. "Ah, she said that the last time she saw you was when you were six!"

I smiled. I couldn't think of anything to say. When I think of them, all I could recall was the face of my mom. But how can I remember them if I don't even know how her voice sounds like now?

"Ginagawa din 'to ng Mama mo! Don't you miss her, hmm?"

People always see one thing. But do they know that you can hate something as much as how you miss it?

The floor was solid. It was comforting to know that I wouldn't fall any further because this is the rock-bottom, it's only when I hit the ground that it causes all the grief.

Wheter it was the subtle sound of crickets, tricycles and their roaring engines sounds, the dim white light illuminating the corners of this humble house, circular patterns of uneven old-brown tiles, even lamesita with fictile pot painted in aureate colors with violet plastic flowers into it, all of those emits a sense of familiarity that I didn't know I had.

I had been sitting in the chair of our lababo, Lola Sol is moving gracefully on kitchen. She said that even if her eyes are closed, she'll still be able to make something with those hands of her. Because afterall, the corners of this kitchen has been her kingdom for almost half of her life. She moves as if she was dancing, just like how butterflies flaps their wings in the wind so they can stay on their pace.

I had been thinking everything about life. Everyday, I am thinking of something, yet I can't seem to find something into it. It is an endless loop of never-ending cycle.

I know that Nostalgia isn't always good.

In my home country, we commemorate the deaths of our heroes. But why don't we celebrate their birth?

Which I wonder, is it to preserve the essence of their marytdom

The sky hasn't always been beautiful.

I will come to miss this moment,

ust three months from now,

Home

0 notes

aradiamorningstar · 24 days

Text

Rinse and Repeat

I’ve worked hard the past few years in the attempt to heal and mend what was broken within me. Broken and ripped to shreds by people who should have loved me. My mother, my father, my so-called friends and most of all, men. I had a habit of putting everything I had into the men I cherished. I grew up with terrible examples of what being in love or loving someone really meant. A lot of people wronged me, but I came full circle with the blame that I needed to take responsibility for as well. My part in these disasters. Whether it was putting up with people who hurt me and giving them endless chances — because that’s just “what you do” when you love someone. Or worse, my volatility in response to mental and physical abuse. I stayed where I shouldn’t have, made broken homes inside of darkened souls. I tried to fix what was hollow from the beginning. Watching my mother cry for hours on the floor at four years old, and spilling out her guts to a child while sobbing incoherently about said child’s father being a horrible person, and a cheater. I had no idea what it meant to truly love someone and it not be an utter disaster. I have failed myself most all, over and over again by accepting someone or something, when I deserved much better. I have come to terms and forgiveness, the little girl in me just wanted to be loved. I didn’t want another man who should have cared for me unconditionally, to leave me in the drive way crying while backing away and breaking my heart.

Four year old me wanted to feel safe, heard and loved. I accepted anything that came my way in form of a good looking man with dangerous charm. After all, is that not my father? All I took from my mother was how to house myself in a broken home. How to walk on glass and keep going no matter how much it cut me, no matter how deep. I held on and on until I was left in a fire of despair, because that is what you do for the people you love. You accept it. Right?

I have been wholly afraid of truly caring for anyone else during my healing years. Fresh out of my divorce, after being together for over ten years, I was empty. I had nothing left to give but I was open to receiving. Receiving a better life than I had be thrust into. Leading a better life than the toxic plans laid before me. Walking a better path towards a brighter future in which I was whole. Whole because I loved myself enough, because I valued myself enough, because I (as gracefully as possible) learned to accept myself unequivocally. I was no longer tied down to the idea of staying with someone and enduring the abuse, or reactive abuse. I was settled into leading a life alone and happy, making my own desires come true. My own goals and plans put into action and being happy for the first time in my life.

I dated around casually and although from time to time I would feel a spark of what maybe could be with someone, I would back away. You can know me, but only what I want you to know. That is my devilish little secret within my soul. I am an enigma, I am layered. You can peel one layer back and I will make you feel like you’ve found every bit of me; but you haven’t. My heart was an empty room housing a fractured soul. Most of all, I was overwhelming lonely at times. One extreme to the other. I could be secluded for days, weeks, months and thrive. Then there would be the downfall of feeling like four year old me again, just wanting to be wrapped in safe arms and held tightly.

When I met you, that changed. Not only did I want to let you in, perhaps at my own peril, but I did. I let you inch closer and closer to every faucet of my being and thought in my head. You left. Three months later you arrived again with a grandiose statement of missing me and apologies. I forgave you because I longed for it. No matter who I went on dates with, no matter what I tried to make my feelings into, I was stuck on you. You are incredibly charming when you want to be, you are loving and funny. You are kind and there for me, and most of all, you want me too. Then you leave. You push me away. I cry again and tell myself I will not stay in this space. I will leave your empty room, to tend to mine. I tell myself I am over you and as always, out of sight —-out of mind.

I have always been excellent at disassociating with the things that hurt me, to an extent. You learn how to do that when you have severe trauma, even if you aren’t able to save yourself or walk away, your subconscious tries to protect you as much as possible. You go into fight or flight mode and you survive however you can.

I got over you. Or so I thought.

Another three months later and you walk into my life yet again. You introduce apologies and gestures, maybe more than before. You walk in this empty room and fill it with your presence. I remember what I felt the first time, and the time after. I disown the bad and forgive you. Does that put me right back where I was? No matter how hard I work on myself, and how much progress I have made — will I always be the abused and terrified little girl who just longs to truly be loved? I suspect so, because you make me feel as if I have forgotten it at all. You make me laugh and smile again, you become the living room light in this empty room of mine. You fill the room with the brightness of a 60 watt bulb.

This time it lasted mere days. You said a lot of things to me that meant so much. You broke the locks to the room and set up camp quickly. Sitting in the spot that was designated for you. You took up residence and I let you. I regrettably fucking let you. I am angry at myself for entertaining this mess, for letting myself go so far down. I justify my actions by telling everyone who really cares for me, that you are sorry. That you were going through a horrible time, that I whole-heartedly understand and therefore cannot fault you. I mean it, too. My friends gently but firmly tell me this is a mistake. I feel like I’ve been stung by a scorpion. I am defensive but I try to keep it non-chalant, I don’t want to give up my carefully curated façade. I know that they care. Worst of all, I know they are right. They are kind enough to watch as spectators and tend to the wounds when you inevitably leave.

Eventually, even if only days later, you quickly remedy any nice things you say to me. Any feelings you might have shown are now shadows and I’m left wondering if I made it all up in my head. If I imagined every bit of it, because deep down it’s what I wanted. I told you that you give me whiplash. I said that it was hard; You want to be my friend, you don’t. You want to love me but you won’t. You don’t have feelings, then you do.

Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

I am left in bed at night wondering where I went wrong. How could I allow this to happen to me again? Why is my heart aching and longing for someone who cannot figure out what he wants or shows me that he truly cares? Why do I cry over you? Why do I let you back in. Don’t answer that; it’s rhetorical and I already know the answer.

Each time you meander your way back into the room, I feel wanted. You only say nice things after you’ve hurt me and decided you’re better with me in your life. The cycle continues.

Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

I found myself trying to make anecdotes for the issues you create. Making excuses, really. I admit, it was so nice to hear those things if even for a moment. Not because I haven’t heard them from anyone else but because they came from the person I wanted to hear them from. They came from you. The person I felt and fell for. Even as I write this, my heart aches and swells. Tears brim at my eyes, threatening to spill over and the existential dread bubbles up my throat thickly.

There are cracks in the room’s walls. A fissure. Suddenly I look around and I can’t breathe. The air is escaping the room and there is none left. The fissure widens and there are new cracks everywhere. I cannot breathe. I try to tell you how I feel, but keep it as casual as possible. I feel you slip away a little further and reluctantly I try to hold on. I want to hold on and I want you to reach for me too. I feel you turn it all off. You apologise and try to make it right. You talk to me without fail every day, as always. In the back of my mind I am constantly wondering where I stand with you.

I am good at perception. I am good at seeing what other people may miss in someone else’s actions and words: Even if I don’t want to come to terms with it, I can see. I am the opposite of blind, I wish I could shut my eyes.

I think you are lonely, as I am. However there is a difference. You see me as someone who accepts you wholly, and cares for you indescribably. You see someone who will be there when everyone else’s light has gone off in their room. You know I will be there, you know I will let you in. You know you can crack me open and leave, then come back again. I represent what you want, but I am not actually what you want.

