#only two years before he died: ' - a love affair that was still bleeding as fresh as the skin wound on a haemophile.'

[rosepompadour]

You don’t understand. I have written about you — a dozen times. That funny little curl to your lip I used in a story six years ago; that way your face all changed just when you were going to laugh — I gave that characteristic to one of the first girls I ever wrote about; the way I stayed around trying to say good-night, knowing that you’d rush to the phone as soon as the front door closed behind me — all that was in a book that I wrote once upon a time.

F. Scott Fitzgerald about Ginevra King, "One Hundred False Starts" (1933)

#oh ginevra this man was more fragile than glass #how could you not SEE it? #i would love to see the entirety of her letters #zelda gets all the glory but ginevra was the freshest (and the best?) #only two years before he died: ' - a love affair that was still bleeding as fresh as the skin wound on a haemophile.' #f. scott fitzgerald #ginevra king #literature

[robininthelabyrinth]

LXC is the legal guardian and adopter for LSZ or LJY, and NMJ has questions.

part 2 of the LJY-adopted-by-LQR fic (now also on ao3)

-

“So, did I knock you up before I went to war or something?” Nie Mingjue asked. “Because I feel like you should’ve mentioned it if that was the case. Possibly in a letter.”

Lan Xichen was so tired that it took him a solid minute to parse what was wrong with that sentence and how to respond, and it was not by following his first instinct to apologize that he should’ve written better letters.

“Stop making fun of me,” he said instead, groping towards some measure of dignity.

Sadly, dignity was in very short supply when you were taking care of babies. Multiple babies. Well, one baby and one toddler, which was somehow worse?

Lan Xichen was pretty sure they’d figured out how to time their crying off each other.

“I would never,” Nie Mingjue said, like a liar, and then he picked up little Jingyi and – Lan Xichen simply cannot find another way to put it – shook him, in a manner not unlike testing a melon for freshness.

For some reason, this made Lan Jingyi stop crying and start making snuffling little giggles instead.

“How did you do that?” Lan Xichen asked, eyes wide.

“Do what?” Nie Mingjue tucked the baby into the crook of his arm and scooped up some food off the table, offering it to him, and Lan Jingy actually ate it. “Xichen, are you feeling all right?”

“Shhh!” Lan Xichen hissed, eyes fixed on the baby, which was neither spitting up everything nor wailing as if his heart was broken. “No unnecessary noise during meals.”

Nie Mingjue snorted in amusement. “Sure,” he said amiably, in the tone Lan Xichen had long ago learned meant ‘nice rules you’ve got there, it’d be an awful shame if someone found a loophole in them’. “This isn’t a meal, though; it’s just a snack.”

Lan Xichen eyed the still-not-crying Lan Jingyi and decided that now was not the time for a spirited debate on the virtues of discipline and fulfilling the merits rather than the word of a rule.

“Where’s monster number one gone?” Nie Mingjue asked abruptly. “He must be very good at hiding, because I looked away for a blink of an eye and he was gone.”

Lan Xichen’s eyes slowly dropped down to where a cloth-covered lump was not-so-sneakily edging towards Nie Mingjue’s foot.

Nie Mingjue was one of the foremost front line fighters of their generation, and possibly the previous one as well. His physical ability was matched only by his incredibly keen senses.

There was no way he was not aware of the lump.

“It’s a real shame, too,” Nie Mingjue continued. “I was planning on doing a test of how far you can throw children, but I think monster two here’s a bit too small to make the test worthwhile. But I guess it just wasn’t meant to be –”

You can’t throw children, Lan Xichen was about to say, except Lan Sizhui was tearing off the tablecloth and jumping up in excitement, shouting, “Here! Here! I’m here! I’m big enough! You can throw me!”

“Why does he want to be thrown,” Lan Xichen murmured, bewildered. He’d never wanted to be thrown around as a child. Had he?

In fairness, he wasn’t sure. No one had ever offered.

Apparently, though, Lan Sizhui did very much want to be thrown around, and Lan Jingyi even condescended to allow Lan Xichen to hold him while he watched.

“Higher! Higher!” Lan Sizhui shouted.

“Really? Is this high enough?” Nie Mingjue held him up at eye level.

“Higher!”

“Like this?” Above his head.

“Higher!”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

“All right. How about –” Baxia slithered out from her place by the door, zipping over until she was right in front of Nie Mingjue, allowing him to step onto her like a stair, and then zipping upwards to about hip-height, lifting Nie Mingjue and Lan Sizhui with her. They very nearly hit a tree branch with their heads. “– this?”

Lan Sizhui shrieked with laughter.  

“It’s too early to introduce them to flying,” Lan Xichen objected, because it was. “Mingjue-xiong…”

Nie Mingjue hopped down with a laugh. “All right, one last toss,” he told Lan Sizhui. “Then you nap. Okay?”

“Okay!” Lan Sizhui, who had never once willingly succumbed to naptime in the entirety of the time that Lan Xichen had known him, promised earnestly.

Back into the pile of soft grass he went, giggling the entire time, and amazingly enough he really did fall asleep afterwards. Lan Jingyi, too, had fallen asleep at some point.

“I’ve decided that your brother needs more experience running a sect,” Lan Xichen told Nie Mingjue, who raised his eyebrows. “Starting immediately. I promise to allow you to leave when Jingyi is, oh, shall we say five years old..?”

You could reason with a five year old. 

Nie Mingjue laughed.

It was a type of laugh that suggested that he thought Lan Xichen was making a joke. This was incorrect.

“You’d be amazed at how serious I am,” Lan Xichen told him threateningly, “I’m sect leader here, this is my territory, I can have you arrested any time –” but by that point Nie Mingjue was already bundling him off to bed, too, combing out his hair and plying him with snacks and –

This was not helping his argument that Lan Xichen should be allowing him to leave rather than keep him trapped in the Cloud Recesses as a babysitter-slash-love-slave. 

Well, he wouldn’t really do that, of course. He’d let him go. Eventually.

It’d probably be good for Nie Mingjue’s stress levels, honestly.

“Seriously, though, how did you do that?” he asked, his head on Nie Mingjue’s lap. “They didn’t cry once.”

“I’m good with kids,” Nie Mingjue said, his fingers digging into Lan Xichen’s scalp in just the right way. “Now can you explain to me how exactly you ended up with them? Two, no less?”

Lan Xichen groaned and covered his eyes with a hand. “Sizhui’s Wangji’s,” he explained. “Not biologically, but he’s put his name down in the family register under his own. But, you know…”

“I know.”

Lan Xichen appreciated that he didn’t need to go into it. The doctors had estimated that Lan Wangji would regain full mobility within three years, so that was the period the elders had mandated for his so-called ‘seclusion’, but with Lan Wangji being locked away like that – even with visitors, even though he was trying his hardest to care for the child from where he was – meant that someone had to care for the child’s day-to-day life until his brother was ready to resume the role.

“Jingyi is a cousin, I think,” he continued. “His parents are dead, and uncle accepted guardianship for him…I think he’s going to adopt him, actually.”

“Then why is he with you?”

“I volunteered.”

“Xichen, I say this with a full heart of affection and tremendous respect for your capabilities,” Nie Mingjue said. “But why in the world would you go and do a stupid thing like that?”

Lan Xichen sighed. The worst part was, he couldn’t even argue that it wasn’t stupid – he was, quite obviously, terrible with children.

“Uncle’s still injured from the war,” he admitted. In fact, his injury was probably even older than the war, dating as far back as the burning of the Cloud Recesses – his uncle had never been much of a fighter, his impressive cultivation strength stemming almost entirely from gentler arts like music and learning and meditation, but when his home and his family and his students were at risk, he’d fought, while Lan Xichen ran. Not just fought; he’d kept fighting long past the point that his body allowed. It only made sense for the bill to need to be paid. “He had a recurrence of an old complaint, not long ago; he started coughing up blood. The doctors insisted that he try to avoid anything that might cause him  stress.”

“Stress. Like, say, a rowdy infant?”

“Exactly like a rowdy infant,” Lan Xichen agreed, glad that Nie Mingjue did not mention that what had happened with Lan Wangji was also likely a source of stress. At least the two of them had slowly started to repair their relationship recently – the heartbreak would kill their uncle sooner than anything else, and Lan Xichen might be weak, but he really couldn’t tolerate the idea of suffering any more loss.

And also, if Lan Wangji could see his way to forgiving their uncle, he might one day agree to forgive Lan Xichen, too.

“I see. So you ended up with the little one, too.”

“Yes. And they hate me.” Nie Mingjue coughed a little. “No, don’t deny it. They clearly hate me. They always cry and spit and yell -”

“They’re children, Xichen,” Nie Mingjue said. “Traumatized children. They do that.”

Lan Xichen didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Nie Mingjue was frowning in memory of pain long past. Lan Xichen remembered, with painful clarity, how young Nie Huaisang had been when Lao Nie had died, how badly he had taken it.

There’d been a lot of crying and vomiting and yelling there as well.

“You’re good with kids,” Lan Xichen said instead of commenting, trading delicacy for delicacy; he would not touch Nie Mingjue’s still-bleeding wounds just as Nie Mingjue avoided his own. “Very good.”

“Well, I like to think so, anyway.”

They remained in blissful, comfortable silence for a while.

“How would it have even worked?” Lan Xichen finally asked. His eyes were still closed, Nie Mingjue’s fingers running through his hair; he never wanted to move again.

“Hmm?”

“If you knocked me up before you went to war. I mean, they’re not even the same age.”

“Well, one of them’s from the affair, obviously.”

“I’m sorry, am I cheating on you now?” Lan Xichen opened an eye and pinned Nie Mingjue with a fierce look that instructed his lover to reconsider.

“Of course not,” Nie Mingjue said, mock-solemnly. His eyes were dancing. “You were so distraught after receiving incorrect news of my untimely demise that you conducted a ghost marriage with my spirit, and then went and had a child to continue my name.”

“…they’re both surnamed Lan.”

“So what? Are you saying I’m not good enough to marry into your sect, is that it?”

Lan Xichen’s cheeks were hurting from trying not to laugh. “I wouldn’t dream of implying such a thing.”

“There you go, then.”

“Can I ask why I felt the need to have a child to continue your name if I had one already?”

“…well, fuck,” Nie Mingjue said. “I’ve got nothing.”

Lan Xichen burst out laughing.

#mdzs #lan xichen #nie mingjue #nielan #lan sizhui #lan jingyi #my fic #my fics #whistling brook #I know this doesn't quite match the prompt #but it ended up fitting in perfectly with the previous ficlet #walburgablack

[shyinadarkplace]

Bucky are you still there?

Summary: When their Soul bond is broken, the reader unable to bear the pain tries to end it all. The only question is will Bucky make in time to save her?  (Please be kind this is my very first time publishing a work)

Pairing: Bucky x reader. *I do not own Bucky Barnes or Sebastian Stan or any of his works*

Word count: 5k (I am sorry I might have gotten carried away)

Back ground info: This is an AU where there are Soulmates. If the connection between soul mates is somehow broken the mates have usually at max four years before everything gets unbearable. Also Tony is alive.

Prompt: Mountains/Forest and the song “Jealous” by Labyrinth. I also included another song “Dark side of me” by Coheed and Cambria. There is also an original poem by me in there.  *I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO USE ANY OF MY WORK AS A WHOLE OR IN PART, IN ANYWAY, ON ANY PLATFORM. *

Warnings: Proceed with caution. TRIGGER WARNING: There is mention of blood, extreme depression, suicidal thought and tendencies. That’s all I can think of, but please if you need help with any of the above mentioned things https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/  1-800-273-8255.  Please please reach out.

Title: Bucky are you still there?

Outside a winter storm raged deep in the Taiga, and while you were warm physically inside you felt just like that storm. You felt like the swirling mass of ice and snow, like the -54° C that currently raged outside your home. The added fire that sat blazing in front of you did little to assuage the pain that wracked through your chest. The ring on your hand glinted in the firelight. A familiar wave of heartbreak began crashing through you, even after all this time. When the much too familiar tears fell, another layer of ice layered around your heart. You stared into the fire and let your mind wander where it would, allowing your grief take its course.

Memory of your first meeting:

There was a pull in deepest part of your being. A tingling in the back of your mind. He was close. You could feel him brush across your consciousness like a gentle rain, and you returned the gesture. The room seemed to full of people why did Stark tower feel so crowded today? All you could do was stand frozen where you were running up a metaphorical flag screaming here I am. Your eyes quested searching desperately for someone doing the same, for the one who turned your spark into a firestorm. Suddenly there he was. Your eyes met and suddenly it was like you were falling, but gently, into warm blue eyes, into dark strands of hair and stubbly jawline. In man and muscle. Falling into him. Your feet were moving before you even realized it. Standing face to face with him, you felt like your heart was going to beat out of your chest “Hello, I’m (y/n). I have been waiting for you.) Your voice barely above a whisper almost afraid that if you spoke to loud it would somehow be just a dream. “Hello doll, my name is James Buchanan Barnes. I am so glad you waited.” Thus began your world wind love affair with the Winter Soldier, Bucky, White Wolf. And it was perfect. You two were perfect for each other been through so many of the same things. It was like you had discovered the theory of everything right then and there.

“6 years ago. Can you believe it Benji. Just six years ago Earth was upside down as a planet, but personally I was in heaven. I had met my soul mate.” The big wolf hound/wolf mix just laid his big black head on your lap, offering the silent comfort he always did. “We were married for three years. It was like magic.” A fresh batch of tears ran down your face. It had been 3 excruciating years. 3 years of feeling utterly alone. You had heard what it was like when someone lost their soulmate, it was like they were a zombie. They lost some of their humanity. It was like when a clinically depressed person masked, they looked and sounded fine for the most part but something was just off. Most of the time when one lost their soul mate they died too, unable to carry on without them or unwilling too. So many times you had been tempted to walk out in weather like this and let the Taiga take you. So many times you sat staring into the flames and thought about ending it all. After all there were thousands of ways to die. It had been 6 years since what the world came to call the Endgame. Since something had snapped inside Bucky during that battle and he had vanished. The end of the third long and bitter year was coming up, a person can only take so much.

Memory: You were probably 100 yards away from him when it happened. You could feel something wrong with Bucky, you had to get to him and help him. You got distracted next thing you knew a long thick metal rod had you staked to the ground. You couldn’t move it was embedded too far in the ground behind you. So you fought on like that, on the ground taking blasters and weapons from anything you fought with as the Super serum running through your veins kept you alive, easing the bleeding. You kept fighting hoping somehow you would be able to get up to get to Bucky. Hot tears streamed down your face and a scream ripped savagely from your throat as suddenly the constant connection that you had with Bucky was gone. It was like it had never existed. All you could feel was an iron wall. Utterly impenetrable. You couldn’t tell if it was just the limit of your consciousness or if it was him somehow cutting you off. Or if the worst had happened. Then the world went black.

When Steve found you, you had passed out from blood loss. You were in a coma for a week due to the severity of the wound but you remembered your dreams and they were sweet.

In your dreams it was just after you and Bucky had gotten married. A week to the day actually. You had curled up beside him and asked you could read him something you wrote. He didn’t need to say anything. All of his attention focused on you. A blush crept up your neck as you read what you had written.

“You always looked like trouble but the very best kind.

Even before I knew what you looked like.

You looked like everything I wanted at 16.18.20.26.

You looked like whiskey and smoke before I even knew the taste.

You looked like a hot rod idling at a stop light.

You looked like my addiction before it developed. Like my favorite kind of pain.

I don’t know how but I always just knew, that your eyes where blue. Blue. Such a cool tone. The kind that reminds you glaciers or ice cubes against passion heated skin. Like Blue flames, that seemed to sear clothes off with a glance, and pool fire in my belly. And when you smiled I really knew you were trouble then. But the best kind. The kind I couldn’t live without. The kind that kept me breathing. When you smiled at me the first time, I was yours.

The first time with you…oh god it was like nothing before. I had spent so many hours over the years before I met you, day dreaming about my fingers in your hair, your hands blazing trails of fire against my skin. Your lips crushed against mine…

By the time you placed your hand against my cheek and started kissing me, it was like you had kissed me a thousand times before. By the time your hands caressed my skin in expectant reverence (a shock to my system) it was as though your hands had always known my skin.

When I touched your skin, I was in awe at the newness of the sensation and yet it was so familiar. As I felt like your hands had always known my skin, I felt I had always known yours.

That first time didn’t feel like the first time. It felt like we had been together since the beginning of time. I didn’t need to question anything, because we knew each other so intimately words were not needed.

No need for words because I knew where to kiss you, as if some instinct worked within me. Knew where to touch. Knew how to kiss you wherever my lips landed. Knew when to bite and when to soothe. I knew it because you had always been mine. I was made for you.

No need for words because you knew, knew when to be gentle, when to be firm, knew everything you needed to get me high. With you it was natural as breathing. You brought me back to life the way a smith does a cold forge. With you it was the first time but it felt as though we had been there a thousand, thousand times before.

When I first saw you it all became real, I had already spent years falling in love with the idea of being with you. In the ease and comfort and debauchery of your presence. Suddenly every dream I had ever had about my soul mate blazed into existence.

You looked like my addiction when it formed, like my favorite kind of pain. You looked like someone I had loved a thousand, thousand times. “

You two had been so tangled up in each other it was hard to tell where he ended and you began, the line between him and you blurred. You were in complete bliss. At least while you were sleeping.

Steve was there when you woke up. As soon as you saw him and not Bucky your heart began to fracture. It looked like he had been crying, like he had not been to slept. Everything inside you went cold. Your mind reached out for Bucky, for the comfort of your soulmate and touched…nothing it was like he was dead. But he couldn’t be right? Even though you felt like you were dead, with the only sign that you were alive being the beeping of the monitors in the room, he couldn’t be, right? But that is what it felt like because there was just…nothing like the connection had never been. You tried again and again to push past whatever was stopping you but it was no use because there was nothing for you to grab on to. “(y/n) you have to stop pushing against that wall. It won’t help.” Steve’s voice broke and he took your hands. “It won’t help, he’s gone and…and we don’t know where he is or if he is gonna come back. So you…you have to stop pushing and focus on you right now.” He wiped the tears from your face and gave his best smile, though it did little to ease the pain “You have to be stronger than ever. I know that I am asking a lot. But you’re his best girl and you gotta be ready to kick his ass when he comes back.” All you could muster was a small twitch at the side of your mouth. “If …I was his best girl…why’d he leave me Stevie?” you whispered so softly he could barely hear but damn if it didn’t break his heart.

Then it was dark again. This time there were no comforting dreams. Steve sat there by your bed and let his chest heave as he cried quitely. He cried for a lot of reasons. After a while he stood up, and left the room for the first time in days. He knew he would have to be there for you if you were gonna make it so it was time to get cleaned up and eat something, maybe try to catch some sleep. There was a long road ahead.

It was a whole day later when you woke up again. Steve was sitting in the window of your hospital room. “Hey Stevie… see anything good out there?” He jumped at the sound of your voice and grinned at you. “Hey there sweetheart, how are you feeling?” he said softly coming to sit next you once again. He took your hand and when he squeezed gently, you squeezed back. You closed your eyes and took a few deep breaths. “Honestly? I feel like my insides have been scrubbed with sandpaper. I feel raw and bloody…I feel the most incredible pain and yet completely numb. But…” You paused trying to steady the sick feeling in your gut. You looked directly in Steve’s soft blue eyes and they offered a little comfort in their familiarity. “But…” you continued “I know I need to get out of this hospital bed. I need to regain my strength and take care of myself, because I know he is out there. I have to find him Stevie. Now I need you to tell me everything.” Steve nodded a slight grin coming to his face “I knew there was a reason you were meant for that punk. I will tell you everything but how about you shower, get changed and we get you some food first huh?” You sighed, it bothered you to put off the inevitable but you knew you probably smelled like a trash truck and you were hungry. So you did what Steve asked and you two had lunch together. For a couple hours you both pretended like all was right in the world.

When Steve finally started talking it sounded more like a debriefing and less like his best friend was missing, honestly though it was almost easier that way. Thinking of it like another mission rather than losing your soulmate. “Well, to be honest I can’t tell you a whole lot. All I know is that Buck and I were maybe 10 feet apart. Everything was fine. Everything was fine until it wasn’t. I can’t say what happened, one second I looked over and he was fine. He was Bucky. The next he was Winter Soldat. Then Tony snapped and the fighting stopped, but I lost sight of him. I guess once there was no enemy he just took off. We do know that he stole a Wakandan air ship, but he must have damaged enough of the important components to make it untraceable. We don’t know where he is. I can guarantee though that he learned from last time, we won’t be able to find him if he doesn’t want to be found.”

You took a deep breath eyes closed. The urge to just give up right then and there was almost overwhelming. You knew there were ways to kill a super soldier. Hell you had come pretty close to it in the past. “Sweetheart, don’t go there. We both know it won’t it won’t work.” Steve’s voice yanked you sharply from the dark thoughts that crept into your mind. You sighed “Yeah, I guess you are right Stevie.” There was nothing either of you could do, except move on. Survive.

After that you and Steve were as close as could be. When you couldn’t sleep you it always seemed like Steve was up to. If you needed comfort he was there. You did everything together. Both of you knew it wasn’t really healthy but at the same time it helped with the healing. You went to therapy and got mental help. You stayed combat ready. You continued blowing minds working with Tony and Shuri on tech. You picked up new hobbies like gardening, and painting and drawing. You did everything you could to keep yourself somewhat distracted from the hollowness that ate at you.

