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forteafy · 9 months

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A House, A Home | CL16 & CS55

Summary: A loveless marriage usually comes after years, not before. You've always loved him, his best friend has always loved you.

Word Count: 10.1k

Warnings: Hard Angst, Cheating, Mentions of Sex, Death.

Note: This piece has two heavy inspirations. The first is @lxclerc's amazing pieces 'Moth to a Flame' and 'Call out my Name.' They are both incredible pieces and I highly suggest you give them a read. The second is from a TikTok Account called 'ForPercival,' they are currently doing a social media AU which I cannot recommend enough.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: 'You Think, You Know'

Charles Leclerc is a husband.

At least, he was your husband on paper. One year ago, a hidden agreement had been put in place between Scuderia Ferrari and the Leclerc Household; their son, the ‘Il Predestinato,’ of the team, (albeit one whom had had the most terrible season,) could continue to drive for the team, so long as he married the daughter of one of their longest-running investors.

That so happened to be you.

You had been against the entire idea since the first day. After being introduced to Ferrari’s driver, you had instantly felt the divide between the two of you. You’d reluctantly shaken his hand and since then, had been thrown through a mixture of fake dates, a fake engagement and the fakest wedding that could possibly be imagined. The ceremony hadn’t even ended with a kiss, per tradition.

It didn’t take long for your walls to crack; living with Charles, seeing him at his highest and lowest points, his most vulnerable behind the four walls of your home had caused your heart to soften. Forget being forced into this marriage, you’d grown to care, to adore the man who’d once burdened you with his presence. You dreamed of the day he would return your affection; how long would it take for you to realise you lived in denial? In your late-night fantasies, lying alone in one of the guest rooms you’d sought refuge in on moving into this house, you’d dreamt of lying in his arms, lazy morning breakfast, slow kisses when he would come back to you. To your home.

A home, however, is where you feel safe, warm, protected. You lived in a house with Charles. The man who would barely glance your way and after three months of your marriage, started coming home, smelling of rich perfume and lipstick marks littering his jawline.

The first anniversary of your marriage should have been special, even if he despised you in every known form to man. You’d woken up in your room, slipped on the silk robe which had been lying on the empty bedside and slipped out of the bedroom. In your heart of hearts, you knew there would be no significance of today; no flowers, no card, not even a simple text from your husband to signify the date in question. The only text you had received that morning, was a stern reminder from your father, that you were due to attend the Monza Grand Prix in less than one week.

A soft sigh emitted itself from your lips; it was a routine you knew all too well. Every few races, the more significant ones; Monaco, Silverstone, Spa-Francorchamps, Monza, you’d play the doting wife; cheering for your husband whilst dressed in soft summer dresses, a forged grin if he managed to battle his way into the points. On those rare days when he would obtain a podium position, he’d greet you on the barriers with a soft kiss. It was all fake; a routine which had been performed so many times. Yet, each time his lips met yours, you could dream he meant something behind the affection.

The train of thought had played through your mind for so long that you were unaware of the tears pooling on your lower lash line. So, what if Charles wasn’t at home for your anniversary? It was your thought for feeling any kind of emotion towards him in the first place. It was a business deal, after all. Did your husband enjoytreating you like this? His disappearance on that morning was a cold reminder that he felt nothing towards you. No sentiment, no adoration.

Despite the tears which had bade your eyes that morning, until the mid-afternoon, you had a productive day. Of course, leaving the house was out of the question; what would the media say if devoted wife of Ferrari’s driver was seen without him, on their wedding anniversary of all days?

Instead, you’d played soft music whilst re-organising your wardrobe, something you’d put off for a while now. Cooking a meal whilst lazily treading around the kitchen, experimenting with the spices that Yuki had gifted to you on your previous visit to a Grand Prix. The meal itself was too big to eat alone. Instead, you boxed up the remainders of what was left in the tray, carefully placing it in the fridge, knowing Charles wouldn’t actually eat it.

