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raeflora · 1 year

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once upon a time (the planets and the fates and all the stars aligned)

[chuck and blair reminisce about the importance of a certain night 15 years ago with a little help from henry ♡ rated m]

Blair couldn't tell you the exact moment she fell in love with Chuck. She's been thinking all day. Maybe it was one afternoon in The Palace, tangling in the sheets and trying to stay quiet. Maybe it was when she caught sight of him at school, her heart feeling like it was stuck in her throat and her cheeks flushing. Maybe it was when he looked at her, and saw her, truly saw her, and didn't run away. Or, maybe, she's always loved him, since the very first moment they met, and she just couldn't admit it. Whatever the answer, she's certain that every day she loves him more, no matter how impossible it seems.

She sighs, moving another box out of her walk-in closet. Henry lays on her and Chuck's bed, happily sorting through old photographs that he found. Blair sets the latest box next to him, and once again questions why she decided that today, two days before her thirty-second birthday, is the perfect day to reorganise her closet.

"I like daddy's scarf" Henry declares, fingers tracing the image of his father, "is it in here?"

"It should be on his side of the closet" Blair replies, "maybe we can find it with him later"

Henry grins, "can I wear it?"

"Of course" Blair leans in conspiratorially, hand at the side of her mouth, "I think you'll look even more handsome than daddy wearing it"

"Really?" Henry gasps, eyes growing wide to match his smile.

"Really. And I'm sure daddy will agree"

With that she kisses his cheek and heads back into the closet, wishing that she had Dorota to help. She reaches up for the next box, her throat catching at the sight of it. This box has held joy, pain, the best memories, the worst memories, her everything, her nothing, something to reach for, and something to forget. The box itself may have changed over time, the contents grown, but it will always make her feel two days shy of seventeen. Or dizzyingly in love at eighteen. Or happier than ever at twenty-two. Blair carries it out proudly.

She gently sets it down on Henry's other side, his interest immediately sparking as she lifts the lid. Her hands carefully lift out the dress still on its hanger, fingers softly running over the blue lace.

"What's that mommy?" comes Henry's inquisitive voice, smaller hands resting on the edge of the box.

"This" Blair starts, fondness already seeping into her words, "is what I wore the day daddy fell in love with me, exactly fifteen years ago"

"That's a lot of years" Henry muses, "it looks kind of..." he trails off, lips twisting as he thinks into an expression that looks exactly like Chuck, "classic" he settles on.

Blair laughs "I said it looked like something from the Mayflower when your grandma Eleanor told me to wear it"

"So why'd you wear it?"

"Because it was the right thing to do. And because it ended up giving one of the best moments of my life"

"So daddy said he loved you then?"

"Not exactly" Blair smiles, dipping her head slightly, "but he did"

"But how do you know if he didn't say it?" Henry's eyebrows crease, reminding her entirely of herself this time.

"He told me later" she says, reaching out to tap his nose.

In hindsight, Chuck did make it very clear to her then too. They were both just too in-denial to realise it. Blair places the dress on the bed, and starts sorting through the rest of the box. The framed photo that used to sit in here now sits on her desk in her home office, alongside countless other pictures of her family. She tries to take some of the many inappropriate love letters out before Henry can see, but his little fingers are faster.

"You are my sympathy- my better self- my good angel- I am bound to you" Henry reads carefully aloud, Blair grateful that he didn't pick up anything unsuitable for an eight-year-old, "what does it mean mommy?"

"It's from a Charlotte Brontë novel, Jane Eyre. Daddy wrote that line for me a long time ago so I knew he was thinking of me when he went to work"

"Daddy still writes you things" Henry says confidently, trying to sneakily look at the notes Blair is keeping far away from him.

"And how do you know that?" she teases, placing the notes to the side.

"Because I've seen it. Yesterday, he wrote you something to give you today"

"Oh really? And did you happen-" she casually tickles his side, making him laugh, "to see what this very important note said?"

"Are you really that desperate to find out that you're resorting to interrogating our son?" comes Chuck's voice from their doorway.

Henry leaps up from their bed, hand tightly clutching his new favourite photograph of his father. Chuck crouches to hug him, softly kissing his head, before Henry eagerly shows him the photo.

"Mommy showed me her dress from when you fell in love too" Henry states proudly.

"Did she tell you the whole story?"

Henry shakes his head "nuh-uh. But she said I could wear your scarf!"

Chuck laughs softly, taking Henry's hand and leading him into his own side of their walk in closet, "let's get you suitably dressed to hear it, then"

Blair takes this opportunity to look through the notes, and can't fight the smile that blooms on her lips. They are sexual, sweet, loving, teasing, and everything in-between. She cannot wait to add another one to the pile.

Chuck and Henry come back out, and Blair beams at her boys. Chuck's scarf billows around Henry as he clambers back up onto the bed, a very familiar bowtie now adorning his little neck. Chuck comes up beside her, and kisses her once as a belated greeting, and twice just because he can.

"How do I look mommy?" Henry asks after they break apart, not at all phased by his parents kissing.

"I was right earlier" Blair says, reaching down to adjust his bowtie, "even more handsome than daddy"

Henry giggles at Chuck feigning offence, before leaning up to put his hand on his cheek like he's seen Blair do. Chuck kisses his palm, making Henry laugh again before dropping his hand back down. His small fingers carefully trace the lace pattern on his mother's dress, a question clearly forming in his head.

Henry takes a breath, "so what's the whole story? Why did you fall in love with mommy this day and not any other?"

Chuck sits next to Henry, Blair taking his other side, "because I saw her dance" he says simply.

Henry furrows his brows, "but you dance together all the time"

"We do. But, this time, she danced for me. She showed me her true self, and I never wanted her to be anything other than that. So that's why I fell in love with her"

Henry ponders this for a moment, chewing his lip. Blair quietly holds Chuck's hand behind Henry's back, trying to convey the words in her head. He knows, though. She is sure.

"So" Henry starts again, "what kind of dance did mom do? If it made you fall in love it must've been really good"

"Oh, I think mommy can show you" Chuck says, eyes sparkling.

"Oh, I don't think so" Blair says in a rush, standing quickly, "no dancing for mommy today"

"But I wanna see!" comes Henry's enthusiastic protest, his eyes shining like his father's, "come on mommy!"

"Yes, come on mommy"

Chuck snatches Blair's hand, pulling her swiftly onto his lap. She doesn't fight him, not really, simply making a fuss for Henry's amusement.

"Mommy can't dance like that anymore" she tries, ignoring Chuck's fingers tracing her hip, "sorry mon chou" she caresses Henry's cheek in an attempt to placate him.

Henry pouts, turning his best doe-eyed gaze on her, "are you sure?"

"I'm sure" she sighs.

"Then what about for daddy?" Henry tries.

"Yes" Chuck whispers lowly in her ear, "what about for daddy?"

Blair remains firm, "not even for daddy. But how about this-" she leans in towards Henry, "if you make sure you eat all your broccoli then I might be able to dance with you before daddy and I go out tonight. Deal?"

Henry considers her offer, glancing to Chuck for support, "all the broccoli?"

Blair nods, as does Chuck, before speaking, "all the broccoli" she says with exaggerated seriousness, "and I'll ask Rosalie to check"

Henry huffs, "deal"

They shake hands, Blair tickling him with her free hand until he squirms. Chuck joins in, Henry's laughter filling the room.

Their fun is interrupted by barking from downstairs. Clearly Rosalie is here. Blair wasn't entirely sure about hiring a French nanny, still lamenting the fact that Dorota couldn't join them in Paris, but Henry likes her, which is all that matters. His eyes widen, and he manages to sit up.

"I need to tell Rosalie about the broccoli!" he declares, darting off the bed.

Henry starts to leave, before doubling back to take the scarf off. Chuck thanks him with a kiss to the head, and Blair catches the careful way he folds it.

"Can I keep the bowtie on?"

"Of course"

Henry grins, "thank you daddy"

With that he's off, leaving Blair and Chuck alone. She gently lifts the dress up again, sighing back against Chuck as he comes up behind her. They stay like that for a moment, the air growing slightly warmer around them. Chuck kisses her neck softly. His hands skim the sides of her skirt, fingers teasing the fabric.

"I hear" Blair starts quietly, "that you have something for me. Our son hasn't mastered secret keeping just yet"

"We'll work on it on our next lost weekend" Chuck drawls, kissing just below her ear, "besides, you'll have to be more specific"

"A note"

Chuck hums lowly, "perhaps. But patience-" his teeth brush down her neck, "is a virtue, Waldorf"

Blair shivers, "do you really expect me to be virtuous today, Bass?"

"As I recall today is all about your virtue"

She mock huffs, pushing away from him to tidy the photos and clothing scattered on their bed. Chuck follows though, and presses one hand to her back as he picks up the photos Henry was looking through. They're mostly from before Henry was born, their younger selves staring back up at him. He flicks through them as Blair sets everything right again, before placing them back in the box he knows they're from without needing to ask. He never does. As Blair comes back to pick up the most important box, Chuck looks curiously through the few unframed photos still in there. Blair tries to halt his hands but he's faster, her fingers grabbing at the air.

"And here I thought Humphrey was the only stalker we knew" he teases, holding a photo of himself between his fingers.

"Please" Blair huffs for real this time, "I wasn't stalking you, we were dating"

"I don't remember agreeing to your little photoshoot though" he says, looking through the rest of the pictures, "if you'd asked I could've given you far more interesting material than me sleeping"

"I have enough interesting material on my phone, thank you" she snaps, taking the photos back, "now stop distracting me-"

"They're your boxes"

"From tonight" she calls from inside her closet, "what am I dressing for?"

"Me" is his answer, his hands sliding over her waist as she comes back next to him.

"Whatever happened to patience?" she teases, fingers tracing his jaw.

"There are limits" he murmurs, pressing his lips to her neck.

She moans softly, "there are"

He kisses her hotly, hands roaming up to her ribs. Her fingers weave into his hair, her other hand on his jaw, and it is almost enough to make her ruin their plans. Almost.

They are broken apart by the announcement that dinner is ready, and they always eat with Henry. Especially when they won't be there for his bedtime, like tonight. Blair nuzzles softly into Chuck's neck, kissing where his pulse thrums, before pulling back and smiling mischievously. She takes his hand and leads him away from the temptation of their empty bed. Besides, they have plenty of time for this tonight. Blair can hardly wait. And, judging by the way Chuck walks next to her, stopping and grunting and adjusting, neither can he.

After dinner is eaten and both Blair and Henry have bathed, her promise is kept while Chuck showers. They twirl around the living room together, her robe fanning out like a ballgown. It's not exactly the same dance she did fifteen years ago, but it's close enough for an eight-year-old to enjoy.

Eventually, she has to go and get dressed, leaving Henry with Rosalie and their ongoing chess game. By the time she gets upstairs Chuck is nowhere to be found, making her frown. Still, she needs to get ready for whatever that sneaky motherchucker is planning, and she's not going to let him throw her off now.

She emerges from her closet into their still empty bedroom, her eyes now catching a white card propped up on her dressing table. Finally. She goes over and plucks it from in front of her hairbrush, fingers gently running over the familiar initials embossed on the card.

You surprised me fifteen years ago, let me surprise you tonight. If you're still sure that is - C

Blair smiles all the way down the hallway, the stairs, and the foyer, until she finds Chuck and Henry consulting over the chessboard. She clears her throat. Chuck's gaze turns to her, and the room fades into nothingness. They could be in Paris, New York, Tuscany, anywhere. Nothing else matters but him. Nothing matters but them. He kisses her cheek, her eyes fluttering closed before his warm lips even touch her skin. His hand stays on her waist as he whispers in her ear, uncaring that Rosalie could overhear.

"Mommy! You look devastating!" Henry states, parroting his father's words as he hugs her, his arms careful not to crush the purple fabric of her dress.

"Thank you, mon chéri" she replies, kissing his cheek and carefully swiping the remnants of her lipstick off of him, "will you be ok with Rosalie until we get home?"

Henry nods, "we're gonna play chess!" he lowers his voice, leaning up to Blair's ear, "she actually thinks she can win this time"

Blair smiles, "well I'm sure you'll show her exactly who she's dealing with"

Chuck leans down to give Henry a goodnight hug of his own, "have fun. And remember that Tiger can sleep in your room tonight"

Henry beams at the mention of his beloved puppy, "really?"

"Really" Chuck says, ignoring Blair's frown.

They both hug Henry again, kissing his head and making sure that Rosalie knows the schedule. Then, Chuck takes Blair's hand and guides her towards the foyer.

They step outside, November chill in the air. But that is not what makes Blair gasp.

"You brought the limo?" she says, incredulous at the sight of Arthur standing before her as if it's the most natural thing in the world for him to be in Paris right now.

"I did" Chuck says smoothly, leading her towards the awaiting open door, "come on, Waldorf, I thought you were still sure" he teases.