You never cried in front of anyone but Steve, but everyone knew. Even if they couldn’t hear the crying they could hear the music that came from your room. No matter the tune no one knocked when the soft static of your record player was on. You were living in the past, trying to cope the best way you could dancing alone to songs that you and Bucky loved. Listening to your past and his with every pop of the speaker. Sometimes Steve would stand outside your room with his head pressed against the door and just listen. He’d sway along with the music because it brought back memories for him too. Eventually he would feel guilty because he wanted nothing more than to go in and take you in his arms. Kiss you. Comfort you. Part of him believed that Bucky really was gone. Part of him didn’t think he even had a soul mate and he was so fucking lonely. But he never did. If anyone ever noticed, they never said anything.

A year had passed since Bucky left.  A year you spent in therapy, spent pretending every god damn day that you didn’t want to just die so the pain would stop, clinging to Steve like a fucking life raft and Steve clung back. You both knew it wasn’t healthy but you needed each other in ways that other people couldn’t understand. Steve was the only other person who really knew Bucky. Who could understand the things that you had went through. Who was just as lonely as you. Steve was your best friend. The day after the one year Painaversary, something incredible happened. Steve finally met his Soulmate. It hit you like a slap in the face from Hulk. You had already lost your Soulmate but now you had to lose your best friend too.

Steve sat on the edge of your bed staring daggers in to the floor. He kept his eyes down when you came out of the bathroom. “Hey there (y/n/n). You wanna tell me why you have what’s the word ‘ghosted’ me for the past week.” His voice was cold and harsh. Not what you expected. Not that you had been expecting Steve to be sitting on your bed when you came out of the shower but the tone he used was the more shocking thing at the moment. “You know why Stevie.” You said moving quietly to get dressed, unable to bring your voice above a whisper. He didn’t look up until he heard a soft sob. You were standing fully clothed in Bucky’s sweats and a worn t-shirt, with your head against Bucky’s dresser. “You know why. Just because Soulmates can’t be unfaithful doesn’t mean this is okay, Stevie.” In his heart he knew you were right but it killed him, gently he picked you up, turned off the lights and tucked you into bed. Then like most every night before he climbed in behind you. His body heat a silent invitation more of a pull like a magnet, one that you couldn’t resist right now. So you snuggled into his arms your back against his chest. As he wrapped his arms around you, he whispered voice rough with emotion, “This doesn’t have to end (y/n/n). “You knew what he was trying to do. “Stevie. It’s okay. We’ve been holding on to each other so tightly because we both were drowning. You can’t make Janey hurt. It’s okay. We will still hang out, but no more late nights like this.” It hurt to say. If it was possible he pulled you closer and held you closer. His heat wrapped you up like another blanket. You sighed. He just nodded and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. He could feel your tears on his arm as he held you. Why did it feel like his heart was getting shredded? For a while there was silence. “Stevie?” “Yeah sweetheart.” “I miss him so much, this hurts so fucking bad. Why did he leave me? I wish I would have just died there. It would better than this.” You curled up in a ball, trying to make yourself as small as possible, hoping somehow it would help. Steve sat up, propped all the pillows behind him, picked you up like you were a child and tucked you safely against his chest. The sobs and half screams that tore from your throat brought tears to his eyes. All he could do was hold you, stroke your hair, kiss the top of your head and whisper “I know sweetheart. I know. I’m here. I got ya. We’ll find him I promise. We will make all of this right. I promise.” Eventually there were no more tears to cry and you relaxed. Your voice was hoarse when you whispered “I was to move to the Taiga.” “Alright sweetheart we will make it happen.”

            A month later you had everything you needed to move. Tony had help you engineer a sort of mini arc reactor that supplied your home with 100% clean energy, and all of the wood used to build your house and furniture (which admittedly was a lot) was sustainably farmed, all of the pipes that brought water to the house from the lake had all been lain with minimal disruption to the landscape.

Stevie was the one who came along and helped you actually build the little house. It had two bedrooms, a kitchen and living room. It was a cozy little place, all the modern amenities but an old time feel. Plus you had your 1945 Jeep and a snowmobile. You had everything you needed.

You and Steve held hands as you stood back admiring the house one last time.

“Looks good sweet heart. You sure you are gonna be okay out here?” His voice was light but the concern was evident by the gentle squeeze he gave your hand.

You heaved a deep sigh “Yeah. Yeah. I think I will be fine. I feel better here and now than I have since he left. I promise I will keep in contact. I mean how could I not according to Tony I have my own satellite.” You returned the squeeze of his hand to reassure him. Gently he pulled you into a great bear of a hug. You were pretty sure if you hadn’t been a super soldier he probably would have broken you, you just laughed and hugged him back. “I want you to know I love you (y/n/n) and hell I’m going to miss you. So please be safe and if you need anything call, okay?”

“I love you too Stevie, I will miss you too. I promise I will call okay. Hey you better get going you got places to be.” He held you for a moment longer, kissed the top of your head and said “Yeah you are probably right. But before I do I have one more thing for you.” He goes over to his jeep and pulls out a box with holes in it. As soon as he sets it down you open it, to be greeted by the most adorable ball cute you had ever seen in your life. You picked it up finding that it was a puppy. “Janey picked him out for you. He is probably going to be huge, but she thought he would be perfect to keep you company out here.”

“Tell her I said thank you. I think this is just what I needed.” You said cuddling the sleeping puppy to your chest. Steve nodded and smiled. You watched as he went and started his jeep and drove away. You felt as close to content as you could with your heart in ribbons.

Present

By the time you snapped back to the present the fire was low. Benji was asleep at your feet and the howling outside had stopped. You decided to grab some coffee, bundle up and go outside to watch the night sky. It was breath taking. The Northern Lights danced and swayed shifting colors as they went. The stars shone brilliantly uninhibited by light pollution. You sipped your coffee and mindlessly started to hum as you watched the night.

No one knew you could sing. All evidence destroyed from your operative days, no one knew except Bucky. Your heart swelled and your eyes closed. You lifted your face toward the sky and started to sing and you thought it was fitting when the words only came to you in Russian, while the one person you wanted to hear was god knows where. Still he was the one you sang for…or perhaps you sang for the memory of him.

“Я завидую дождю. (I envy the rain)

Он падает на вашу кожу (It falls on your skin)

Он ближе, чем мои руки.(It’s closer than my hands)

Я завидую дождю.(I envy the rain)

Я завидую ветру (I envy the wind)

Она течет сквозь твою одежду (it flows through your clothes)

Он ближе, чем твоя тень. (it’s closer than your shadow)

О, я завидую ветру(oh I envy the wind)

Я завидую ночам. (I envy the nights)

Которые я не провожу с тобой (which I can’t spend with you)

Интересно, с кем ты лежишь рядом? (I wonder who you lay next to)

О, я завидую ночам. (oh I envy the nights)

Я завидую этой любви (I envy this love)

Любовь, которая была здесь. (this love that was here)

Осталось поделиться с кем - то еще (left to share with someone else)

О, я завидую этой любви (oh I envy this love)

Потому что я пожелал тебе всего самого лучшего. (Because I wished you all the best)

Все, что может дать этот мир.(all this world can give)

и все же ты меня бросил. (still you left me)

но мне нечего прощать.(but there’s nothing to forgive)

Но я всегда думал, что ты вернешься и скажешь мне, что все, что ты нашел, это ...

(but I always thought you would come back and tell me all you found was…)

Горе и страдания(grief and suffering)

Мне трудно сказать, я завидую этому пути.(its hard for me to say, I envy the way)

Ты счастлива без меня (you are happy without me)”

Your voice broke as the last note sounded. Subconsciously you reached for ghost of the connection you shared with Bucky. For a moment you almost thought you felt something brush back. Tears welled up as you fell to your knees in the snow. You couldn’t take it anymore. A scream of pure anguish ripped through your body.

After a moment you collect yourself and took the knife you always carried from its sheath. You stripped off your coat and laid it on the ground. Rolling up your sleeves you smiled softly thinking that maybe once you were gone in a way you would be with Bucky again.

There was no hesitation as you drove the knife blade into the pulse point of your wrist and slashed up, not waiting to repeat the process to the other side. You lay on your back and gaze up at the sky. In the distance you hear a motor. No it couldn’t be. Felt something brush against your mind. You smiled at the thought of your brain trying to make you fight. You knew it was going to take a bit longer to bleed out since it was so cold. You didn’t mind it would be over soon anyway.

You weren’t sure how much time passed, but your eyes started to feel heavy. Black started creeping into the edge of your vision. You let out a sigh finally.

“(Y/N/N)!!!!!!!! NOOOOOO (Y/N/N) PLEEAASSEEE!!!”

You could see a blurry figure coming toward you.  You knew that voice. It was like they were moving in slow motion and talking underwater. But that couldn’t be right.

Suddenly you heard that stupid motor again. Then something touched your skin. For a moment you felt fireworks. You opened your eyes. “Fuck (y/n/n) please hold on. I am so sorry doll. I’m so sorry, please don’t go. Please.” Bucky’s voice rang in your ears like a call to prayer. “Baby girl please.” His voice was hoarse and choked up. Barely able to speak through the lump in his throat at the sight of you.

You forced your eyes open and took in the sight of him for what would probably be the last time and whispered “Buck?” Then the world went dark as a scream that was like the torture of a thousand hells ripped and tore through the landscape.

In the aftermath a melody played 

"In those discouraging days

I always missed the mark When we were comfort and close I would neglect to keep

Oh, you safe and unexposed A portrait of time repeats This moment now replaced With an empty wish to give I give, I gave

I gave my everything For all the wrong things In this cold reality I made This selfish war machine

Oh, this has become hell How can I share this life With someone else? I promise you There is no weight that can bury us Beneath the ghosts of all my guilt

Here in the dark side of me Here in the dark side of me

Now in your absence I wade Through the coursing, lonely, lost And in this tragic dismay I never could believe what I became

I gave my everything For all the wrong things In this cold reality I made This welcomed war machine

Oh, this has become hell How can I share this life With someone else? I promise you There is no weight that can bury us Beneath the ghosts of all my guilt

Here in the dark side of me Here in the dark side of me Here in the dark side of me Here in the dark side of me

Oh, I couldn't give you What you needed It's all my fault Too coward to believe I lost it all

I gave my everything For all the wrong things In this cold reality I made This selfish war machine

Oh, this has become hell How can I share this life With someone else? I promise you There is no weight that can bury us Beneath the ghosts of all my guilt

Here in the dark side of me Here in the dark side of me"

 "Buck are you still there? I don't want to die."

#@imanuglywombat #@littlefreya #first ever posted fanfic #please be kind #would love feedback #bucky barnes x reader

[lastxviolet]

The Assistant - Ch. 4

Description: Summary - Her sixth year at Hogwarts was supposed to be relatively peaceful but after an incident on the Hogwarts express, Violet Wilkes finds herself the newest target of the Weasley twins. This, combined with a dark family secret, and the Triwizard tournament, makes her first few months back more exciting and stressful than every year before.

pairing: George Weasley x Original Female Character

warnings: pg-13. slow burn, eventual smut hehe

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28218804/chapters/69148695

Mom's face.

Green flash.

Dark mark.

Bedroom ceiling.

Violet fully opened her eyes and pawed at the silk sheets around her, clawing to drag herself back to reality.

The bed. She was just in bed.

Her family was fine.

It was just a nightmare.

She repeated it over and over again but eventually, it was a loud snore from Sadie across the room that fully brought her back to reality.

She rose out of bed and glanced out of the high glowing window between their beds. The terror from the nightmare practically vanished at the sight of an incredibly bright fall day.

Agitation clawed at the nape of her neck during breakfast and she only made it about ten minutes before the desperation for fresh air became too much.

The brittle fall breeze nipped the exposed skin above her knee and at her wrists. The walk to Herbology was cold enough to be noticeable, but not entirely uncomfortable. Although, it made her a bit more thankful for the thick Hogwarts uniform now. Surely the Beauxbaton girls would freeze come winter. Without the barrier of cities or skyscrapers, frigid weather always came so soon. Without fail, frozen air managed to appear early, and linger well into the spring months.

She followed the familiar stone path to a small clearing on the side of the castle, obstructed only by rows of greenhouses, bursting at the seams with interior vines, and flowers. She'd never been particularly enthralled with herbology or plants, didn't call to her but it was better than divination or astronomy, both of which she had elected not to take this year.

Clad in yellow and black, a sea of cheerful Hufflepuffs welcome her inside, uncaring about her own lonesome green and silver tie, or noticing that she gagged a little on the musty stench of wet dirt and trapped photosynthesis. It was a relief to finally be around peers that weren't as judgmental as her own house. She didn't mean to generalize but the evidence was clear and overwhelming.

Professor Sprout instructed them on how to clip Sneezewort correctly and she absorbed every detail of the small white flower that held the ability to befuddle even the most sound minds but offered little to the discussion, letting her much more invested peers take over. Sneezewort was a key ingredient in the Befuddlement Draught, the first potion they'd learned last year.

She tuned out the lecture to go over the recipe and instructions in her head, just in case Snape wasn't finished testing them and it came up in potions tomorrow. She wouldn't put it past him to make a further example out of her. He was the sort of sadist who enjoyed making students feel underprepared and stupid, not that it had ever applied to her. It was one of the many characteristics that he did not share with any other professors at Hogwarts, but she didn't mind. It was probably some deep-seated ambition or need to be better than the rest but she had enjoyed earning his tolerance, and praise, especially when it was withheld from so many.

Lunch was a rather somber affair without Sadie so she settled at the end of the Slytherin table, content to read.

With their schedules out of synch with one another, she was staring down the barrel of an entire year of lunches alone, not that she minded. She glanced up at the rest of the hall, admiring the lax nature of the other tables and houses, completely fine with sharing tables during more informal meals. She glanced down the length of her table, unsurprised by only a few green ties littering the dark wooden seats. She wouldn't have minded some more house mingling but the trend makers in Slytherin were quite territorial.

She quickly helped herself to some soup and flipped through the book to find where she'd left off. The train ride had only allowed her to get halfway through The Princess Bride and she'd barely had any time for personal reading over the weekend between brushing up on textbooks and unpacking.

Finally, he rested far below her, silent and without motion. "You can die too for all I care," she said, and then she turned away.

Words followed her. Whispered from far, weak and warm and familiar. "As . . . you . . . wish. .."

It was inevitable, tears pricked her eyes and she broke into a big smile, unable to contain it. This part, no matter how many times she read it, always made her emotional.

The complex mixture of devotion, love, and sadness between the two protagonists was so raw and powerful. It was entirely unrealistic, which was the only reason she found it intriguing at all. Not that she'd know anything about love. The last boy she'd liked seriously was someone long since graduated from when she was a fourth-year. But from what she had seen from the other clumsy, short-lived couples at Hogwarts, this kind of romance didn't exist in real life. There had been a few boys in her hometown who'd taken her out on dates over the years but they'd amounted to nothing, not even a kiss. She couldn't talk about the things she likes from the wizarding world with them, and couldn't talk about muggle things with anyone at Hogwarts so it was, in her view, pointless to even try. She doubted that any sort of satisfactory love would come for her at all though because she was an avid fiction reader, so her standard for men was way too high.

She blinked back her tears and sniffled the rest of her emotions back into her head. Thankfully, the Slytherin table was almost empty except for a few lone diners like herself. Most of her lazy oaf housemates opted for afternoon classes so that they could sleep in. Even the head table was practically empty except for Hagrid, who was chatting away at Madam Maxine, who towered over him. She blamed her sudden tenderness on the chapter she'd just finished but they would make a sweet couple.

One other seat at the table was occupied by an unfamiliar, rather large blonde man whose face was mostly obscured by his goblet and furious fork movements. She could just make out a wonky blue eye but…not the rest of him. His tousled blonde hair and rather red complexion seemed out of place. She squinted to make out his features a little more. Was he a professor from one of the international schools? No, he looked quite familiar, she thought. She'd seen his face before.

She looked back down at her own table. "Parkinson, who is that? The blonde one."

Pansy Parkinson followed her gaze and then half-whispered back down to her.

"Professor Moody, new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

"Thanks," she responded mindlessly. Moody. Why did that name sound so familiar?

She stared unabashedly at the man, struggling to make out any more details.

He stood briefly, to reach the pumpkin juice and she caught a glimpse of metal where a leg once was.

She'd seen him before.

Moody.

Her mind whirred.

She scrambled out of her seat, trying not to look as dizzy and sick as she felt.

Moody. Mad-Eye Moody. The auror. That's where she knew him from.

A cold shiver passed over her as his eyes met hers. He lingered for a moment due to her sudden rise and then returned to his meal.

No. It couldn't be him. He must be someone else.

She didn't hide her urgency as she ran through the halls towards the library.

Panic lodged itself into her lungs, making it hard to breathe.

With every step she took, she prayed, wished, and hoped that she was mistaken and that it wasn't him.

He must be someone else. But she had to be sure.

The library doors opened with more of a bang than she'd usually allow, drawing more than one disgruntled look from other students but she didn't care.

The bookshelves on the way to the history section flew by.

Accio

A book documenting all the issues of the Daily Prophet from 1981, the end of the first wizarding war, flew to her.

There was no time to reach her alcove, she had to know now.

She leaned on an empty wall in an abandoned corner and ripped through the pages, feeling her heartbeat on the tip of every finger.

Please be someone else, she chanted in her head. Please be someone else.

Please don't be him.

Please don't be him.

Please don't be —

The headline looked the same as it did when she'd first found it during her second year at Hogwarts when she'd simply been curious about the war that her peers sometimes chatted about. Her father hadn't told her any of it. Only that someone had died and the world was a better place because of it.

DEATH EATER KILLED EN ROUTE TO AZKABAN

The photo underneath the black words still moved.

The same Moody she'd seen at lunch stood over a body, his face still bleeding from the altercation.

She slammed the book closed and squeezed her eyes tight.

It was him. He had done it.

Moody.

The photo flashed behind her eyelids; his lost leg, rolling eye, matted hair - standing over her uncle's dead body, eyes- lifeless, dark mark- still, face- reminiscent of her fathers, and thusly, her own.

Her heart pounded in her ears. Silencing the hustle and bustle around her.

It was him. And he was here.

She felt her legs give out and sunk to the floor in a flustered heap.

No, no, no. Why did he have to come here?

She'd tried so hard, for so long to forget it and now she was forced to reckon with the truth.

Her eyesight narrowed to tunnels.

What if he knew? What if he could tell just by her hair or face?

Her vision became hazy and the bookshelves and carpet blurred into one reddish-brown clump.

Tomorrow. She would see him tomorrow. Not only was he here but he was her professor.

Her stomach churned.

He would read her name on the class roster tomorrow. He would know then, if he didn't already.

What if he stood up in class and said, "I killed Death Eater, Rupert Wilkes and his niece is in this very room."

She tried to calm her breathing but her brain was static.

Then everyone would know. It'd take a few class periods to get around and Malfoy would tell them all the rest of the story until she formally became the evil that she feared so much. Death Eaters taunted her dreams because she couldn't help but see one every time she looked in the mirror.

The room was spinning.

No one could know.

No one could see that when they looked at her. She would make sure of it.

Despite her best efforts to calm down, severe panic and a lack of oxygen blacked out the world around her before she lost consciousness.

"Violet."

"Violet."

A soft voice coaxed her back to reality. She slowly came to, feeling lightheaded and confused. She opened her eyes and panicked when all she saw was black, before realizing that her face was pressed to the floor. The carpet scratched her cheek as she turned to acknowledge the voice.

"Violet, are you ok?" A familiar voice cooed anxiously next to her.

She looked up and found Madam Pince's face looming over her. She concluded from the horrified, concerned expression from the librarian that she must have passed out and fallen over.

"C'mon dear, up you come," Madam Pince said, pulling her to her feet. "We need to get you to the hospital wing."

She found her footing but dropped the book to the floor, rushing to pick it up before the librarian could see what she was reading. The movement nearly made her fall over but the bookish witch's grip on her arm was incredibly tight and dependable, not even allowing her to sway.

"Oh no it's alright," she assured the older witch breathlessly. "Really, I'm fine I just was…erm… lightheaded is all and um sat down. I must have just fallen asleep." She tried to hide the wobbling of her legs and flashed a confident smile to deter her nerves.

Madam Pince regarded her with suspicious eyes but slowly released her arm. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes I promise. Thank you, I'll just go straight to my room and lie down, I promise," she rambled, making a break for the front door, her legs still feeling like jello. "Um thank you, sorry."

"Alright," Madam Pince called after her. "Be more careful."

She stuffed the book into her bag and sprinted back to her room. The sunset shining through the windows on her way back to the dungeon signaled that she'd been out for the entire afternoon and some of the evening. She guessed that she'd missed dinner, not that it mattered because her stomach was too tightly wound with nerves to eat anything.

As she moved through the halls, her thoughts raced to remember why she'd passed out in the first place. She rounded a corner and caught sight of the doors to the Great Hall and it all hit her again, in an instant. She fought back panicked tears and considered changing her trajectory to the owlery to message her father about what to do but stopped, remembering that he wasn't aware of just how much she knew and that the revelation might give his sensitive soul a shock.