This particular time is the worst. I feel a strangling anxiety tonight, trying to wade my way through the quicksand and make sense of it all. I couldn’t dare ask you though, you never have any answers to give. Empty apologies and then you vacate the room. It is empty again. Now there is too much air and I am choking on it. She just wants to be loved right. She just wants to be held. She just wants to love you. She just wants to be happy. She wishes you loved her too. She wishes you were sincere and she wasn’t your test-crash dummy. She wishes you meant well. She is good at seeing the tiny bits of goodness in people and building them up with it. She just wants to heal you and keep you safe. .. but she can’t even keep herself safe.

You quit telling her how you feel and you barely, if at all, acknowledge the comments she makes — all in hopes to see if the things you said really held weight in the end. She is broken. She sees every little thing.

If I don’t lock you out of the room and throw away the key, you will tear the walls down completely. Leave it in shambles. You will apologise for not knowing how you feel despite what you have said, and you will tell her if you make her feel bad, you shouldn’t be in each other’s lives.

I may still be that little girl in wretched pain, but there is also an innocence to her. In the way she does love unconditionally —friend or lover, without a second thought. She is naïve and hopes for a time when she will be saved. She needs to be saved, that part of her. She needs to protect that little girl because no one else ever fucking did. The current version of herself is enough to coddle the little girl, as if they are not one, but adjacent beings. She holds tight and strokes her hair, she soothes her and cries with her. She reminds her things are not fair in life and people lie. She reminds the little girl that she is strong, and you will walk the earth together after you lock yourselves in the room and board up it up for good. She will live there with the little girl, and no one will hurt them again. She is all she ever needs. She does not want to love in actuality. She keeps almost everyone at distance, but you got in. You are a pest she needs to exterminate. A stray cat who doesn’t know he doesn’t live in the room, and he’s liked, but he is not welcome. Most all, she knows he will leave again soon, she can feel it.

Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat.

Please let this time be different she says to herself. She wonders if she means that you will be different, or that she will have the will to stop it first. She knows not to throw a coin in the wishing well of you. She will place her bets elsewhere, she will place them in the surest thing she has— herself.

Please don’t break her, but inevitably when you do, do not come back.

You may not ever enter this room again. You may not walk down it’s halls or knock on the door. No one will answer this time. She holds the little girl tight and in return the little girl holds on to her as well. They cover their ears and she hums to the little girl, while the door is being pounded on.

She did this as a child, when trauma occurred. Block it out, hum until it’s gone. What you cannot see or hear must not be. She self-soothes and holds herself together at night, hoping for a better outcome ..but this is not it.

Plain and simple, she hurts. Tears stain her cheek, but the little girl quickly wipes them away. Whatever you broke, they will mend together. They are unstoppable, they have come leagues from where they are. They protect each other equally and she then knows, her greatest love and ally will always be her and all the versions of herself. You will not break that. We won’t allow it. Please leave, and never come back. You have been evicted. You will not find a home or safe space here anymore.

Directions as read; Do not rinse and repeat, item is delicate.

#c.a.#writing

0 notes

chloemarievaughan · 11 months

Text

And we’re off! May 19, Ghent

The last time I left the country was following college graduation on 2015, went on a fantastic family trip to Europe, and then my family flew home and I did another three weeks solo, had the absolute best time, flew home and the next month moved to Nashville, started grad school and quickly realized… my grad school budget did not leave much room for international travel 😂 then in 2020 the funniest thing happened… and my passport expired!

Fast forward to 2023 and Mike Vaughan decides to hike the Appalachian trail (he’s thriving and having the best time! He’ll be done in November) and so Lori Holycross Vaughan was suddenly available to be my travel buddy! got my passport renewed, we picked a date and decided on a ten day trip to Belgium and the Netherlands! Fitting because I ended my last international trip in Brussels 🙂

Writing this on the plane to London… Mom and I made it to the airport, thanks to Grandma Jean for the ride! I’m supposed to be sleeping. I am sitting in the worst possible spot for sleeping because my two neighbors are fascinating strangers and have struck up a super interesting conversation and I am hooked. (Are they flirting? is this a rom com meet cute?) the man is from England and was former military and now does some sort of international sports job where he teaches people about cricket, the sport. Sounds fake to me (the sport and the job). He has traveled a lot and his favorite country so far was Uzbekistan. The girl is from New York City and used to have an 80 year old roommate who owned an Italian bakery and baked her cannolis every day while she was studying, and she just got back from a trip to the Galapagos where she was doing some sort of cruise and hopefully something turtle related. Now they are talking about every single sport they are both interested in, the man is hoping ice hockey will become more popular in the UK, the woman prefers college basketball to the NBA. I hope they fall in love after this but they NEED to stop talking I am never going to go to sleep if they continue to be this interesting 😂

Update: the three year old across the aisle to me has now started singing loudly, I’m not sure which is worse for my odds of falling asleep… 4 hours to go 😬

-Miracle of miracles I fell asleep! Before they stopped talking too!

Update #3: Kristen and Dan exchanged names and numbers before getting off the plane! Very cute. but annoying 😂

Mom and I saved a few hundred dollars by flying into London and taking the Eurostar to Belgium… added some complexity into our journey though. Landed in London at 6 am, (we were the first plane to land once the airport opened haha), and then had an hour ride on the tube (thought of Dad while we heard “mind the gap” over and over again). Then we had a Eurostar to Belgium, but we were Extremely early. We went for a stroll around St Pancras Station, watched some double decker buses passing by at Pret a Manger with some Americanos. it felt like 3 am to us at this point. Eventually meandered back to St Pancras to check in for the Eurostar. When I went to London in 2015, it was pre Brexit, and so we didn’t need to go through immigration at the Eurostar, but now we did. It was fine and really didn’t take long but it seems like the station was not really designed with immigration in mind and there were SO many people in the station waiting to board the Eurostar. Most off to Paris+ Disneyland Paris, but some were on our train to Brussels, which had its final destination in Amsterdam. Our train on a Friday afternoon could more accurately be described as the drunk stag party train… even with earplugs it was the absolute loudest train I had ever been on. And I thought the Kristen and Dan saga preventing me from sleeping earlier was the worst… didn’t realize how much worse it could be. Seemed like they were all having a blast on the way to Amsterdam but again I didn’t really get any sleep haha.

Once we arrived in Brussels, we immediately got on the next train to Gent. While it was a really nice train, it was the wrong one- we were supposed to go on a direct train to Ghent taking 30 minutes and instead we stopped at every station and took over an hour to get there. Then we got our City Card- 48 hours of Ghent museums, public transportation and travel opportunities. We could have (in retrospect should have!) taken a tram to the city center/ where our hotel was, but decided to stretch our legs due to being tired of sitting down on trains and planes for hours and hours. this was a mistake as moms phone was getting close to dying, there were really narrow sidewalks, and cobblestone streets made it unpleasant to wheel our suitcases around for 30 minutes haha. Also, Ghent is absolutely Jam Packed with People this weekend- aparently unbeknownst to us it was a holiday weekend in Belgium and also there was some sort of festival. Finally made it to the hotel, recovered a bit, freshened up, and went on a stroll of the surrounding areas (spoiler alert: weather is Fantastic and I’m already in love with Ghent just from our stroll) and the sat in the St Baafs church square near our hotel and had an absolutely fantastic meal + some large, much needed Belgian beers. Now back in the hotel, relearned some old card games from long ago while trying desperately to stay awake until 9 pm to help us adjust to the time change. 27 minutes left until 9pm local time as I finish up this post… not sure I’m gonna make it 😂 more to come!

0 notes

princeofgod-2021 · 2 years

Text

LIGHT OF LIFE 231

John 1:4

SATAN’S STRUCTURE 38: MONEY AND FINANCE 2

Mat 6:24 “YOU CAN’T WORSHIP TWO gods AT ONCE. Loving one god, you'll end up hating the other. Adoration of one feeds contempt for the other. YOU CAN’T WORSHIP GOD AND MONEY BOTH”. MSG

Let’s shed more light on money again: all other gods crafted by men, in comparison with the Almighty God are commonly referred to as powerless, useless and helpless; quite unable to save anyone.

Psa 115:4-8 Their idols are made of silver and gold – THEY ARE MAN-MADE. They have mouths, but cannot speak, eyes, but cannot see, ears, but cannot hear, noses, but cannot smell, hands, but cannot touch, feet, but cannot walk. They cannot even clear their throats. THOSE WHO MAKE THEM WILL END UP LIKE THEM, as will everyone who trusts in them. NET

But according to the Opening scripture, Money, which has no eyes, ears, legs or mouth, is referred to as a Master (Controller) and almost like a person that could be served, loved and even adored.