Your evening had been…less productive. You’d found solace in a glass of red wine, lounging on the sofa of the main living area; usually, you kept as far away from that zone as possible. Charles would spend his evenings in the couch, eyes flickering between the television and his phone, no doubt sending longing messages to his mistress whilst his wife was in the home.

The third glass had just about been drained. You were adamant upon gaining a fourth, no longer caring of any commitments you had the next day. Instead, you sat up abruptly from the sofa, hearing the gentle click from the front door.

He had come back to the house.

His green eyes barely took a second to meet yours, slipping off his shoes and placing them into the rack situated by the front door. A rustle of his jacket signified his option to stay. You saw him carry the garment over his arm as he trudged into the living area, set to lie in front of the television for some personal relaxation.

With his entry to the room, you suddenly remembered your position. You’d hastily stood up from the couch, collecting the half-finished bottle from the low table, holding the glass to your chest to draw the attention away from your beverage.

Charles said nothing; he’d unlatched the top two buttons from his dress shirt; faint purple marks nestled on the lower joint of his neck; a clear mark that his mistress had previously made, a sinful reminder of his adultery.

“I left you some dinner in the fridge.” You mumbled, voice barely picking up over the sound of the television. “There’s some clean loungewear on the end of your bed, too.” You finish your sentence. Your husband doesn’t even attempt to tell you he’s acknowledged your words, eyes transfixed on whatever news was currently playing on the television.

“Happy Anniversary.” You mumble, feet leading you back to the kitchen, the bottle of wine against your chest now seemingly the only attention you’d ever get.

Charles Leclerc is an actor.

The entire drive to the track had been bade in complete silence; not even the radio had been switched on to drown out the undeniable tension in the car. You had originally tried to make light conversation with the man; he couldn’t even be bothered to make a sound in response to any of your questions.

You couldn’t handle the harsh tone he had snapped at you with the previous time you had been in the car; instead, you watched the rolling hills and glistening sun of Monza. It was always one of the highlights of the year. If not for the racing, you would have come here in your own time, to bask in the sun and to enjoy the secluded section of Italy as an individual.

The incredible views soon began to fade out, instead replaced by expensive cars and adoring fans, leaning over the barriers in an attempt to see their favourite drivers; there was an uproar as your husband drove past the crowds; he was clearly the home favourite, as any member of the Ferrari crew would be in this location. Silently, you slipped on the sunglasses which had been resting in the pouch of your bag, knowing the paparazzi would be blistering your eyesight sooner rather than later.

Charles effortlessly parked his car in the allocated spot. Silently, he switches off the engine, removing the keys and shoving them into his jean pocket. The man doesn’t so much as register your presence as he opens his door, leaving you to venture out of the car yourself. You’d carefully adjusted the flowing fabric of your dress; the patterned fabric flowing gently around your calves.

You looked beautiful. You just wished your husband would care enough to tell you.

Instead, his priority is the cameras leaning over the barriers. He doesn’t even look in your direction, instead firmly grasping your hand in his own; an act the two of you had performed for the crowd oh-so-many times. He waves towards the crowds; neither of you miss the adoring sounds, the coos for many of the fan’s favourite ‘couple.’ To so many, his affection seemed to clear to you, and yours did to him.

Charles didn’t hold your hand with any adoration. His grasp was harsh, palms roughly mashed together, no intent to keep your grip safe against his own. You were certain that if you were to let go, he wouldn’t think to remedy the situation. Your theory is proven when you gently let go, instead keeping in step, just behind his figure; Charles’ hand seems as if it’s gone into idle mode. His eyes, however, stayed alert, vigilant. Silently, the two of you pass through the paddock security, pausing every few moments for Charles to sign a cap, take a photograph with a fan.

It isn’t until you reach the outskirts of the Ferrari Building that you see her. Soft hair around her shoulders, clothing exquisite, her eyes flickering to your husband, offering him a sympathising smile.