She focused on steadying her breathing and regaining the feeling in her legs, ignoring the countless peers she passed. She swore that she heard someone calling her name, but her heartbeat filled her ears, blocking out most sound, so she couldn't be sure.

It was a lonely feeling, keeping a secret for years on end. The truth of the situation would be more of a prison than the secret itself and so she kept it buried and let it fester into a deep loathing of those around her who were unburdened by the evils of the world.

She spat the common room password with more fervor than she ever had and raced through the dark furniture and scattered students, anxious for the safety of her room.

Her thoughts were interrupted when an inconsolable Sadie greeted her as soon as she opened the door. She hastily wiped a tear away from her cheek and collected herself, not that Sadie would've noticed between her sobs.

"Sadie," she croaked out.

Her sniffling friend looked up at her in surprise. "Where have you been?" The tone and volume of her voice made Violet jump. After hours of begin unconscious on the floor, her head was pounding. Despite the ache, she scurried over to console her friend, thankful for a distraction from her distress.

Apparently, Graham Montague had been caught sneaking a Bauxbaton girl into the boy's dorm earlier in the evening and Sadie had been the one who saw them.

She whispered countless reassurances, and encouragements but most came out half-hearted, not that she'd meant them to. What did Sadie expect from a pureblood git? Of course, she'd never say so and nodded along to her friend's rant, despite her groggy head and sore limbs from a terrible afternoon spent crumpled on the library floor.

"He seriously thinks that I care," she yelled, tossing a pillow at their closed bedroom door. "Please, he can fancy whomever he likes. It's a relief to be rid of him. His constant worshiping at the temple of my twat was getting old anyway."

Sadies high cheekbones glistened from her tears. She'd finally stopped crying but her deep brown eyes reflected her pooling sadness, ready to rerelease at a moment's notice.

"He's a leech and you're entirely too good for him," she said in an attempt to match her friend's anger while scanning the room anxiously for a place to hide the book.

Thankfully, Sadie didn't sense her distraction and ranted for a few moments longer before opting to sob herself to sleep on her bed. Violet rubbed her friend back, trying to focus on Sadie's much simpler problem but she could feel the book burning a hole through her bag, and her own problem searing itself into her subconscious. When Sadies soft snores filled the room, she peeled herself from the bed opposite of hers and finally laid her head on her pillow.

Despite already being lightly sleep-deprived, she tossed and turned all night fighting off worst-case scenarios and sorting through her emotions.

Terrifying, she decided sometime around 3 AM. It was terrifying.

It was terrifying to be in the house that raised almost all of the dark witches and wizards in history.

To be so close to those whose families still had loyalty to a Dark Lord.

To have Death Eater blood running through her veins. It felt like a sick joke, being terribly afraid of something inside of her. It was a cruel game of cat and mouse except she couldn't figure out which one was which. Scared of herself, and even more afraid of those around her who had the same story.

But those feelings of fear were all expected. She'd sorted through them thousands of times and lost more hours of sleep over them than she could count. These were things she'd already resigned herself to, but Moody was a bomb. He was unexpected and quite frankly, entirely unwelcome and she didn't know how to react.

He'd been here a week and she hadn't even known. She kicked herself for leaving the welcome feast early. She could've recognized him sooner and planned ahead but now she only had a few hours to organize her thoughts and come up with a plan of attack that didn't get her outed, or worse.

She turned over and stared at the wall, begging into the dark for sleep to take her. Tomorrow she'd be a tired, useless mess.

Tomorrow.

Not only would she feel exhausted but she'd have to see him tomorrow and there was no way around it. Defense Against the Dark Arts was a graduation requirement, and further, than that, something she was actually interested in learning, seeing as her fear of the topic occupied her thoughts more and more each passing day.

Her stomach wound itself in a tight knot at the thought of walking into class and facing Moody in front of her peers.

The way she saw it, there were only two options. Ignore him, and hope he didn't recognize her or face it head-on and let him know that she knew. She mulled it over and over hopelessly flipping between worst-case scenarios.

Ignoring him hinged on his inability to recognize her name or face, which she doubted. She knew nothing of the emotional toll that killing someone left a person with but surely it wasn't easily forgotten. On the other hand, if she confronted him after class, maybe they could come to an understanding. Maybe he would be glad to know that not everyone who bore her last name was evil. Maybe he even harbored some guilt, and was just as nervous about her, as she was about him.

It wasn't the worst plan, and exceedingly better than skipping DADA a year, not graduating in time, and having to explain everything to Snape and her parents.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the canopy above her, surprised to feel tears prick the corner of her eyes.

There was a hole in her heart.

She had to see him. She had to learn from him.

There was no way to avoid being in the same room as the man who had caused her father so much grief and pain that he hadn't spoken about his brother in nearly thirteen years.

The pain was what lingered. Behind every smile, every laugh, glint of his eyes, she always saw that pain. Especially when he was looking at her. It was only natural of course. He'd never say it but she could tell he worried about her being so close to where her uncle was corrupted. Two roads certainly diverging and she couldn't blame him for wondering which one she would take.

Despite wanting to, she couldn't blame him. It wasn't Moody who had caused that pain. It was the uncle who'd sought fame and glory by standing next to he-who-must-not-be-named and ended up getting himself killed. He'd chosen instantaneous death over a slow and torturous one in Azkaban and she didn't feel bad for him.

It wasn't just her pain, or her father's pain, or her family; but the entire wizarding world.

There were other articles too, ones right before and right after her uncle's death that she could hardly bring herself to read. She hadn't been able to make it more than a paragraph into the front-page article announcing the boy who lived. Its cadence desperately tried to give respect and solemness to Potter's parents but failed miserably. The one that haunted her the most though cited the torture of Alice and Frank Longbottom, Nevilles parents. She'd never spoken to the boy but knew his tragic story well. If the news of her bloodline ever did get out, he, above anyone else would have a right to despise her.

She squeezed her eyes tight, trying to forget the black and white pictures.

None of it was her fault but she felt the burden regardless.

Countless other families had lost so much more, even some at the hand of her uncle. That was worse than his death.

He had helped the Dark Lord rip families apart, and set the world on fire. Because it was his job.

And just like him, Moody too had done his job. He had sacrificed an eye and a leg to make their whole world safer. It probably meant nothing to kill someone to ensure the safety of those you love, and deep down she knew that true safety and peace had required his death. The thought made him less intimidating but the worry remained the same.

She let a silent tear fall for the resurgence of the dark mark, her father, the confrontation tomorrow, and the uncle she never knew, and finally fell asleep.

Violet didn't wait for her alarm clock to lull her awake on Wednesday morning.

The early rise gave her time to shower and dress slowly. Breakfast tempted her but she opted to head straight to the potions classroom where another annoyance awaited.

She found her seat and ignored the peers trickling into the room around her until Lee sat down a few minutes later, with George in tow. The panic of yesterday had pushed him, and his smug demeanor far out of her mind but unfortunately, hadn't made him any less real.

She kept her eyes on the open textbook in front of her and tried to tune them out, as well as her murderous thoughts. She didn't have the energy to deal with George today. Any fire inside of her needed to be conserved tense conversation she was hellbent on having in just a few hours.

George must have sensed her annoyance because he leaned over the table and set a hand in front of her book.

"Morning Violet."

She glared at him but his smug smile didn't budge.

"Merlin, you look terrible," he leaned forward further, faking concern.

Lovely, she thought. What an absolute gentleman and a delight to deal with this morning. She squinted, trying to hide her anger, and fighting off the blush creeping onto her cheeks. What an intolerable person. If Lee wasn't sitting between them, she might've hexed him right then and there.

"Reckon I'm still better looking than you. It's a wonder why God decided to make your ugly face twice."

He squinted back and chuckled. "God? Didn't take a heathen like yourself to be the religious type."

"Only started recently," she said, scolding herself for giving into his back and forth. "I found myself in urgent need of something to pray to."

She hoped he'd take the bait.

"Don't leave me in suspense Violet, whatever do you pray for?"

Like a mouse with cheese. "Your painful demise."

"And you need God for that? Don't have the courage to hex me yourself," he half cooed, egging her on.

Nothing dark look today. If anything, he looked like he was having fun.

"Don't tempt me. A cell in Azkaban would be much more preferable to seeing your ghastly hair every week."

He smiled and tucked a lock behind his ear.

"Violet, no need to be so cruel. I feel as though we've gotten off to a wrong start. Let's start again shall we?"

She shot him a sarcastic smirk. As if.

"Good morning Violet," he said, with an even toothier grin.

She smiled sweetly. "You look terrible."

Maybe a few more back and forth's and he would've dawned on the more sinister look that she'd grown quite fond of, but Snape's entrance interrupted them, and George scampered off to his seat without another word.

Snape tapped on his podium. "Weasley; scarab beetles, ginger roots, armadillo bile, newt spleens."

Everyone in the class turned to watch George dawn a frantic look on his face before resigning to stare daggers into Snape.

"What…" he said.

Their professor him a few more seconds to answer and then smirked.

"Pity. Five points from Gryffindor. Wilkes?"

She jumped a little at the sound of her name and quickly shifted her gaze to Snape.

"Oh um Wit-Sharpening Potion, sir," she responded dully, ignoring the collective class sigh at her once again outing herself as a teacher's pet.

"Sounds like something you might want to invest in," Snape sneered, turning back to George. "Five points to Slytherin. Davies; spring water, alihosty leaves, billywig wings, snarl quills, puff skein hair, horseradish powder."

He was quizzing them. He'd done it last year before finals but he seemed to be taking a rather cruel approach to weeding out those who didn't have their textbooks preemptively memorized.

"Um… erm…. Dreamless sleep?"

Snape rolled his eyes. "Five points from Ravenclaw. Wilkes?"

Oh Godric, again? She really was the most unlucky person alive today.

She kept her eyes on the desk. "Laughing potion, sir."

"Five points to Slytherin. Warrington, name one potion with porcupine quills."

"Erm…Cure for Boils?"

"Five points to Slytherin. Stimpson; daisy roots, shrivelfig, caterpillars, rat spleen, leech juice, cowbane, wormwood."

"I….I don't know sir."

"Five points from Ravenclaw. Wilkes?"

"Shrinking Solution, sir."

There were only so many students that he could pick on before she was stuck reciting the entire textbook. Hopefully, he wouldn't take the entire class time to make his point, but she wouldn't put it past him.

"Five points to Slytherin. Jordan; moonstone, hellebore, unicorn horn, porcupine quills, valerian root."

She let the quietest gasp escape her lips and whipped her head to look at him. He knew this. They had made it on Monday and he'd been the one to gather the ingredients. He looked a little panicked so she gave him a soft kick under the desk and watched as the lightbulb went off over his head.

"Draught of Peace!"

She bit the side of her cheek to stop a smile from forming on her face. It was an easy question and it meant nothing but regardless, she couldn't help but feel proud that he had remembered.

"Congratulations on paying attention to Miss Wilkes' work. I will deduct no points from Gryffindor, as a reward."

Dissatisfied at the Gryffindors correct answer, Snape finished his quiz and instructed them all to study the first chapter in the textbook for next week when they would begin brewing.

She skimmed over the words and mindlessly flicked through the pages, ignoring her heart thumping and stomach swirling. It was only about thirty minutes now until she'd be in Defense Against the Dark Arts. She blinked back the moving photo from the book and tried to conjure any happy image.

"Psstt."

She turned her head to Lee a second time.

"What?" She hissed.

He grinned at her. "Thanks for kicking me in the right direction."

Over his shoulder, she could see George staring at them curiously. She wondered if Gryffindors ever did anything without moving in a pack and moved her eyes back to the book.

"Don't mention it."

Much to her surprise, he didn't. He even pushed George back out the door when the giant redhead waltzed back over, looking like he wanted to pick up where they left off.

She watched them leave and lamented to herself as one nightmare ended, another began.

A few minutes later, she stopped at the entrance to the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower. A couple of her fellow students pushed past her, glaring back as they ascended the stairs but despite their sour expressions, she couldn't move.

The adrenaline from last night was waning and the plans she'd come up with no longer seemed like the right thing to do.

The stairs took forever, and yet not long enough. She scurried to a corner desk in the last row and took a seat next to an inconspicuous looking Durmstrang boy, who might have said something when she sat down but her ears wouldn't stop ringing.

The bell tolled. This was it. There was a 50/50 chance that her reputation was about to be ruined. News like this would take little to no time to get around the school and everyone would know before dinner. She'd be the girl that Professor Moody threw out of his class for being related to a Death Eater. For the rest of the year, she'd have no choice but to sit with Malfoy and all the other children of suspected Death Eaters, but even they might not take her.

Moody's office door banged open and he trudged down the stairs.

Sadie might not hate her forever, but any hopes at remaining cordial with friends from other houses would be thrown out the window, she thought. Hermione wouldn't be able to look at her. She didn't know if she could take it.

"Alastor Moody," he was scribbling at the chalkboard with his back turned to the class. "Ex Auror, your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

He turned to look at them.

She winced. His normal eye floated over their faces, but his other eye, held to his face with leather and metal, moved furiously as he called out names from the roster. Her breathing grew shallow as the eye moved to the back of the class, and towards the end of the alphabet.

"Wilkes," He bellowed.

"Here," she squeaked out, on the verge of passing out.

His eyes grazed over her one second, and then… they were gone.

She blinked, squinting to be sure that he wasn't staring in shock or reaching into his pocket to pull out his wand and hex her but he was continuing with the last few names on the roster as if nothing had happened.

There hadn't been even the slightest bit of recognition. Not a flashback. No acknowledgment. No chill down his spine or look in his eye.

Nothing.

Either he didn't know or simply… didn't care.

She felt her muscles unfurl one by one, and nearly laughed out loud with relief.

"The unforgivable curses," he blurted, starting his lecture.

She stared at him in disbelief for a few moments before tentatively accepting that, at least for now, she was in the clear. It was astonishing and completely unexpected. She suddenly felt silly for panicking so much.

Her relieved mood didn't last long though, as he spoke ominously about the world they would step into upon graduation. Any small doubt in her mind that the Dark Mark in the sky hadn't really meant a second war, vanished.

"The Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one of them on a fellow human being is enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban. That's what you're up against. That's what I've got to teach you to fight."

His face contorted with passion and his eyes urged them to see the horrible things he'd seen. His pleas were honest but terrifying.

"You need preparing. You need arming. But most of all, you need to practice constant, never-ceasing vigilance," he concluded, before dismissing the class in a huff after an hour and a half of passionate ranting.

She didn't give her original plan another thought, and was the first one out the door, her mind running through the warning he'd just given them.

Vigilance.

If she would have stayed for the entire feast, and been vigilant, she would have known that he was going to be here. She cursed herself for letting something like this sneak up on her and affect her so harmfully, especially now that none of her worst fears about him had come true.

Vigilance.

She wasn't at the Quidditch World Cup but judging from Moody's ominous lecture, that was just the beginning. There would be more whispers, more threats, maybe even attacks, just how it started last time. Even without the return of he-who-must-not-be-named, his followers were surely tired of waiting in the shadows, biting their tongues, and watching muggle-borns, and half-bloods receive equal treatment. If they were back, her family would be a target.

She had to be vigilant.

The full Slytherin table almost deterred her from sitting down for lunch but she couldn't get Moody's words out of her head. She caught a glance of Malfoy laughing with Crabbe, and Goyle, all with family ties to Death Eaters. She was quite literally in the snake pit.

She boldly took a seat at the middle of the table, a few empty spots away from Malfoy and his crew.

Vigilant.

If there was indeed something brewing, maybe they knew about it, and maybe, just maybe, they'd be dumb enough to let something slip.

Moody's face looming over her uncles flashed in her mind once more but she didn't flinch. If her uncle had survived, surely he would have come for his blood-traitor brother and half-blood nieces. How could she have been so stupid to think that Moody would out her, even if he had recognized her name? He was capable of bad things, yes, but clearly, only for a good cause. He'd done what he had to do, not only for his safety but also for her father's safety, her mother's safety, and ultimately, hers.

She cursed the tear she'd shed for such an evil man last night.

Malfoy's cackle tore her from her thoughts. She watched him sneer at a group of Gryffindors with his friends, his white hair unmoving as he tossed his head backward and wondered if anyone else had seen him at the Quidditch World Cup.

#george weasley #george weasley fanfic #george weasley x original female character #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley smut #dating george weasley #weasley fanfiction #george weasley fic #george weasley imagine

[tiesandtea]

SUEDE: Style & Substances

Alternative Press, May 1997 (no. 106). Mag cover. Written by Dave Thompson. Archived here.

Suede Give Us A Glimmer...

Bleeding through the debate about vocalist Brett Anderson's sexuality and rumored drug intake, the overall glamour with which society equates a fucked-up lifestyle drapes Suede like a second skin. Dave Thompson travels to London to discover why Suede are one of the few bands that matter in an age of stars who are "just like you."

Brett Anderson leans against an amplifier, hands in pocket, shoulders hunched. To his left, the rest of Suede are playing Fleetwood Mac's "Albatross"; to his right, a television crew is fiddling with camera angles. He wants a cigarette, but he never smokes this close to showtime. Instead, he swings a keychain and glowers into the monitors. It's rehearsal time in Studio Four, a theater-sized room as the BBC, and the only person who's enjoying himself is an increasingly rotund-looking Jools Holland. He's the host of this evening's show, and he's away in another room entirely. 