We have to say these things seriously as it is obvious that many don’t like to think deeply about it nor feel condemned over their love of money and accept that they could be under money’s control.

1Ki 11:1,4-5 KING SOLOMON LOVED MANY FOREIGN WOMEN in addition to Pharaoh's daughter. He loved Hittite women and women from Moab, Ammon, Edom, and Sidon… IN HIS OLD AGE, HIS WIVES TEMPTED HIM TO FOLLOW OTHER GODS. HE WAS NO LONGER COMMITTED TO THE LORD HIS GOD as his father David had been. SOLOMON FOLLOWED Astarte (the goddess of the Sidonians) and Milcom (the disgusting idol of the Ammonites). GW

Please note the references here: it was said that Solomon LOVED many women, but FOLLOWED Idols. It wasn’t said that he loved Idols.

God deliberately avoids referring to idols as tangible entities.

But Jesus Himself now refers to Money [indirectly] as a “person” we must not SERVE.

This is deliberate illustrative Personification of Money and we need to know why.

There are reasons:

Mat 4:8-9 AGAIN, THE DEVIL TOOK HIM to a very high mountain, and SHOWED HIM ALL THE KINGDOMS OF THE WORLD AND THEIR GRANDEUR. And he said to him, “I WILL GIVE YOU ALL THESE THINGS IF YOU THROW YOURSELF TO THE GROUND AND WORSHIP ME.” NET

Firstly, Satan is the Principal entity behind luxury, wealth and money used in the world and he thrives to control humanity by it.

He (the liar) doesn’t own it, like he implied, but manipulates by it.

On Monday, we saw why Money is so important: because it is universally used.

That is why Satan chose money as means of controlling men; he seeks specific and unified global control of humanity.

Ecc 10:19 Bread is made for laughter, and wine makes merry; BUT SILVER ANSWERS ALL THINGS. MKJV

Secondly, Money is personified because of the way it obviously influences people, possible with frenzied excitement.

The above scripture says money “answers”, figured like a person could do.

We’re familiar with the phrase: “Money Talks”, right?

Desperation to attain “whatever” you “need” in life has driven men to do the unthinkable – even murder – just to get their hands on money.

Gen 31:40-41 IN THE DAYTIME THE SUN TOOK AWAY MY STRENGTH, and at night sleep was taken from my eyes by the cold. I WORKED 20 YEARS LIKE A SLAVE FOR YOU. For the first 14 years I worked to win your two daughters. The last six years I worked to earn your animals. AND DURING THAT TIME YOU CHANGED MY PAY TEN TIMES. ERV

Thirdly, money is mostly personified because many give their life’s “force” to get it.

It’s like an exchange: measures of your life energy daily for wages to buy what you need to sustain that life.

Pro 16:26 Appetite is an incentive to work; HUNGER MAKES YOU WORK ALL THE HARDER. MSG

Your needs and appetite will move/force you to go out and work for money.

So, without argument or negotiation with money, you simply move to look for it.

Nobody can avoid towing that line really.

Eph 4:28 IF ANY ONE OF YOU HAS STOLEN FROM SOMEONE ELSE, NEVER DO IT AGAIN. INSTEAD, BE INDUSTRIOUS, EARNING AN HONEST LIVING, and then you’ll have enough to bless those in need. TPT

The bible instructs on working to make money and sustain our lives, but definitely not in dubious or wicked ways, as stated above.

The influence of money on humanity cannot be undermined though.

You don’t have to ask why money is condemned if God Himself commands us to work for it.

The “thrust” men have for big things, easy sweet life and “big-man” personalities, isn’t God’s plan at all.

1Ti 6:8-9 SO WE SHOULD BE SATISFIED JUST TO HAVE FOOD AND CLOTHES. People who want to be rich fall into all sorts of temptations and traps. They are caught by foolish and harmful desires that drag them down and destroy them. CEV

So ask yourself if you have ever been satisfied with just clothes and food. Have you ever been content with “give us this day our daily bread”?

How many of you do not desire to be millionaires?

There! You have your answer.

The moment anyone passes that threshold of “Moderation”, he is on the road to being a slave of money and he will have sorrows enough whenever he doesn’t have it.

1Ti 6:10 LOVING MONEY is the first step toward all kinds of trouble. SOME PEOPLE RUN AFTER IT SO MUCH that they have given up their faith. CRAVING MORE MONEY PUSHES THEM AWAY FROM THE FAITH into error, compounding misery in their lives! TPT

I pray that you will be delivered from the stronghold of craving for money, in Jesus name, Amen.

Come back on Friday for more digging into this intriguing subtopic.

Keep Shinning!

Brother Prince

Wednesday, August 3, 2022

08055125517; 08023904307

0 notes

the-blind-assassin-12 · 2 years

Text

Survivor Blues

Part Two : Welcome to Jackson

A/N: Thank you all SO MUCH for the encouraging feedback on the first part of this series. I am going to be responding to some of the comments and reblogs that I didn’t get to in the next few days, but for now I want you to know that I truly appreciate anyone who has read and will read this story. This one doesn’t have a ton of Joel, but I promise you the next chapter does. ;)

Warnings: language, weapons, discussion of illness, death and loss, general canon-typical apocalyptic hell. A close up of Joel Miller’s face.

Word Count: 5,304

Summary: When Tommy and Joel said that they would bring you back to “Jackson”, you had no way of knowing what would be waiting for you once you got there. Finding the town to be far more than you ever imagined, you are faced with a major decision - after so much time on the road, are you ready to try to put down roots?

April 2037

Joel had told you the truth - the ride back with him and Tommy hadn't been longer than an hour. You hadn’t encountered any more infected, the cluster of them that you’d put down earlier seemingly the only ones currently wandering these woods, and the two men and their horses were extremely familiar with the route, so you’d reached the main gate just as the sun was starting to make its way behind the mountains. And though you’d seen the time-ravaged and weather-beaten sign about a mile back, though you’d read the chipped, barely legible words, you were still stunned at what you were looking at.

This wasn’t a settlement. Or a camp. It wasn’t a rogue group of survivors huddled together in an abandoned building. This is a whole goddamn town.

Welcome to Jackson. That’s what the sign had said. “Thank me once we’re in Jackson and you’ve met Maria.” That’s what Joel had said. Over the last few weeks you’d had a vague awareness that you were traveling through the territory formerly known as the state of Wyoming, but until you were there in front of the massive gate as it opened to reveal a thriving community, you hadn’t put the pieces together. Jackson wasn’t just a name that a group of survivors called the place that they’d chosen to circle their wagons. It wasn’t a reinforced strip mall or an old theater-turned-hideout. This was the actual town of Jackson, Wyoming, and compared to the rest of the country, or at least the parts of it you’d seen since civilization crashed, it was practically untouched.

Inside the looming security barrier you saw people ranging in age from 6 to 60, a few dogs trotting around, several storefronts, dozens of homes, livestock pens and greenhouses, and even that would have been enough to shock you. But there’s… those lights are - You couldn’t believe what you were seeing, and for a moment you wondered if you weren't hallucinating. They have electricity. They… how?

“It’s a real trip, ain’t it?”

Though the man behind you had remained mostly silent the entire way, only breaking the quiet twice to check in with you, making sure that you were still conscious and that you weren’t in danger of slipping from the horse, his voice hit your ear just as you took in one of the signs hanging over a shop door. Scrawled in hand-painted lettering, it read: Bakery. Bread. Muffins. Pies. You watched as a woman left the establishment carrying two wrapped loaves, and the sight nearly brought you to tears. If you hadn’t been so drained, if you weren’t focusing on trying to stay alert and keep whatever was left of your guard up, the smell of freshly baked sourdough alone would have made you lose it. A trip? This is… it’s...

The last time you’d seen anything even remotely close to the normalcy presented in front of you had been just over ten years ago. And this is… this is a far cry from that. The Chicago QZ was only operational in theory. Curfews, rations, patrols, regulations - those things provided more of an illusion of functionality than the real thing. Plenty of people still went hungry. Plenty of people were still driven to violence in an attempt to cover their basic needs. You had learned long ago that the quarantine zones were only safe from the infected, they weren’t safe. They weren’t stable. This was something altogether different.

Realizing that you hadn’t responded, you breathed out the only word you could. “Impossible.”