Blair gets in, the familiar leather welcoming her body as if she never left it. Chuck gets in beside her, leaving space for her dress while still holding her hand. It is a much needed relief, Blair finds, to be sitting here and feel sixteen again. The limo sets off, Blair turning to Chuck for any kind of hint about where they're going, but he just keeps his mouth shut. Basshole.

After a comfortably short ride with an even more comfortable amount of champagne for "authenticity" in Blair's words, they come to a stop. She looks out, confusion setting in as she recognises where they are.

"You've brought me to your hotel?"

"Not exactly"

Chuck helps her out, smiling at her still confused expression. He leads her around the side, to a beautiful art deco style entrance. The lights coming from inside seem familiar, and Blair carefully walks inside as Chuck holds the door.

She is greeted by a gorgeous, intimately lit room, sofas and armchairs scattered around tables in deep reds and greens, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, thick red velvet drapes concealing corners. Blair steps further in, eyes falling on the raised stage at the back, coloured lights swirling around and catching the diamonds hanging down or studded in the sofas. Smaller art deco lights line the wall, leading upstairs or behind the drapes. Mirrors and artwork hang on the wall, a mirrored wall behind what she now sees is a bar on the far right of the room.

"Do you like it?" Chuck asks, smirk quirking his lips.

"I love it" Blair says, awe evident in her voice, "so this is what you've been working on that you couldn't tell me about"

"It is" he confirms, coming to join her in front of the stage, "there's no way I could recreate Victrola, nor should I, but I wanted to have something to honour its legacy. So that maybe someone else can have their life changed by a girl on this stage" he turns her in his arms, breath warm on her neck, "although you're still ten times hotter than anyone who'll ever step on here"

Blair grins as he kisses her neck, "it's beautiful, Chuck. We'll have to come when it's open"

"I'll arrange a preview for us" he whispers, kissing her jaw before taking her hand and leading her towards the bar, a curtain draped over part of the mirror wall, "I never could've done this without you, Blair"

He pulls the curtain away, and Blair's throat catches at what is engraved in curling, swooping script that resembles her own handwriting.

L'Amour fou.

"Since we're living in Paris in the 20s" Chuck starts, letting it all wash over her, "I thought I should continue to honour our past"

Blair kisses him, slow and warm, letting the tips of her fingers on his jaw and clutching at his suit jacket say what is in her heart. He wraps his hands around her waist, warmth seeping through the fabric as he kisses back, over and over again until Blair becomes overwhelmed.

"I love you" she gasps out as they break apart for a second, "I love you so much Chuck Bass"

"I love you too" he kisses her again, tongue pressing briefly against her own, "with all my heart, Blair Waldorf-Bass"

She laughs against his mouth, kissing him again before finally pulling away, "I think" she says, catching her breath, "that you owe me a lift home"

Chuck links their fingers together, taking her out of their new Parisian paradise and back into the cold November air. Blair hardly notices the chill, a warmth spreading through her that no weather could cool. The short walk to the limo is almost unbearable, but it is worth it, Blair knows. So very worth it.

"You said that I surprised you fifteen years ago" Blair says once they are back shoulder to shoulder in the limo, notably not driving near their home yet, "so that's why you surprised me tonight"

"It is" Chuck says, hand absentmindedly tracing her arm.

"Well I have a surprise tonight for you, too"

Blair reaches around and unzips her dress, the purple fabric falling down to reveal a very familiar slip. It fits slightly differently now, her breasts fuller and hips wider, the fabric resting higher up her thighs. But it still takes Chuck's breath away. He looks at her like he's seeing her for the first time, memorising every inch of her body.

"All day I've been trying to work out the exact moment I fell in love with you. I couldn't do it, I had no idea when it was and I was dreading Henry asking me because I couldn't answer it. Until I saw this. When I kissed you right here, right on these seats, right in this slip, and you asked me if I was sure, I knew. I knew that I loved you, even if I was too stubborn to admit it. I fell in love with you and then I made love to you. And I'm going to do it all over again. Right here. Right now. Right on these seats. I'll always be sure Chuck"

He gazes at her, smirk blooming onto his lips, and his hand runs down her side, "you left off doing it again in this slip"

Now it is Blair's turn to smirk, "because I'm not going to wear it. Again"

She crashes her lips into his, words no longer necessary between them. Her fingers steadily undo his bowtie, clutching at his shirt collar. Her other hand rakes through his hair, pulling him impossibly closer to her. Without further instruction he pulls her into his lap, breaking away to kiss down her neck to her collarbone. He bites softly, Blair gasping, but unable to fight the smile on her face, and she finds herself thankful that it's November so she can wear high neck dresses or blouses for the next few days without any suspicion.

Although her slip may fit differently now the straps still glide down her arms and through Chuck's fingers the same way. He moves his hand down to her thigh, fingers pressing into her skin through her stockings. Gently they inch under her slip and he hooks them under the band of one of her stockings and pulls it away, breaking it away from its clasp with a snap.

Blair moans, sinking her face into his neck as she finishes undoing his shirt, pushing his jacket onto the floor next to her dress. She runs her palm from his chest around to his back, sinking her nails into his skin. He grunts, and pulls her fully down into his lap, her legs straddling him. As retribution he pulls her slip down, baring her upper body. She barely registers the air on her skin before Chuck's lips, teeth, tongue are on her, sucking and teasing and biting.

He holds her hips firmly as he ravishes her breasts, Blair arching her back to give him better access. Her palm slowly dips between them, unbuttoning his trousers and pulling the zip down. She gasps above him, his teeth scraping her breast at the movement of her hand. It takes far too much effort for her to move her hand away, but she does. She pushes Chuck's head away from her, his lips lingering, and manages to pull the slip over her head, discarding it onto the darkness of the floor.

Chuck's fingers run across the light blue frill of her Agent Provocateur suspender thong in awe, moving one hand to cup her behind, long fingers stretching over her. His free hand snaps her other stocking free, rolling it down her leg, before she helps to pull both of them off. His fingers dip into the hole between her suspender belt and thong, teasing her warm skin. He unclasps the belt, and pulls down her underwear. For a second she worries he's torn it, it wouldn't be the first time after all, but she guides it down her legs in one piece, shifting her body until she is free.

Her hands return to his open trousers, making him groan against her breast. Triumphantly she works him free, grinning as he palms her behind. With practiced ease Blair slides her hand into his pocket to pull out a condom, manoeuvring it so she can pull it open. Chuck holds her hands, helping her where she can't see, and she throws the wrapper behind her. With delicate fingers she helps him this time, and he kisses her softly, one hand cupping her face. She leans forwards pressing her breasts to his chest, her lips brushing his jaw, and rocks her hips against his. His fingers slide easily between her thighs, stroking until she purrs in his ear. She presses her hips down, controlling the pace he eases into her at.

In a second electricity sparks through her body, eyes rolling back and hands desperately clinging to his collar. She feels sixteen, alight all over, except this time she isn't pressing into the leather seat and is able to arch up, her breath coming out in short gasps as she moves above him.

They always find their rhythm easily, and this time is no exception, Chuck's hands squeezing her thighs as she clamps them around him. Her own hands hold his head, messing up his hair in the most arousing way. He kisses her hotly, searing her skin as he dips to her jaw, down her neck, kissing wherever he can reach.

Blair leans back gently, heat coiling inside her. Chuck's hands move up her thighs, holding her balanced on him. She runs her hands down his chest, moaning unashamedly. Her thighs clench, trembling slightly, and Chuck steadies her, helps her adjust her position. There's no rush, not here.

She steals a glance down at him, whimpering as he playfully bites at her breast. His eyes shine with lust, desire, need, purely for her. Her hands clutch at his shirt as she jerks back, delaying the inevitable no longer an option.

"That's it, baby" comes his voice from below, and the memory of him saying that exactly fifteen years ago makes her moan louder, "and you said you wouldn't put on a show for me tonight"

"I said" she gasps, "that I wouldn't dance for you"

"But here you are" he groans, fingers slipping easily between their bodies, "just for me"

She moans, "always"

With that there is no more she can do to contain herself as he strokes her, orgasm spreading through her and making her throw her head back, his name coming from her in pure ecstasy. Chuck kisses down her neck once, twice, then groans, long and low, against her now damp collarbone. Her mind is hazy as he strokes her hip, warm skin on warm skin, then he guides her off of him carefully onto the leather seat.

She beams as she refocuses on the world, skin glowing and breathing heavy. Chuck pants next to her, running his hand through his already dishevelled hair. As her skin starts to dry something dawns on her, so she reaches out to pull Chuck on top of her. He rests his hand next to her hip, wedding ring glinting in the light, and raises one eyebrow slightly.

"You know" Blair's voice is breathy, "I think you're still far too dressed" she pulls at his open shirt.

Chuck looks down at himself, disarray clear, and back to his grinning wife, "well, for authenticity, you were the only one naked fifteen years ago"

"What happened to being equals, Bass?" she pouts playfully, fingers running up and down his shirt now.

He kisses her neck softly before speaking, "we are, Waldorf"

"So prove it then" she leans into his ear to whisper, "make love to me until I can barely stand, my love, if you still can"

The rest of his clothes easily join hers on the floor, Blair hooking one leg around his waist as Chuck instructs Arthur to keep driving. They are nowhere near ready for tonight to end.

Her back presses against the seat, the cool leather a relief on her skin. Chuck pushes her thighs further apart, and wastes no time in showing her how capable he still is. Her hips rock back into the seat steadily, the perfect rhythm found as she gasps. Shakily she links her right hand with his left, his wedding ring pressing into her, their grip tight. He lifts her legs higher around his waist, lifts her arms above her head so her knuckles brush the headrest.

"Hold on" he commands, voice rough with need.

Blair nods. She knows what this means.

He holds her hips so tightly she is sure his fingerprints will still be there in the morning, just like the indentations she is surely making into the headrest. Her body bucks and jerks against the seat, against his hips. His name tumbles from her lips in harsh moans, sweat beading on her skin. He carries on, hips pounding strong and hard into her, and while she may have once claimed that he never does anything athletic she has never been more happy to be wrong. He releases her right hip, his palm flat to the seat as he kisses her neck. Then he releases her left, fingers making their way between her thighs once more.

Her orgasm is something of a blur. She arches furiously against the seat, pressing herself tightly to him. She screams out for God, for Chuck, for relief. He keeps his hand between her legs, stroking her until she gasps. Her hips jerk against his hand, aftershocks making her whimper. Her eyes open slowly, everything still spinning. She just about makes out Chuck's own release, feeling rather than seeing it, his face against her neck. Her limbs feel like liquid as she moves her arms back down, resting a palm on Chuck's jaw, her feet back on the floor.

She squirms against the seat, suddenly acutely aware of exactly what happened when she came. Chuck wordlessly lifts up a handkerchief. She accepts it with a slow kiss, allowing him to help her clean up as they break apart.

"You did this the first time" she murmurs against his cheek when he's done, "and I still called you a disgusting pig"

"I thought confessions to priests were meant to be sacred"

She shoves his shoulder playfully, "no that's the back of your limo"

He hums in agreement, "it still is"

They sit in silence for a while, both catching their breath. Blair leans across and kisses him gently, mimicking her actions that led to this very moment. The sky outside seems darker now, rain falling lightly against the windows, and Blair realises that she has no idea what the time is. That's never mattered in here, though. The outside world isn't important.

"I hope Henry's ok" she mumbles into his shoulder, breaking the spell and reminding them they have to leave this sanctuary eventually, "he doesn't like sleeping when it rains"

"I know" Chuck sighs, and she feels him shift back into parent mode, "Arthur" he calls, "take us home"

Chuck kisses her bare shoulder, Blair finally surveying the mess around them.

"Henry isn't stepping foot in here until it's been cleaned at least twice" she says, nudging her crumpled stockings with her bare toes.

"I've already arranged it"

"You're pretty amazing too, you know" she sighs happily, resting her face in the crook of his neck.

"Thank you" Chuck says, lifting her hand to his lips, kissing just above her wedding and engagement rings, "but not as amazing as you"

Blair laughs softly, joining their hands together. If you had told her this was where she would be fifteen years ago she wouldn't have believed you. But she is, and she is more than thankful.

After they right themselves, Blair only complaining mildly about how she'll explain all of her new and very interesting marks to Henry if he asks, they walk hand in hand back into their townhouse. Rosalie is still there, and tells them how excited Henry was at how important today was for them both. They thank her, dismissing her for the night.

Carefully they make their way upstairs, stopping on the fourth floor outside Henry's bedroom. His door is ajar, and his lamp is still on, lighting his purple walls. It also lights something else up.

Blair steps in first, Chuck following behind. They sidestep Henry's puppy Tiger sleeping at the end of his bed, Blair somewhat surprised he's not in the bed. Maybe her warnings about the importance of hygiene are paying off. Henry sleeps soundly, his arms sticking out like Chuck's, the dark blue plaid sleeves almost covering his hands. On his nightstand sits Chuck's bowtie, neatly placed in front of another white card. This one has Henry's initials at the top in purple, the letters sweeping across the top in his own handpicked font. He loves his parents monogrammed stationery so much he wanted his own, which he got for his birthday this year. Blair picks it up, holding it for Chuck to read too.