Later...With Jools Holland is a British TV institution. Less than three years old, it has nevertheless sewn up a comfortable niche somewhere between the chart-conscious grooviness of Top of the Pops and the more indulgent pastures of MTV Unplugged. It's a showcase for bands to run through a handful of new songs, play a favorite or two and give a taste of their live prowess without boring the unconverted senseless. Boring themselves senseless, of course, is another matter entirely, and as Suede are counted into the third rehearsal of their opening song "Trash," you can almost sense the desperation in Anderson's face. Then the action starts, and he's utterly transformed. Though he's barely moving and scarcely singing, he's conveying an intensity that explodes from his very presence, drawing the most disinterested eyes in his direction. Even the soundmen look up from their meters, and the camera crew compete for his undying attention. If Anderson weren't a rock star, he'd make a great lunatic. But because he is a rock star...well, he's probably a lunatic anyway. You would be, too, in his shoes. If the 1990s have given us anything, it's the demystification of the rock star. From the boy-next-door Weezers to the angst-ridden whiners, the message is the same: I'm no different from you; I'm no better than you; and, of course, I'm just as screwed up as you. Enter, or more properly, re-enter Suede, with their third album, Coming Up (Columbia). And all that hard work reducing idols to idiots counts for nothing. Because Suede couldn't be "just like you" even if they wanted to. Bleeding through the "is he?/isn't he?" debate about vocalist Brett Anderson's sexuality and the "does he?/doesn't he?" of his rumored drug intake, the overall glamour with which society equates a fucked-up lifestyle drapes Suede like a second skin. The scent of teen spirit clings to them, the doomed romanticism of consumptive youth which peaked on their last album, 1994's Dog Man Star, and peeks through the stunning Coming Up. Suede deal in emotional extremes, from the A Clockwork Orange apocalypse of their "We Are The Pigs" video in which armed hooligans howl through a burning industrial landscape while Suede gaze down from giant video screens, to the incandescent loneliness of the current "Saturday Night" video, in which a London subway station is transformed into a rave to which the band have not been invited. The band's junkie chic is as apparent in the stoned immaculate presentation of their latest wasted-youth album-cover artwork, as it is in the gorgeously gaunt frame which Anderson angles for the television cameras. Add a live show that oozes subversive glamour; couple that with the fearless decadence of Anderson's greatest lyrics, and whether it's all an act or not, Suede are a walking advertisement for the joyful sins of sleaze. Backstage in the bowels of the BBC, Anderson sighs. He's heard all this before. "Yeah, you can look at it like that, but that's other people's interpretation of it, and that's their problem. You can't look at yourself through other people's eyes, then worry about what you say through their ears; you've got to have some self-belief in what you are." Which is, right now, the biggest thing on 10 legs. Across Europe and the Far East, Coming Up charted at No.1 and has already outsold both its predecessors. Three singles have kept the pot boiling ever since, and the current Suede line-up (their fifth on record since their 1990 "Be My God" 7-inch single debut) is their strongest yet. Like Brian Eno's departure from Roxy Music, founding guitarist Bernard Butler's exit did not so much rid the band of one creative spark, as open the door for the flowering of another. Anderson's unequivocal grasping of the reins, only partly aided by the recruitment of guitarist Richard Oakes, may have diluted Suede's overall sound, but it has sharpened their vision to a razor's edge. The further addition of keyboardist Neil Codling fills the gaps that teen maestro Oakes couldn't plug; the Simon Gilbert/Mat Osman rhythm section is a thunderous roar that never lets up; and Coming Up is unmistakably the sound of the same great band that recorded Dog Man Star. The difference is, Anderson affirms, they've stopped pissing around. "After Dog Man Star, everyone thought we were going to do an operetta or something like that. But you get things out of your system. We wanted to refocus the band, the fact that we were virtually starting again; we wanted to readjust the basics." And did it work? "You can't completely divorce yourself from your past. I haven't got the memory of a goldfish; I was aware that I'd made two albums before it. But it felt fresh, and it felt as though we were making the record away from a lot of the crap you have to deal with, away from the spotlight, which was great. Plus...", and here he gestures to new arrivals Codling and Oakes, "... there's less of an obsession with self-importance, which was definitely a change in the band. The last two albums were quite precious and self-important, and that can be good and that can be bad." Ah, preciousness. Plough through five years of Suede press and the buzzwords leap out: "superficial", "fake", "David Bowie" - three hollow sides to the same soulless coin. But most of the people who call Suede "pretentious" are the same ones who fancy the Spice Girls. And the closest those cynics get to class is the corridor outside the school room. "It does bother us a bit," says Anderson. "People always want to polarize bands into camps, and what I always find objectionable, even with journalists who are pro-Suede, is, they always want to write about us as an alternative to this good, honest musicianship going on elsewhere, which kind of implies that there isn't any good, honest musicianship going on within Suede." Anderson resents that implication, just as he resents the accusations of vanity that are flung at him with equal frequency - the two go hand in hand, after all. "People ask, 'Are you vain?' Hang on, let me turn the question around. If you were going to appear on television in front of five million people, you'd probably look in a mirror to see what you look like. You'll brush your hair and put a bit of make-up on because you don't want to look like a pig. Does that mean you're vain? I don't think it does. "Ninety-nine percent of my career thought is dedicated to thinking about music; a very tiny percentage is spent on image. I may go shopping once a month; but while I don't think we're the honest blokes down the pub, we're not kooky weirdos either. We're just what we are." A decent image, though, is still worth a thousand songs (ask Marilyn Manson), and if it's not their Englishness that holds Suede back in the U.S., then it has to be their appearance. They look weird. Catch the "Beautiful Ones" video: Codling apes the same abstracted pose of diffidence and boredom that once made a star of Sparks' Ron Mael; and Osman and Oakes look like they're trying to extinguish a particularly persistent cigarette end. Their singer is fey. Imagine Bryan Ferry if a stick insect stole his trousers. Their music is arty. And they come on like they're somehow special, so special that America poses little interest or challenge to Suede. Other bands make no secret of their desire to crack the country, nor do they hide their disgust when they fail. Suede, though, never seemed bothered. Past U.S. tours (three so far) have been languid affairs, barely publicized flirtations which almost gratefully acknowledge that as far as most people are concerned, Suede might as well be a lesbian performing artist. Anderson dictates the band's Stateside manifesto: "I don't give a shit." "Don't get me wrong: please don't portray us as some sort of anti-American thing, because we're not. But as far as America is concerned, you can talk about airplay and videos, but all it really boils down to is the fact that America doesn't like Suede. And I'm not going to knock it, if they don't like it, they don't like it." And what don't they like? Kurt Cobain had a tummy ache, and a nation felt his pain. Trent Reznor's dog died, and a nation held his hand. Brett Anderson wrote songs about holes in your arm ("The Living Dead") and pantomime horses ("Pantomime Horse"); he equates love with flyaway litter ("Trash"), and he's never been in rehab. "I hate that rehab shit! That's one place where America get really suckered, with those rehab rock bands. Let me explain what going into rehab means. It means you're cool because you used to do drugs, but now you're a good lad, and you're really '90s, so you want to give them up. But it's a complete excuse, and anybody who says it or does it is a complete careerist. I don't think the public shoulg go out and buy records by people whose record companies have told them to say they're going into rehab. You want to talk about fakes and falseness in the music business; I think this rehab rock thing is such a lot of dog shit." So you don't just say no? "I can't sit here and honestly say that drugs are bad for you, because I don't believe that, and I don't think anybody with a brain believes that." He elaborates: "Smoking a bit of pot and taking a bit of LSD can open a few barriers in your mind, although I certainly don't think taking smack, taking coke or taking crack does anything. I know I've taken drugs before and looked back on it and said, 'That's fucking crap; you should have got your act together and stopped taking them.' They just numb you and turn you into a wrong-thinking fucking idiot. "But that's the whole problem with drugs, isn't it? You can't say 'drugs' because there's so many different factes to it. 'It's an aid to creativity.' Well, some of it is, and some of it isn't. You can't paint everything with one brush." As for the veneer of glamour which Suede's own observations convey, the danger that, to quote the new album's "The Chemistry Between Us," "we are young and easily led," Anderson remains equally adamant. "There's no point in trying to filter things like 'Don't talk about this, don't talk about that.' Lots of times when I'm talking about drugs, I'm talking in a pedestrian context. I'm not trying to make it into a big deal; I talk about it like I'd talk about anything else that's in this room." And though he agrees there is a moral question, he also believes it's impossible to do much about it. "The only way you can set yourself up as something moral is in the broader sense, by not treating music as this completely throwaway, meaningless thing, and not treating the sentiments expressed in the music as completely throwaway, meaningless things. "That's where I see my position morally, someone who can write a love song and actually bring a degree of warmth to someone else. You can't act as censor in your words; you just have to be positive about what you're doing and see that making records that people love, that people cling to, and that help people through sticky patches in their lives is, at the end of the day, a positive thing to do. There's very few things I think that are positive in the world, but music is one of them." And that is that. In an age when a star is only as big as his last three videos, and most stars are as interesting as a line at the post office, Suede are three albums into a career that means more to more people than any of the bickering of Suede's petty, wormwood competitors; and certainly far more than the bitter, twisted harping of their detractors. Stars shine, shit stinks, and the lowest common denominator is nothing to be proud of. No one really wants to watch Hootie feed his blowfish, but Brett Anderson spends "Saturday Night" moping around on a subway train, and it's the best thing on MTV this year. Who cares what else he gets up to? Turning as he heads for the soundstage, Anderson won't be drawn. "My drugs of choice are ginseng and chamomile tea, but don't worry. I'm going into rehab soon."

#brett anderson #mat osman #simon gilbert #richard oakes #neil codling #suede #coming up month #coming up era

[readyplayerhann]

Ghost of Himself | Choi San

═ 1. Ghost of Himself | Choi San (Ateez) Genre • gotham!au, red hood!san, assassin!san, hurt/comfort, angst   Warnings • smut, forced entry, mentions of weapons, depiction of torture, (past) major character death Word Count • 2.1k About • San's been dead for five years, and yet this ghost of him stands in front of you with his face and his voice telling you he's alive.

Spooky SZN Masterlist > Jokes On You | Hongjoong (to be linked) 

10042020

He came in through the window, you thought, seeing as the door remained unharmed and you hadn't heard any noise coming from there either.

You know you've missed San. You have been for the past five years after his death. The use of alcohol and aimless sex hadn't let you forget the one you loved the most and you've realized early on that you never would. That didn't stop you from trying, however.

The most you've forgotten was his voice and sometimes your mind allowed you to escape his face, if you haven't taken a peek at the pictures on the wall. Your body welled up with guilt, if you'd looked too long so you'd avoid them most times. Some turned over, others discarded on the floor beneath their original hanging place.

You should've tried better investigating his death, you knew that. You should've allowed yourself to run ragged while chasing down leads while they were still scorching. Now, five years later, all the trails were freezing cold and you might get frost bite if you went digging for one.

And even as you maintain the fact that you've forgotten his voice, the intruder in front of you sounded exactly like him.

San's words were always smooth and velvet-like, even at his worst moments. Even when he bleeding to death in your arms.

"I got the best view in the world." His body was going limp, and he still managed to make you heart fluttered. The syllables glided easily over his tongue, even as blood filled his mouth.

Was your subconscious toying with you? Were you unconscious and fighting for your life in the real world, while your brain played this sick fantasy?

"Y/N?" The voice called out again and your body rattled with uncertainty. It sound exactly like him.

"No." You sounded sturdy, reliable, but your voice contradicted your frozen stature.

The masked man moved to remove his red helmet, the protective garment hissing as it disengaged from his black body armor. The helmet is pulled from his face, and this man looked exactly like him. A sharp jawline fed into smooth cheeks that held the hidden treasure that were his dimples. His eyes were dark, swirling with adoration in the pale moonlight of Gotham bleeding through the window. His hair was jet black except for the blonde tendrils at the forefront of his hairline. He was captivating, just as he was all those years ago.

Your mind wondered back to the crime scene photos that plague your mind for so long. You blinked and the stranger's face faded into one of torment and agony.

"It's me, Y/N." He took a step forward - towards you - thick black soles pelting the floor of your hardwood. The ground trembled.

You snatched your gun from the counter, quick and pointed at the impostor's face. If your hovering finger pressed down on the trigger a bullet would spiral out of the coil, slicing through the air and right between the man's eyebrows.

A smile twitched onto the intruder's lips and his hands came to hang in the air by his torso. The body armor was tight around his body, every inch dipped in inky black. The only contrast provided by his suit was the blood red bat symbol on the middle of his breastplate along with a tattered earth tone jacket hanging off his shoulders.

He looked ready to kill.

"I wouldn't expect anything less from my girl." His voice held a fondness to it and you can't stop the feeling of comfort that flooded your stiff body. His eyes were as piercing as they were dark, prodding at yours to just believe him.

He took a step forward. You took one back. Your foot hit a kitchen stool and it made a screeching sound. San's impostor flinched.

You're reminded of his cries, and the blood dribbling from his temple as he begged to be let go. Joker didn't relent though, he only swung harder, bent crow bar hitting wary skin. The video was burned into your mind and you could never unseen the brutal torture San endured.

If only you got there earlier.

Your heart jumped in your throat and you click the safety off.

"I'm not your fucking girl. You - San - is dead." Those words scraped against your teeth as they clawed their way from inside your throat and your heart ached.

The funeral echoed in your mind's eye, bring you back to that depressing day. You were the first to cover San's casket with dirt.

Your body quivered and the weapon clattered in your hands. The five year old engagement ring was secure and rutting against the metal of your gun. His gun. The one he kept for just encase.

"I'm not dead, Y/N. I'm right here." The stranger can see your hesitation, you know he can. In the way you clutched the gun or in the way your eyes flickered from his form to the door. Maybe thinking through escape routes if this situation escalates.

San won't let it escalate. He'll keep you safe.

He took another step forward. The gun pressed even harder in his direction and your trigger finger is perched on the metallic mechanism. If he took another step you'd shoot.

"Baby," His voice was tender as he caressed the two-syllable word with his tongue. Your chest tightened and your stomach coiled. Fuck.

"D-Don't." Your voice broke, crackling like a fresh record on a spin table. Your resolve broke and San was quick to pick up the pieces. Swallowing your frame in his arms, chest pressed firmly to yours, he cradled your shivering form. Like he used to.  

You both fell to the floor as a choked cry erupted from your mouth and your lips quivered. You inhaled his scent and vanilla and ash hit your nose. You pressed closer to him, nose digging at the skin of his neck. His gloved hands come to cradle the nape of your neck and your lower back.

"You died, San. I remember." Your sniffles crowded your voice, but San can understand you somehow.

When you got to the scene of torture, your core shook and anxiety swallowed you whole like a predator and you were it's prey. Panic held back, only for a bit, before spring on you from behind, mauling your body as the light from San's eyes dissipated.

"I did, but I'm back now." His breath pelted your exposed ear and you surged closer to the man. You could feel him over the body armor, crafted muscles tight and stiff.

"We had a funeral." The whole affair was somber in nature, you cried the whole day. And the following week. And the years to come sporadically.

He lowered a fleeting kiss to your temple, fingers rubbing patterns into your hips.

"I know."

"Then how are you here?" You don't know when you started believing the man in his attempts to prove to you his identity, but you supposed the road easily traveled was better in your sniveling state. So you trust him. At your own peril, you knew.

San inhaled sharply through his nose and you can feel the expansion of his chest beneath your back. His throat cleared and he whispered, "I made a deal with the devil."

It's cryptic and he knew it, but he doesn't continue and you don't press him for details. He's grateful, but he knows he'll eventually have to explain.

Right now, though, he was going to hold you for as long as you'll let him.  You missed him.

You don't ask anymore questions and just sit on the floor in his arms. He rocked your body and continued to mutter affirmations of his existence to you.

You don't know how it happened but, your lips fell on him. Needing and wanting. San responded easily.

His lips were burning as they met yours and he swept a thumb over the peak of your cheekbone. Maybe in an attempt to sooth you, you thought. Tears transferred from your cheeks to his as you kissed back, teeth knocking slightly and lips moving haphazardly against one another's.

San pressed impossibly close to you, thin sleep shirt crumbled against tough body armor. His lips released yours and you gasped for air, mouth going wide as his glided like ice across the expanse of your neck. His teeth peek through, catching on your pulse point and frost rushed up your neck. The coils in your stomach tightened and you fell closer into San's frame.

He caught you, gloves discarded and scarred hands spread wide to grasp your hips. His fingers dug deep, afraid he'd lose you if he loosen up again.

You rocked into him, needy and whining. San's grip tightened and you can feel the bruises forming as you teased him more. You don't care, though, because it's him and all you've wanted was him.

"Baby." His voice was low and grated at the edge of your nerves, frying your senses and numbing you to everything, but him.

Your nails clawed at his armor, impatiently, wanting to feel his skin on yours. San tugged your wondering hands from his chest and you pull back with a quizzical look. He flashed you a devilish grin.

San reached behind him to pull at the zipper of his body armor, before the material loosened around his frame. You helped him out of it, grasping the sleeves for him to pull out of.

His muscles rippled in the shallow light and you ghosted your fingers over them. His abdomen was inked in bruises and scars. They ate up his torso and marred his chest.

The sight pulled you from the lust clouding your mind, your fingers effortlessly finding every imperfect path of skin, red and scarred, "What happened?"

San looked away, face bathed in the dark shadows of your apartment. You rested your hands on his cheeks and pulled his gaze back to you. His eyes held a hazy glaze to them and it took him a moment to recuperate. His brown eyes eventually focused in on you, swimming in what you thought was guilt.

"I don't want to talk about it." San whispered into the cool, night air.

This time you pressed, "San-"

"I'll tell you later," He promised, lips skimming your neck, letting his tongue dip out to tease the purple and blue painting adorning your neck, "I just want you, right now"

"I want you too." But I know you're hurting, San.

You can tell he's changed. The scent of San that tickled your nose as he lavished wet kisses down the expanse of your chest isn't the same, but it still struck a cord within you. His voice was rougher, dark and restricted, but still manged to have the playful edge to it that you fell in love with. The once smooth skin of his abdomen held great stories of torture and anguish. Even though it was him, it was still not him. He's been tainted and you can see, touch, and taste the filth radiating off him in waves and all you want to do his allow that filth to taint you as well.

You allowed your body to connect with his and you felt yourself to be whole again in his presence. The ache in your chest subsided and complete and utter love bled from your heart. You're bleeding adoration, it's getting all over San and you're terrified he might drown.

But San absorbed the blistering, crimson love like a sponge and offered his body like a nurse would a band-aid. A quick fix, before lasting damage can set in. Like the infection of the soul, or the unneeded scarring of the heart.

"Please don't leave me." You grunted out as you reached your breaking point, your grip on San's neck unyielding and fierce. The coils of your stomach begged for release, just as you begged for the assassin's presence in your life.

"I won't." The words fell off his lips and spilling onto yours, heated and gentle. You and San met each other in the middle; you came crashing down and he ascended as he shot his warm load into your sopping cunt. Your walls restricted around him.

A whimper overtook your mouth and you shivered against San's huffing frame.

"I love you." His arms were warm around you.

"I love you, too." You whispered back to the ghost of San, frighten he might vanish just like he appeared.  

#choi san #san #ateez #ateez san #ateez smut #ateez imagines #kpop #kpop imagines

[thewhumperinwhite]

Cafe Soulmates: Eye Trauma Edition

SO it occurred to me that with the timeline I set for Soulmate AU, Pax’s mark is a reference to the fact that they only have one eye, but the events that result in the loss of their eye (as detailed in A Vivid Memory) don’t actually have any reason to occur if they meet the boys before the Bad End of their relationship with Vic. So their mark is a reference to a thing that Doesn’t Actually Occur.

So I, you know, Fixed That.

This takes place a few months after Soulmate AU parts one and two, with references to events that happen immediately after part 2, which i’m keeping intentionally vague for now.

(also just cause there’s a very brief reference to it here and in the last one: part of the Lore is that soulmate marks fade to gray if the person they represent dies.)

TW for: EYE TRAUMA, referenced unhealthy relationship dynamics/abusive relationship/gaslighting, gore, betrayal; mild unhealthy thought patterns; vague references to a past suicide attempt.

@whumpitywhumpwhump @burtlederp @gottalovethemwriters

----

The objective of Pax’s trip back upstate to Vic’s lab is to get their stuff and say goodbye. And their soulmates’ guarded sympathy (Kent) and open horror (Sol) at Pax’s description of their relationship (with their boss, who is more than twice as old and three times as rich as they are) is still very fresh in their mind.

But... but it’s harder to remember in Vic’s actual presence. When they tell him they’re leaving, he takes it so well, gathers up the few things he ever let them actually leave at his house (they’ve always been his dirty little secret, that was the initial appeal of the whole thing), cups their face in his soft cold hand and tells them he’ll miss them, and it’s—suddenly it seems dumb that Sol and Kent were so worried about this, that Sol practically begged them not to come. Sol and Kent are—well, Pax loves them, obviously, and knows they want the best for them. But they’re also naïve babies who are probably—projecting their own trauma onto a perfectly safe illicit affair that Pax has under complete control.

So—because it’s in person, and Vic smiles and squeezes their hand, and they owe him after all the patience he had with them when they were young and embarrassing—when Vic says he wishes Pax could help him with one more thing, as a real goodbye, Pax doesn’t say no.

----

Sol is pacing, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been pacing but it must be for a long time because Kent is one of the most patient people he knows and even Kent is starting to get impatient with him.

“It’s just—It’s just a bad fucking idea,” he says, as his best attempt at a defense.

“I know,” Kent says.

“I mean, Jesus, they wouldn’t even tell us this guy’s name, how fucking shady is that? And they fucking worked for him.”

“I know,” Kent says.

“And they’re—they want us to think they’re so tough, they want us to think there’s nothing that can hurt them, but they’re not that much older than we are,” he says, taking a long drag that kills his third cigarette in ten minutes.

“I know,” Kent says, appearing suddenly in front of Sol and distracting him with a warm hand on his shoulder and then snatching the cigarette out of his mouth. “Sol,” Kent says, and searches Sol’s face with his big blue eyes, and then sighs. “Will you sit down, please? You’re making me dizzy.” And Kent steps back out of his space, taking Sol’s cigarette with him, which isn’t fair at all. Sol plops down on his shitty couch, running a hand roughly through his hair.

Kent stubs the cigarette carefully out on an ashtray Karine made in tenth grade art class—one of the few things Sol took with him when he left home, and probably the dumbest of them—and Sol literally isn’t even trying to be an asshole when he immediately pulls another one out of his pocket and lights it. He just needs something to do with his hands and his mouth.

Kent turns back, sees the lit cigarette in Sol’s mouth, draws back like an angry mother (Sol imagines, anyway; he doesn’t actually remember having one of those). Sol blinks at him. “What?” he says blankly around the cigarette.

“Jesus Christ, Sol,” Kent snaps, stomping forward, and this time he doesn’t bother with the cigarette dangling from Sol’s surprised parted lips, he dives straight for the pocket of Sol’s hoodie instead. “Give me your fucking lighter,” he snaps.

“What? No!” Sol shoves Kent’s hand away and Kent obligingly plants his knee next to Sol’s hip and climbs halfway in Sol’s lap, which is more than enough incentive for Sol not to give in easily. He leans back, more to keep from burning Kent with the end of his cigarette than anything else, and grabs the hand Kent is using to reach for his pocket to twine their fingers together and trap Kent’s hand against his chest. Kent uses his other hand to grab the lit cigarette and toss it behind him—it lands on the glass-top coffee table, so that should be fine—and his fingertips brush Sol’s lips, and then he twists that arm between them to reach for Sol’s pocket, grabbing hold of Sol’s lighter and darting his hand behind his back. Sol leans into him to reach for it, and Kent twists until Sol’s momentum  tips him over backwards onto the couch, trapping his hand and Sol’s lighter underneath him, and Sol laughs, grateful for the transparent effort at a distraction, and swings his leg across Kent’s hips, happy enough to wrestle if that’s what Kent—

They both feel it at the same time.

The explosion of phantom pain in the whole right hemisphere of Sol’s face punches all the air out of him, his head dropping onto Kent’s chest, and he feels Kent gasp under him, hit with the same force—the pain is sharp, and burning, and not theirs.

Sol can’t move because horror has pulled all his muscles tight and he can’t relax them enough even to lift his head. Kent is equally still underneath him.

“Oh no,” Kent says, his voice all breath.

“Where are they,” Sol whispers, and he feels Kent force in a breath underneath him, hopes to god he’s getting something—Kent can feel shit Sol can’t even tell is there, and—and Pax is the best with directions, goddammit, but Sol will make it work, between the two of them they can—they can—

Kent sits up, pushing Sol off with one hand, gentle because he’s too distracted to use his full strength. His other hand is pressed hard over his right eye.

“They’re—they—fuck,” Kent croaks, holding a fistful of Sol’s hoodie like he needs it to stay upright. “I can’t—I can’t think, Sol, they’re hurt,” Kent says, his voice rising in growing panic.

“Can you tell what’s wrong?” Sol asks him urgently, reaching for Kent’s shoulder to better see his face, and because he knows Kent panics less when you hold him tightly—and Kent’s got the best sense of the three of them, his feelings are more specific. Sol’s is already fading to nothing but a dull ache in his head, he knows it’s physical pain but beyond that it could be anything.