Peals of carefree laughter mingled with the barking of dogs as a group of children ran down the main drag of the town, some of the adults nearby scolding them for nearly knocking them over, others simply chuckling and watching with warm expressions that said kids will be kids. You never imagined that people would once again have the luxury of being irked by one another, that they would ever achieve a level of comfort and security that allowed them to grumble at life’s minor annoyances. A few faces turned towards the sound of the gate being shut again, some of the people waving a hello or nodding to Tommy and Joel, some regarding you closely and discerningly while others seemed to accept your presence instantly, offering kind or sympathetic smiles. You never assumed people would regain the ability to be neighborly.

“Thought so too, first time I came through those gates.” You didn’t expect him to say anything else, but as he followed the other man, tugging on the leather reins to turn his horse in the direction of what appeared to be a barn with multiple stalls, you were surprised to hear the timbre of his voice right behind you again.”Thought it was too good to be true. Couldn’t last.” You wondered how long ago that was, but didn’t dare ask. “I was wrong.”

You waited for that eerie tingle to trickle down your spine, for the little fizzle of static that would start in the back of your brain and transmit to every cell in your body that something wasn’t right. That it was dangerous. That this was a trap or that agreeing to let the men take you back with them was a bad idea. It never came. But you weren't relaxed or relieved just yet. You knew it would take more than a few minutes for you to wrap your head around what these people had here. A lot more.

If they even… if I stay.

Nothing had been outright promised to you, only mentioned. You had no idea what would be expected of you if you joined the community there, or if they would even give you a choice in the matter. If they did, would you choose to stay? A sudden tight twist of your heart came with the question of - are you sure you want to form more relationships with people you’re only going to lose?

Before you could attempt to answer yourself, you felt Joel moving behind you, swinging himself from the saddle that you shared with practiced ease. Wordlessly, he turned and extended both hands to help you down. Oh. Alright. There was no way that you would be able to get back to the ground under your own power. The fatigue was so entrenched in the sinew of your muscle that even blinking and breathing seemed to take effort, and you knew the man had picked up on that. Settling your trembling hands on his wide shoulders, the heavy material of his coat rough but grounding under your palms, you felt him place his large hands at your waist.

He guided you more than lifted you from the horse, letting go as soon as your feet were planted. Following that lead, you dropped your hands from his body, too. But as soon as you did your knees buckled slightly, and your reaction had been to grasp his forearms to right yourself. Fuck, I didn’t mean to -

“Woah,” he said calmly, wide palms coming back up to your biceps, steadying you. You mumbled an apology, eyes shutting against the way the world spun. “S’alright. Just take a minute.” He held onto you for another beat - until you removed your hands from him - and then released his grip on you one hand at a time.

Letting out a long breath, you slowly opened your eyes. When you tilted your head back to look up you found that Joel’s were waiting. In the dying light of late afternoon - at arm’s length - his eyes were a softer shade of nutty brown, not quite as dark as they seemed behind the barrel of his rifle. You noticed the accordion fold of crows feet that fanned out from the corners of them, and the deep ravine of an old scar cutting across the bridge of his nose. At this distance you saw the patches in his beard and the windburned skin of his cheeks directly above the line of his facial hair, and despite the way your mind was blown to bits by everything you’d seen since the town gates had opened, you couldn’t help but wonder what he was noticing about you for the first time. The exact color of your eyes? Or the silvery strands that muted the original tone of your hair? Was that little hike of his eyebrow caused by the fact that he’d just found the thin scar that struck top to bottom through both of your lips? Was he following the creases in your skin the same way that you’d involuntarily done to his?

No. You answered your original question. No more attachments.

Joel cleared his throat and it seemed as though he came to the same conclusion. Taking a step back and then moving around to the other side of the horse, the man undid the straps that held your bag to the animal’s gear. You turned your head to peer into the open doors of the barn as Tommy and another much younger man strode back towards you and Joel.

“Just called up to Maria on the radio.” Tommy stepped up next to the horse where the other man was now removing his own bag from the saddle. He brought his hand up to pat the beast’s neck, stroking down over its mane as he looked over its body. Joel lifted his gaze briefly and cocked his head almost imperceptibly, but you knew it was another of their silent communications, the man dropping his eyes back to his task. “She wants to meet our new friend here.” He jerked a thumb in your direction before shooting you what you imagined he thought was an encouraging grin. Turning back, he continued speaking as the older of the two finished what he was doing. “You wanna come for this chat? She’s up at the-”

Joel didn’t let him finish, clicking his tongue and handing your bag over to Tommy. “Can’t, Tommy.” He passed the reins of his horse over to the man who had emerged from the stables, nodding as he mumbled. “Thanks, Jake.”

Jake - a bright eyed kid no older than 19 with dark, tight curls sticking out from under his hat - responded enthusiastically, and it was clear that he looked up to these two men in some way from how he interacted with them. Horse in tow, he led it back into the barn to be housed with the others, a soft chorus of huffs and whinnies coming from inside the doors in front of him. He reminds me of -

“Can’t?” Tommy questioned. Whatchu got goin’ on that you can’t?”

Joel shrugged. “Ellie came across a movie she’s never seen so I promised her I’d watch it with her tonight’n we’re already late comin’ back.”

As if the sight of so many survivors - so many people - combined with the phenomenon of electricity - and baked goods for fuck’s sake - wasn’t enough, apparently these people also used radios and watched movies like nothing had changed. It made your head spin. It made your chest ache. Kyle could have had a life here. Laura could have been a teacher again. Maybe Ty could have helped with the horses. Ryan and Brayden could have settled down. Gavin could have- You swallowed hard and reminded yourself that none of them were there, so imagining what Jackson could have provided them was only going to hurt you.

“Alright then.” Tommy seemed to find Joel’s excuse satisfactory, the easy smile you’d seen him wear back at the abandoned house spreading even wider now. “You two ain’t had a movie night in a while so enjoy it.” You heard Joel mutter something that sounded like yeah. “Tell Ellie I said hello. And tell her to wear good shoes on Wednesday, you hear? Not those damn-”

“Sneakers.” They both said the word at the same time with the same intonation, the muscles in their faces even making the same shapes as they spoke, and it was that above anything else that made you certain that the men were brothers.

At that, Joel let out a breath that could possibly have been a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll give her the message.” Shouldering the straps of his pack, he clapped Tommy on the arm then. “Make sure to tell Maria I said hi, too.” Tommy assured him he would, and then Joel turned back to you. His eyes latched onto yours again as his bottom lip fell open, but he recovered quickly, clearing his throat again and then saying your name. “You take care now.”

He didn’t wait for you to respond though, nodding once and then heading off towards a cluster of homes on the other side of the domed greenhouses. Take care?

You heard your name again, this time coming from beside you, and you turned your attention back to Tommy. He was watching you curiously, a slight upwards curve to the corners of his mouth that Joel didn’t have. “I’m gonna take you to see the boss around here.” You felt your eyes widen and he chuckled, slinging his pack over one shoulder and yours over the other. “Don’t worry, I got clout with her.” He leaned in closer. “She’s my wife.”

– – – –

Twenty minutes later, after a thankfully short walk to a building labeled as the community center, you sat at a round table on a metal folding chair with a bowl of hot soup and a bottle of water. Beans and vegetables floated in the savory broth, steam and the mouthwatering smell of real food hitting your face and almost bringing you to tears. You took small sips of soup and of the water despite wanting to gulp both of them down, knowing that if you ate and drank too quickly after going so long on so little you would be sick. But it was hard to pace yourself when the meal tasted like being brought back to life. You couldn’t even remember the last time you ate soup or any meal that was seasoned, boiled, roasted, baked or otherwise not cooked crudely over an open flame. Greens, weeds, the occasional fruit or vegetable growing wild were almost always eaten fresh off the plant or else dried and stashed for as long as possible. But people here had refrigerators and pantries and tupperware.

They’re set up to live, not to survive.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” The woman’s voice pulled your focus up and away from your meal and your thoughts, and you looked across the table to find her sharp eyes on you. You swallowed the mouthful you’d just taken, setting your spoon against the rim of the bowl.

Nodding, you raised a shaking hand to wipe your lips. “It’s great,” you rasped. “Thank you.” With a glance to your right, you acknowledged Tommy as well, the man smiling at you. “Both of you.” And Joel.