Dear mommy and daddy, I'm happy you danced a long time ago and I'm happy you dance now and I'm happy you dance with me. I love you love Henry

Underneath his words is a drawing of all of them together, Chuck's bowtie drawn in wonderful detail. Blair holds it to her heart, and kisses Henry's head. Chuck follows suit, Henry only stirring a little.

"Goodnight mommy and daddy" he mumbles, hugging his plush tiger closer.

"Goodnight my gorgeous boy" Blair whispers, kissing him again, "see you in the morning"

They pull the door half closed quietly, making their way back up the stairs to their room. Blair sighs happily, knowing that tomorrow she'll ache in all the right ways. Maybe they should take the limo out for lunch, it'd be a shame to waste it.

Just before they open their bedroom door Blair turns to Chuck, and kisses him softly.

"Happy anniversary, Mr Bass" she teases.

"Happy anniversary, Mrs Waldorf-Bass" he says back, kissing her again.

He picks her up, carrying her through the doorway like they're twenty again. Blair feels so content, her heart full for her husband and son.

"3 words, 8 letters" she whispers before he lays her down.

"I love you"

She kisses him again, and finds that the only thing better than being two days shy of seventeen is being two days shy of thirty-two. Because there is no longer any doubt where her heart lies. It lies in the leather of his limo, in the fizz of champagne, in the dazzling lights of Victrola. And it always will.

#chuck x blair #chair #chuck x blair fanfiction #chuck and blair #blair waldorf #chuck bass #henry bass #mine: fics #fics: gg #limoversary #limoversary 2022 #I originally posted this on my twitter so!! hope you like it!!#pls talk to me about the bass family 🥺

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flavia8 · 1 year

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Fanny should have married Henry Crawford. Not necessarily for love or anything (though I do think he loved her and that Fanny might have grown to love him back) but because if she had married him she would have escaped Mansfield Park, a place where she is trapped in an abusive situation. Yeah Henry is a player/flirt but the people in Mansfield Park straight up abuse her. I find Mansfield Park to be a tragedy. Fanny does not escape her situation, and the Crawfords do not change despite being so so close. (Which is strange to me bc Jane Austen has a theme throughout her books of people growing/changing) I am proud of her for sticking to her principles! I also do not think she should be forced to marry the guy. But I do think her going with Henry would have been better for her, ultimately.

The kicker is that Fanny gets what she wanted. She marries her cousin (Who constantly forgets about her and only is the bare minimum considerate of her) and stays attached to Mansfield Park. She blissfully stays in this situation bc she happily got what she wanted, but not what she needed. (The freedom to grow and establish herself outwardly and independently. She's a very internalized character) I actually quite like Fanny, shes a very interesting character and I think has an extremely strong moral core, which is admirable! I actually find Fanny Price and Jane Eyre similar in that way. I just wish things were different. Mansfield Park is genuinely sad in a way that the rest of Jane Austen's novels really aren't. Persuasion starts out quite sad, but it's not an overall sad book. It's also satire on the class structure of society so fanny not being able to escape makes sense as society influences everything. She also chooses Edmund, who is a clergyman and less wealthy than Henry, in keeping with the societal critique. (I could get way into that but I won't, for now) But it might have been an interesting parallel to see Henry grow and do what Fanny does. Befriending Fanny and her brother and realizing that morals are more important than social class, and choosing them over Mrs. Rushworth (AND HE ALMOST DOES IT TOO DAMNIT)

#jane austen #mansfield park #musings #thoughts #henry crawford #fanny price #look i definitely would have said yes. not immediately but when he goes to visit her in her hometown i would have said yes #no it wouldn't be a love match for me but if i was in fann's situation i'd do what I could to escape #plus at least Henry could be funny and he's smart #edmund...is not yeah he's sweet kind whatever but blegh #Henry is way more interesting #more interesting=better Story

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penig · 1 year

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I posted 4,522 times in 2022

That's 2,470 more posts than 2021!

210 posts created (5%)

4,312 posts reblogged (95%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@penig

@widespot

@asimplevampire

@natteryaktoad

@madman-of-amargosa

I tagged 4,516 of my posts in 2022

#the conquering nose - 1,395 posts

#widespot at large - 1,213 posts

#heartocalypse - 697 posts

#self-reblog - 439 posts

#asimplevampire reblog - 276 posts

#land grant university - 208 posts

#non-sims - 199 posts

#natteryaktoad reblog - 192 posts

#madman of amargosa reblog - 165 posts

#land grant university graduates - 152 posts

Longest Tag: 136 characters

#i think one problem people have with victorian literature is that we lack the visceral sense of constriction women took for granted then

My Top Posts in 2022:

I’m impressed that the Cratchitts can pay rent on a house, however small. Four rooms, yard, and wash house is an impressive property in a city where larger families are living in single rooms and sharing one pump and one outhouse with the entire building, or even multiple buildings.

Of course the Cratchitts are a bit idealized here. Dickens was a journalist and a social reformer as well as a novelist, and moreover had some personal experience of poverty. He knew a lot about the struggles of people living and raising children on 15 shillings a week. But he also knows his audience and his craft. The Cratchitts must be the antithesis of Scrooge and they must be attractive and squeaky clean, physically and morally, and the forces threatening them must not even hint at vice. A sickly and disabled child is a threat to their happiness not the most rigid middle class moralist can hold against them.If Martha is ever desperate enough to be tempted by sex work, or subject to the sexual predation of her employer’s husband; if Peter’s friends are pressuring him to shoplift; if Bob or his wife ever drink gin out of the context of a family holiday party - we’ll, now is not the time to explore that.

No, what is necessary now is a demonstration of the very important fact that Bob and his family, despite everything Scrooge has done to make them miserable, are happier than he is. They get much better value for the money they spend than he ever gets for the money he hoards. They don’t have enough money for new clothes, but they can make a good show for sixpence by adding ribbons to a twice-turned gown, and Bob can keep warm with exercise instead of a greatcoat to keep the kids clad, and even loan clothes to his offspring to make them feel dressed up. And they can eat their fill and have a proper holiday dinner, even the dessert, and pretend that the feast is more lavish than it is, to maximize their pleasure.

A twice-turned gown, by the way, is a labor-intensive bit of frugality. Victorian women’s clothing took acres of fabric, all of which had to be sewn by hand by the household or someone paid by them. A good dress had to be made to last! But everything fades with time and exposure, no matter how carefully laundered and protected. So once the original color faded, you took the dress apart, turned the unfaded side out, and put it back together again, probably with variations to accommodate changes in fashion or figure, or even, in a house with growing girls, of wearer. And if the fabric was good enough, when that side faded, too, you could turn it inside out again and re-remake it, if you were clever enough.

157 notes - Posted December 15, 2022

I have just finished reading Jane Eyre for the umpty-umpth time since I imprinted on it at 14.

Certain books I have read too often for too big a chunk of my life for me to ever alter my visual image of the locations and characters while reading, and Jane Eyre is one of them. However, this one out of all of them is gradually accumulating an Ideal but Impossible Cast List of actors who have never, and now never can, play certain characters, but should. Chief of these, of course, are Jane and Rochester. Rochester should be played by Jeremy Brett at slightly older than he played Sherlock Holmes, and Jane should be played by Gillian Anderson at 19, who could totally do the “drab little governess till she suddenly flares up” bit, with a few subtle shifts of eyebrow and half a lip. Today, a new one got added: John Hamm as St. John Rivers.

Because this is the first time since I saw the video adaptation of Good Omens that I’ve read the sequence in which St. John tries his damnedest to gaslight, browbeat, coerce, and lure Jane into marrying him in order to go to India with him as a missionary.

If you have seen John Hamm as Archangel Gabriel in Good Omens, and have read my Good Omens fanfic (which contains, I am told by a reader, the nastiest version of Gabriel in the entire fandom; no small feat for a character whom people have written as a rapist and serial killer), you will understand exactly how much I loathe St. John Rivers. He matches Gabriel’s presentation point-by-point, the self-righteous egotist who tramples all before him and thinks that being Great and Good excuses every bit of cruelty he indulges himself in; thinks, even, that because he never stoops to violence he isn’t cruel at all. When I was 14 it bothered me that he gets the last paragraphs of the book; now that I’m 61 it makes me almost physically ill. I want to shake Jane for all the excuses she makes for him. I hope he dies alone and is in Hell for half an hour before he realizes that’s where he wound up. I wish he’d met Rochester once, because even blind Rochester would’ve seen straight through him and stood a chance, if he could keep his temper, of cutting him off at the knees and shocking Jane into losing the scales on her eyes.

My opinion of Rochester has mutated a bit down the years - the implications of the age difference is much more real and meaningful to me now than it was at the time, for instance; probably more meaningful to me than it ever had a chance of being to Brontë, since she died so young herself. And the mad wife in the attic business is - really complicated and impossible to discuss without discussing historical methods of handling mental illness. But Jane made the right choices about him, right down the line. Of course she had to leave him after he’d lied to her and tried to trick her; of course she took him back after that tremendous ego of his finally broke down enough to let him change. Rochester and Jane have compatible faults, which are much more important, in marriage, than virtues, He in fact has many of the same faults as Rivers does, which explains how close Rivers came to winning. But he can love Jane the way she needs to be love, and no one will ever know if Rivers could, because he scorns to.

166 notes - Posted August 29, 2022

Scrooge’s nephew Fred is crucial to the story, one of the two people (the other being Bob Cratchitt) whose relationship with Scrooge is used to mark Scrooge’s relationship with the world, but he tends to fade out of adaptations. This is probably because he’s hard for most people to relate to.

Who among us has not had to be even tempered and docile while overworked and underpaid by a powerful asshole? We all feel you, Bob!

But who among us has gone out of our way to invite That Relative to our holiday party, knowing he would do his best to ruin it? Who has bearded That Relative in his lair, called down his ire upon our heads, deliberately opened ourselves to his nastiness, and returned a merry answer to each sneer? Why make nice to this awful man? It’s not to get into the will. Fred says here that he wants nothing and asks nothing, and we will see later that he’s not talking through his hat; Fred leads a perfectly comfortable life, with either a good job or a secure passive income from a source other than Scrooge. So why does he bother?

Does he just enjoy poking the bear, secure in the knowledge that his uncle’s rants can’t hurt him? Does he pity the old sour lonely man? Did he make a promise to his mother? Or is he an example of the flaw many critics of Dickens have charged him with, a character too good to be believable?

We’ll have more evidence later in the month and new readers may postpone judgment till then.

One thing that stands out here: we have now met the three most important characters in the book, and two of them have been neither introduced nor described. Scrooge has been described at length, physically and morally, before any action occurs; then Fred walks onstage, action begins, and all but incidental description stops. Bob is just hanging out doing clerky things in the background and shivering while Fred bursts in, flushed with exercise and breath smoking in the cold, and leaps into his verbal sparring match with Scrooge. And suddenly the cold grasping figure of Scrooge moves and speaks.

Dickens had to spend all those words describing Scrooge; because, left to himself, Scrooge does nothing. Nothing but convert the people around him into cash. Fred does’t need describing, because he moves and speaks and acts in the world. We are what we do, and Scrooge is a negative presence.

463 notes - Posted December 2, 2022

@todaysbird

478 notes - Posted November 18, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Let’s hear it for Sims.

Let’s hear it for meticulously crafted, efficient lots built with love and perfectly designed and decorated for the family that lives there.

Let’s hear it for huge barns with with three pinball machines, two arcade games, a billiard table, and four bowling alleys, but no stove.

Let’s hear it for gorgeous, gigantic, replicas of real palaces that crash 90% of games when loaded.

Let’s hear it for neighborhoods played in strict rotation; for neighborhoods where one family is played for three generations before another household is ever loaded; for neighborhoods still being used after 15 years of doing every Very Bad Thing under the sun; for neighborhoods that vanish inexplicably after being played once.

Let’s hear it for Maxis Match, for vanilla only, for palettes that are used exclusively for six months and then scrubbed in favor of a new one, for players who don’t know what any Maxis items, hairs, or clothing actually look like anymore.

Let’s hear it for unmodded games and for games modded into unrecognizability.

Let’s hear it for games in which each neighborhood has its own separate folder so it can have its own specific set of downloads and the player has to sit down and think about whether they want to play medieval, regency, fantasy, the 70s game, the BACC, the Test of Time,or the zombie apocalypse; and games in which the technology and fashion of all eras cohabit unselfconsiously in the same household.

Let’s hear it for non-supernatural heteronormative nuclear sim families; for werewolf/vampire/plantsim polycules; for queer utopias; for dictatorships that Big Brother would think too restrictive; for rigidly “realistic” games; for unabashed nonsense.