Kent lets Sol turn him, though the eye he isn’t covering is unfocused and he isn’t seeing Sol at all. “It’s bad,” Kent whispers, his voice soft and horrified. “Is this what it was like when you—?”

“Yes,” Sol says immediately, but Kent is staring at him now instead of through him, his eye widening in alarm, and while Sol watches Kent drops the hand he’s had pressed against his face and reaches out toward Sol and—pushes the collar of Sol’s hoodie open, his fingers brushing lightly where their shared mark sits above the collar of his undershirt—the mark they’ve both had since birth, Pax’s mark.

It’s a stylized image of an eye, with a sharp slash down the middle of it.

“Phone,” Kent says, and his eyes dart back up to Sol’s face, all trace of panic gone, replaced with a firm mouth and blazing eyes; Sol’s heart seizes painfully in his chest because it’s a very Pax expression. “Ping their phone. Even if they don’t have it with them it’s a start.” And then he’s on his feet, shrugging into the coat he’s been borrowing from Sol. “I’m gonna start asking the neighbors if one of them will let us use their car.”

“You what?” Sol says, scrambling to his feet. He’s lived in this apartment for three years, during which time he’s cultivated what he considers a very healthy don’t-tell-the-landlord-about-the-extra-people-living-in-my-apartment-and-I-won’t-tell-him-about-the-impenetrable-weed-fog-from-yours-Dave-from-317 relationship. He certainly doesn’t know any of them well enough to say “hey, yeah, sorry, another soulmate bleeding to death, can I borrow your car.”

“They like me. I watch General Hospital with Miriam in 309 when you’re at work. Ping their phone.”

And Kent whirls out of Sol’s apartment like he isn’t hiding from the cops. “What the fuck,” Sol mutters to himself.

Then he sees where the icon for Pax’s phone is. His second “what the fuck” is a lot louder.

----

Pax’s arm is shaking badly from the effort of pressing it against their eye, trying to stop the blood, and it still isn’t working, is still gushing between their fingers and running down their face. They barely feel the second hit, when the knife slides between their ribs, and then they dive for the gun, falling over and sliding in their own blood, and spin around, not trying to get up, and pull the trigger three times.

The dry click of the empty chamber is the loudest sound they’ve ever heard.

The security guard pulled to a stop when they pointed the gun, and now he grins and takes a step closer, so Pax whips the gun end over end at his head as hard as they can, and then they follow it, throwing themself at the arm holding the knife. They gun hits the guard’s forehead, hard, rocking him back, and Pax gets a good (blood-slick) grip on his arm, but they have to take their hand off their eye in the interest of getting ahold of the knife, and now the blood is fairly pouring down their face and hot and sticky down their neck and soaking into the collar of their shirt. The guard’s arm swings behind him with the force of their momentum and when he doesn’t immediately drop the knife they think fuck it and turn their head, open their mouth, and sink their teeth into his bicep, hard. The guard howls and his hand loosens around the knife enough that Pax can wrap their bloody fingers around the handle, they’re pulling it from his hand with a surge of desperate triumph and then the guard makes a fist with his other arm and slams it full force against Pax’s ruined right eye.

Pax screams. (A hundred miles away, Sol almost swerves off the road.)

They don’t lose their hold of the knife, but suddenly they’re on their back and the guard is standing above them, panting, clutching his arm below the shoulder where Pax bit him. His knuckles are dripping with Pax’s blood.

The door of the lab they’ve been fighting over slides open and Vic Michaelis is standing in the doorway. Pax feels the eye they still have well up immediately even though Vic isn’t a fighter, because Vic is a grown up and he’ll know what to do.

Vic looks at them on the floor, looks at the gun--the gun Vic gave them, which was empty, why would--that’s a big mistake to make if he knew there was security here, how could he even have--

“You idiot,” Vic says. “What the fuck is this?” He stomps into the room, headed straight for the guard, who—isn’t attacking. “What part of ‘no serioius damage’ was unclear to you?”

Pax stares up at Vic. Blood is pouring down their face but they can’t move, they are frozen completely solid.

“Oh, fuck you, man,” the guard says, annoyed. “Asshole fucking bit me. You didn’t pay me to catch a fucking weasel.”

This—isn’t happening. It isn’t—they—no. Pax scoots back, away from Vic and the guard, who are now standing next to each other, and not fighting, and both looking down at where they are sprawled on the floor. Vic’s face is—irritated, harried, and nothing deeper than that.

“Ugh,” Vic says, wrinkling his nose down at Pax. “Christ. What a mess.”

Pax stares at Vic. Thinks of his stillness while he listened to them tell him they were leaving and not coming back. Thinks of the way his face went blank before he smiled and told them he was happy. Thinks of the things in his lab, and how Pax decided years ago to pretend they didn’t know, and how they told themselves it was because they loved him, and how really it was because they were afraid.

Vic turns to the guard, maybe to give him instructions. The guard glares at him. Neither of them are looking at Pax, and the blood-covered knife is still in their hand.

There’s a part of them—the part made of wounded pride and hurt feelings, that thinks being known as a gullible child is worse than being dead—that would like to throw themselves at Vic Michaelis, bowl him over, stay until one of them is dead and either way they aren’t stuck as some dumbass easy-to-fuck-over sugar baby, and six months ago when there was nothing to lose except their pride they would have listened.

But they’ve got more to lose, now, and they can’t hurt themselves without also hurting other, better, more important people.

They throw the knife instead.

It spins end over end and buries itself in Vic’s sternum. It’s not a great wound, not lethal or even that inconvenient, probably, but it does buy them enough time to shoot to their feet and sprint for the door of the lab.

With their back turned they don’t know who fires the shot that clips their shoulder on the way out. But they’re pretty sure the guard didn’t have a gun.

In a different world, when Pax Field makes it out of the lab and into the surrounding woods and collapses against a tree to pant and press their hand over their eye and sob, as quietly as they can, sinking to the forest floor and shaking with the force of it, they are utterly, entirely alone. They cry for twenty minutes at the most and then they drag themselves up and stumble four miles to a payphone and call 911. It is the most alone they ever feel in a life characterized, at least at the start, entirely by loneliness.

In this world love is written across their chest and around their wrists in bold colors, and they curl up at the base of the tree and press their forehead into their knees and their hand over their ruined eye and think, as hard and as loud as they can, come find me. Come find me. Come find me.

---

The last thirty miles of the drive upstate hurtle by in tense silence. Sol grips the wheel at perfect ten-and-two with white knuckles; Kent doesn’t have a wheel to grip so he leans forward with his hands against the dashboard instead. The car belongs to Dave from 317, whose soulmark is on the back of his knee, gray as smoke, and who didn’t even wait for Kent to finish his plea before he handed the keys over.

There will be time for Sol to rethink his impressions of his neighbors later, maybe. Like there will be time to wonder what the fuck Pax’s phone is doing at his father’s house. Sometime after they get there and he stops his soulmate from dying, again.

When they’re still more than ten miles away from the house where Sol grew up, where Pax’s fucking sugar daddy apparently lives, which is math Sol is desperately keeping his brain from doing because there will be plenty of time to throw up after Pax isn’t dying, Kent suddenly lurches forward, hand shooting out to grip Sol’s shoulder almost painfully, and yells “Wait!”

Sol slams on the brakes without even consciously deciding to, and stares at Kent, almost panting.

“Turn here,” Kent says, indicating a tiny little turnoff half hidden in overgrown bushes and weeds.

“What?” Sol says, squinting into the darkness. “There’s nothing here, their phone—”

“It’s this way,” Kent says, leaning forward in his seat, eyes fixed on the darkness of that little trail like he can see into it. His hand is still on Sol’s shoulder, though he isn’t squeezing anymore; it seems more like he’s forgotten it’s there.

“Fuck,” Sol says, “fine, okay,” and he turns off the road, and then feels a hot line of pain rip through the top of Pax’s shoulder; the car fishtails badly and he only just manages to hit the brake again before it goes plows into a line of trees.

Sol hunches over the wheel, gasping. Kent’s hand is in a fist on Sol’s shoulder again, holding a handful of Sol’s hoodie like it’s a lifeline.

“Fucking drive,” Kent wails, and Sol wrestles the car back onto the little half-overgrown road and hits the gas hard.

Halfway down the road Kent flaps his hand, hitting Sol’s shoulder repeatedly like a little kid trying to get their parents’ attention. “Stop the car stop the car stop the car—”

And when Sol does Kent throws his door open almost before they’ve come to a stop and throws himself out into the dark woods.

“Fuck!” Sol yells, and stumbles out after him.

The moon is out, and this far from the city the stars are bright on Kent’s hair, and Sol thinks if Kent weren’t blonde he’d have lost him a dozen times over by now. The trees fly by; Kent’s hurtles through them at a dead sprint and Sol has to push himself hard to keep up, with no idea where there going, just trusting that Kent knows, and trusting Pax to hold together till they get there, and trusting himself to be any help at all when they do. Branches scratch at his face and grab at his jeans and his hoodie and he barely feels them at all, all his focus on the uneven ground under his feet and the blonde head bobbing along in front of him.

Kent stops so abruptly that Sol has to grab a passing tree to keep from tumbling right into him, and then he makes a horrible sound—a sharp cry that sounds like it’s been torn out of him—and stumbles forward again, falling to his knees in front of a dark shape that Sol can’t really see in the darkness.

Then the sky clears even more or Sol’s eyes adjust or soul magic intervenes because he can see that the shape is a person with a mess of pink hair, curled up at the base of a tree with their knees drawn up to their chest and their head bowed.

Then they look up and Sol draws back so fast he slips on the muddy ground and lands hard on his ass.

“Shit,” Kent says, his hands hovering over Pax’s blood-matted hair, the gory ruin of the right half of their face, their torn-open shoulder, like he wants to pull them close but is afraid to touch them. Sol scrambles towards them on his hands and knees to see better—their face is the hardest to look away from, the hand pressed over their eye is more red than brown, the blood running in half-dried rivulets down their arm; their black turtleneck is stiff and shiny with it.

Pax looks at them, sees them, incredibly; raises the hand not pressed to their face to grab a fistful of Kent’s shirt, and gurgles, “You came,” in a terrible wet voice.

Kent turns back to Sol, his face set and determined again. “We’ve got to get them to the car.”

Sol stares at him, feeling like a kid, feeling scared stupid. Then he muscles the fear down, swallows it and doesn’t let himself gag, squares his shoulders. “You can’t lift for shit,” he says, scooting closer. “I’ve got them.”

Pax hears him say it, and seems to sigh out all the tension that’s been keeping them upright, and immediately sags sideways; Sol catches them, exchanges a frightened look with Kent, and gathers them in, more carefully than he’s ever done anything. Pax is taller than he is, there’s no non-awkward way to do it, and he ends up lifting them onto his hip like a huge blood-covered baby, their long muscly legs wrapped around his waist, and Pax clings to him tightly, crossing their feet together behind his back and using the hand that isn’t holding their eye in their head to grab onto the back of Sol’s shirt and hold on, two-hundred pounds of dense muscle; and their shoulder-wound is easy to forget about in comparison to their face but Sol can immediately feel blood from it soaking into his hoodie and the adrenaline keeps him going, while Kent clears the way in front of him at a tense jog, warning him of roots he can’t see and sweeping branches out of his way.

They’ll have to pay Dave to get his car cleaned, Sol thinks, when he lowers Pax into the backseat. Kent climbs in with them and Pax leans against him, and then huffs out a shaky breath and climbs over into his lap, burying their face in his shoulder. Kent goes tense as a wire—presumably at the terrifying volume of tacky half-dry blood involved—and then visibly makes himself relax, digs in his pocket and tosses his phone towards where Sol is hovering just outside the car.

“Search for the nearest hospital,” he says tersely, and Sol is halfway through typing it in when Pax’s voice drifts outs, muffled by Kent’s shirt.

“…can’t go… hospital,” they mutter.

Sol stares at them. “You what?” he snaps.

Pax lifts their head to frown at Kent. Their hand is still pressed over their eye; their nose and Kent’s are almost touching. “We fucking. Kidnapped you. They’ll catch you. We can’t go to a hospital.”

Kent stares at Pax, somewhere between horrified and furious. “You—who cares? Pax, you’re fucking bleeding to death!”

Pax frowns. It’s a small car and there really isn’t room for them to sit up while they’re on Kent’s lap; they lean back against the front seatback, their knees braced on either side of Kent’s thighs. “So were you,” they say nonsensically, sounding almost defensive.

Sol can just barely see Kent’s embarrassed flush in the moonlight, and he turns his head away, so he’s not looking at Sol or Pax. “Yeah, and you made me go to the hospital,” he snaps.

Pax plucks at Kent’s shirt, the visible less-bloody half of their face softening, until Kent looks back at them.

“They’ll catch you,” Pax says softly, their visible eye big and sad while the other side of their face is utterly covered in blood.

Kent stares at them, still with that defensive-furious-alarmed look on his face.

“Clinic,” Sol says, almost to himself, and then grabs Kent’s sleeve in one hand and Pax’s in the other so they both turn to look at him, Pax rather unsteadily. “We passed a clinic on the way here.”

Kent’s frown deepens. “A local clinic won’t have the resources for—”

“And in the middle of the night a local clinic’ll have a much smaller staff for us to threaten or bribe if that’s what we have to do,” Sol says, trying to sound absolutely certain. He looks at Pax, who’s breathing hard but now almost smiling at him, and then at Kent, who very much isn’t.

“There’s still three of us,” Sol says to him, and Kent blinks, hard, like he wants to drop his gaze but can’t. “They’re not taking you away from me any more than they’re taking Pax.”

Pax sags sideways, halfway out of the car, until Sol catches them, which was apparently their intention; they bonk their head lightly against his shoulder. “Good. Good boy, Sol. Thanks.”

Sol shakes his head, loving them so much his stomach hurts, and pushes them back upright. “Okay, idiot. Then when we get you sewn back together you can explain why you didn’t tell me you were fucking my dad.”

“What,” says Kent. Pax sighs, and leans forward to hide their face in Kent’s shoulder again.

“Your dad’s an asshole,” they say, which is the opposite of the denial Sol was hoping for.

But there will be time to unpack that horrible mess later. Plenty of time, because none of them are going to die.

Sol climbs into the front seat of the borrowed car and guns the engine. He’s pretty sure he can remember the way back to the clinic whose sign they passed on the way here. And after that he’s pretty sure he can make them save Pax whether they want to or not. That’s about as far into the future as Sol can even try to see. But there’s still three of them, and really he doesn’t need anything more than that.

#soulmate au #cafe extras #whump #original whump #eye horror #betrayal #rescue #polyamorous soulmates #oc: pax #oc: kent #oc: sol #eye trauma tw #gore tw

[the-colony-roleplay]

Arthur Meir | Fifty Five; Survivor

House: Brink Status:  Uninfected Security Class: 1 Alignment:  New World Radicals

History

As the only child of the head of a prominent cattle ranch in Australia, Arthur Meir was born with great expectations already set for him. He was always told that one day it would be his turn to run the family ranch, a torch passed down from his father and his grandfather before him. Therefore, much of his childhood was spent working the fields with his father and his uncle Henry—and Henry’s gaggle of children. 

But for all the expectations, Arthur had very little interest in filling them. From the time he could walk, he’d been taught the workings of the ranch, the surrounding brush, the cattle drive and the trade. But the only part of it that had ever really interested him was the business side of things. By age twelve he could balance the books nearly as well as his father. The rest of it, however, was too dirty, too noisy, too crude for his tastes. He was envious of the children in the nearby town, who got to go to public school while he was homeschooled, or whose homes weren’t rampant with children and pets.

Not wanting to think about a fated-future he couldn’t escape, Arthur found reprieve in the past. He found himself absorbed in the history channel or historical documentaries, the story and politics of those who came before them engaging him in a way he’d never felt engaged on the farm. He began reading extensively about any timeline he could get his hands on. With the ranch’s spotty Echo connection, he joined forums discussing political strategies and how they might’ve been improved upon. Such discussions inevitably turned to present politics, which Arthur followed eagerly. This was something that excited him, that made him feel something. He continued doing his duties on the ranch as he was told, but they were often done halfheartedly and as quickly as possible, so that he could sooner get back to his studies.

At the age most students would graduate, Arthur’s parents offered him more responsibility on the ranch. A precursor to his taking over completely—the beginning of the end, the way Arthur saw it. It felt like a trap, a burden he wasn’t born for. So he returned to his parents with a counter-offer: university. He was almost surprised when they agreed—but it was on the condition that he come home in the summer to help with the drive. Arthur happily agreed, having expected more of a fight, but the second he set foot on campus he knew he would never properly return to his old life. 

Rather than biology, economics, business, or anything else his parents might’ve seen as practical for taking over the farm, Arthur majored in Political Science with a minor in History. As promised, he came home for the cattle drive every summer, but only at the last minute and he always left as soon as possible. Calls with his parents, especially with his father, became shorter and shorter. 

It came to a head at his graduation. His father had been under the impression that Arthur was furthering his education to take over the ranch; his son’s real major was a complete surprise. Even worse was Arthur’s flat refusal to come home. He had a new life he cared about, with a future that excited him and he wasn’t about to give up on it now, throwing away all his hard work. His father, nervous about the security of his ranch and hurt by the dishonesty, couldn’t see past the sense of betrayal. They argued until they were blue in the face, Arthur’s mother in tears. Desperate to get the final word, Arthur told his father that if his family couldn’t support him for who he was, then maybe he shouldn’t be a part of the family at all. He stormed away, angry. For better or worse, that was the end of big, obnoxious family breakfasts, of milking the cows at dawn, of practicing Shabbat with his parents—of the simple, but hardworking farm life.

Over the course of the next several years, Arthur worked his way up the political ladder until he was elected into the House of Representatives in the Parliament of Australia. But he didn’t stop there. Many terms later, he found himself working in the Department of Foreign Affairs, and eventually, was promoted to Australian High Commissioner to Canada: Arthur’s crowning achievement. And so, for the first time in his life, he made a little room for personal interests: and fell in love. 

At first, he and Rebecca Fitz seemed made for each other. They were both intensely independent and career driven, both having come from unlikely backgrounds and fought tooth and nail to get to where they were. They were married after roughly two years of dating, but as much as they had in common, their crucial mistake was failing to realize that they were both married to their careers first, and thus each other second. Arthur had apparently looked for himself in a woman, but it had been that which had doomed them for failure. 

Nonetheless, he loved her. Despite the nights of endless fighting and the abysmal communication, he loved her, and in a desperate (and stupid) attempt to save his marriage, he convinced her to have a child with him. For a smart man, this was where his naivety showed—his Achilles’ heel. For him, this could be a new beginning. It didn’t occur to him that perhaps this desperation was coming from a place of wanting to fill a hole he’d dug out of himself years ago, when he’d left his family behind. He’d been alone in the world for so long, but he had never allowed himself to look back, much less admit to himself that he was still burdened with regret. 

To his credit, they almost made it work. For a while, things even got better. But it goes without saying that throwing children into a broken marriage is like putting a bandaid over a bullet wound. The internal bleeding had already begun, and no surface treatment was going to stop that. Five years later, they divorced. 

It was when Arthur was making arrangements to transfer overseas to France—having taken up a job opportunity there so that he and Rebecca wouldn’t have to work under the same roof any longer—that he got the news that his father had passed away. A man he’d seen a handful of times over the years, spoken to on high holy days and special occasions—but never made amends with. The last real conversation they’d ever had, had been an argument. A hateful, hurtful one. 

The news unravelled Arthur. The loss of his marriage, his father, his family—years of guilt wrought with rust from neglect, bubbled to the surface and though he flew home for the funeral and more or less made amends with his mother, it was only a few months thereafter that her time came as well. It was a fiercely bitter-sweet relief that he was by her side, holding her hand in the hospital bed when she died. But in the end, for all Arthur’s independence and ambition, he’d not been prepared for the consequences of the choices he’d made when he was young, and it was in yet another fit of desperation that he arranged to leave his daughter, Dylan, in the care of his Uncle Henry. Perhaps it was cowardice, not being able to look Dylan in the face any longer after everything that had happened—or perhaps it was courage. Courage enough to know that he couldn’t give Dylan the life she deserved, especially not in his state of mind. He needed a fresh start. A chance to rebuild himself. And then maybe one day he’d come back for her. One day, he’d be ready. 

Unfortunately, with the apocalypse on the horizon, ‘one day’ never came. 

Arthur Today

When D-day hit, Arthur was a little surprised he didn’t feel somehow more prepared. It was a global crisis after all; that was what he specialized in. But as governments crumbled and the sky fell, he was rendered just as helpless as anyone else, at least in the beginning. By the time the dust had settled, society as they’d known it had been all but obliterated. But what remained... Arthur could work with. Along with several other politicians, leaders, and crisis workers, Arthur helped to establish a base in a chateau in Nantes. It was a place where survivors could get food, water, first aid, and a safe place to sleep. Eventually, this base would become Colony 16, and Arthur, one of the original founding Elites. 

The discovery of the Infections came as a bit of a plot twist, but Arthur was fascinated by it. Immediately, he saw the potential, the promise of a new world, of fresh, thrilling beginnings. This could change everything. If handled correctly, this could prove to be the reason behind the apocalypse. A chance like nothing anyone could have anticipated. Fate. 

And then the NWRF emerged.