“Of course,” Maria responded, her features set in a serious expression that bordered on stern, her arms folded atop the table. “What kind of people would we be if we let you starve?” You heard the underlying question of what’s the point of survival if you lose your humanity, and even though it was clear that the woman didn’t trust you yet, you decided that you admired her.

Though you wanted nothing more than to pick up the bowl of soup with both hands and drink the rest of it in one go, you instead pushed it back and assumed the same position that she was in, arms bent and laid on the tabletop. Taking a breath, you weighed your next words carefully, aware that your trial had begun. You cleared your throat. “Plenty of people out there would have just left me to die. Or turned me away.” Or worse.

Tommy sat back in his chair, one leg bent so that boot could rest on the opposite knee, his arms crossed over his chest. “Jackson’s not like that,” he shook his head from side to side, and it wasn’t until then that you noticed his hair was long enough for the motion to make it sway. “Not gonna sit back and let people suffer.”

“No,” his wife agreed, her eyes losing some of their edge as she set them on him. “No, we’re not.” She sighed then and returned her gaze to you. “But,” one eyebrow arched high on her forehead, she tilted her chin and continued. “We also have to protect our own.”

Here it comes. You nodded, knowing that this was the real reason that you’d been brought to speak with this woman. “I understand.” The more concise and honest your answers were, the better chance you’d have at passing whatever assessment she was trying to make.

“What we have here, it only works if we keep ourselves safe. And some people out there?” She lifted one hand and pointed to the door but you knew she was speaking of the territory beyond the town’s border walls. “If people out there find out about what we have here… some people get the idea in their heads that we’re an easy target. Sitting ducks.” Her hand returned to the table. “They think they can hit us when we’re not expecting it and take from us.”

That made complete sense to you. When resources were limited they became more valuable, and here in the end-times, Jackson was a treasure horde. You knew that people would resort to desperate measures if they thought they had a chance of seizing even a fraction of the wealth that allowed this community to thrive. You had been that desperate yourself from time to time, stealing, manipulating, doing what was necessary for you and yours at the expense of others without even thinking twice. Nodding again, you stretched the fingers of your left hand out and stared at your knuckles. “I understand.”

“Good. Then you’ll understand why I have to ask you a few questions before we let you stay.”

Your heartbeat quickened. Stay. You thought about what that would mean. A safe place to sleep. Enough food and clean water to last your lifetime. But it was more than that. Staying in Jackson would mean a return to civilization. A step closer to the world that had ceased to exist so long ago. It would mean rewiring the way you had been operating for the last two decades. And you weren’t sure if you could do that.

Trying not to telegraph that uncertainty to Maria, you simply flipped one hand over so that your palm faced the ceiling and answered, “of course.”

Without any further pretense, the other woman - who you placed at around your age - leaned over her folded arms and got right to it. “How did you find out about us?”

You suddenly remembered the way that Joel had told you not to thank him until after you’d met Maria. He wasn’t kidding, she’s… intense. But you knew that she had to be. Inhaling through your nose, you tried your best to keep your voice even. “I had no idea that all of this was here. It was…” You shrugged. “Dumb luck. I was just trying to find supplies, I wasn’t looking for other people or-”

“Supplies for who? Do you have others in your group?” Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Tommy setting his foot back on the ground and scooting forward in his seat, his eyes flicking to Maria and then back to you.

Closing your eyes, you were acutely aware of the chain hanging around your neck. “No.” You swallowed a heavy lump of emotion before it could affect your voice, and blinked twice before looking at her again. “I’m alone.”

“So this isn’t a recon mission? Hmm? You’re not here scouting us out, are you?”

Though you had drank more water since you’d been seated at the table than you had in the last two days, your mouth went dry as you took a breath. “No,” you said again. “I’m alone.” Repeating the words made you feel them in the pit of your stomach and the space behind your eyes and all the chambers of your heart.

“And no one’s gonna come looking for you, are they? Friends or enemies?” She pierced you with her eyes, cutting as deep as she could to get a glimpse at your motives and decide if you were telling the truth.

“No.” Finally, a splinter scraped at the words leaving your mouth, making them crack. “No one. I’m…” You sucked in a stunted breath as you prepared to say it a third time. “I’m alone.” With shaking fingers, you reached for the water bottle and took a sip, trying to dissolve the choking feeling that was stuck in your chest.

Tommy leaned forward then, his expression far more sympathetic than the one Maria still wore. “And how long have you been on your own out there?” His eyebrows came together, furrowing his forehead beneath the longish strands of hair that dangled there. “If you don’t mind my asking, of course.”

You knew that he’d added that last bit as a courtesy. He wanted you to feel comfortable enough to answer the woman’s questions - he’d acted the same way back at the house, providing a level of not quite comfort, not quite trust, but… something friendlier than Joel’s gun or Maria’s pointed interrogation. You also knew that she would continue to press you, whether or not his technique worked, and again you felt a part of yourself admiring her for her sense of responsibility to keep the residents of the community safe from all potential threats. Especially other people.

Letting out a slow, controlled exhale in an attempt to rein in your racing heart and stop the kaleidoscope of pain and panic in your brain from swirling too fast, you prepared yourself to answer with something you had yet to say out loud. “Five weeks.” It was a long time. It was no time at all. “I l-” You had to stop midway through the word because it thickened your tongue. “I lost my nephew Kyle five weeks ago. He’s…” Tears seared at your bottom eyelids and you knew there was nothing you could do to keep them from falling. I’m so sorry, Laura. You’d had the thought over and over again since the day it happened, heartbroken that you couldn’t keep your promise to Gavin’s sister - that you couldn’t keep her son safe. “He’s gone. He was…” You saw all of their faces then, the people you cared about and called your own. “He was the last of my family. He’s gone. I’m alone.”

Using the filthy cuff of your coat sleeve, you erased the salty tracks on your cheeks as Tommy and Maria exchanged looks. Silently, the man produced a bandana and passed it to you, offering you something soft and clean to dry your tears with, and the simple kindness in the act was almost as overwhelming as admitting your sad truth over and over again. “We’re sorry, ma’am,” he said once you’d lowered the cloth from your face. “For all that you’ve lost.”

You knew that there was no one alive who’d been alive before the outbreak that hadn’t lost just as much as you had, and so you knew that both of them understood at least to a certain degree what you were going through. The hardness in her tone and on her face finally easing a little, the other woman nodded. “Truly, we are.” She spoke your name then, and you heard the apology in it. “What we have here is… very important to keep safe, and before we invited you to join us, we needed to make sure that you could be trusted.” She surprised you then, reaching across the surface to cover your hand with one of hers, your mouth dropping open at the contact. “Almost everyone here has lost too much. But we’re trying to give people the chance to rebuild. To have good things in their lives again.”

That thought scared you as much as it enticed you, but she went on to ask if you’d like to be a part of what they had in Jackson and seemingly without thinking about it you were saying yes. Shit. But your brain, newly fed and somewhat satisfied that this wasn’t an elaborate trap, began furiously supplying excuses for why it was fine that you’d agreed to stay. You don’t have to get close to anyone. You can do what’s required of you and not get attached to people. The bakery sign flashed in your mind. You can work without-

But that thought fell flat as you reminded yourself that work was where you’d met Gavin. The kitchen was where you’d fallen in love with him. That was before, your brain whispered. Things are different now.

“Alright then,” Tommy said, one hand lightly smacking the table. He smiled at you, and already you knew it would be hard to keep yourself from opening up to people if they were going to pry at your seams with kindness like this man was. He stood then, bending at the hip to place his hand on Maria’s shoulder before leaning down to kiss her cheek. “I’m gonna let you two discuss the finer details.” You saw his fingers squeeze her once, the affection rolling off of him and onto her almost visible. “See you at home after?”

Maria looked up at him from her seat, the curve of her lips lifting one cheek up into her eye. “Yeah,” she responded. “I’ll be home right after we’re settled here.”

Wondering what that meant, you nodded as Tommy bid you a good evening and then he was gone, leaving the two of you alone in the empty room.

– – – –

Later that night you stared at the ceiling above your cot in the community center, exhausted beyond belief but unable to find sleep, the events of the last few hours playing on a loop in your mind.