He may have been a devoted husband towards the press, to Ferrari, even to the majority of his team. However, the moment that the cameras were turned off, microphones pushed away, he was sneaking to his mistress, one he had shamelessly invited to so many Grand Prix’s over the past nine months. She was what he wanted; a fun and fancy-free lady, rather than the wife whom stood by his side. There’s a glance between the two of them, as if a whole conversation is had in that moment.

You stay silent as you follow Charles into the Ferrari Building. Instantly, you’re overwhelmed by the welcomes that your husband obtains; so many of them pass onto you. Upon the questions of how married life is treating him, he smiles, fakes a laugh as he pulls you into his side, one hand firmly resting upon your waist.

“Married life is perfect.” He insists, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, one which you falsely giggle about, ignoring the butterflies which were nestling in the pit of your stomach. “It’s even better when she’s standing right here, beside me.”

The entirety of the room buys the staged scene, all except for two people. The first, obviously, is your father. He’s always there, watching that the driver is performing well. He knows of his affair, but in his mind, as long as the affair is kept out of the light, and his marriage was still official, their deal continued. Besides, he would speak to you both sooner rather than later upon extending the family; that would seal both of your fates towards one another. Nobody liked a husband whom left a wife and child.

The second was Carlos Sainz; the second driver for Scuderia Ferrari.

The Spaniard was all too aware of the affair between Charles and his mistress; after qualifying from Baku, Carlos had found his teammate behind the garage, his hands with a firm grip on her waist, their kisses entirely formed of tounge and teeth. The man had furiously ripped Charles from the woman, bellowing in his face about the wife he had, whilst this woman warmed his bed. A deep blush had formed over both of their cheeks, Charles explaining that you were aware of his actions.

Carlos didn’t want to believe it; he’d frantically messaged you that evening, to which you had answered his question, confirming you knew of the affair. That evening, you had revealed everything to him, watching his eyes get glossier as the cruel details were flickered in front of his eyes. It pained him; he’d cared for you since the moment you’d first stepped foot into the paddock alongside your father. His heart shattered upon finding out that you had been betroved to Charles, that he had missed his chance, all that time ago.

He waits; waits until later in the day to approach you. By this point, you had made yourself comfortable in Charles’ driver room. Of course, your husband isn’t actually there. After a brief encounter with most of the members on his team, he’d excused himself. Carlos knew that he had snuck away from the crowds adorned in red to see his mistress, likely stealing kisses and rough fumbles between one another. Whilst that was happening, you, were sat in his drivers’ room, skirts spread across the soft lounger, eyes engrossed in a book which had been enclosed in your bag alongside your sunglasses.

You were the epitome of beauty in Carlos’ eyes. He could have stood at the ajar door to the room, watching you as you engrossed yourself in the story. Instead, he offers a light cough, drawing your attention from the book in your lap. He’s engrossed by your eyes, how the light reflected off them, the glow they offered. Your smile, how you presented your real smile to him so naturally, not the one you forged next to your husband on every single encounter.

“Good morning, Carlos!” You greet him with a bright tone, standing up from your position on the couch. You offer him a hug, feeling his warm arms wrap around your waist, his breath against your face when he kisses your cheek gently. ‘In another life,’ you always tell yourself. One where you were happy, free to marry a man who would return your affection.

“Good morning, Mariposa.” The nickname rolls of his tongue; one he had presented ever since you had once showed up in the paddock, the most beautiful butterfly-imprinted dress flowing in the soft breeze of that Monaco weekend. “You’re hiding out in here today, yes?” He teases. You offer him a small shrug, eyes not able to meet those sweet brown ones of the man stood in front of you.

“Charles is…busy.” You finish the sentence abruptly. Carlos knows not to question further; the two of you have a mutual understanding as to where he would be at this point during the day; wrapped up in the arms of another woman. “He’s probably on his track walk…maybe. I’m just…keeping occupied.” You motion towards the window, looking onto the first straight of the track. “Plus…it looks windy out there.”

“Well…” Carlos invites himself into the room now, looking down at your attire, seeing that your feet were enclosed with the brilliant white trainers you’d left home in that morning. The man shrugs off his own windbreaker, holding it in his arm. “If I give you my jacket, would you like to come on my track walk?” He offers, holding out the garment to you.