Contrary to Arthur’s beliefs, the NWRF believed that Infected were just that—contaminated. They were afraid of the power the Infected wielded, and wanted to control it for themselves—or better yet, eliminate it altogether. It would be such a waste. A foolish, ill-advised waste based on fear and egotism. 

So when he caught wind of a burgeoning opposition calling themselves the New World Radicals, he eagerly made ties with them. From what he could tell, most of the movement’s supporters seemed to be either outside of Colony walls and on the run from the ‘purging of the wastes’, or laying low as registered citizens with their heads bent. They met only in the dead of night, careful about how they spoke of their cause, and with whom. There was a lot of secrecy involved, but to Arthur, it felt like the beginning of something. 

Having been on the side of the law and politics most of his life, this departure actually felt a little surreal—but he believed that the overturn of the Reformist government was not only necessary, but inevitable. So he would do what he could to further the agenda of those he knew would end up on top. He put his skills to use while at Colony 16, collaborating with other voices of the underground Radical movement and coming up with strategies to coordinate globally. 

And then his chance to implement some of those strategies arrived when he found his daughter as a registered citizen at Colony 22. He’d been considering trying to get transferred anyway, in order to secretly start furthering the reach of the NAR, and he’d been aiming for Colony 4, as he’d heard it was higher traffic; more people meant more opportunities for the NAR to grow. But his heart hitched when he saw Dylan’s name and birthdate in the Echo Database. In the years that had passed, he’d mostly been able to convince himself he’d put her and all his troubled, messy regret from his mind. But seeing confirmation that she was not only alive, but also a lot closer than he would have thought, felt like too fated an opportunity to pass up. 

Besides, asking for a transfer in order to reunite with his long-lost daughter was an excellent cover up to any other intentions he had, and would be very unlikely to be turned down. It also prompted very few questions, which definitely worked in Arthur’s favour. And so it was off to Colony 22 and the little island of Belvedere he went. 

Though he is not short of his own personal ambition and purpose for the NAR, Arthur would like to try to find a way into the ranks of the Elite at Colony 22 once he gets settled. He has plenty of political and business experience that he knows he could brandish around to help him achieve this, and he’s Uninfected, which he suspects will also make it easier. But the tricky part will be making good impressions upon his arrival, and fostering the right connections. With the NWRF in (relative) control at Colony 22, he knows he is going to have to play his cards wisely. But to secure a position as an Elite could help him and his political objectives immensely. 

For the moment, he keeps most of his true thoughts under his tongue, as he gets a sense for the political climate here. But he’s always watching, gathering information and calculating his next move; waiting for that other shoe to drop.

RELATED BIOS: DYLAN MEIR 

OPEN

#ben mendelsohn #ben mendelsohn fc #literate rp #original rp #bio rp #arthur meir #brink #sc1 #open #male #uninfected #survivor #open male #open uninfected #open survivor #open male survivor #open male uninfected #radicals

[rockmywings]

Korean Crime TV Series Review#2: VOICE (보이스)

THE MAIN CHARACTERS TRIO:

Lead Male (Moo Jinhyuk “Mad Dog”): A veteran detective from Serious Crime Unit, being demoted as a leader of Golden Time Team under Emergency Call Department. 

Lead Female (Kang Kwonjoo “Kang Center”): A profiler who has super hearing ability, The chief of Emergency Call Department.

second lead male Main Antagonist (Mo Taegu “Mr. Mo”): CEO of Sungwun Express, an upper-classman. Psychopath.

PLOT:

Main: To catch the criminal who has murdered both Mad Dog’s wife and Kang Center’s dad and who also committed several crimes. 

Sub: To save a life who is in crucial danger from their emergency call.

OFFICIAL ENGLISH TRAILER:

REVIEW BY GENRES:

1) Various Crimes: There are Serial Killer, Kidnapping/Abduction, Child Abuse, Gangster, Illegal Immigrant, Stalker, Human Organ Trafficking, Corrupted Company, Corrupted Police--so complete. The series touches from individual crime to organizational crime, from marginal society to upper-class community. And the gruesome of crime scene places us in reality how horror the real crime is, why they are deserved to be censored in blur like News do on TV Channel (although it’s bothersome to me who use to see gore scenes in The Walking Dead and violence in any US Crime TV Series). I like how Golden Team looks so smart along with Kang Center herself as the profiler and with a hacking skilled officer to get any information. Though, there’s one staff whose multi-language ability is seriously wasted because what she did most times are similar to the hacker, as she also seeks information through internet. However, because our protagonists come from Emergency Call Center, we see how Serious Crime Unit are always outsmarted, making us wonder if they’re a bit competent in investigating while this one should be their expertise. For example, there’s no forensic or CCTV investigation ever shown here but somehow it makes sense because all of the victims who died here are under the main antagonist’s control who could ask to be covered while Golden Team successfully rescues all victims who made the emergency call.

2) Horror Elements: A part of the success of any popular scary movie is the perfect killer. There’s no other character more interesting in the show rather than the killer himself and I can guarantee Mo Taegu would steal your attention in every of his appearance. Let me explain it: A man wearing a black raincoat with face covered behind hoodie but his devilish grin is walking closer in calm steps, a sinister voice with a gravel-like quality of his jaw cracks then strikes the fear of a tormented fresh-faced woman before brutally murdering her--that’s your first impression of him. But, it wasn’t just a typical random unfortunate person whom a serial killer encounter in the dark street with certain modus operandi, nope!! More the killer is introduced, you realize he’s a type who could appear right in front of your door or behind the window creepily, making a hiss like a dinosaur to enter your room whether he decides to kill or just intentionally scare you--we’d find he did it at least 4-5 times in the series!!! (and my fave is when Kwonjoo met his eyes behind the lookout lens of her door) And behind the mask, there’s a rich, smart, and classy-typed businessman wearing an elegant suit with charming face who enchants everyone--so charismatic. Well, there is one episode that doesn’t really makes sense when he’s brutally murdering Madam Fantasia off-screen. The body is nowhere to be found in the building while he clearly didn’t have enough time to hid it in his car unnoticeable, laundry his suit (I mean, look at how much the blood he spread on floor and wall while he killed her not under his raincoat), peeking on Kang Center who has arrived 10 minutes after the phone call only to see her reaction finding his crime scene, then come back to meeting room he left before. But fuck off the logic, once again, this is horror show; let’s enjoy every killing scene of every bone he’s crushing using his kettlebell, or grotesque art of blood he painted on the wall citing Bible quote, or when he keeps the body wrapped in his house then doing bloodbath like Elizabeth Bathory, it’s all horrifyingly entertaining. Don’t forget that his victims also made a bad move tropes to meet him and give us a death flag. As if it wasn’t enough, Taegu also has some hallucination things, how creepy it is when he stared at the policeman in the car like a supernatural horror and when he’s being murdered on his mind like a zombie scene. Although those all aren’t enough to scare me, I’m sure there are some audiences who maintain to keep watching this show with eyes peeking behind their fingers but you can’t leave it yet to see who he’d murder next and who’d be survived. You’d be surprised when it reveals he commits more crimes through his company and more number of murders he had done for years with many different sizes of his weapon that will freak you out!! And with high status to work with gangster and a certain police to cover it all whom he could just eliminate as his next murdering target if he wanted, I’ll say “Welcome to Sungwun City, Mo Taegu’s World.” He is too complete to be a psychopath, an extremely powerful evil case with intellect brain to know what he does. He could be starring his own horror movie if Voice ever made a prequel. Maybe the only thing he hadn’t done yet (or ever shown) is cooking and eating the victims' meat LOL. But seriously, as the citing bible, doing bloodbath, and keeping body or organs, comes from nowhere (that is kinda different persona from the mysterious killer in eps 1-3); the writer even can add if he was ever cannibal too.

3) The high suspense in every episode: While the main villain is horror enough, the co-villains in some emergency cases also could raise the suspension that makes you hold your chair and grit your teeth. This was the most exciting thing because you could see desperate emotions of the victims transported through the call and how The Golden Team is rescuing them, battle in countdown timer minutes by minutes, second by second. Even after the first two cases that you become to feel every rescue is predictably success, you won’t lose the suspense. Voice is directed in plot-driven like a formula one’s car and once you’re seated there, you can’t stop ‘til finish line. My fave case is the child abuse, we feel so pity and hopeless because the one who makes a call is a little boy hiding in washing machine and bleeding. The least suspense is the rescue of bus passengers as the last rescue case in eps 15, probably I’ve been pretty surfeited of the repetitive rescue (but the case is important to show how crazy Mr. Mo runs his business).

4) Full Packed Action: Well, a premise of a lead male seeks revenge for the murder of the person he loves is cliche and standard in action movies; this how Mad Dog vs Mr. Mo’s confrontation has been lead since the series prolog, we know their final battle should happen. Jinhyuk himself wouldn’t be called “Mad Dog” without reason if this genre were absent. Look how his action is performed throughout the series, especially when he beat up all the gangsters in the meat house—so intense and brutal!! Don’t ever ask his nonstop energy, this is how action genre treats the main hero. Then, I expect a same intense hand in hand combat scene as to how action movie’s climax battle should be handled, main hero and main villain are equal although it’s predictable who’d be the winner in the end. Both Mad Dog and Mr. Mo are canonly brutal, you can see the same of them staring terrifyingly and intimidating when they talked to Nam Sang Tae in different scenes; you see how strong they are. Instead, we just get a short gunfighting?! I don’t complaint the gunfighting, but I mean, can they also make a duel with Jet Kun Do vs Tae Kwon Do as the two actors have the martial art skill for real? The director could make they ran out of bullet, then fight brutally, then the cops stop them to arrest him. It’s a wasted potential because the director even had given Mad Dog’s fight against a South East Asian assassin for two episodes! However, Taegu’s ending in the rooftop scene is still satisfying. Maybe the concept of Mad Dog vs Mr. Mo kinda like Batman and Joker. Despite being evil, of course Joker is powerless compared to Batman’s strength if he ever challenged him in combat. The purpose isn’t about which one is stronger. Same as Joker provokes Batman, Taegu also enjoys provoking Jinhyuk to kill himself even by telling him how he killed his wife, to prove he’s just another monster like him. And although we see how Jinhyuk doesn't hesitate to shoot Taegu four times in the rooftop brutally, he didn’t kill him at the end as he pities his enemy. But audiences would know later how it punishes Taegu in a very cruel way unexpectedly compared to what if he just died in Jinhyuk’s hand as he wishes. And of course, he deserves it.

5) The Drama is about The Victims: As well as how the credit title is presented, it tells us that this show is about the victim’s voice in asking help that used to be abandoned by slow police procedural--including our hero and heroine’s beloved one. But not only that, the profiler’s approach to seeking the Criminal’s motive then trying to calm them, making them tremble, and feeling sympathy really reminds me of Criminal Minds; criminals can be born because they were a victim too in the past--trust me, even you’d pity Taegu in the end!

6) Almost Zero Romance: 

Tbh, I don’t like the cliche that the lead male and lead female eventually hook up in the end (although I’m okay with the possible idea) so I’m glad it doesn’t happen with Voice. Even though they start to work together as a team professionally, they didn’t have to fall into an affair like duo Mulder and Scully of The X-Files. Their relationship is amazingly platonic ‘til the end as you watch them developing trust, teamwork, bond, and care to each other. 

If there’s any romance ever sparking, two Kwonjoo’s staffs in Emergency Call may be hinted. The woman is cool at first while the guy is cheerful and kind of a flirt. An obsessive fan of him is even jealous of her. But as I said, it was just hinted. Their occasional heartwarming interaction may be made for taking a break in all suspense and violent cases. It wasn’t out of place since it’s just a little and eps 9 could give you space to breathe. 

Well, this one depends on interpretation, but Taegu seems to have special attraction/interest of Kwonjoo sexually (of course, in a sick mind only psychopath could describe), for example when he stalked her, caressed her bed, stared at her picture, gave her a gift, happy when she found him, claimed that both of them are different from common herd, and show a disappointment that she doesn’t like it. On her profiling, Kwonjoo said why he’s “soft” at her probably because she reminds him of his mother, the only person he genuinely loves. Their chemistry is something the audiences not expecting before, especially in the rooftop scene as their climax. But I'm sure no one complaints [laughs].

Nah, the only true romance no one can’t debate is Jinhyuk’s love for his deceased wife; how he’s broken, how’s he seeks revenge, and then how he finally let it go.

OTHER POSSIBLE FLAWS:

Voice is an easy story and predictable with those action, suspense, and horror elements (although there’s still a twist); the ending is also clear, not open. The main mystery isn’t something that makes you heavily think to guess who is the culprit or suspect someone. Well, it’s enough to thrill for half series because once Taegu’s character is introduced at eps 8, the focus itself actually isn’t about a conspiracy behind the police/prosecutor institution like TvN Signal or TvN Stranger since the mastermind is the person outside it. Some audience may be fooled or even disappointed about it but I’m not (once again, I said Taegu’s character as psychopath fits more in horror tropes). The procedural pace, the variety of crimes, and the plot-driven won’t make you bored that you probably forget to ask for character development and question the logic; though, sometimes the running clock is too long to make us question if the run really happened just in 5 minutes. 

The lead female’s super hearing ability is the reason why all the emergency rescues success where the title “Voice” comes from, it’s full an entertaining fiction, we know real life isn’t like that. Still, it isn’t without flaw; for example, she could amazingly hear the boy’s slow tap behind the wall through communication but she failed to hear the hitting sound Taegu made when he’s smashing Daeshik’s head in the basement right when she’s entering his house. And her ability might be useless if the criminals were smart enough to make sure there's no cellphone being kept in their victim's pocket to be able to make contacts.  

OVERALL THOUGHTS:

Voice is definitely my fave Korean TV Series so far. It isn’t perfect but somehow I don’t feel this is a Kdrama at all. Look at those three main characters: 

The nuance I feel around the lead female’s department and how she handles the cases is almost like when I watch US TV Series of Police Procedural Dramas (many felt like Criminal Minds mixed with 9-1-1), 

the lead male’s fighting scene is like The Raid, Bourne, or John Wick (also the Surim-dong case reminds me of NCIS: New Orleans’s case “Clearwater”),

the main killer’s approach is like Wes Craven’s SCREAM and his personality is like American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman. 

With these references, I don’t recommend this series to those who can’t stand to watch gruesome violence. The age rating in Korea's Standard is 19+ and if it was measured to my country's rating standard (Indonesia), it'd be 21+.

I haven’t mentioned yet that the actors and the actresses, both leads and supporting, are amazing. I don’t watch much Korean entertainment (movie and show) so this is the first time I’m introduced to them all, and suddenly both Jinhyuk’s actor (Jang Hyuk) and Taegu’s actor (Kim Jae Wook) are added to my fave list for me interested to watch their other projects. I also like the veteran actress who plays a granny in Surim-dong incident; she could act as three different characters!

I’m looking forward to Season 2 aired on 11th August 2018. Now, without Jinhyuk and Taegu’s characters anymore as their confrontation story is over; I wonder if this time The Golden Team somehow ever fails to save a life like TvN Signal and have kind of a sociopath as main villain like OCN Tunnel. Who knows? I still can’t imagine someone more psycho and charismatic than Taegu yet haha. And with a different director, it’s probably not horror as season 1 anymore, but more thriller. But most importantly, I want to see and know more about the heroine, Kang Center, she’s at least need character development since she was the core of “voice”.

#ocn voice #kdrama #lee ha na #jang hyuk #kim jae wook #review #tv series

[frighthouseofalighthouse]

Alex, take us through what led up to the duel, how it exactly when down, and what happened after. Spare no detail and vent your feelings and frustrations. Be honest, get it off your chest. I want to support you and understand your story as best I can.

I will begin by saying that every preceding event unfolded precisely as I hoped.

Yes, you heard that right, it happened exactly as I’d hoped. I wanted it to happen. I planned the whole thing. I may have been an emotional, sometimes irrational man, but I was still quiet, intelligent, logical, calculating. I do not presume myself innocent of taking advantage of many men to get my way - that is the game of chess we play in politics. But never did I take advantage of anyone’s character more than I did Burr’s in the weeks leading up to the duel.

But allow me to back up a little bit. Though I still had enough of a reputation to sway the swing votes in Jefferson’s favor in 1800, my career in politics was over, and it was none but my own fault. My affair (being arranged by Jefferson and his henchmen) and my public account thereof, and my very public denouncement of John Adams, were the two leading factors in my loss of status in the public eye, and the eventual demise of the Federalist Party. The affair triggered a chain of events leading to the death of Phillip, which caused the complete mental breakdown of our daughter Angelica, who was two years younger. She was unable to care for herself for the remainder of her life.

After all of that, I could not stay in the city. The guilt was suffocating. And there was no reason to, with my political future so desolate. So I planned a house, The Grange, and had it built for Eliza and our family. It landed me $40,000 in debt. (in 1802 money)

My whole life I had been suicidal, and I fought a constant war between my despair and my ambition. It’s a war I still fight to this day. If I could not build a staircase out of the mire, there was nothing for me. Nothing to drown out the thoughts I spent over 30 years trying to escape. I had little regard for my life in war, and I actively sought death far more than history records. This time I was determined not to fail, and I used the reputation, good and bad, that I had built for myself to succeed.

You may wonder why I did not stay for Eliza, for the children. May I remind you, I was $40,000 in debt. That’s millions of dollars today. That wasn’t getting paid off. My life would have left my family destitute. The only way my debts would be paid was if I was dead, and Eliza and my children received military, government, and charity benefits.

As a fighter, I knew how to go for the throat, and had a reputation for not backing down. But I never would have become a good lawyer if I didn’t also know how to concede. It’s curious to me how well this plan holds up, even today. Nearly everyone still believes it was my own stubbornness that led me into a duel.

Consider this: if I was truly so stubborn, I would not have managed to avoid half a dozen duels over the course of my life. If I was unwilling to forgive, I would not have considered him a friend for so many years. We were law partners, for God’s sake. I even admitted in some of my final private writings that I bore no ill will towards Aaron Burr. Going further, I said the following: “...I hope the grounds of his proceeding have been such as ought to satisfy his own conscience...”

Consider the text of my letters to Burr preceding the duel. I told Dr. Cooper that there were still worse things I could name about Burr, knowing full well that Burr would hear about it. Just listen to this. “Tis evident that the phrase ‘still more despicable’ admits of infinite shades from very light to very dark. How am I to judge of the degree intended? Or how shall I annex any precise idea to language so indefinite?” Does it not seem to you as if I was purposely goading him, fanning each and every grudging flame he kept secreted away in his heart? And he fell right into it.

I never planned to shoot. I even detailed my plans to throw away my second shot if it should come to it. I always planned for him to shoot me. I did, however, expect to die quicker. Terrible shot, Burr, and I say that having been in a war with him. I wrote that letter to Eliza expecting to never see her again. I assumed Burr would aim for the heart. That was the point. Me, always chomping at the bits, and Burr, always holding himself back. How fitting, how poetic, I thought, that it should end in reverse. I engineered everything so that Burr would expect me to shoot, and this would force him to shoot back.

That brings us to the duel itself. Me being me, I spend the first ten paragraphs leading up to the action.

We arrived at the spot about six o’clock in the morning on Wednesday, July 11th. We had rowed across the river at five, but after mooring our boats there was a good deal of walking to reach the cliff-side spot. Burr was late by half an hour. He hadn’t even wanted to commence the affair at dawn, complaining that he preferred “afternoon duels.” Which, by the way, is simply idiotic. What the fuck.

The property was owned by a man who was very peeved that the cliff-side clearing was a popular site for duels, which is ridiculous because if he was tired of people dueling on his property, he should have just done a little landscaping to reduce the clearing’s size from twenty-two paces long and eleven paces wide.

The first week and a half of July had been hot and muggy, even in the mornings. Not that day. The most vivid memory I have from that morning, before being shot, was the way the air felt that day. Cool and brisk, a low fog coming off the river, the sea breeze wafting up the cliff. It was refreshing. It was beautiful. It always fascinated me how different the Atlantic smelled from the Caribbean. Fresh and clean and lacking the sweet undertone the island air always had. It smelled like decision, like clarity, and the cool breeze lifted any remaining doubts that I had.

When I stopped the proceedings to put on my glasses? When I carefully checked my sight and aim several times? All designed to further convince Burr that I was planning to shoot him. All designed to make certain he’d shoot me out of self preservation.

Burr met my eyes. As I held his gaze I slowly aimed my gun up and to the left. Four feet wide. All the while holding his gaze as a distraction while my second counted down. Then he shot first. I had my hair trigger on, which is why my gun went off the second I was hit.

It wasn’t where I was expecting, and it hurt so much more. I knew exactly where it had hit, though. I wasn’t stupid. I almost became a doctor, and I knew enough of medicine to treat my family whenever a yellow fever epidemic came through. I knew I wasn’t going to bleed out fast. But I was going to die. That was the plan, but know it was happening much slower and more painful, and I hated Burr for that. Disgrace of a man couldn’t even shoot me properly.

They said that he tried to come to me but was ushered away. That’s a lie. They wanted to make him look better. Like he cared. He didn’t care, I saw him. I looked up at him as I lay on the ground, my second and the doctor dragging me back and propping me up against a boulder. And what did Vice President Aaron Burr do? He met my gaze with no remorse, turned and walked away. Yards ahead of his second, who was hovering, indecisive on whether or not to stay and help. He didn’t look back. He was rowed back across the river and went to get breakfast.