After Tommy left, Maria had explained the rules that the town of Jackson had implemented, as well as any consequences there were for breaking those rules. They were simple and all revolved around fairness and safety, around bettering the lives of all the residents, and you agreed easily to all of them. No unauthorized trips outside of the walls - to cut down on being followed back as well as to lessen the risk of bringing back the cordyceps infection through exposure to spores or a bite. Everyone pitches in however they can - there were shifts in the gardens, the daycare, and to your excitement, the bakery, but all who were able were also expected to help out with either a watch patrol atop the walls, or else on supply runs or trail sweeps like the one Joel and Tommy had been on when they found you. She explained that to cut down on swarms of infected that could pose a threat to the town, teams of 2 to 4 people were sent make sure certain trails and areas surrounding the town were clear. You had told her that you would be happy to take any of the shifts on sweeps that were available, letting her know that you were skilled with knives on top of being a decent shot, as well as working in the bakery, and she had noted your preferences.

Once you had reached an understanding on the way the town was run, the woman had explained that their policy on bringing new people in was that there was a short quarantine period during which you would have to stay in one of the rooms at the community center for three days. Because if I were infected I’d turn in that amount of time and if I don’t… they don’t have to worry. It also meant that if you were sick with anything contagious like a virus or the flu, Maria would have time to monitor you for symptoms before potentially letting you cause an outbreak of a different kind among the people who lived there. Some medications still retained their potency if they’d been sealed and stored properly, but you knew all too well that a fever could be just as deadly as a clicker or a gunshot in this world, so you had no qualms about agreeing to this stipulation, either.

Your backpack had been returned to you once Maria had - with you present - gone through your things to ensure that you weren’t hiding anything dangerous. A few tee shirts and a sweater. A thin piece of plastic sheeting that you used as a makeshift umbrella when it rained. Two camp mugs, a small bag of twine, matches, a couple empty lighters. An envelope of notes and pictures that had been folded and unfolded so many times that it flapped shut like an old wallet. A box of instant coffee packets that you’d found in an old prepper-style bunker. It had been he only pre-packaged edible item you’d come across when you’d stumbled into the dugout cellar in the yard of an old farmhouse, the food packs either already looted or expired and growing mold. She commented that those were more valuable than gold here in Jackson and that you should keep them closely guarded - a joke that you appreciated from the woman who half an hour ago had been questioning you as though you were a cold-blooded killer. Finding nothing that she didn’t expect to, she apologized and thanked you for allowing her to check your things.

“It’s fine, I understand.” It was all in the name of caution.

Lastly, the woman showed you to a bathroom where she’d opened a closet to pull out a towel and a jar of what she told you was homemade soap. “The water heater in this building isn't hooked up,” she’d told you, “but the shower works.” A fucking shower? Holy… The sound of the water hitting the tiles as she demonstrated how to use the faucet yet another thing you never quite thought you’d experience again. You took the items from her, standing there dumbfounded as she returned to the closet and retrieved a set of clean clothes, dark gray sweatpants as well as a tee embroidered with a bank logo and an oversized sweater. “You’ll have the chance to clean your own things, but these are already clean, and they’re warm.”

The urge to hug her was strong but you stopped yourself. No attachments.

Thanking her, you took the clothing and with that done she told you to have a good night, letting you know that there was a cot set up in the next room and that someone would be by to bring you food and check on you in the morning. “I’ll lock the doors, but that’s more to keep you in than anyone else out.” She shook her head. “You don’t have to worry about anyone here trying to hurt you. In any way.”

You remembered what Joel had said - that no matter how bad things had gotten for him and for Tommy, they’d never resorted to the kinds of terrors you knew existed, and you were glad to hear that it extended to everyone in town.

The last thing that she said to you, before leaving you in the jarringly plain white bathroom, was only three words, but they rattled in your mind and made it nearly impossible to sleep : “Welcome to Jackson.”

As you stared at the cracks in the ceiling, you reached beneath the collar of your shirt, pulling out the rings you wore around your neck and slipping your thumb through the larger of the two. Bringing it to your lips, you pressed a kiss to the cold metal.

Welcome to Jackson.

Thank you for reading! If you would like to be added to or removed from the tags for this or any of my stories, please feel free to let me know! You can also fill out the form on my masterlist!

Tags: @something-tofightfor @littlemisspascal @mishasminion360 @nyctophiliiiiaaa @practicalghost @amb11 @mindidjarin @jk7789 @tentacruels @cannedsoupsucks @harriedandharassed @marauderskeeper @joelmillerscoffee

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #pedrostories #joel miller tlou #joel miller fic #tommy miller #maria miller #the last of us fic #pedro pascal character #tw: violence #tw: death #survivor blues #survivor blues part 2 : welcome to Jackson

158 notes · View notes

cheetee · 2 years

Text

Once again I am writing down Bruno headcanons, this time about the sobrinos

Isabela

Acts like Bruno literally never left and everyone is a little weirded out by it but it's fine

Bruno has never said no to her in her life, used him as a gopher ten years ago, uses him as a gopher now

literally "can you get me some seeds" "ok" "can I stay out late tonight" "sure" "I need money" "here"

takes over the bottom floor of his tower and uses it to grow cacti

the only quality time they ever spend together is when she's in there gardening at 5am infodumping about photosynthesis while he stands next to her holding her stuff nodding even though he doesn't understand a word

Dolores

they are both a little afraid of each other

strong competitors for most ominous madrigal

sometimes you turn a corner and the two of them are just sitting facing each other and not saying anything (this is how Dolores chooses to let Bruno know she cares about him)

Luisa

Because Dolores and Isabela always had each other, and Mirabel and Camilo had each other, Luisa was a bit lonely as a kid and did a lot of following Bruno around

when he comes back she bawls like a baby and instantly reverts into an eight year old, insists that he take her on the same walks and make her the same treats as when she was a kid

has never pretended to be strong in front of him and never does and loves him for it

he spoils her rotten and she's thriving

Camilo

relentlessly bullies bruno

relationship progression: antagonistic bullying > warmer bullying > fond family bullying

"I wouldn't feed the rats too much, Antonio, ten years ago we fed a rat so much it grew to the size of a person and now it's walking around telling people it's our uncle" (Bruno sitting in the corner looking exhausted)

Bruno only gets his dues during rat theatre because as a director he is an incredible diva

their tastes and opinions in theatre clash in every conceivable way and they have long debates about it that nobody in the house can stand

mirabel

the Best of Friends

Mirabel says she doesn't have a favourite aunt/uncle, Bruno says he doesn't have a favourite nibling, these are two barefaced lies and everyone knows it

Mirabel goes to Bruno to talk about her problems, also her art, also her social life and all her other feelings and when she's excited and when she's lonely and-

Local Man Has No Talents Except For Being Really Good At Relating To His Niece

Bruno thinks Mirabel is too heroic and self sacrificing for her own good and worries about it to the point of being overbearing but, really, someone has to

Who Let This Child Rope Swing Across A Huge Damn Chasm That Could Have Killed Her Instantly

Antonio

has a legally higher IQ than Bruno

they both secretly think of themselves as babysitting the other

#encanto #encanto headcanon #Mirabel madrigal #text post

187 notes · View notes

lonely-lost-soul · 3 years

Text

Daddy's Little Girl

Request 10: Dad!Schlatt angst with the reader trying to protect Tubbo because the reader is his older sibling?

Requested By: Anonymous

TW: Abuse

Do you want angst? I’ll give you angst. Never challenge me again. /J

ily /p

(Hints of Wilbur and Techno x reader if you squint)

Growing up with Schlatt as your father had its ups and downs, on one hand, he was hilarious and let you get away with anything you wanted, but on the other hand, he had a drinking problem. When you were a little girl his drinking wasn’t too bad, some days were worse than others but most of the time he was semi cognizant. However, when your baby brother Tubbo came along everything changed, for a while he was sober. He was clear-headed, held a stable job on the SMP, and even helped you with your homework, but alas all good things come to an end. As soon as Tubbo started school, and your mom left he started up again, you weren’t happy. Your horns had begun to curl around your head around that time and your baby brother was enamored. He would wrap his chubby hands around them to pull and trace his fingers over the ridges, Tubbo would declare his horns were going to be just as magnificent as yours one day. You would flush at the praise and ruffle his hair, and told him you could already feel his little nubs growing in, he was overjoyed at the news.

Before Tubbo, Schlatt would never lay a hand on anyone, but something inside him crumbled. You had a few close calls, Tubbo bothering your father a little too much and Schlatt raised a hand to the boy. Luckily, you were always there to diffuse the situation and direct your father’s attention away from your baby brother. You were old enough to know just how impulsive and uncaring drinking made him, you tried to keep Tubbo as occupied as you could while keeping up with your work.

When Tubbo was ten years old he made his first friend.