Let’s hear it for perfect worlds with no injury or sickness or fire or death and for hellholes of unending drama and danger.

Let’s hear it for defaults that make even aliens, plantsims, and robots conform to the range of current real-world skintones; and for those in which all colors of the rainbow are available except for those seen in the real world.

Let’s hear it for players who create neighborhood after neighborhood, setting them up perfectly, and never ever have a household open and unpaused long enough to see a welcome wagon.

Let’s hear it for players who build and build and build and never take the game out of build/buy except to playtest their build.

Let’s hear it for players who create CC for games they never play anymore.

Let’s hear it for players who have never made a thing, but toss in families, houses, clothes, objects, and businesses made by Maxis or other players, and play the stuffing out of them.

Let’s hear it for storytellers who never turn on free will and set everything up with poseboxes.

Let’s hear it for storytellers who never turn free will off and are continually surprised.

Let’s hear it for those who document their games and share them, and those who keep their games to themselves.

Let’s hear it for players who rush on to the next new thing.

Let’s hear it for players who doggedly maintain the tech to play their favorite iteration in the face of all difficulties.

Let’s hear it for no-cheat games, and all-cheat games, and every game in between.

Let’s hear it for the sandbox, and all the players therein, playing exactly the way they like to play.

Let’s hear it for sims.

557 notes - Posted September 2, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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janeeyreheresy · 1 year

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Final Thoughts

We hear nothing about Thornfield--what happened to the lands? They still belong to the Rochesters. And the ruins--are they just going to stand there, with no attempt at rebuilding at least part of the old Hall?

No word about the poor state of Ferndean Manor (the place that Rochester claimed had walls so damp that, should he have moved her there, they would eventually kill Bertha) and whether the happy couple did any renovating. Jane told us in detail about how she cleaned Moor House, a house that was her home for only a short time, and purchased new furniture for it. On the subject of her married home, however, she has nothing to say.

She seems not to be bothered about living so far from the nearest human settlement. I wonder what it's like in winter (their reunion was in June, so if the place looked deserted then, what about January?) I wonder how many deliveries are missed because the tradesmen can't make it to Ferndean. I suppose it's also why they couldn't hire a nurse to help out with Edward's condition. A live-out one would not be able to get there daily and they wouldn't be able to accommodate a live-in one, unless they made some repairs to the house (which, as Jane tells us, only had three functioning rooms. With time there would have to be more, but as Jane provides no info on this, all we're left with is speculation.).

I wonder what it's like for children to grow up in such a place. Seeing who their parents are, the poor fuckers must be so hideous it's better they're hidden from the rest of the world.

Sorry. That was mean. It was her constantly going on about Rochester's ugliness and her own plainness, not me. I'm innocent!

Maybe the little buggers got lucky and inherited more favourable genes.

We get no word about Mrs Fairfax, whether Jane kept in touch with her or not. Remember, Alice Fairfax was not just a housekeeper at Thornfield, she was a widow of Edward's relative. Did Jane ever write to her of their marriage (this time it's for real)? Did Mrs Fairfax send them a letter of congratulations?

We're given no information about the merry company.

Jane told us of what became of her other cousins, the Reeds, earlier, in the chapter when she returned from Gateshead to Thornfield. Georgiana, the beauty Lord Ingram mentioned, married a wealthy man and Eliza, the pious one, converted to Catholicism and became a nun at a French convent, later rising to a superior. It's interesting that two not exactly sympathetic--though not as evil as their mother--characters received such positive outcomes.

Look at the similarity in cousinhood: Jane has two sets of cousins, two girls and one boy each. The Reeds on her mothers side: John, Georgiana, Eliza and the Riverses on her father's side: St John, Diana, Mary. The men share the same name (for the most part) and they both die, while all the women get happy endings.

There are characters that feature in the narrative that I haven't mentioned. Helen Burns, Jane's dear friend at Lowood, who died; Miss Temple, the good teacher at Lowood, who got married and went away--the catalyst that made Jane seek out employment as a governess. Then, from Jane's time at Morton, Miss Rosamond Oliver, daughter of the area's richest man. I left her out because she's irrelevant to my recaps, but it's important to note that this is the beautiful and fashionable female character who is NOT presented in a negative way (unlike Blanche, Celine or even Georgiana). So Charlotte was capable of such a thing. St John is in love with her, but because he doesn't think she'd make a suitable wife for a missionary (he's probably right, which I mean as a compliment to Rosamond), he fights his infatuation. She reciprocates his feelings, but seeing as it goes nowhere, she gets over him and marries Mr Granby, an heir to a fortune. I like to think they were very happy together. (Fun fact: When I read Jane Eyre for the very first time, Rosamond was my favourite female name.)

Dog lovers will be glad to hear that Pilot survived the fire and lives at Ferndean with Edward when Jane arrives.

What to conclude then?

If I believed Rochester has changed, I wouldn't have created this sideblog (firstly, I would not have written a long-ass piece that led to the creation of this sideblog). For sure, his womanising days are over (because they're physically impossible, not because he's married--he already cheated on one wife). Although--you don't expect me to give up on this so easily, do you--there are ways. Jane might sometimes be away while he stays at home and John is a faithful servant--he will get him girls if his master wants him to get him girls. John, like the innkeeper, is loyal, he worked for the family since Papa Rochester's time.

The other stuff--the gaslighting, the manipulation, the lying--would not vanish with his disabilities. In fact, after his injuries, Edward could have got even worse. Jane only talks about how she serves him. Nothing about what he does for her. But hey, she's happy. The not-a-bird that no net ensnared landed in a semi-habitable residence deep in the woods, caring for her husband. *shrug*

A side note: Where the fuck she met those paysannes and Bäuerinnen, I would like to know. Those words mean peasant women in French and German, respectively. But she mentions no travelling. Let's say they did travel to France and Germany--but what the fuck does she meet peasant women for? Did she go to the mainland Europe to trace Edward's illegitimate offspring?

I'm being mean again. They probably went to Switzerland, where both those languages are spoken, for Edward's health. But you'd hope she'd tell us more about it.

Would I like a different ending for her? I presented some different ideas, but since she insists on being with him so much, let her have him. He's twenty years older and if, by chance, he dies relatively early (by falling into a hole, for example) while she's in her thirties, there's still plenty of time for her to enjoy a bit of life. (As long as she is not the one to die first from the effects of Ferndean's unhealthy environment.)

What ending would I want to see for him?

Same as the canon, except without Jane's return. Alone, broken, abandoned by everyone, far from civilisation. And after a while, with his insistence on candles, coupled with his visual impairment... third time lucky, eh? It would have to be on John and Mary's day out, they don't deserve to die from smoke inhalation. He'd leave them a bit of money so that they could buy or build a small cottage where they could live together for the rest of their life.

Don't get me wrong, I do believe Edward was given a hard time by his father. Issues also come with being the second son (The Spare). But at some point, you have to become responsible for your own shit. Edward chose not to break the cycle.

As I reach the end, one last question pops into my mind.

What kind of a master asks his newly hired governess if she thinks him handsome?

#jane eyre #edward rochester #rochester is a villain #the reeds of gateshead #rosamond oliver #jane eyre meta

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clevermird · 2 years

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Wide Sargasso Sea (Jean Rhys) review

Oh boy... Wide Sargasso Sea is the latest in my quest to read through the "great classics" of Western literary canon, and it's the first one I can truly say I didn't like. I should start by getting the elephant in the room out of the way - this book is essentially published Jane Eyre fanfiction. Now, that's not inherently a bad thing. The story makes little secret of it and the premise was intriguing. Who was Rochester's mad wife really? What was her side of the story? Sadly, although it does deliver the promised tale, Wide Sargasso Sea fails to offer much to a reader that they couldn't already have figured out for themself. Antoinette Cosway lives with her mother and disabled younger brother in the crumbling ruins of their family's estate. When slavery was abolished, the family was plunged into near-poverty and rejected both by the freed slaves (who were understandably resentful of their former masters) and the white community (who saw them as both morally deficient former slave owners and as social inferiors). As she grows, the constant feelings of outcast will weigh down her mind and combine with her husband's own problems and lead to madness, infidelity, and a disaster of marriage that threatens to destroy both of them. I was really disappointed in this book. I found Antoinette to be irritatingly childish and helpless. I know that the lack of agency she has in her own life is kind of one of the points of the book, but for me it moved past that and into "good grief, woman, stop wringing your hands and do something". Her husband, meanwhile kept oscillating between "very reasonable" and "what on earth is wrong with you?" In the end, rather than a portrait of a woman kept down by a cold and unfeeling man, or a tragedy of two hopelessly mis-matched souls, I wound up almost feeling like they deserved each other.

The reason this book got more than two stars (instead of the 1.5 I would have given it otherwise) is the prose. It's beautiful, dreamy, almost stream-of-consciousness stuff that makes every line interesting to read on its own and really captures the almost fever-dream like nature of the story and the lush tropical setting. However, this proves as much a hindrance as a help, with major events often glossed over in favor of more mood setting. There were several important plot points that I was confused on because the writing style obfuscated them so much. Overall, a book with a promising start and an enjoyable writing style that fails to offer much of substance or deliver on the promised narrative.

Warnings: Should be obvious from the summary, but the relationship between the two main characters is extremely toxic and full of emotional abuse. Racial slurs crop up with regularity and the book is an intense depiction of a woman’s decent into mental illness that some readers might find disturbing

Rating: 2.25/5

#mird reviews stuff #wide sargasso sea #jane eyre #english literature

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teddyoverthinks · 2 years

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Fanfiction Prayer Theme: Self Worth

Hopeful Prayer format

Let me believe that I am not expendable. Let me know that I am intrinsically important; that my worth just is. If someone asks me to prove my worth, let me remember that I have the option to say “I am important, and screw you, if you think otherwise.”

Self Assuring Affirmation format

I am not expendable. I am intrinsically important. I know that I am important, and that my worth just is. If someone asks me to prove my worth, I have the option to say “I am important, and screw you, if you think otherwise.”

Willful Vow format

I choose to believe that I am not expendable. I will know that I am intrinsically important; that my worth just is. If someone asks me to prove my worth, I will remember that I have the option to say “I am important, and screw you, if you think otherwise.”

Original Quote

“No, don’t sulk,” Pansy said unhelpfully. “I just thought it would be useful to point out that you are entirely expendable, while Draco is very much not, if you take my point. Understand?”

“I am not expendable,” Harry said, thinking this was a bit much.

“No?” Pansy said, opening up her handbag and pulling out a lipstick and a mirror. “How are you important, then?”

In this reality, Harry hadn’t saved the world; he had, it appeared, lived a life so colourless it had left barely any trace at all. But… “I just am,” he said firmly, realising it even as he said it. So what if he hadn’t saved the world? He could save himself, this time around. “I am important,” he repeated. “And screw you, if you think otherwise.”

—who_la_hoop, Star Quality

Context: In this fic, Harry got himself stuck in an alternate universe where he isn’t famous, but Draco is (as a muggle pop star). Nobody remembers Harry’s sacrifice, or magic, or their lives at Hogwarts (except Draco). Harry realizes that he had been perceiving his worth as dependent on his heroic sacrifices—not least because outside of that world, he had been treated as though he had no worth at all. With this realization, he manages to heal a little, even amidst the stress of being almost alone in a very different world.

Times I Use This Prayer

Self worth is important all the time. I think this prayer is especially helpful in light of its context. Most of us are mundane, trying to do good deeds when we can, but never, ever quite managing to save the whole world. Those of us who do manage to save part of the world know others’ gratitude doesn’t fulfill our need for self worth. We must understand intrinsic worth in order to accept our own failures.

This lesson also extends to our treatment of our fellow imperfect beings. Respect is founded on an assumption of worth, and we must be in the habit of assuming intrinsic worth for everyone. All of us are worthy of grace, mercy, and the basic human rights we are supposed to agree on. The right to our own bodies, the right to safety, the right to liberty.

It is my hope that those who read this dedicate themselves to respecting themselves and others. We are all important. We just are.

explanation of what you just read

In her book Praying With Jane Eyre: Reflections on Reading as a Sacred Practice, Vanessa Zoltan explains and demonstrates how she treats literature as sacred text. I highly recommend reading this book, as it’s incredibly interesting, helped me grow as a person, and explains the concept and process more thoroughly than I do here.

In short, the idea is that sacred texts aren’t accessible to everyone—some of us have religious trauma, for example—but there are other ways to find spiritual expression. In Praying With Jane Eyre, Zoltan references scenes from Jane Eyre, Harry Potter, Little Women, and The Great Gatsby where most sermons would reference the preacher’s chosen holy book. I grew up hearing sermons that referenced Christian bible stories, and I’d get caught up in my discomfort with the text. In some ways, that protected me from internalizing the biases of the religious community. Yet it also kept me from taking comfort in the words that genuinely helped others through hard times.