The cold feeling spread from my toes to my hips, and I fell unconscious. I was not conscious again until we were halfway across the river. I couldn’t move or speak or open my eyes, but I could still hear. They thought I was already dead, it took them several minutes to find a pulse.

I remember each and every conscious moment of the next 36 hours, but I won’t recount them all. At one point, Eliza tried to hold me. The doctor would not let her, because I was paralyzed and nothing could be done for the pain. My God, I remember the pain. I wanted to writhe in agony but I couldn’t. So Eliza settled for holding my head and stroking my hair. That’s what she always did when I was plagued with bad thoughts or dreams. When she returned with Angelica and our children, she brought the quilt her mother had sewed for us for our wedding. That was a quality quilt. 24 years and it hadn’t worn out. She always draped that quilt over my shoulders when I fell asleep at my desk while working. My Eliza. She made certain I died as comfortable as I could be given the circumstances. She held my head.  She held my hand. She read to me. She sang to me. Though our children were sent away after saying their goodbyes, and Angelica left the room several times, Eliza stayed by my side for 34 hours straight. Her faithfulness and loyalty was nothing short of divine.

The last thing I recall saying to her was “I love you, my angel.”

I’ve spent a long while typing this, over an hour. I’m laying in bed propped on many pillows because the phantom pain is bad. It hits at dawn every July 11th and fades around 3:00 in the afternoon on the 12th. Which is just great because I work 6-3 tomorrow.

Thank you, however, for giving me the opportunity to speak. Feel free to reach out with any further questions about anything.

#a series of essays anonymously published #ask alex #so this is long but that’s to be expected from me

[richardsikens]

&. sorry to my unknown lover

okay so i’ve never actually posted a fic straight onto tumblr before??? unbelievable??? anYWAYs this is some james/lily shit that i just,,, wrote in two days and it’s nearly 4k words i’m a bit shocked at myself tbh. you can also alternatively read it on ao3 HERE ( & maybe leave a comment!! )

“James Potter’s in love with you.”

It’s a girls night, see. You’re sitting crossed-legged on your bed, one of your knee length socks slipping down to your ankle, in the middle of putting your photo frames back on your bedside table. You do this every year first, as soon as you get back to your dorm after the Welcome feast, before you do anything like changing into your pyjamas or brushing your teeth.

Mary’s got her tongue poked out on her own bed next to you, concentrating very hard on painting her toe nails. Dorcas and Marlene are probably in the Common Room, where you left them an hour ago, still cuddling, because the rest of the dorm is empty. You wait until Mary has finished up her left foot before speaking.

“He’s not in love with me,” you reply dismissively. “He barely knows me.”

It’s not entirely true, of course, not anymore. Maybe a few years ago. Not in the last year, though; he’s seen you, bleary-eyed and snappish over breakfast, and exchanging cheeky comments with Professor Slughorn in public, and that time at the end of sixth year when you thought cutting your hair that length was truly a good idea. It was at the end of the last school year, your sixth, when you looked and there was a newfound maturity in him that wasn’t there before. It scared you a little to think it’d been there a while and you just didn’t notice. You lay at the top of the highest row of stands by the Quidditch pitch with him coming back into sixth year, only a month and a bit after your father died, and he let you stare at the stars and talk to him like nothing else mattered in the world.

He knows you, maybe just a bit. Mostly, you think he’s in love with the idea of you, rather than the real you. This does not reassure you.

“Mm.” The noise Mary makes clearly indicates that she doesn’t believe you, and she leans forward to blow her toe nails. “Does this colour look good on me, d’you think?”

–

“Prongs is in love with you.”

Your left hand jumps over your chest, your right already clenching around your wand. This is what the beginnings of a war does to you, you see. There’s a good chance it could’ve been someone like Avery or Mulciber or, God forbid, Severus creeping up on you like that in the bathroom, but it’s only Black.

Ha. Only Black.

“This is a girls’ bathroom,” you say, raising your hands to fix your hair again in the mirror. You can see his reflection raise a shoulder to shrug and roll his eyes. “What’s this about Potter?”

“He’s in love with you,” Sirius says again, slower. His expression doesn’t change. The dark hue of his eyes, even when sparkling, have always been a little unnerving — sometimes in a good way. You try not to flinch right now. You hold his gaze in the mirror.

“Suppose he were, I’m not sure why you’re telling me,” you try to say nonchalantly. He sees right through you, of course.

“Because you’re flirting with him, and he doesn’t realise he’s gone for you again,” he says bluntly, and your finger fiddling with your clip slips.

You suppose you have gotten closer. Being Head Boy and Head Girl does that. Your life has somehow turned from slightly barbed insults thrown at each other across the classroom to friendlier banter. A solid structure that helps you shoulder the weight of responsibility placed on your shoulders this year. He makes you laugh. That’s all, isn’t it?

“You’re being ridiculous,” you scoff. Lift your chin a little higher. You lean forward to turn on the tap.

“I’m not.” This may be one of the most… serious you’ve ever seen him, and it bothers you just a little. “Be careful with him, Evans, all right? He’s a bleeding heart, and all. You would know. You’re the same.”

You finish washing your hands and turn off the tap. Shaking the water droplets off because you’re lazy, you press your lips into a smile. “Don’t worry. I’m not… I’m not going to do anything.”

–

“Fucking — fucking Potter’s in love with you, Lily, can’t you see that?”

There’s something disgustingly pathetic in Severus’ voice that makes you want to recoil, so you do.

“I don’t know why you’re so concerned, but you might want to let go of me before you hurt me anymore, or I swear to God, I will hex your fingers off.” The words come out harsher than you anticipated. You thought you weren’t that angry anymore, that your resentment had melted into hurt instead. The Incident had been two years ago. There have been two summers that have gone by where you avoided him and didn’t speak. Yet, the flame in your stomach is lit again, and he doesn’t fucking deserve you, you know it — You don’t fucking deserve this. He made his choice, and you wish he could give up, because you are getting oh so tired of having to say no to him.

Severus drops his grip on your forearm like it’s burning him, looking down in shock for a second, as if forgetting for a moment that he hadn’t just grabbed you in the middle of a hallway, hadn’t just grabbed you as soon as your conversation with James ended and he’d walked away, hadn’t just dug his fingers into your skin until they were stinging. As if he hadn’t just purposely forgot that you weren’t friends anymore, and he had absolutely no fucking right to be doing this. None at all.

“Did you not see the way he — he acts around you?” He says ‘he’ like it hurts him. You hope it does. You’re still a bit taken aback by his audacity, in all honesty. “You hang around with him way too often. You’re leading him on.”

“Who I hang around with is none of your business, Snape.” Your tone is stiff, but you are seething. He jerks his head as if he’s been slapped. “And we are not friends, I do not know why you seem to have this belief in your head that you can determine whether or not I’m leading him, or anyone else, on.”

His face does a very ugly thing, twists into a facial expression that you’ve never seen before. You hate it. “You flirt with him. For arrogant twats like him, he’s going to believe you like him.”

“Have you thought that maybe I want to flirt with him?” It slips out, really, before you can fully register it, because you’re angry at Severus for thinking he can still dictate who you can talk to and you’re frustrated that he won’t fucking leave you alone and you’ve been very confused in your head about James Potter for a while now, but have been a coward to thinking about it. Severus’ eyes widen, and so do yours, and you lift your chin higher determinedly.

“But – but, Lily — you — we — we always said that we hated Potter, I don’t —” He’s spluttering, stumbling over his muttered words, and you laugh.

“We haven’t said anything recently. You’re with Mulciber and Avery and — all that lot, and — I don’t care anymore, Severus, all right? You’re not my concern anymore, anything you do, so stop making my affairs yours. It’s nothing to do with you. You chose to be an utter prick and lie and join up with a group who wants to kill me, and that’s your choice, but I’m tired now. Stop — Stop following me, and checking up on me, and talking to me. I don’t want anything to do with you. Leave me alone.”

–

“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that, Lily? You can’t — You can’t get jealous over Potter with Fawcett, and not admit you don’t fucking feel something for him. Christ, the boy’s in love with you. He’d marry you right now if you asked him to. You’re being the twat here.”

You are used to Dorcas’ outbursts like this. Seven years of a friendship, of sharing a room with her, meant getting used to the way Dorcas displayed her feelings. You hardly ever take the things she says to heart, not like Mary does. Dorcas is a prickly character, thick skin over thick skin, but everything she says is honest.

There’s a short silence following Dorcas rolling her eyes and getting up to head back to Madame Rosmerta at the bar for another Butterbeer. It is only you and Marlene and Dorcas together right now, despite you trying to beg Mary off her date with Effie Macmillan so you do not have to feel like a third wheel.

“She’s sort of right, you know,” Marlene says first, breaking the odd silence. You feel a flare of irritation, but she is right. They are both right. You’ve been sneaking glances over at James ever since Felicity Fawcett walked in the Three Broomsticks and proceeded to bat her eyelashes at him as he was getting up to leave. They have been talking for ten minutes.

“I don’t like James,” you say stupidly, and Marlene sighs.

–

“James is in love with you. No, wait —” Marlene raises her hand before you can interrupt, and the authority she seems to emit makes your splutters fall silent. She smells of grass and fresh air and broomstick polish, with a hint of mud that’s splattered on various parts of her clothing. She always smells like that, but it’s only stronger as you’re sitting, watching the Quidditch field. She drops her hand to her broom again, twisting herself so she can face you full-on in her seat. You find yourself doing the same, though there is something similar to fear twisting in your gut.

“Lily, I have known this boy since I was born, okay? You know this. We were the typical neighbours since birth best friends. We always were. I was there when he fell off of his broom the first time, and he gave me my first scar when he accidentally tripped me when we were playing together. Every stolen treat was my idea, and well executed by him. I’ve seen him through his best, when he’s grinning and bursting and full of light — and I’ve seen him at his worst, trying to shut the world out. I’ve seen it all, okay? I’ve seen what he looks like in all his states, and Lily — Lily, he’s in love with you. And I know you’re scared. But that’s kinda everything, isn’t it? He’s been in love with you for a while now. But he won’t tell you until you’re ready.”

Marlene turns her head to watch the flying figures ahead of you, eyes easily following the boy in question. His hair is messier than always, eyes lit up as he yells something, Quaffle under his arm. You don’t know why your chest is aching.

“And, Lily Evans, I know you too.” Marlene reaches forward to grab your hand, your soft palms brushing against the roughened feel of her Quidditch gloves. “I’ve seen you through it all — when Snape was the biggest prick, when your foul sister sends you ugly letters, when your father died. When you got your Prefect badge, and when you punched Mulciber for what he did to Mary, and when you saw us playing Quidditch for the first time. I’ve seen you have crushes and I’ve seen you been drawn to people. You’re so afraid, Lily. You’ve got to accept he’s in love with you, truly. What’re you going to do about that?”

What’re you going to do about that?

–

“Potter.” You pause. “James. You — you really like me, don’t you?”

You switch out the word love for like, because you are standing here, doing this, but you are still afraid, just a little bit. You are taking small steps into this landmine. You do not want this to blow up in your face.

You can see him studying you. His glasses are slightly wonky, and his hair is sticking up in all sorts of places, and you really want to fix it, but you don’t. He looks like lightning has just struck him, lightning boy with a lightning heart, and you are suffocating from the air, because he still has not said a word.

You suppose you have ambushed him. Marlene’s words stuck in your head like a sore thumb, painfully aware of its existence. You have been trying to work up the courage to say something, but he laughed at the book you transformed into an egg instead of a pineapple earlier in Transfiguration, spending the whole day making egg-related puns and roping in everyone in the vicinity to join him, and it’s been all you could think about. Doing your Prefect rounds with him today, which you swapped with Remus months ago without coming up with a better excuse in your head other than wanting to talk to James every week like this, has become something you’ve been looking forward to. And you looked at him, laughing and realising that this is how it always is; he was making a joke about eggs, again, and you blurted the question out, whilst staring at his face in the half-light of a lamp.

“Yes.” His voice is steady. He does not say anything more. You realise that he’s studying you because he’s trying to see on your face if you’re ready.

He’s given you time. You thought at the beginning of the year that it was ridiculous he could’ve liked you all this time, from teasing jabs in class in third year to your rocky relationship from The Incident in fifth year. It has been so long. But he has not pressed you once this year, not even when you’re looking at each other like this, not when you’re alone with him and you could’ve kissed, you could’ve, but he has said nothing.

It is not because he is burning quietly. It is because he has matured into this brilliant young man standing beside you, instead of an arrogant little boy with too big of a heart and no way of filtering it through his words, and he is waiting. He seems to always be waiting.

“Okay,” you say, and he raises an eyebrow. “Okay.” And you’re leaning forwards now, on your tip toes because he’s so bloody tall. You do not pause as you move your lips to press against his. He’s kissing you back immediately, like this has been the moment he’s been waiting for, and you can’t feel anything. You can’t feel anything except him, just for a moment, before you’re bombarded with everything — all fire and hope and passion andeverything. You do not want to stop. So you don’t.

–

“James is in love with you.”

It is not that you are not Peter’s friend. You are. He has a habit to not necessarily push himself into the background, but when hanging around such vibrant, dynamic people, he fades away slightly. But you like Peter. You like the way he grins with his entire face, and that he listens as if he truly cares, and how he shares the anxiousness with you that everyone seems to be too brave to admit to feeling. He’s always been more Dorcas’ friend than yours at first, and then Remus’ friend than yours, and then James’, but he’s your friend too now. That’s how life works, see.

You kinda crashed his and Dorcas’ studying meeting in the library. His and Dorcas’ friendship has always fascinated you a little, in the way Dorcas is all brute force and bluntness and roughed edges, and Peter is all stammers and one-liners and wavering hands. Dorcas is not gentler, per se, around him, but it works.

Of course, she’s gone at the moment, her things left unceremoniously scattered across the table. Marlene came by for a Quidditch book earlier, and now they’re in one of the aisles.

You tilt your face to meet Peter’s eyes, blinking thoughtfully. It’s not worry in the seed in your mind, about the Marauders not liking you now that you’re James’ girlfriend, because you’ve been their friends too, individually. You’re surprised Peter’s spoken, honestly. “He is?” Like it’s a surprise.

Peter nods, and you cannot tell on, what you had previously thought, his transparent face if it’s with enthusiasm or glumness. This unsettles you slightly, but you shake it away. “I think he’s been in love with you since third year, but it’s real now.”

“How do you know?’

He pauses. Leans forward like it’s a secret, like he’s embarrassed. “I’m — Well, I wouldn’t say I’m good, because… I don’t know, but I’m not sure I’m good at much. But I’m — All right at observing people, I guess. You’re good for him, Lily.”

You blink again. There’s something singing happily in your bones, and you smile, pressing your hand against his. He looks surprised, as if he is not used to such affection. You recognise the reaction from your friendship with Severus, but this is Peter — Peter, who is best friends with James, who is tactile with his emotions, and Remus, with his quiet tenderness, and Sirius, who defends until death. “Thank you, Peter.”

–

“For all your intelligence, Lily, you’re not acting very clever right now. James is in love with you, and this argument about not wanting to be with him because your being Muggleborn is not a valid point.”

It’s a blow, coming from Remus; he’s sighing, and giving you A Look. You love Remus, you do, but he has a habit of making you feel like you’re being scolded by a teacher every time you disappoint him.

“But — but, Remus, you should understand,” you very nearly whine. None of your other friends have sided with you on this argument; in fact, Marlene had given you a very dirty look when she found out, and had uncharacteristically not talked to you for a full day. “You’re always going on about being unable to be with anyone because of your — you know. Furry little problem. At this moment of time, being Muggleborn, or associated with Muggleborns, is very dangerous!”

Remus heaves out another sigh, and you try not to flinch. “My — my condition is an entirely different situation. My point is that no one’s in love with me, so it doesn’t really matter. James, however, is head over heels in love with you, and keeping him at a distance is only going to do more harm than good. You know this.”

“I know.” You join him in the next sigh. You feel your shoulders slumping. “But you know what’s going on outside this castle. I mean, did you read the newspaper this morning? Jonas Fawley — do you remember him? He was a couple years older than us, I think he was in the same year as Alice Fortescue. But the Death Eaters got him and his wife, their little girl too. Because his wife was Muggleborn. He’s Pureblood and everything, but they still killed him.” You pause. Feel the bile in the back of your throat. Your next words come out as a whisper, even though you don’t mean it to. “That could be James. And I don’t — I don’t want to put him in that position.”

“With all due respect, Lily,” Remus says, and his eyes are kind. “That’s his choice to make. But you’re both fighters. We all are. We kind of have to be.”

–

“Is that James? He’s looking at you like you hang the stars, honey. I think the boy’s in love with you.”

This is one of the very first things your mum says to you when you step off the train. You’re probably much too old now, all eighteen and everything, to have your mother picking you up from your last day at school, but here you are, not caring. It is only your mum waiting for you on the other side of the platform, smile wide, eyes happy. Of course, you didn’t expect Petunia to come at all, not when she stopped tagging along as soon as she was old enough to stay home alone. And your dad… Your dad should’ve been here too. Because Hogwarts is over, your time in those protected walls where you were still a kid, is done, and he should’ve been here to hug you like this, he should’ve been here.

You follow your mother’s gaze to James, to where he’s standing with his own parents and Sirius. He’s looking at you, of course. He’s always looking at you. You kind of want to go over there and kiss him now, but you smile instead and turn back to your mum.

“He looks like how you described in your letters,” she muses, and you grin. “Very handsome. I’m happy for you, Lily.”

In a sudden rush of affection, you kiss your mum on the cheek, hugging tight. She gives you a startled look, but she squeezes your hand. She tears her eyes away from you to watch the Potters again, who are starting to levitate James and Sirius’ trunks. She’s always been fascinated by magic, your mum.

“We should go over there,” she says abruptly. She’s already starting to march over before you can catch up, true Evans style and all. It is easy to pretend, just for a second, that people like Dolohov are not throwing your mum glares, dressed up in her Muggle attire. “Mr Potter, Mrs Potter, James! Is it true, James, that you dyed my daughter’s hair green in her fifth year, or was she telling lies in her letters?”

Your mum throws you a cheeky wink at James’ horrified look, and you’re laughing, wondering how much you would give up to stay in moments like this forever.

–

“Lily, I’m in love with you,” he breathes, and you hold your breath. There’s no doubt in his words, no I think or Maybe. He says it like he’s certain. He says it like it’s the only thing he truly knows.

“I know,” you say, and you want to laugh into his kiss, really. You know. You’ve known for a while. You know because he’s looking at you like that, with his hazel eyes and lopsided grin, and you know. For him, it’s always been you. There have been other girls, there have been other boys, but it’s always been you. You’ve always been it for him. How does that feel? How does that feel to know your two souls are wound around each other so tight?

You’ve always been it for him, but he’s always been it for you. That’s important too, isn’t it?

“I know, I know, I know,” you laugh into his mouth, like a mindless babble, and you don’t have to say it back just yet, but he knows too, because he’s still looking at you like that, and you’re kissing, and all you can think is, James James James.

#merriamwebsterdictionary #jeangel #lilyevcans #oyprongs #alrightpotter #herhmione #alrightevans #hope you don't mind me tagging you or anything???? #yell @ me if u do sorry!!!! #hp #jily #hp* #jily* #fics* #writing*

[aelin-and-feyre]

Broken

I’m sorry. I’m evil. I meant for this to be a cute Rowaelin fic and it turned dark really quick. Many trigger warnings in this, I’m sorry, and I made myself cry three times while writing it, so be warned. 

This is the my worst case scenario for Aelin in Maeve’s clutches.

Aelin has been choosing the path of least resistance, a very new way for her to take. It is required however, in order to survive, she realized very early on. And she will survive. If she doesn't, she will never be able to form the lock, protect Terrasen, or save Erilea.

The path of least resistance, however, has forced Aelin to give up many things, the most painful being her dignity. Cairn has taken mighty pleasure in forcing her to bear unspeakable torture in front of laughing crowds, be stripped bare and whipped, and swallow teaspoons of iron in order to hinder her magic. Fortunately, whether by Fenrys' manipulation or a small piece of Maeve's conscience that is still intact, Aelin has not been taken advantage of, at least not fully.

After that first day when her back was torn to ribbons and she almost died in transport, one glance at the look in Fenrys' eyes told her that she wouldn't survive such a beating again. Thus, in order to live long enough to fulfill her destiny, Aelin has taken the torturous affairs without so much as a complaint. She counts her ten lashings, willingly opens her mouth for the teaspoons, and lowers her eyes when her oppressors approach her.

Her only real torture is the way Fenrys is being abused, sometimes right in front of her, especially after they noticed her flinch the day Maeve had backhanded him. It had been the first reaction they'd seen, and it was their way in. Aelin has decided that it is all her fault Fenrys is now beaten daily, for the amusement of the others to see her pained expression.

He was forbidden from saying anything, his mouth practically glued shut, and Aelin found herself weeping at night, not from her wrecked body, or her separation from her mate, but rather the desperate look in his eyes whenever they met hers. Fenrys struggled day and night to break away from the Fae Queen, and Aelin could see that all he wanted was to save the both of them.

Connall wasn't much help in the matter, the twin almost as silent as his brother as he watched the brutal proceedings that Maeve deigned him to attend. Vaughn has not been present where Aelin is concerned, and she's not sure if he is still back in Erilea, but can't find it in herself to care.