Tubbo told you the kid’s name was Tommy, and he shared all the new information about his friend. He informed you he had two older brothers named Wilbur and Technoblade, who were about a year or two older than you. Tubbo desperately wanted to introduce you to him, but with your dad to keep an eye on you had to decline, at least for the time being. Tubbo pouted at your response and gave you, your biggest weakness puppy dog eyes, you relented. Promising to go with Tubbo to Tommy’s house in a few days to meet the brothers and supervise his play date with Tommy.

You just hoped your dad would be alright.

The day finally rolled around for you to meet the elusive Tommy and his brothers, you informed your dad that you and Tubbo would be gone for the rest of the day, he said it was alright. You think he just wanted to excuse to drink more while both of his children were gone.

“Come on (Y/n), let’s go already!” Tubbo called with a groan, you hushed him softly,

“Put your jacket on first.”

He reluctantly slipped on his jacket and grabbed his bag, you followed him out the door. Tubbo was buzzing with excitement holding his bee plush close to his chest, going on and on about how great Tommy was and how much he hoped you’d like Wilbur and Techno. Eventually, the both of you came upon a small cabin in the middle of a clearing, it was surrounded by lush pine trees and a little boy in a red and white shirt stood by the front gate.

“Tubbo!” The boy you assumed was Tommy shouted rushing over to the gate,

“Tommy!” Tubbo shouted with a laugh, he looked like he wanted to run towards him but first, he looked up at you. You smiled softly and gave your brother a nod, his face lit up and he charged towards Tommy. They met in the middle and Tommy immediately tackled Tubbo to the ground, a young man with glasses opened the window and began to shout at the blonde. He picked his head up and spotted you in the distance, his entire face flushed red, you sent him a little wave. The boy adjusted his glasses slamming the window shut, you titled your head to the side before seeing him and a taller boy with pink hair. While Tommy and Tubbo wrestled in the dirt the older boys walked up to you, they introduced themselves as Wilbur and Technoblade. They both were hybrids like yourself, you immediately felt at home, no wonder Tubbo liked it here so much.

Through the power of conversation you found out Technoblade was a piglin hybrid and Wilbur was half nymph, Tommy was just a plain human. Either their dad got around or some of them were adopted, you’d ask Tubbo later, figuring it was rude to blatantly ask that question. You found out the entire family thrived off of bulling one another it was quite funny to watch Technoblade roast the ever-loving shit out of Wilbur, unknown to you whenever you let a giggle or two slip past your lips Wilbur would flush and Technoblade would smirk. The end of the playdate rolled around and you found yourself not wanting to leave your new friends, Wilbur offered for you and Tubbo to sleep over but you politely declined. Technoblade shot Wilbur a concerned look when with a smile you said your dad would have your ass if you and Tubbo stayed over.

A few years went by since your first meeting, Tubbo and Tommy became inseparable and honestly, you and his brothers were in the same situation. Although you couldn’t see Technoblade and Wilbur as much as Tubbo could see Tommy the three of you were attached at the hip. Wilbur would constantly write you letters, sometimes the handwriting would switch and you noticed Techno put his blunt opinions into the conversation. Tubbo found one of the letters once and insisted that both boys must have a crush on you, you denied that with a soft laugh, just like your father you were under the impression you were unlovable.

Speaking of your dad, he was rarely ever sober at this point, rather being numb than feeling anything significant. Luckily he could be slightly functional, but mostly it was you raising Tubbo and protecting him from your dad’s off days. Speaking of an off day you had just gotten back from a trip of visiting your favorite boys, it was late and Tubbo was asleep in your arms. He was scratched up a bandaid was on his nose, and a bandage wrapped around his arm, he had taken a particularly nasty fall while wrestling with Tommy. Luckily both you and Wilbur were skilled in patching up rambunctious little brothers and he was fixed up in no time flat. You noticed the light on in the living room and grew concerned, your dad was always passed out in his bed by this time of night, was he alright?

Tubbo mumbled something in your arms and you pulled him close to your chest as to not wake the boy. “Dad?” You called softly wandering into the living room, much to your surprise he was very much awake. Your nose scrunched up in displeasure he reeked of whiskey and cigarettes, so tonight was a bad night.

Noted.

“You reek.” You commented adjusting the sleeping Tubbo in your arms, your father shot you a dirty look.

“Where the fuck have you been with the brat?” He hissed baring his teeth at you, “Do you know how late it is? Do you know how worried I was!” You hated the way your stomach churned with guilt and relief, at least he noticed his children were gone. He shouldn’t be praised for the bare minimum, Technoblade would’ve told you gruffly if he knew the full extent of your relationship.

“Out with Tommy, Wilbur, and Technoblade. Phil’s kids remember?” You responded with a soft sigh and he sent a dirty look your way standing up from his recliner. You backed up a few steps, the man towering over you eyeing Tubbo who was beginning to stir in your arms. Hesitantly you placed a hand over the back of his head, keeping it pressed tightly against your neck and shoulder. It only seemed to make Schlatt’s face scrunch up more,

“He looks so much like your mother.”

“I know dad.”

“Why’s he beat to shit?” He slurred reaching his hands out towards Tubbo, “You let him get hurt?”

“Tommy and he were just wrestling. Just being kids. I patched him up, he’s just sleepy.”

“So you let him get beat?”

“Dad no did you not hear me-” He grabbed one of your horns roughly yanking them down. You yelped in pain dropping Tubbo in the process, he hit the ground with a hard thud crying out from the rude awakening. “Dad you’re hurting me-”

“(Y/n)? Dad?” He murmured groggily barely processing the situation unfolding in front of him.

“Tubbo go to your room.” Your dad hissed at him, spit flying everywhere, Tubbo looked terrified. He looked at you and nodded the best you could with your dad’s iron-like grip on your horn, he scurried away and you felt your eyes fill with tears. If only he was a little older, he’d maybe be able to help you, but he was a child and didn’t need to see what was going to happen. “You’ve been running around without a care in the world, you’ve been going free for way too long. You’ve been a bad girl and now your getting punished.” Your blood turned to ice as the gip on your horn tightened,

“Dad, please I’m so sorry. I’ll make sure we get home on time from now on, you’re drunk. Please don’t do this you’ll regret it come the morning.”

“Shut the fuck up (Y/n)!” He spat his tobacco spit flying all over your face, you grimaced trying not to choke in disgust. “You think you know everything about the world but you don’t, you’re a stupid naive child!” He slammed the side of your head against the brick wall of your house. You yelped in pain feeling something crack against the wall, but it wasn’t your skull, it was your right horn.

“Dad- Dad please stop my horn-” You pleaded as he dragged you back by the hair and slammed you into the wall again. Your horn cracked once more and you screamed in pure agony, blood began to stain the wall where your head it, and your horn began to crack. “DAD!” You sobbed out as your horn broke off falling on the ground with a thud. Blood began to drip down the side of your head, your sobbing seemed to snap Schlatt back to his senses as he let out a soft call of your name.

“Fuck. Fuck baby I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked pulling you into his chest, he pressed his hands against the stub of your horn. You whimpered in pain and Schlatt shushed you softly, “I’m so sorry baby girl. My little girl, I didn’t mean it.” His head pressed into the crook of your neck, just where Tubbo’s was moments prior. “I’m such a fuck up. I’d never hurt you...I can’t do this…”

“It’s okay…” Your voice cracked eyes wide and glassy, it wasn’t okay but you weren’t about to tell him that. “Can I go to bed now…”

“Lemme patch you up first. You might bleed out...scare Tubs.” Schlatt grumbled and you nodded numbly. He helped you to your feet and you swayed, your dad haphazardly bandaged the side of your head and cauterized your horn. That might’ve hurt even more than losing the horn on its own, you held back your whimpers as your dad apologized even more for the pain he caused. “Get some rest alright…I love you.”

“Love you to dad,” You gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, you waited until he slipped into his room before you made your way into Tubbo’s. The boy was downright sobbing under his blankets, you pulled back the covers to find him desperately clinging to his bee plush.

“(Y/n)?” He whimpered looking up at you with wide eyes,

“Hey, Tubs…” Your smile was tense and he frowned, “Mr. Bumbles protect you okay? Just like we talked about?” Tubbo nodded lip trembling, he reached his hand up to touch your bandages. You flinched at his touch,

“Where’s your horn.”

“Unimportant. Just got into a little scuffle with dad, nothing your big sister can’t handle. Tubbo why don’t we go see Mr. Phil.”

“But it’s so late?”