I feel the need to clarify that Zoltan’s process isn’t about forming religions around books not intended to be religious material. Instead of mentioning a story about how David faced Goliath, she mentions a story of how Jane Eyre faced her abusive aunt. Sometimes, she prays with a quote from the book by adapting the words of the text into a self-affirmation. Zoltan doesn’t assume that everything in the text is good—for example, she doesn't assume that the ending of Jane Eyre is a happy one (which would have troubling implications). She simply assumes that there's a lesson buried within the text.

Zoltan’s process works much better for me than any associated with the organized religion I grew up with, but I’m not as close to the text of Jane Eyre as she is. I also found myself uncomfortable with treating Harry Potter as sacred, so Zoltan’s podcast Harry Potter and the Sacred Text was, unfortunately, not for me. I decided to begin collecting quotes from what I do read—which, okay, I’m an English major, so I could have used folk tales or ancient epic poems or twentieth-century short stories, because I do read plenty of those. It would work fine with any of them. Sacred reading even helps me understand folk tales from the audience’s perspective.

But I also read a lot of fanfiction, and I wanted to think about it in a new way. Fanfiction is a modern method of retelling stories. The act of retelling a story over and over is evidence that it is important to a great deal of people. Fanfiction is, legally speaking, not for profit. In this capitalist society that means people are telling these stories solely because they want to. That, in my opinion, creates an exponentially more spiritually honest work than one edited and sold to a publisher. Fanfiction writers, especially those who use the archive, trust that their target audience will find them.

I don’t mean to put fanfiction on a pedestal. It has its pitfalls, especially when it comes to elements of craft like visual description and reliance on clichéd tropes. Frankly, when I started, I thought I would get no more than a few good quotes, mainly from the really long fics. I didn’t expect my google doc of fic excerpts to grow to 200 pages and counting within a few months. But it did. Fic writers impressed me over and over once I began to look.

I wasn’t really sure what I planned to do with the quotes for a while, but I knew I wanted to share them with the world. Ultimately, I wanted to write sermons which pulled from transformative works as well as personal anecdotes—but this took time and practice. I began by simply sharing quotes that struck me, occasionally adding analysis in the tags.

Now, this account also has several prayer sheets like this. I always include Zoltan’s self assuring affirmation format, as well as my hopeful ‘let this happen’ prayer format and willful ‘I will work to make this happen’ vow format. Personally, I cycle through all of them, because I think all three versions of the prayer are important to internalize.

I have also written sermons as well as essays with discussions of sacred reading and retold stories. If you like this, you might be interested in the rest of my page!

#self worth #sacred reading #fanfiction #Harry Potter #drarry #fanfiction quotes #prayer #affirmations #mantra #found on ao3 #archive of our own #prayers and affirmations #teddy's rants #fanfiction recc

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itspileofgoodthings · 3 years

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sometimes people are like “do you like the brontes or are you not a fan” and I’m just like “yeah :))”

#it’s complicated!!!#jane eyre was very important to me growing up!#and wuthering heights to a lesser degree as well #and yet I knew then in a vague way that they were flawed #but I still haven’t parsed it all out

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myonepiece · 3 years

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could do corazon, Katakuri, Marco as romantic book quotes pleasecould do corazon, Katakuri, Marco as romantic book quotes please

rosinante, katakuri, marco as romantic book quotes

description: rosinante, katakuri, and marco (separate) as romantic quotes from books

warnings: mentions of death (character and reader)

“who, being loved, is poor?”

-a woman of no importance by oscar wilde

rosinante's life has many ups and downs, yes his brother and he are rich, rosi doesn't care for the wealth. it's not that he doesn't like where they got it from, he simply doesn't care- he forgets about it often, including when he goes travelling. he's gone off on a small mission or simply a vacation and forgotten to take money, he ended up on the street smoking under the coverage of a shop's overhang while the rain pelted down soaking his clothes- but he doesn't care because he's replaying the time you and him got caught in the rain and rolled down with his entire figure wrapped protectively around you. when people talk ill to/about him, he couldn't care less because that morning you told him you love him. he forgot to take enough money for your date, you shared a single ice cream cone that rosi dropped on the floor, but you only cupped his cheek tenderly and kissed his nose calling him "cute".

“if i were to live a thousand years, i would belong to you for all of them. if we were to live a thousand lives, i would want to make you mine in each one.”

-the evolution of mara dyer by michelle hodkin

rosinante is one of the most loyal characters, when he's fallen in love that's it for him, no one else is after them, whether they're absence be of death or a lighter circumstance that has their return. whenever he leaves he spends. the night before making love to you and whispering affirmations of his eternal love and fidelity, and he leaves the next morning with a single prolonged kiss while you're still asleep in your shared bed. when he gets back. he sweeps past each and every person welcoming him back hurrying straight to your waiting arms and lifting you up to wrap your legs around his waist. when you leave he spends his spare time by his brother's side because that's the most entertaining thing he can do without you, or he's napping, working with the marines, bu the day you get back he stays up all night so he can be there at the front door of the palace when you arrive at the first peek of sunlight.

“once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.”

-the history of love by nicole krauss

katakuri is a thinker, analyzing situation easily, one of the reasons he's in such high regard of his mother, siblings, and marines- he often finds himself pondering why you have such an effect on him, why your laugh doesn' tsound.. like a laugh, but like.. a simple sound that carries the sunlight. he wonders why he stares at you for hours without realizing it, why his hands constantly itch to feelyour significantly smaller ones in them.

“i have for the first time found what i can truly love—i have found you. you are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel—i am bound to you with a strong attachment."

-jane eyre by charlotte brontë

despite having an arranged marriage (or not) he can feel himself immediately enraptured by your very being, instantly feeling a sort of commitment and unavoidable loyalty like on first sight a chain was fastened around his heart tying it to you. he feels the need to protect your heart, in a disembodied sense as well, to save your free will and innocence from the monters of his family and the world, even if you've seen far too many to be considered an angel by definition, katakuri sees you as everything innocent in the world.

“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you.”

-winnie the pooh by a.a. milne

he doesn't think about it per say, it's sort of a subconcious thought in the back of his mind, he's already made up his mind that he'll die before you. he'd throw himself in front of a bullet without a moment's hesitation or even goodbye, simply throwing his life away to save you- and not once does he fight with his subconcious about this. he's content in knowing one day everything will just stop, and moments before that you'd still be there, he wouldn't have to know what life is like without you. he doesn't care that you'll feel guilty, or argue with him, get mad at him for doing something so reckless, there's nothing you could do to stop him from protecting you with every bit of his soul, from diving into the silence of death before your very eyes, only to save you- no head nod signifying he'd be leaving then, no squeeze on your hand, no kiss, no muttered words, only a blur of blue flames with purple, and then the absence of a man.

"grow old along with me! the best is yet to be.”

-rabbi ben ezra by robert browning

once marco is in love he's set on living out the rest of his life with them. wherever it takes him it's bound to be an adventure, sailing with the crew for years to come, living life to fullest and running along the glittering shores with nothing but freedom and laughter knowing that you don't have to worry about being alone again. after years of voyages and love, when it's time to go, you both leave with a smile, knowing that you found your soulmate early enough to experience the best life has to offer, you had life at your finger tips and had seen more than most average people would in their life time- your lives are spent, and your love runs with the sand of your hourglass, because only when your body dies, does your love for each other.

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it-was-summer · 3 years

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Video Killed The Radio Star (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

A/N: I know I usually write for Five Hargreaves, but lately I’ve been having the idea of a fanfiction for Spencer Reid involving some sensitive material. If you haven’t watched Criminal Minds, that is a-okay because this doesn’t really follow any sort of certain plot in the series but it does contain some spoilers from it so maybe be warned? If you’d like for this me to continue this little idea, please give me so feedback and let me know. Till then, Em <3

Warnings: Stalking, talk of kidnapping, cursing and some sensitive material.

Plot: You leave videos for the BAU to find once you find out you have a stalker.

Word Count: 1.3k

-Tape #1, January 5, 20XX

Your face moved away from the screen as you moved to sit on a desk chair, smile growing as you waved your hand at the webcam recording a few feet away from you. “I, uh,” you looked down at your hands, playing with the ring that resided on your middle finger before letting out a tiny nervous giggle “, I don’t really know how I should start this off.” you trailed off, looking back up at the camera.

“You know that feeling you get when you’re driving your car and you think ‘oh my god, the car behind me is following me home!’, I guess it all kind of started like that. I tried to keep them off my tail, but I guess they already knew where I lived because they started parking outside my house, never the same car.”

You cleared your throat gently, bending over to pick up a small, dead rose. “This was the first thing I got,” you held it closer to the camera, your hands shaking lightly “That’s when I realized something was wrong. I started to notice that I would get home and suddenly, there would be a car across the street.” You looked outside, towards the window “It’s not every day, and it isn’t sporadic either! It’s every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday around noon till seven, sometimes eight.” You ran your hands through your hair, biting back tears.

“My mom thinks I’m crazy, but I... I know that something isn’t right,” You kept your calm composure, smiled sweetly at the camera, and waved again “ I guess I’m signing off till I have some more proof or something? This is Y/N L/N, signing off I suppose.”

Then the screen went dark.

-Tape #2, January 17, 20XX

You were already sitting in your desk chair when the video started, indicating that you figured how to use a timer for this personal vlog of yours. “Hi,” You seemed to be in better spirits than before “I’m more organized this time!” This seemed to be the reason for your good mood, probably because being organized made you feel more stable, safer.

“So, I’m Y/N L/N and I am twenty-four years old, living in Richmond, Virginia, in this apartment complex a little bit outside of the city.” You held up a photo of a tattoo that was currently hiding under your shirt. “This is the tattoo that I got when I was drunk off my ass on my twenty-first birthday, just a good...” you cleared your throat quickly “A good identifier.”

You folded your hands in your lap as you straightened out your back. “The stalking started just after Christmas, I haven’t the faintest clue of who it is, but I know I am being stalked. I told the police but they didn't really think anything of it and sometimes I see a patrol car drive by on weekdays.”

“These videos aren’t meant to be a big, fat, told you so. I’m just really scared that something bad is going to happen. I just need some trace of me, I need to feel less helpless.”

You swallowed thickly and grabbed a sticky note hanging from your computer “These are all my passwords so if something does happen, it is right there.”

You looked around, all of your preparations failing you in a single moment as you found yourself lost for words. You quickly flashed again, conversation lighting up in you as you spoke again “I work in the city as a librarian, I get the weekends off for the most part.” You held up a copy of Wuthering Heights “Today this was left on the roof of my car,” You opened it and turned it so the pages were facing the webcam, showing highlighted sections of the book “The only parts that are highlighted are the romantic scenes between Heathcliff and Catherine.” You flipped through some pages quickly and held the page up, looking for one quote that was highlighted, underlined, and circled. “Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad, that's one of the lines circled, underlined and highlighted...” you stared at the page, before turning it back to the camera.

“I’m done for now..” Screen. Black.

-Tape #3, February 14, 20XX

You were wearing a striped sweater, lines ranging from white, pink, and red. You seemed to have forgotten about the heart-shaped glasses on your head, pushing back your hair, but your eyes were red, tired, lifeless almost. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” you heaved a sigh, slouching over in your chair. You could feel the bubble in your throat, and you tried to keep your voice steady, but it broke as soon as you started to speak “ Today was really bad,” you coughed lightly, feigning courage “He, She, I don’t know! They were in here! They got into my house, rose petals everywhere! Rose petals on the bed, in the sink, everywhere! They were just,” tears started to flow before you could do anything about it “ Just everywhere.”

You brushed your tears away quickly and let out another sigh before you took in a big breath and smiled, sadly at the camera. “I did some more research,” you laughed “, I live in Virginia and I have way too much time on my hands sometimes.”

You leaned over to pick up some papers off your, now rose petal-free desk “So, I was looking for people who would be good at, uh, helping me.” You held up a photo of Agent Jareau, in all her beauty “, I’d be pretty blind not to think about the BAU, right? This is,” you looked at the photo quickly “, the very pretty liaison for the BAU. I know that she’ll be seeing these first so hello? I would really appreciate it if the team could help me. Help find me maybe? I told the police what happened and they searched my apartment and the security cameras-” you felt tears well up in your eyes again and cut yourself off.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

Black.

-Tape #4, February 18, 20XX

A smile was on your lips now, nervous albeit, but still a smile nonetheless. “The police are patrolling the neighborhood now on the regular so I feel a tiny bit better!” you leaned over to grab a copy of Jane Eyre “Today I was gifted another book, it seems my stalker is a bit of a Brontë fan. This one is the same as the last, but the important be quote seems to ‘You are my sympathy --my better self --my good angel’” You closed the book, sighed, and closed your eyes slowly. “Till then.”

Black.