Her path of least resistance, however, seems to have no end, bend, or crossroads. Aelin is so sure that Rowan will come for her, or Aedion or Dorian, but as the weeks passed - what felt like weeks although Aelin truly has no sense of time while in the coffin - she began to doubt. She had clearly marked out where to go from here, had set them up with troops and reinforcements and back ups, had even made a back up for herself. Perhaps they truly did not need her anymore.

Aelin felt like, if that was the case, why wasn't Maeve just giving the order to have her killed? She can't truly believe that Aelin would become her personal weapon, and over Aelin's dead body would she swear a blood oath to that bitch. There were some days where Aelin was pondering simply giving up, pinning the magic she was storing, keeping it from healing the largest wounds, and letting herself bleed forever until there was no blood left. Let the gods take it all and do with it what they wish.

Every night, alone in the restricting iron coffin, with as much courage as she could muster after the day, Aelin would repeat her mantra once. "I am Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I will not be afraid." Unlike the year in Endovier or the subsequent trials after that, the saying didn't work as well. It helped her remember who she was, sure, but it did not help her cope, or remind her what she was fighting for. Instead, it mostly made her remember how she had failed her country. A Queen unable to protect her people.

So, she developed a new tactic. It was the thought of Rowan that kept her slowly stocking up a reserve of magic deep within her, letting loose small bits to heal the most lethal injuries only. The memory of his smile made her count to ten each time she took on a beating. The phantom feeling of his arms around her helped as she resisted the urge to bite at the hand with the liquid iron. His bright green eyes when they stared into hers forcing her to avert her gaze from her abusers.

She dreamt every night that he would be there in the morning, opening the lid to her cage and lifting her up in his strong, steady arms. Every morning, however, it was Cairn, his canines stretching his face into a wicked smile that never failed to send a shudder up Aelin's spine.

This seemingly endless routine is why, when a note fell into the coffin just before it was sealed, Aelin almost thought she was dreaming already. Carefully, trying not to ruin the tiny piece of paper with the blood coating her hands, Aelin picked up the message. She summoned just a bit of her power, the well growing deeper everyday, and flickered the faintest flame above her fingertips. It was a bit of a struggle reading through the slats in the iron mask.

'Prepare. He's coming.'

Just as the flame died, the same flicker of hope bloomed in Aelin's chest. With renewed vigor and strength, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius quickly incinerated the note, slowly burned off the shackles restraining her arms, and got to work.

When a shout came through the thick iron door, Aelin knew it was time. She wiped a bit of fresh blood from the cut in her upper arm and finished the final wyrdmark. The latch on the door popped open with an almost indiscernible click, and Aelin used her remaining strength to force the lid open. She breathed in the fresh air and ripped the mask off of her face to have unrestricted vision.

Two guards standing at the door, looked at her in shock, the expression of absolute bloodthirsty rage surely scaring them shitless. She easily slipped her feet out of the shackles she had loosened earlier, and was marching across the room for them before either could make a sound.

A short scream and half-hearted attempt to skewer her with his spear was Aelin's only hinderance in breaking the neck of the first one. Her muscles screamed at the movement, but Aelin continued to push, revitalized with every shout coming from the other side of the door.

The second guard was more prepared this time, but so was Aelin, now equipped with the fallen's spear. She easily dispatched the warrior and chuckled lightly at the blood that once again coated her fingers, although for the first time in a while, it wasn't hers.

She took his sword, strapped it to her waist, and gripped the spear in one hand before squaring herself to join the fray outside the door. Her legs burned, lungs ached, and head pounded, but Aelin was determined to make it to her husband. Her mate. Who had come for her at last.

She hesitated too long, however, and when the screaming stopped, Aelin was still standing on the other side of the door. She quickly ripped it open, a warrior scream dancing at the back of her throat, but when she saw what was in front of her, Aelin stopped, quickly dropping the spear.  

Rowan, Lorcan, Aedion, Fenrys, and Gavriel laid slain before her, various injuries scattered over their bodies that Aelin wasn't sure which one had been the killing blow. Her mate's green eyes were still open and they seemed to be looking right at her.

Aelin Ashryver Galathynius sank to her knees.

It was when tears began to fall from her eyes that she finally noticed the Fae Queen standing in the middle of her fallen friends, barely a scratch on her. "You stupid, insolent girl, you really thought they would be able to save you?" Maeve sneered, Aelin unable to move her head to nod or shake. "Rowan is not coming for you. He does not love you. He still loves Lyria, and you know it. There is no hope."

Her blank stare obviously displeased the queen, because immediately following the speech, Maeve flicked her hand to someone behind Aelin, and Cairn suddenly came into view. "Wake her up, then proceed however you wish."

At the words, Aelin's eyes widened and she finally remembered. She'd seen this before, in half a dozen dreams just like this. The path of least resistance, the note, the killing of the two guards, and her friend's dead bodies before her. It was all a hallucination, and she had fallen for it. Again.

Before she could do anything to stop it though, Cairn shoved her jaw open and spilled a blue liquid down her throat. Aelin gagged, her body desperately trying to dispel the mixture. He followed it by another teaspoon of iron and Aelin thought she was going to choke to death.

Once all of the blue drink had made it's way past her throat, however, Aelin's eyes shot open, and she was no longer kneeling in the doorway. Instead, the Princess of Terrasen found herself strapped to a table, naked, hot iron restricting every movable part of her body.

A door shut and Aelin saw the tails of a long, black cloak and knew that the Fae Queen was just leaving. Now, she was left alone in an awfully familiar room with Cairn and the two other new Fae warriors who had sworn the blood oath to Maeve in order to replace Lorcan and Gavriel. Each of them more sadistic than the next.

For the next, well, Aelin's not quite sure how long it was, the warriors took turn performing things on the princess that are not easily able to be repeated. She screamed and cried and thrashed, memories of the last two weeks flooding her mind once again. A never ending cycle of leather, iron, and frost, with a bit of sexual assault added in when they felt like it.

Aelin had never seen Fenrys since the day she had been taken, nor had she seen anyone other than these three and the Queen. They would not allow her to die, or have a peaceful night's sleep, or a halfway decent meal. They decided when she would eat, drink, rest, and relieve herself.

Aelin struggled every second, refusing to give up.

It took them three months to finally break her. Three month of torture ten times worse than anything she had endured in Endovier, for Aelin Ashryver Galathynius to finally cease to be.

She would drift in and out of consciousness, barely caring where, when, or who she was. She's not entirely sure what her name is anymore, or why she should care.

For brief instances, the girl forever strapped to to the iron table will remember what chocolate cake tastes like, or the feeling of silver hair as she runs her fingers through it, or the sear of magic as it thrills through her veins. When she closes her eyes, no longer remembering what color her own are, the girl receives images of deep sapphire, bright green, or dark brown ones staring back at her. She is unable to find it in herself to wonder who they belong to.

Three men enter the room daily and go about their usual routine on her body, but she is so completely numb, it's impossible to tell where one cut ends and another begins. Sometimes, a beautiful woman comes and stands by her, but she just stares down with a cold and calculating expression. Once in a while, the woman opens her mouth as if she will say something, and then thinks better of it, exiting the room again. The girl with the newly sheared off golden hair will watch her leave and try to summon a feeling towards her visitor.

As the days go on, the cuts stop, the men disappear, and the girl with the mangled and burned wrists and ankles begins to heal. The woman visits the room more often, and will sometimes sit in a chair in the corner, still as silent as ever. The girl begins to look forward to these occasions.

Soon after the girl with the forever ruined fingernails is given her first bite of eggs one morning, the stunning lady enters the room with a stack of papers held together in a leather binding that triggers some distant memory in the girl. She's not sure why, but the tiniest flicker of joy comes to life deep within her heart. The woman nods to the girl, flips the top binding off the pages, and begins to recite something written there.

For five minutes each day, the girl with the ribs that are almost poking through her paper thin skin is read to by the elegant woman. Two days after the girl is given clothes, and after five minutes of the usual reading, the gorgeous woman looks up from her book and talks directly to the girl for the first time.

"Hello, Aelin." The woman says, and it only barely registers with the girl still lying on the iron table. "How are you today?” The girl scrunches her eyebrows in confusion, and the woman sighs. "We'll try the talking again tomorrow." Then the gorgeous lady stands and exits the room.

The girl with the aching lungs tries to remember how to use her vocal chords for something other than screaming. For each day, the woman enters the room and tries to persuade the girl to talk, and walks away disappointed each time. The girl somehow feels bad for making the woman who has done so much for her, sad.

So, on the fifth day of attempting to get her to talk, the girl finally responds. "I am doing well." Her voice is rough, and her throat burns, but the smile that graces the woman's face makes it worth it.

"That's wonderful, Aelin. I am doing well, also." She responds, then holds up what the girl now knows is called a book. "Would you like me to read you some more?"

The girl only has the capacity to nod, and they spend some days like that, making polite conversation and reading as the girl continues to heal.

When she has enough strength, the woman undoes her bindings personally, releasing Aelin from the constraints that have been burning her for months. It is impossible for the girl to walk, and so the woman has two other ladies - for the girl is still afraid of men - to carry her from the iron room to a room with a bigger, fluffier table in it.

The door is still locked but the table - which she learned is actually called a bed - is much for comfy, and there are no more chains, leather, or iron. A couple days spent in this room, and the girl feels a spark of something ignite deep within her. She does not explore the flicker until the beautiful woman asks her about it.

"Do you feel your magic returning, Aelin?" The woman asks, using the word the girl has figured out is her name. Aelin nods, and the woman smiles, making Aelin smile back. "That is very good Aelin, you will need that soon."

Aelin furrows her eyebrows and asks why. The woman's face suddenly goes dark. "There are people coming for you that want to take you away. Men, just like the ones that kept you on that table. They want to take you away from me and use your power for their war." Aelin shrinks away, but a kind smile graces the woman's features. "But do not worry, dear one, for there is a way that you do not have to go with them."

"What is it?" Aelin asks, positive that she will do anything if only she can stay with the woman. The beautiful, breathtaking woman who has made the bad men go away, fed her, clothed her, read to her, and given her a bed to rest. She never wants to leave the comforts this woman provides.

"There is a blood oath that you can perform, which will tie you to me so no one can take you away." The woman explains, and Aelin has never wanted anything more. "Do you want to take that oath, Aelin?"

And the girl with the broken mind, body, and soul nods eagerly.

#IM SORRY #THIS WAS NOT MEANT TO HAPPEN #I WANTED CUTE ROWAELIN #AND I FAILED #THIS IS SO SAD #I WANT TO DIE #tog7 headcanon #aelin #aelin ashryver galathynius #aelin galathynius #rowaelin #maeve #queen maeve #tog #throne of glass #com #crown of midnight #hof #heir of fire #qos #queen of shadows #eos #empire of storms #cairn #fenrys #tog fanfic #throne of glass fanfiction #iron coffin #blood oath

[noahpoligy]

An entire “album”, written on 9/13/2019

So I got super inspired in the bathroom to “write an album” whatever that means. So, I sat down, and forced to write a ton of lyrics all in one sitting. The most I’ve ever written has been 2-3 songs at once, and well, here’s 10. I started grasping at straws towards the ends, whatever was coming to mind honestly. I was listening to “Rape Me” by Nirvana in the shower and I thought to myself “Why not change that to “Hate me”, because I personally feel like I have a fair share of haters, but none of them hate me as much as I hate certain aspects about myself, ya know? Anywho, I might fuck around and see if I can find demo versions of songs w/o lyrics or whatever and see if I can produce any of these into actual listenable songs. We’ll see. Sadly, my motivation goes away with as I sleep. It took me 3 hours to write all of this, and honestly I think I should mention that it’s a bit funny comparing the second thing I wrote to the last. 

So I guess this is a “light” concept album. I think the one present theme that all these share is self perception and belief in one’s emotions and beliefs. I’m pretty tired as I right this, I can’t think of the word for that, if there is one. I’ll probably rewrite aspects of tracks 1, 4, 6, and 7. 1 looks too much like Rape Me, 4 needs “more”, I’d honestly like a rap section in there, 6 I’m just unhappy with some of the lines, it comes off as corny to me. 7 needs a chorus and the ending I just randomly threw in, so that needs to be fixed too. 

Track 1: Hate Me

I hate me

You hate me, and my friends

hate me 

I’m not the only one

I’m not the only one

I hate me

I’ll say it again and again

You’re a waste to me

You hate me and my friends

I’m not the only one

I’m not the only one

Every time I do anything it’s for the worst

A kiss would tag you as a whore

I appreciate your concern

I’d like you to die so you can burn

I hate me

You hate me my friend

Hate me

Hate me and my friends

I’m not the only one

I’m not the only one

I hate me

I hate me

I hate me

hate me 

hate me

hate me

hate me

It sates me

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Track 2: Something More

She waits at windows

She daydreams all day 

And sleeps away her frowns, for now

She just waits around wishing she

Could meet that single another

At night in a parking lot wearing that new dress she bought

Only for her to go back home, she’s let down easy

She goes out to buy a drink

I noticed the one Friday she didn’t, she was locked up high

There’s something about her innocence

That makes her chafe for love

And she’s down to explain what she’s looking for

She says she wants me and will help me become someone more

Dead leaves, the sky desolate of summer

I’m underage so I’ll stand outside while you get the drinks

Tomorrow you can smoke me out, and we can hang around the cemetery

Do we need each other?

We’re two discount lives without any numbers in our bank accounts

Do you think that if I wait around that maybe she

Might go back to her room and say it was all a lie?

She’ll tell her parents that she doesn’t know my name and I’ll sigh

Get out of my head demon, you’re dismissed

I will change for love

And she explained how long she’s waited for

Something more

Come, Goodbye, I might just see you another night, and if you don’t I understand if you can’t find that definite reason why you should stay. I’ll watch you walk away

She says that she will change for love

And she explains how long she’s waited for something more

And as these days go by, it ends that track of how long we’ve waited for

In love there’s more

In love there’s something more. 

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Track 3: Self-Faith

Wrap me up in my true skin

Drag me in front of my mother’s eyes

My innocence is tragic

My innocence is damned

And in a sense I’m gifted because of it all

I can breathe underwater

I can fly high in the sky

I can burrow deep inside my chest

and stab another with my teeth

and I live underground

If you spend your love around me

You’ll know fantasies beyond your wildest dreams

And before you know it, your love is gone

Cause there’s nothing as awkward as what I see

And in your fear, you’ll disappear. 

You saw my dreams, you saw death.

I believe in no one

I believe in another way

But my beliefs are not noticed

My beliefs are all held of faith

Faith in me, and that’s why I must escape

And in this ring our wedding will be true

And with this wring I will separate us in two

And with this ring you’ll see what’s in my head

And inside you’ll find the truth

Now let me tell you, if you spend your love around

We’ll enact our fantasies so they’re no longer dreams

You’ll find that your love is hard

And that it’s exactly what it seems

And no one will disappear 

Even during the darkest hour

To the revelations 

To the fresh baked victims 

To the weak that have succumbed 

They hate me

So speak your peace

While the drum drowns you out

You’re not wasting

A single breath at all

Because strength is your weakness

Your weakness is your hate 

And it’s something you just can’t explain

You’re sniffing on some roses

They’re so beautiful 

You’re getting so lost inside their smell

The others have come, to make you dumb

The others have come, to make you dumb

The others have come, to make you dumb

The others have come, to make you dumb

The others have come, to hold you down

The others have come, to hold, you, down

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Track 4: Run Away

Monkey see monkey do, run away

Fuck around and follow you, run away

I don’t like you, I’ll keep it in, run away

Another fool with pencilled skin, run away

There he is, take him out, run away

He never laughs he never smiles, run away

He can’t run he’s a cripple, run away

Let’s beat his ass, it’s good fun, run away

Run away Run Away

Run Away

Monkey see monkey do, run away

Fuck around and follow you, run away

Cut him up but keep it in, run away

Another fool with poisoned skin, run away

Run Away Runaway

Run Away

Run Away Runaway

Run Away

Away, Runaway

Run Away

Run Away

Run Away

Don’t Stay

Run Away

Don’t Stay

Get Away

Rat-a-tat-tat. 

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Track 5: Who the Fuck Are You? 

You say I’m gonna fall

Well I can’t wait to let you down

You say I’m gonna fail

We all know you’re a fucking joke 

Get out. 

You’ve lost equality.

Get out. 

You’re below a fail. 

Can anyone anywhere believe that you’re true? 

Does anyone anywhere wanna be you? 

You say I’m a faggot

Well at least I’m not a bigot, kid

You say I’m lucky 

It takes knowledge to play the cards

Get out. 

You’re a waste of sperm. 

Anyone anywhere can beat you 

Does anyone anywhere actually wanna face you?

Who’d wanna bother with you?

I guess I’d like to, bring it fucker. 

Lousy, you’re knocked out sky high

You’re flat out dead in the head

Does anyone wanna support you?

Does anyone anywhere actually believe in you? 

Does anyone anywhere wanna be you? 

Do you wanna be you? 

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Track 6: Family Crest

I bathe in silence

I want you to notice

I’ve got a god complex 

I already know I’m gonna pass the test

I’m on fire

I’d hold on their hearts from the inside

And squirm myself inside and take control

I want everything they have and I want it now 

I’ll find a way 

Today I can waste away

I once flew away

Far away, from all of this, and I nearly died

Miserable dust and homeless mutts 

Hating my face and wanting to wither away without a trace

I didn’t hate anything else but my own and me. 

I’m gonna bleed

To make me believe

That my hearts still there

But is it really? I need a fucking shovel

I’ll clean off the dust, our faces will meet

I disconnected by cutting the string

Anytime that you’d try to talk to me

I bathe in silence

I want you to notice

I’ve got a god complex 

I already know I’m gonna pass the test

I’m on fire

I’ll hold onto their brains from the inside

I’ve got their heads believing in me 

It’s not enough I want fucking more 

I wanna bleed

To make them believe

Someone hurt me

So then maybe I’ll feel something

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Track 7: Horribly Ever After

Let out the stampeding horses

Suffer in your suburban houses

Withdraw from the taste of the devil and God’s affair falling from the sky

Scream all you want you’re in a silent movie

Kiss up each other while your lives go tick tock

Beached by the groupies that are sick of your stuck-up hinds

Vacant is your deposition

Dead is your fleet of propogandic sources 

Your sister is actually your aunt your father had an incestual affair

You scoffed away the very true sources

You chose to go to war against another’s imaginary friend 

Blood is the key to eternal life and that’s why Earth wants more death

It’s about time

It’s about, concluding you

Black skies bring fears

Unleash armageddon, tute yourself and say one final prayer

it’ll be one last moment before you’re off where you belong my dear

Lust for a reality that is like the movies

A life where you survive the locusts

It all goes away when a angels voice says you’re damned for eternity for being a stupid sheep, you need to be fucking sheered. 

It’s about time. Maybe now you can see

Too bad you suck

Too bad you’re dumb

You looked directly at the sun and now you can’t see

This is the final message

Soon you’ll be stabbed by the ancient armies

Death by thousands of roses

It’ll take years but that’s what you deserve

You’ll be raped by the soldiers

They’ll embroider their band on your skull

You’ll probably enjoy it, it’s like your inverted cross tattoo 

I guess you got what you desired, your spot in hell. 

Black skies bring blood

Black skies bring flood

Black skies bring you 

Black lies bring truth

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Track 8: Hysteria 

I woke up to a message of love 

Though I don’t think we’ve ever spoke on the phone

I’m obsessed with the poison of us

I wonder why I can’t seem to find one to trust

Is there even a soul living inside of ya? 

Oh yeah oh no, there’s nothing in that stereo baby

I’d try to bridge on over and see what’s up but it’d crack under your pressure

You need a miracle 

And I’m no miracle 

You’re honestly hysterical

What the fuck is going on inside of ya? 

I’m unimpressed with my presence at best

I get depressed from the needles of sunlight that bleed through the blinds

I make shit up so I think I’m the best

Honestly though, there’s no one I can trust

There’s no one living inside this universe 

You can call me No Paranoia Noah baby

I’m the last motherfucker that’s not hysterical 

I’m not one to crack under any amount of pressure

If you’re looking for a miracle it’s me

Now now, come on, get your broken soul out of bed baby 

What’s so funny? I’m at least trying and you’re staying a degenerate 

You’re lying in your bed about a broken phoney bone 

Come on I see a spark of something in ya

Skip the jokes, escape living in hysteria

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Track 9: It Will Become

The doorbell has rung, it’s coming true

The silence and the dread, it ends here

You’ve waited and now it’s time

Come into the utopia of....

The future of earth will become

There is a past yes, it’s clear. 

You better take this face and choose your race and face the race for the constant search for anything

You’ve waited and now it’s time

Come into the the utopia of....

The future of your life will become

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Track 10: Falling Apart 

I’ve got no legs

Fuck the shadows are in me too

These thoughts they won’t leave my head

Wait.... Why are my legs on the other side of the room

I was your everything

You were the one last thing I’d ever think of doing anything wrong to

Yet you’re right next to me with blood and blades all around you

I was yours and you were my one true love

And now arms are stuffed with lace

And my you’re chewing on one of my eyes

My tongue is stapled to my nose 

And my legs, oh god, you’re eating my toes

I was yours and I guess now I’m yours

Why did you cut me into this

We were best friends

And now I’m just meat

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Oh, hey, good morning! 

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