“It’s okay. Go pack up a bag, you’ll be there for a while.”

“What about you?”

You sent him another tight-lipped smile, “I can’t stay there with you, unfortunately.”

“Then I don’t want to go!” He huffed defensively, your smile was wiped off your face.

“Not a suggestion-”

“NO! I’m not leaving you!” You grunted feeling him slam into your middle wrapping you in a tight hug. “Not with him...I need you. Who’s gonna protect me? Or read me bedtime stories? Or kiss me goodnight!” He began to cry through his protests and you knelt in front of him, you placed your hand on his cheek.

“Technoblade and Phil can protect you just fine. Wilbur would love to read you and Tommy’s bedtime stories. You’re too old for goodnight kisses-”

“Am not!”

“I can’t protect you anymore, not from dad.” Your voice shook a little before swallowing thickly, Tubbo’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. He’s never seen you look so scared, you were serious. “You deserve to grow up normally and happily, with a good dad and family.”

“You're good family.” Tubbo insisted grabbing your bigger hand with his own, you let out a wet laugh and held your other hand to your mouth. Swallowing again before responding to Tubbo’s heartfelt compliment,

“I’ll always be your family and I’ll always be your big sister. But for now, you’ll temporarily be part of Tommy’s family. Just until I’m old enough to take you away from all of this.”

“Promise?” He held out his pinky,

“Promise.” You responded interlocking your pinky with his own, he seemed much more satisfied and willing to listen to you now. “Now go pack up alright? We gotta go before the morning,” Tubbo nodded at you and began to gather his things in his bag. Eventually, he was all packed up and you both snuck out towards Tommy’s home, the side of your head was throbbing and you felt completely off balance stumbling over your feet a few times. Tubbo grew concerned but never actually voiced said concern, the two of you came up on Phil’s doorstep. You loudly began to knock at the door and Technoblade answered sword drawn, glasses were haphazardly thrown on his nose,

“(Y/n)? Tubbo?” He blinked blearily, “it’s like three am what-” Adjusting the glasses he finally got a good look at the both of you, Tubbo was still in his footie pajamas and you had officially bled through your bandages. “Who did it.”

“Technoblade please-”

“Who. Hurt. You.”

“I’m so tired, please just go get your dad.” You pleaded locking your eyes with his own, they softened considerably before muttering under his breath.

“Fine. But I’m getting Wilbur to look at your horn.” He demanded marching away from the door, you gently urged Tubbo inside and you both sat down on their couch. Tubbo yawned sleepily and leaned against your side,

“You can go to sleep. You’re safe now Bumblebee.”

“But you’ll be gone when I wake up…” He held Mr. Bumble closer to his chest and you brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I want you to have Mr. Bumble!” Tubbo held the toy out to you, your lips dipped into a little frown.

“Tubs he’s your favorite-

“He protected me from dad. So I’m sure he’ll protect you too.” You wanted to sob as you took the bee from his hands, you were going to say something else when Phil and Wilbur walked into the room. Phil gave you a pitying smile, before calling Tubbo over to him.

“Hey mate. Let’s get you settled into the guest room for now yeah?” The older man smiled at your brother and he nodded sleepily walking over to Phil. He gave you a look that said we’ll talk later as Wilbur walked over to you, the frown on his face was rock solid.

“You gonna explain yourself?” He scolded you like a parental figure would, you bit your lip and shook your head. Wilbur sighed the bags under his eyes were dark and you murmured a soft apology. He reached out and took your cheek in his palm, he leaned close and you felt his breath on his lips. You felt your cheeks turn pink and he leaned in...to take a better look at your horn.

God, you were so stupid why did you think he was going to kiss you just now?

“Jesus Christ…” He murmured as he unwrapped your wound gently. “They fucked you up honey,” Wilbur said softly, his voice dripping with pure concern, “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m alright...It’ll get better.” You smiled a tight-lipped smile that only caused Wilbur’s eyes to flash with pure rage, “Seriously Will. Please just let it go.”

“I’ll never understand you.” He muttered grumpily, much like his brother did when he greeted you at the door. “How can you not want justice for what they did to you? I don’t understand-” Wilbur blinked a few moments pulling away from you, you refused to meet his eyes. “-Did your dad do this to you?” He saw the fear spark in your eyes, “that fucking piece of shit! TECHNO!”

“Wilbur please no- no please he didn’t mean too he was drunk!” You slapped your hands over your mouth and he looked at you with horror. “Wilbur please don’t do anything he didn’t mean to do it, I have to look out for him!” Your breathing got short and rapid, immediately Wilbur felt bad for being so aggressive, “He’ll die without me.”

“It’s not your job to look after your father.” Wilbur looked at you with pity,

“Yes, it is. He’s my family.”

“Family doesn’t do this to you.” He motioned to your missing horn, the motion now made you feel wildly self-conscious, “they don’t hurt you.” You bit the bottom of your lip so hard it began to bleed,

“Just don’t tell Technoblade. He’ll kill him. You know he will, I don’t want that.” Wilbur didn’t look happy about the situation but he agreed reluctantly, but only if you stayed the night alongside Tubbo. You told him you would,

But you’re a liar.

Phil came back into the room a little later and asked to talk to you privately. He asked you what was going on and you explained the entire situation to him, practically pleading for him to take your baby brother in while you got Schlatt under control. Phil of course agreed, but he was not happy about you going back to your dad, especially since you were already injured. You assured him all would be okay, your dad meant well and with Tubbo out of the house, you can put all your energy into fixing him.

Phil let you go that night, and he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

No one in the Minecraft household heard from you again after that night. You seemed to slip out of everyone's memory, Wilbur met Sally and she and his son consumed his life. Technoblade moved out of the house to spread his wings, and the only person who even seemed to care that you were missing was Tubbo. Yet, even so, you began to slip out of his memory too, barely remembering your face. It broke him to pieces that he couldn’t remember his sister, and when he asked Wilbur about you the man's memory was just as fuzzy. The only thing he had was the letters the both of you sent back and forth to one another, he’d gifted them to Tubbo after he discovered them again under his childhood bed. Tubbo thought that maybe, just maybe, word of their new nation would cause you to come out of hiding.

It didn’t.

Eventually, he had to leave his memory of you behind and focus on helping Tommy and Wilbur. He hoped wherever you were you were proud of him, you wouldn’t want him to be miserable and dwell on you, you’d want him to live.

When he saw his father upon the podium the day of the election all he wanted to do was confront him about you, but there were other things to worry about like the fact that Wilbur and Tommy had just gotten exiled. Schlatt died before he got to ask about you, then right after that Wilbur died by Phil’s hand and everything was blown to shit, he had Tommy and that was all he needed.

Wilbur woke up to the soft chirping of birds and an angel sitting on a hillside. He couldn’t feel the grass under his palms or his heartbeat, but he felt something warm flood through him when he saw the angel. She turned towards him, his memory of her was fuzzy but her name wasn’t, “(Y/n)?”

“Hi Wilby, long time no see.” You smiled softly, both horns were missing but your soft ears twitched eagerly.

“Where...are we?” Wilbur whispered walking over to you to sit by your side, “What happened to you?”

“I lost another horn being stupid. Died from an infection while dad was away on a trip.” You pulled your legs close towards your chest, “you’re dead Will. We’re dead. It’s been quiet here for so long.”

“Dead…” He breathed out the negative memories flooding into his brain; he squeezed his eyes shut tight. “Are we ghosts?” You shrugged your shoulders,

“I don’t know, never tried to...go back,” Wilbur watched as you ran your hand through the grass even though Wilbur knew you couldn’t feel it. “Tubbo would be disappointed in me. So upset I died, I’d rather he not know. Makes it easier on everyone I think.” You turned to him, hair falling in your eyes, they were empty and your skin was so pale, he couldn’t imagine what he looked like in comparison. “Are you going to go back?” You spoke again after a few moments of silence, there was a tense atmosphere that filled the room, you didn’t want to be lonely.

“If you’re here, that’s where I’m going to stay. At least for a little while.” Wilbur looked at you, your eyes wide with shock, a brilliant smile spread across your cheeks.

“Promise?”

“With all my heart honey.”

#dadschlatt x reader #platonic schlatt x reader #platonic tubbo x reader #brother tubbo x sister reader #wilbur x reader #mcyt x reader #technoblade x reader #dreamsmp x reader #platonic dreamsmp x reader #mcyt x you #abuse #fanfiction #fanfic #trigger warning: abuse #angst

2K notes · View notes