-Tape #5, March 5, 20XX

You knew this was going to be your last video, every bone in your body knew it. Every. Single. One. After almost two weeks of no attention, no cars, no anything. You thought you were free, thought that maybe it would all be okay.

It was a foolish, childish thought. A moment of fleeting happiness if you will, but you held onto it with everything you had. The police were paying you less attention and you didn’t mind. You kept an eye out for something, anything. Now it was March fifth and you had a new gift. It was the most extreme out of all the gifts. Your hands trembled as you reached for a destroyed pair of your panties, drenched in blood. “Something bad is going to happen,” You threw the panties down near the books and dead rose. You kept them all just in case if they needed it, what if they needed more.

What if they needed more to find you? Would all of this be enough? “Please find me,” you looked at the screen with a heavy conscious “, I want to be found. Please, find me.”

Black.

March 8, 20XX

“This is Y/N L/N, a twenty-four-year-old woman last seen two days ago and has since gone missing. The Richmond police station contacted us after they found a folder containing these videos on her computer.” J.J. said, clicking to the next PowerPoint, showing more details for their case, but Hotch was already standing up, ending everyone’s input and conversation.

“Wheels up in ten.”

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chimcess · 3 years

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With All My Love {J.J.K.}

Jungkook x Reader Genre: Angst Warnings: Cheating (sort of), Open relationship, and the angst is piled on thick with this one Summary: Y/N always knew what she was getting into with Jungkook, another girl would come with the package, but it was a price she was willing to pay to have him. However after finding out that he’d slept with Mina behind her back at a party without telling her, she realizes that she needs a clean break, but isn’t willing to face Jungkook, so she decides to leave him a letter instead. A/N: This one really hurt to write

Jungkook,

I hope you’re well. I’m not, but still, I can’t help myself but want you to be happy- even when I’m miserable. You know, it’s crazy how life plays out sometimes. When I first met you, I never thought we’d be where we are now, but here we are, and though I love it… I can’t help but hate it at the same time. When I imagined us, this wasn’t exactly what I had pictured. I was expecting dates, kissing in your Ford, sharing holidays, and growing old being two peas in a pod. Jungkook and Y/N versus the Patriarchy one hip surgery at a time. Now, though, I can see I was wrong. While I could still have that, I have also come to realize that this will always and forever be Jungkook, Y/N, and whoever else Jungkook decides versus you and I growing old and kicking ass.

Last night, when I was upset about you sleeping with Mina behind my back, at that moment I was so angry at her, and I just wanted nothing more than to curse her out and kick her to the curb. However, after some thinking- as I do tend to do at two in the morning after my boyfriend falls asleep on me- I realize that I was angry at you.

I was so mad at you. I was livid. I was so unbelievably hurt. I don’t think I could ever describe the pain that caused me, however Emily Bronte has a wonderful quote from Jane Eyre that does it some bit of justice, “Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agnised as in that hour left my lips: for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love.”

Does that help you understand better where I’m coming from? I hope it does. Books tend to understand me more than anyone. Even you, it seems. Kookie, I want you to realize something very important. I hate Mina. Not because I think she’s a bad person or anything, but the fact that she has you in a way that I never will. How in the world does she make you so blind to the fact that it tears me apart that you want her, too? I don’t care if it’s purely sexual, I just want you to want to have sex with just me. That’s why I never flat out say, “Don’t see her again.” I want you to just want me. I want you to see that I’m enough. I want you to want only me and nothing more. I want you to put an end to things because you love me. That’s all I want. In me writing you this, it’s my way of saying that I can’t do this anymore. We’ve hardly been together and you’ve already broken a huge portion of my trust.

I mean honestly, do you think I like being able to see that she’s slept with you? Do you think I like looking at the face I want to see for the rest of my life and there’s bruises another woman left there mocking me? Do you really think I want you to touch me after she’s had her hands all over you? Like I’m sloppy seconds? Like I’m an afterthought? Like you have no respect for me at all?

Even you know I don’t like it. You knew it before last night, and still you continued to see her. The day after we started dating you slept with her. Instead of us going to see your parents together, you wanted to bring me there to keep them company for the night alone while you snuck off to be with her? Do you really think I would ever in my life be comfortable with this arrangement you made for me?

I know I have my faults. I should’ve put my foot down. I should’ve communicated more. I should’ve told you exactly how I felt. I should’ve made it abundantly clear that I want it to only be us. However, I felt like you would hate me if I did that. I still do. I feel like you would resent me for making that choice. I feel like you would never be happy with me if I just said no. If I never considered it. Yes, I’ve said certain things, but it was only to make you happy. I know she makes you happy, you enjoy her company, and she gets you off. She is a car girl, you guys go out together, and she’s really fun. However, where is this effort for us? You don’t take me out or show me off. You don’t ask me on dates. You don’t buy me little presents because you see them and think I’d like them. Why? Because I am not more than enough.

Now we’ve come full circle to the point I wanted to make. When you love someone, truly love someone, there are things you do to show them that. Someone can say they love you a thousand times, but if they come home drunk and beat you that doesn’t sound much like love, right? Love is sacrifice. Love isn’t making boundaries about who we can openly sleep with outside of our relationship- especially when we both know one of us isn’t too keen on the idea. Love isn’t sleeping with people behind one another's back and just expecting them to magically know about it. Love isn’t, “Well I like being top and bottom, so I’ll have my cake and eat it too.” That’s not love. Love is accepting that person for all that they are. Love is wanting them, and only them, because no one else can compare. Love is blindly going into a relationship with the most beautiful man knowing full damn well you’ll get hurt over and over again just because you’d do anything to make it you two versus the world kissing in a truck, sharing holidays, and growing old being two peas in a pod. The two of you versus the Patriarchy one hip surgery at a time.

That’s why I say I don’t believe you when you say you love me. I sacrificed a lot for this relationship. I put aside my values, my dignity, and my self respect because you’re so worth it to me. You are more than enough for me. However, I don’t see that same thing in return. So, this is me telling you… You need to figure things out. Figure out what you want, because it’s not me. I’m not cut out for this amazing for a minute shit. I’m not cut out for standing by watching you choose someone else over me again. I’m not cut out for feeling left out in my own relationship. I’m not cut out for feeling like I’m not good enough for you. I’m not cut out.

I would like to apologize in advance for leaving things like this, with nothing more than a note telling you goodbye, but for my heart’s sake I have to. I know myself too well, and the moment I saw your face I’d run to you without second guessing myself. I cannot allow myself to do that just like I can’t allow myself to die a slow, painful death anymore. I hope you’re happy, and I hope Mina picks up the pieces of you that I’m leaving behind. Please, stay well. I left you dinner in the fridge, make sure to eat that. I’ll be at Hoseok and Yoongi’s for a while, so don’t worry too much. I love you.

With all my love,

Y/N

#bts #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fics #bts ff #bts fanfiction #BTS jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook angst #angst #bangtan sonyeondan #bangtan #cheating #open relationship

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leahoftheforests · 2 years

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PART 2: GROWING UP

How would you describe your childhood in general?

“I was safe, healthy, well-cared-for. I suppose those are the most important things. I had my siblings, so there was always someone to play with. I loved school. I was allowed to read books all day if I wished. Nothing to complain about.”

What is your earliest memory?

“I believe... I believe it’s of Zachariah. He must have been just 6, perhaps 7, but he was trying to conduct a facsimile of a checkup on Benny, who was just screaming and screaming.”

How much schooling have you had?

“Not nearly enough, but I suppose more than many others. I benefited from my brothers, as it was simpler for the governess to teach me mathematics and the sciences alongside them.”

Did you enjoy school?

“I never had much of an aptitude for figures- at least there was some imagination in the sciences. But the days where we’d read Shakespeare and Chaucer were some of the best of my life. School was a place where the things I was good at made me stand out- I didn’t have to be the loudest, the funniest, the most popular. I could just use my mind, and I was praised for it. I also liked working towards a goal. I think I’d go to school for the rest of my life, if I could.”

Where did you learn most of your skills and other abilities?

“From books. Or from my siblings.”

While growing up, did you have any role models? If so, describe them.

“Once again, I found them in books. Jo March, Anne of Green Gables, Jane Eyre.”

While growing up, how did you get along with the other members of your family?

“I truly don’t believe I’ve ever had a fight with any of my siblings, which I choose to believe is a testament to our closeness and not of my conflict avoidance. I wouldn’t say I have much of a relationship with my parents- they are merely authority figures at arm’s length. There wasn’t much of an opportunity to get along or not.”

As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

“This is silly- no one will hear this, yes? But in truth, I had this fantasy as a child where I was... a pirate. It sounds so silly to say out loud, but I used to have dreams of sailing the seas like Captain Hook with a merry band of outlaws searching for treas- can we move on? I must sound deranged.”

As a child, what were your favorite activities?

“Obviously, I loved to read. I also loved to play pretend- I used to drag Benny out to the yard to pretend to be wood sprites spying on the servants.”

As a child, what kinds of personality traits did you display?

“I was well-mannered and polite by all counts. Never made much of a fuss, never threw tantrums, always did as told.”

As a child, were you popular? Who were your friends, and what were they like?

“Absolutely not. If I did not have my brothers I suspect I would have had very few friends, if anyone at all. I did have one close friend from town when I was roughly eight, and it’s the funniest thing- I can’t even remember her name now, but we stopped being friends very suddenly and very quickly. It’s not something I’d like to discuss.

Other than that, I didn’t have any close friends outside my family until I met Dinah.”

When and with whom was your first kiss?

“Uh- goodness. I’m an unmarried woman, and I haven’t seen much of the world. There’s much I haven’t experienced. I’ll leave it like that.”

Are you a virgin? If not, when and with whom did you lose your virginity?

“You cannot honestly expect me to acknowledge that question?”

#stmdevelopment #CAPTAIN LEAH #queue #if ur seeing this it’s my last queued post see u all when i get back xoxo

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eyreguide · 3 years

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Jane Eyre & Rebecca

I’ve always thought that Daphne du Maurier has acknowledged that her 1938 novel Rebecca was a re-working of Jane Eyre, but I haven’t been able to confirm that (if anyone does know of a direct quote from du Maurier, please let me know!) But nevertheless there are still many similarities between the two in terms of plot and themes, and having recently re-read Rebecca, I wanted to dive into how these two wonderful books mirror each other.

Both Jane Eyre and Rebecca are deemed Gothic novels - stories in which romance, suspense, and horror intertwine. And both novels heavily feature elements often associated with Gothic stories - death, fire, madness, young and innocent women, and older, imposing men.

The relationship dynamic between the two couples feature some similarities, (older man, younger woman, class difference, mystery/secrets between the two) but there are also important differences - Jane and Rochester get to know each other more, and their courtship is not quite as whirlwind as the second Mrs. de Winter and Maxim. In Rebecca, the tension does not lie in whether or not Rochester and Jane will declare their feelings for each other, but in whether Maxim loves his second wife, even though he married her. Jane Eyre appeals to me for the tension in a romance undeclared as I found in my re-reading of Rebecca that I felt very frustrated by how Maxim treated his wife. I did understand why he felt estranged and unsure - it was endearing to find out that he wasn’t sure if she could love an older man like him as much - but he did kind of ignore her for most of the time she was at Manderley. Granted the girl also spent most of her time trying to pacify Maxim whenever he showed a temper, so the dynamic between the two felt much less romantic than in Jane Eyre.

In bringing the two main characters together within the first few chapters, Daphne du Maurier is given time to develop the suspense and psychological dread that defines Rebecca. Film adaptations can add as many shadowy hallways and dramatic musical beats to Jane Eyre as they want, but the story is much more focused on character development and romantic tension. Once the reader becomes absorbed by the narrator in Rebecca, her every thought seems to tend towards “I’m not good enough.” or “He doesn’t love me.” Her neuroticism can be exasperating but I of course also empathized with her insecurities. And I enjoyed the way the author plotted how every scene seemed to exacerbate that. Rebecca is such a great example of how one’s inner monologue affects you.

With the actual character of Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier creates an interesting version of Bertha Mason. Rebecca and Bertha share many traits - beauty and accomplishments, an alluring personality, and ultimately selfishness, greed, and a malicious streak. While some of Bertha’s vices may be explained by mental illness, Rebecca stands on her own as fully embracing her vices. She shows no remorse, yet is still captivating as the villain of the story. Just as Bertha proves an obstacle to Rochester’s happiness, Rebecca ingeniously places an obstacle to Maxim’s happiness even in death. It’s fascinating how du Maurier crafted a story where the dead haunt the living - but in a way that feels realistic and doesn’t rely on paranormal intervention. The story is also beautiful in its simplicity - the other characters build up Rebecca in the mind of the second Mrs. de Winter and the reader so that it makes sense to name the book after her. For despite the de Winters’ attempts at happiness there is seemingly no escape from Rebecca and her machinations.

It is also interesting to consider Rochester and Maxim. One is adamant that he can not kill - even indirectly - his first wife, and another does so in a moment of passion. I wonder if that could be a commentary on the superior nature of one over the other - but if Rochester was in a situation closer to Maxim - where he had to acknowledge Bertha as his wife, with the possibility of raising her child which he knows is not his - would that drive him to commit such a crime? Impossible to say, but a very thought-provoking conundrum. You could even consider that if Jane was in a similar situation to the second wife - would Jane work to cover up her husband’s crime? I kind of believe in that case that she would not.

Even if du Maurier does not acknowledge Jane Eyre as a direct inspiration for Rebecca, I love thinking about Rebecca as a sort of inversion of Charlotte Brontë’s novel. Where the focus is not on the two characters in love, but on the shadow between them and how that shadow grows until it must be acknowledged. Bertha Mason in Jane Eyre is more of a plot device in how she affects the relationship between Jane and Rochester - with Jane only going on to develop further and achieve independence. Rebecca does cause the second Mrs. de Winter to develop further, but she is limited in her transformation. I love the two works for different reasons and find them both engrossing and intelligent reworkings of a romantic Gothic tale.

#Jane Eyre #Charlotte Bronte #Rebecca #Daphne du Maurier #Literature #Gothic Romance #Joan Fontaine

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baby-grayson · 4 years

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Kind Stranger|GBD|Part 10

Parts 1-9 word count: 6k

tw: anxiety, angst, fluff, mature themes tags: @dolanpornhub @styles-dolan @evergreendolan @someonetogray @vintagedolan @prettyboydolan @dolansficsandpics @graysavant @baby-turtles

Kathleen Monica Walker would cock her head to the side and lose herself in confused thoughts when the other little girls in her class would snicker and giggle about boys on the playground. Once, her childhood best friend, Tabby, pretended to marry her next-door neighbor while dressed in a Cinderella Halloween costume with a pillow-case veil. Kathleen was the maid of honor, donned in a yellow Easter dress with her short, black bob freshly brushed. Kathleen beamed at her best friend, soaking in the happiness of the moment, during their second-grade backyard wedding.

After a nervous, giggly kiss and a make-believe tea party, Tabby came to Kathleen. “Thank you for being here on my special day,” Tabby pushed her nose up as she talked, thinking it made her look more grown up.

Kathleen laughed heartedly, seeing through her friend’s ruse at age seven. “You look so pretty,” she gushed, admiring the tin foil twinkles under the netting of the Cinderella costume. “I do.” Tabby decided haughtily. Tabby wasn’t very good at making friends, they all found her theatrical; but Kathleen understood that Tabby was constantly performing the most climatic scene in the movie that was her life. “And one day, you’ll get married and I’ll be there for your special day” Tabby posed with her hands on her hips. Kathleen laughed, scrunching her nose into her face. She matched Tabby’s pose: putting her hands on her hips and angling her upper body, “Me? Married?” Kathleen put a mocking hand in front of her mouth, “I’ll get married when I run out of books to read.” Kathleen nodded her head in certainty.

At the time of that conversation, Kathleen was proudly working her way through the Ramona and Beezus series. A few years later, she promoted her collection to Harry Potter. Not soon after that, she plunged into the classics: Moby Dick, Little Women, Tom Sawyer, and Jane Eyre. Her love of pleasure reading transformed into deep dive into engineering textbooks and academic journals.

Staying true to her words at age seven, Kate kept herself busy with intellectual pursuits when over girls her age were obsessing over passing notes in class, kissing boys under the bleachers, and picking prom dresses. She convinced herself frivolous relationships were not a natural part of her being: she was a creature of logic who had a deep appreciation for contemplative thought. In truth, her commitment to academic topics turned her into a late bloomer when it came to social situations. In her lack of development, she often fell inward: trusting her own intuition, facts, and reasoning above all else.

In the present moment, logic failed Kate. There was nothing logical about the look in Grayson’s eyes. There was nothing logical about the feeling his skin sparked against her fingers as she cupped his face. There was absolutely nothing logical about Grayson Dolan professing his love for her on the beach where they met as the sunset on a picturesque LA behind them.

Kate inhaled softly, never breaking Grayson’s gaze. Why did his eyes look so beautiful when they were a little wet? The gold flecks in his eyes twinkled like small reminders of the sunset behind them. His eyes played every word he ever said to her and every moment they ever shared. Out of all the beautiful things Grayson said to her, Kate had never fully expressed her appreciation for him.

She was awkward, not a natural people person. She was petite and disabled in a large, bustling world that was not made for her. She was hyper logical, in a world where emotions ran rampant around her. Grayson Dolan made her forget all of that. Grayson Dolan’s gold-flecked eyes felt like home.

A small sob got caught in Kate’s inhale when she tried to speak. Her eyes lashes fluttered, begging to hold onto Grayson’s gaze forever. She squeezed his one hand tightly, never wanting to let it go. She thumbed his cheekbone gently. With a breaking voice, she drew out, “I love you too.” They moved at the same time, crashing their lips together. Grayson grabbed her, pulling her small body close to his. Kate’s hand moved up to his hair, tugging gently at the locks that framed his face. Grayson’s heart beat made dauntless bounds; Kate recognized the rhythmic pattern against her chest. Grayson’s lips tasted like honey as his mouth moved gingerly against hers. Her sweet, citrus scent intoxicated his nostrils. She fit perfectly inside of his arms, made for him to just peer his head down and meet her lips. Grayson’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest. Every wound up emotion inside of him disintegrated as he channeled ever last ounce of energy into cherishing her. Grayson melted into the moment. He hands moved over her curves, wanting to commit every detail of his moment to memory. The shadows of her face were so close to his that he could breathe in her fragarance, and then her tongue was in his mouth. In truth, Grayson was not expecting her tongue: he only wanted to get drunk on the delight of feeling her plush mouth rest on his. But Grayson did not catch even a glimpse of her face, while Kate’s tongue made daring movements. She reached for him with every part of her being. Her tongue swept across Grayson’s mouth while his grip on her tightened, bringing her in as a part of him.

Grayson’s heart beat faster and faster, growing more intoxicated by her with each passing second. Together, their lips blossomed like a flower. Kate pulled away first, delicately moving her lips off of his. Grayson nestled his head lower, brushing the tip of his nose against hers: silently asking her for more. Grayson’s breathing slowed while the sound of the waves crashing on the shore slowly brought him back to reality.

Kate pulled back further, but keeping herself in Grayson’s arms. From her small stature, she tilted her face to look up at him. The gold flecks in his eyes reflected the sunset next to them. Kate exhaled slowly before drawing out, “But—”

Grayson’s heart fell. His eyes widened. He swallowed a large gulp in his throat. But? But what? There were not buts when you were in love. He loved her. She loved him. They loved each other. They were in love. There were no buts in love.

“We do need to talk,” Kate thumbed his shoulder slowly, “About how to make me a part of your life.”

Grayson nodded, more quickly than he intended to, “I want you to be a part of my life”.

“You were right, privacy is important to you,” she started, “But celebrating us is important to me. So let me tell my mom and my friends, just like you tell yours. “Grayson shifted his head to the side, a dubious shadow forming underneath his cheekbone. “We keep it off social media, the internet. Until you make the call that you’re ready for that.”

Grayson nodded slowly, swallowing hard. His grip on her tightened as he found words. Although not a novice with women, Grayson was practically a virgin in the realm of conducting quality conversation to better a relationship. “I like that. But—” Was that the word of the day? “Can we just tell close friends? Both of us, not just you.” He licked his lips, “Trust is an important thing. But I think you’re right. Celebrating us is important to me too.” He brushed gently swept some of her hair behind her ear, “I want to celebrate you every day.” She smiled in a thin line up at him, her cheeks lifting. Grayson pulled her in again, kissing her sweetly. Kate left the smooch, with a wide smile and bright eyes. Grayson’s heart swelled. He could look at this scene forever: the woman he loved, dark tendrils swaying in the wind, bright smile, shiny eyes, surrounded by a beautiful California sunset on the beach.

Grayson’s heart swelled throughout the night. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and she was sitting on the other side of a beach towel eating a lettuce wrap. Grayson’s soul felt rejuvenated, better than it had felt in so long. Only a few weeks earlier, Grayson sat on that exact beach and wallowed in growing anxieties about his future, family, and the past. That evening, he sat on the beach with a wide smile and full heart.

He looked over his shoulder, admiring the way the waves hit the shore. He was reminded of the image of his mother, sister, and brother relaxing on that beach that came to him a few weeks ago. But this time, he saw a fourth figure in his imagination. In his mind’s eye, he pictured Kate’s dainty frame on the sand, helping Ethan build a sandcastle. Grayson would saunter back from the waves, board in hand, and place a quick, salty kiss on her lips before starting to dry himself off. In his heart, he placed her beside his most important people.

They were in love. With their picnic put away, the moon rose over their heads as the start of night fell over LA. Kate laid back on their towel, Grayson’s figure hovering over her. He kissed her sweetly, stopping every few minutes to run a hand through her hair. He kissed her again, mumbling something about how she was beautiful.

Kate kissed the tip of his nose sweetly. Grayson’s eyes closed in a peaceful state. She slipped a hand through his hair. Her body absorbed the warmth emanating from him. “I love you,” her voice was just above a whisper. Grayson’s eyes opened gently, to meet her adoring gaze. Grayson’s voice held a emphatic sureness, “I love you too.”

Grayson’s head bent down to meet her lips with his plush ones. He deepened their embrace when she pulled his body closer to her. Kate’s tongue gently slid across Grayson’s bottom lip, asking for permission. He opened for her and began to run his hands along her body. She clutched his back, dragging her fingers along the fabric of his shirt. Grayson fingered the hem of her skirt while he softly bit her bottom lip. She let out a small moan and drew in a breath. His hand slipped up her skirt and grabbed at her thighs.

Kate trapped his bottom lip between hers. One of her hands clutched a part of his shirt, crinkling the fabric against his back; while the hand got lost in his hair. Kate sucked on his bottom lip gently while Grayson’s hand climbed up her thighs before his thumb looped through the waist band of her panties. Grayson pulled back suddenly, realizing where he was.

He exhaled lowly and licked his lips, “Do you...I mean..would you?” Kate nodded softly, not needing him to finish, “Let’s go back to your place.”

Grayson had never packed a picnic so fast in his life. The second Kate finished her sentence, Grayson lifted off of her and began putting plates and cups back in the cooler they came from. He kept an arm around her as they walked up the beach, bending down occasionally to place stray kisses on her temple.

Kate wondered if her outward smile would ever match her inward one. Grayson made her want to wear a Cinderella costume and dance around in her backyard, like Taddy had done when they were seven. Grayson made her ever emotion leap in a whimsical euphoria.

Kate’s brow furrowed, not seeing Grayson’s van. She looked up at him curiously, “Did you drive here?” Grayson nodded and pulled a set of keys from his pocket, “Yeah.” He clicked a button on the keys and a black Porsche lit up from across the parking lot. Kate chucked to herself softly, “What happened to the van?” Grayson shrugged, blushing slightly, “I sold it” Kate shook her head softly, assuming fancy cars must be one of the perks of dating a guy like Grayson.

Grayson nearly broke the speed limit. The car ride back to his rental was spent with one hand firmly on Kate’s thigh, as he raced through the LA freeway, with Kid Cudi playing through his speakers. They shared the car ride: drunk and high off love and happiness.

Their love and happiness carried them across the threshold of Grayson’s rental. The white, beachy décor didn’t phase Kate this time because her focus was exacted on Grayson’s kiss. Somewhere between the living room and kitchen, Grayson fixed an arm under Kate’s knees and swept her off her feet. Kate giggled and let out a small “oop” but kept her lips on his. He reveled in carrying her to his bedroom: he adored how her small frame fit perfectly in his arms.

In a gentle movement, he laid her on his bed. It was there, in his bed, on that warm August night, that Grayson Dolan made love to Kathleen Walker for the first time.

Grayson’s eyes flickered open. He quickly shut them, afraid of the sting of the morning light. His mind was hazy from sleep and partially still drunk from the emotional high of last night. He tightened his grip, pulling his sleeping partner closer to him. He breathed in Kate’s sweet, citrus scent, slightly diluted in the smell of his sheets. With his eyes closed, he smiled wide. Kate let out a small snore and curled up inside of his arms.

Grayson kissed the top of her head, “I love you” he whispered. He loved her. Completely, utterly, and with all of his being. She was the soft to his tough. She was the smart to his dumb. She was everything he had ever hoped to find and more. To Grayson, love was waking up in his bed and smelling her sweet scent, hearing her gentle snores, feeling her body curled against him, tasting last night’s kisses mixed with sleep, and seeing her serene, angelic face dreaming next to him. To Grayson, this moment defined love.

On that early morning, with just a few rays of light peering through the window, Grayson imagined what his mother would say she met Kate. He thought about what his father would like if he were still alive; the thought settled in Grayson’s mind as he squeezed his sleeping girlfriend once more.

This second squeeze unearthed a groan from Kate, who’s eyes were beginning to flutter open. Half asleep, she found Grayson’s smile before snuggling into his chest and wrapping her legs around his waist, “G’Morning.” How was her sleepy voice this cute? Grayson chucked and placed another kiss on the top of her head, “Good Morning Angel.” He stroked her bare shoulder with his rough hand. Kate removed her head from the crook of his neck and shook it softly, “No, not that one.” Grayson’s brows furrowed in confusion, his head tilted to the side. Kate explained, “Too religious. Not good for sexy time. But nice try.” She shrugged softly.

Grayson chucked and licked his lips, “I’ll keep trying.” He kissed her gently, hovering over her lips before pulling back. A wide smirk found his face, “I did like what you were calling me last night”

Kate’s face turned a humorous shade of red. She let out an exasperated giggle and shook her head. She bit her lip softly, suddenly aware of how intertwined her naked body was with Grayson’s. The heat from his chest emanated onto her skin.

Grayson seemingly became aware of this fact at the exact same moment, because one of his arms reached down to fondle her ass while the other reached into her hair, pulling her closer for a deep kiss. Kate responded by burying her fingers in his hair while wrapping a leg across his waist. Grayson gave her sleepy, sloppy kisses while his hands roamed her figure: memories from last night flooding his brain.

What happened next would go down in history as problematic.

Without looking, Grayson shuffled a condom off of his nightstand. He made quick work of putting it on and ravishing her. It wasn’t until he had finished that Kate felt an unfamiliar stream hit her body. She looked down, and Grayson followed her gaze to see his orgasm spilling out of her, onto his bed, and off of their broken condom.

They were still for a moment processing this. Kate moved first, shimmying herself away from him and picking up a pair of his sweatpants from the floor. “We need to go,” she grumbled looking for a shirt, “take care of this.” Grayson nodded and began finding his underwear from the floor. He always wanted to be a father, but not like this.

***

The CVS fluorescent lights beckoned the young couple in, like a treacherous refuge for their current dilemma. Kate moved swiftly, Grayson following right behind her. As they stepped over the pharmacy threshold, Grayson reached for Kate’s hand. Her supple skin felt clammy to his touch. A far part of Grayson’s mind called back to the silky, tender feeling of her skin under his last night. His memories of this morning were already tainted in wicked stains.

His heart hurt. His heart called out to her. His heart hung heavy in his chest with the weight of the morning. He eyed her figure, hurrying across the CVS entrance. Her usual confident stride was replaced with slump shoulders and a tense spine: something in this posture eventuated her limp. Her hair fell onto her shoulders in hectic, unruly mess. Grayson’s mouth pulled into a tight line; he couldn’t bare to see her this way. He wanted to do something for her. He wanted, so desperately, to make this better for her.

Grayson squeezed her hand gently and pulled her back toward him. He stopped her from continuing her furious saunter across the CVS. Kate looked up at him, her brows furrowed to the middle of her forward as she gave him a hard stare. He nodded at the display in front of him, his words came out slowly and softly “Do you want a snack or something? You didn’t eat breakfast..”

Kate’s eyes drooped at the sides. The jaw she hadn’t realized she had been clenching unwound and softened. She brushed a gentle thumb across the back of Grayson’s hand. He was sweet. At his core, he was sweet. And that’s why she fell in love with him. Kate nodded, “Yeah that’s a good idea.” Her words were an amalgamation of low breaths. She bit her lip softly while she reached out a hesitant hand to choose a bag of pretzel sticks. She held out the package, tentatively to Grayson. Grayson nodded softly and took the bag from her. He gave her a soft smile that shattered her in that moment. Kate felt tears well into her eyes as the gravity of the morning dug a stake in her heart. Grayson’s instinctively wrapped his arms around her, he buried his face in her hair. Her petite shape fit perfectly into his large frame. He placed a few gentle kisses onto the top of her head. “It’ll be okay,” he squeezed her gently from within his embrace. He placed another kiss on the top of her and mumbled, “I promise it’ll be okay.”

Kate’s breathing steadied as she slowly pulled away from Grayson. She nodded and looked up at him, the gold flecks of his eyes still holding all the warmth of his hug. She opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by an ear shattering screech.

From the other side of the aisle, a girl no older than 14 was invoking a jarring, piercing, harsh noise from within the depths of her throat. The uproar lacked the low bawl of pain, but embodied every trait of a frenzied, shrill call of adoration. The second Grayson recognized his own name in the girl’s scream was the same second Kate retreated from his personal space. She took a large step backward, nearly knocking her head on a Chapstick display.

Kate did not stick around. Grayson lingered in front of the snack aisle, trying to kindly, but quickly, appease his fan. Kate took large strides towards her desired aisle, not stopping to look for Grayson’s head. She frantically scanned different pill boxes, swallowing hard between breaths. She swiped a box from the shelf and bolted for the register.

From the other side of the store, Grayson surveyed his surroundings. The fan strolled along, elated with a picture and a conversation. Grayson’s eyes darted between ends of the store before locking on a scurrying mess of black hair.

Kate slammed her credit card down on the counter and tangled her hands in her hair. The girl at the register didn’t comment on her purchase. Kate exhaled and slightly thanked her for it. She reached into a cooler next to the register and picked up the top bottle of Gatorade, “Add this too” Kate remarked.

Grayson reached the registered as Kate crossed the threshold for the second time, hurrying into the parking lot. Even with her limp, Grayson struggled to catch up to her. He jogged slightly, trying to reach her side in the parking lot. As she approached his Porsche, he clicked his keys to open the door: still trailing her.

Kate swung the passenger door of Grayson’s Porshe open, without even thinking to tell him to unlock it. She heavily landed in the seat and began to fumble with the plastic bag. The bag erupted in a shrill raucous of noise while Grayson entered through the driver’s side of the car. He gulped hard: his teeth shook as uneasy streams of air passed between them. He should help her. He should say something. He should know what to do right now. Be a man Grayson, be a man.

Kate didn’t pay him any attention, having already torn through the plastic bag and in the process of frantically ripping the packaging open. The heat safe plastic broke into fragmented shards, piercing the back of her hand and inviting the smallest drip of blood. Kate let out rapid exhalations, using her teeth to get through the cardboard box and reveal a single, tiny white pill. She placed it in her hand, the stinging from the cut of the box fading into the background of her mind.

She felt faint. All of her blood rushed to her head. Her rapid exhalations gave way to shallow breaths.

Grayson stared: his eyes flickering between her and the pill.

Kate threw her head back. She cupped her mouth in her hand. She slipped the pill between her lips.

Kate’s head rested against the headrest while she spun the cap on the Gatorade bottle and flooded her mouth. She poured it into her mouth, letting it wash over every piece of her insides. She tried to feel for the pill in her mouth, but decided drowning it in Gatorade until it dived into her throat.

She lunched forward, coughing violently and spewing a gentle layer of Gatorade onto the dashboard of Grayson’s Porsche.

She leaned back again, still reaching for breathes. The Gatorade bottle fell into Grayson’s cup holder as Kate’s small fingers relinquished it. She sat in a pile of plastic shreds, a broken cardboard box, a plastic CVS bag, and a bunch of splashed Gatorade in her boyfriend’s Porsche.

“I’m sorry,” Grayson’s voice escaped his lips as a frightful mew. He looked at Kate, her gaze staring off in the distance. He noticed the heavy way her chest heaved to pull in small breaths. His mind flashed back to some of his most trying moments. A younger Grayson didn’t believe in anxiety attacks: the current one knew them much too well. His lips pulled tight into his face, “I’m so sorry.” Kate’s pupils reached the edge of her eyes as she looked over at him. “Just-“ she heaved, “get us-“ she puffed our an exhalation-“home.”

The ride back to Grayson’s rental was fraught with a heavy, tense silence. Grayson longed for the feelings last night brought him: racing through the LA freeway with the radio playing and his hand firmly on Kate’s thigh. He glanced over at her; Kate’s small frame appeared be shrinking into his car seat. Grayson’s sweatpants and t-shirt draped over her body, and her unbrushed hair fell in messy tangles on her shoulders. She was still beautiful though; she was always beautiful. Grayson’s heart begged to see her round cheeks bounce into a wide smile for him.

Kate collapsed on Grayson’s couch soon after arriving. Grayson stood hesitantly in front of her, licking his lips and exhaling softly. Kate closed her eyes back and took her face in her hands, letting out a small groan. Grayson leaned against the arm of the couch, looking down at her, “I’m sorry for this morning.” He moved his hands outwardly while he talked, “I don’t know how it happened. It won’t—” “It’s fine Grayson,” Kate let out a small groan while she finished his name. She sat up slight, propping herself up to look at him. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. Grayson’s heart stammered when he saw her eyes fill with tears. He leaned down on the couch, trying to put an arm around her. She swatted it away. He sat straight up, alarmed and going dry at the mouth.

Kate swung her legs around, sitting up before taking in a breath and standing. “I can’t do this Gray.” She looked at her feet, biting her lip and shaking her head. Grayson gnawed at his bottom lip, “Do what?” Kate let out a loud exhale and shook her head, still not looking him in the eye. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, “Us” her voice was barely a whisper, “I can’t do us Gray.” Grayson’s face fell. His eyes darted around the room: trying to find an answer where there wasn’t one. His tongue felt heavy and thick. He opened his mouth to speak and dragged it around his lips, “This scared me too…but …let’s not …do anything…” he bit his lip sharply between his teeth, “drastic.” His statement nearly sounded like a question. Kate shook her head quickly and furiously: as if she was trying to shake off a thousand spiders. “Did you see her in there?” She looked up at him now; Grayson’s mind went blank at the sight of large, dewy tears teasing the corners of her eyes. “That girl? Did you see her?” Grayson’s jaw clenched. He swallowed hard, suddenly becoming aware of the tightness in his chest. “What about her?” His voice was low, but steady.

This was clearly not the response Kate was looking for because she pulled her face into her hands and abruptly turned to face the door. She shook her head and let out an exasperated sound. She looked back at Grayson, tears flowing down her cheeks. “You don’t get it,” her throat played with chokes and sobs while she spoke, “It’s so easy to love you but so hard to love your world.”

“Being yours means submitting myself to being,” something like a depressed chuckle left her lips while she used air quotes “’Grayson Dolan’s girlfriend.” She sat down on the coffee table, tugging at the hem of Grayson’s shirt. Her tears had become a steady river across her face, “You can’t go anywhere without being recognized, because you’ll always belong to millions of people: even when you belong to me. How can I be my own woman when I’ll be an extension of you purely because of what you do for a living?” Grayson chest constricted. His heart left his body, escaping the terrible moment. He held in breaths, keeping his jaw clenched. He wanted so desperately hold her and tell her he loved her.

Kate must have known what he was thinking because she continued with, “And I love you Grayson, I really do. But you’re asking me to be something that’s not myself. I’ve worked hard to get where I am! What?! Do you want me to throw it away?! You couldn’t be there for me this morning!” Her voice escalated to the point of screaming, “You couldn’t be there for me at all! And if you can’t spare a half hour to get me Plan B! What can I expect out of you!” A tear balled up on the side of Grayson’s eyes. “You can expect me to love you,” he was speaking without thinking now, “You can expect me to be proud of you. You can expect me to do everything I can when we’re together—” “Don’t give me that bullshit” Kate shook her head, his words drawing a knife through Grayson’s chest. “I know you think you can solve this with romance and affection, but this isn’t that kind of problem Grayson.” “THEN WHAT KIND OF PROBLEM IS IT?” Grayson held out his palms from where he sat on the couch. His eyes went wide, the single tear had evaporated into a stare of tumultuous pain.

Kate shook her head, “Your world wasn’t made for someone like me. Even though you were made for me.” Her voice wavered between crests of anger and troughs of sadness.

“You can’t give up on me the day after you tell me you love me.” Grayson’s body was stoic, his shoulders were square while he hands fell in his lap, but his voice held metric tons of sadness. His heart wanted to grow arms and hold her close.

“I do love you Gray,” Kate reached a handout to his, “I really love you.” Her voice was soft but exhausted. All of her energy had been depleted by screaming at him a few minutes earlier, “It’s just…” she searched for words in what must have been the longest thirty seconds Grayson ever experienced, “I’m being selfish because I’ve been in a relationship with myself for 22 years, and that comes before my relationship with you.” She squeezed his hands before pulling away from him, brushing tears from her eyes, “I wouldn’t like myself if millions of people saw me as an object” she said it like a cuss word “attached to you….I’m not giving up on you Grayson, I’m just choosing the person I want to be over the person I would hate to become.”

A/N: If you’re one of the people who has been keeping up with all ten parts, I can not thank you enough! I love seeing your reactions after you post! I know this part had a lot, so please tell me what you loved and hated!

#grayson dolan #fanfic #dolan twins #youtuber #romance #fluffy #angst #fanfiction #writing #story

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