You knew you would probably live to regret that moment. However, if you stayed resting in Charles’ driver room much longer, reading the same line of your book whilst your thoughts trailed away to how he would be with his mistress, you would go crazy.

“I’d love to.” You finally respond, slipping your arms through the large sleeves of Carlos’ jacket. Offering you a pat on the shoulder, he motions towards the exit of the driver’s room, determined to keep you on his side whilst walking across the track loved by fans far and wide. He hopes that everybody misses the longing gazes and soft smile on his face every time you make a comment, or your hands brush a little too closely.

Charles Leclerc is a neck kisser.

It’s not as if you would know this. The only kisses you ever had were those for show. Cold, meaningless interactions between somebody who attempted to show unconditional love and one who could dream of being anywhere else in that moment.

You’d carefully unlatched the front door of the house, your wireless earbuds resting comfortably in your ears, unable to hear any other sound apart from the music playing. Slipping off your shoes, hanging up your jacket; your only intention for the afternoon was to go through some of the notes you had made regarding education courses in the area; sitting at home day after day was truly aggravating. You couldn’t pick up yet another hobby. Maybe some form of learning would interest you.

But first, you needed a drink to cool yourself off from the sun. You’d remembered the smoothie packs you made earlier in the week; one of those and going through your notes seemed a perfect plan for the current moment.

The second you rounded the corner into the open-plan kitchen, you wished that you could have taken the scenic route home.

His mistress was sat up on the kitchen island, back straight, legs wrapped around the waist of your husband, her hands grasping at the soft curls atop of his head. Charles’ hands slid across her back, soft grunts coming from his lips, his mouth leaving open-mouthed kisses along her slender neck. She was loving it, at least, that’s what you could judge from the noises leaving her mouth.

Before either of them could clock your arrival, both too wrapped-up in their embrace, you’d stepped out of the kitchen, hand over your mouth to silence the sobs which were threatening to escape. In a moment, you’re out of the hallway, letting your feet carry you up the carpeted stairs.

The only intention now embedded in your mind was to drink so much you would forget the scene unfolding in front of your eyes.

Charles Leclerc is a slow replier.

The smell of tequila and sweat is strong in the cramped hallway of the club. It was insane to believe that less than three hours ago, you had been cocooned in your king-size duvet, lips slightly parted as you strung a meaningless thread of text messages to one another; you didn’t truly care how one of your friends felt in that moment, the heartbreak shattering in your chest was stronger than any other emotion you could begin to comprehend.

No, your sole reason for texting was to leave this god-forsaken house. You kept telling yourself not to care. Charles’ eyes were all you could think about as you picked out your shortest, slinkiest dress; one which enhanced every curve and dip in the most elegant way. Charles’ dimples were all you could think about when your attention was drawn to outlining your lips with a deep red gloss. Charles’ lips were all you could think about, your foot sliding into the black heeled shoe, your feet finding no solace in being propped up within six inches of their life.

Your friend had messaged you the location of the designated club. How anybody could enjoy one of those places sober was beyond your comprehension. Instead, you had taken the route of every other supposed being in that club; one shot of a suspicious-looking liquid had turned into sixteen – his number, you couldn’t help remembering. That was the reason you had found yourself stood motionlessly in the hallway, trying to navigate yourself back to the bar. At least seventeen wouldn’t have been tied to any other emotion.

The plan, however, was short-lived when you hear a familiar voice call your name. Turning too quickly in your ridiculous heels, you’re met with the figures of Kelly Piquet and Max Verstappen, hands linked together, clearly nowhere near as intoxicated as you were in that moment.

Kelly moves first; you had always enjoyed her presence, spending time with her around the Paddock when you were bade to attend. Penelope was one of the sweetest three-year-olds you had ever come across, always greeting you with a toothy grin and a story of her and ‘Maxie’s’ escapades. When her mother encloses you in a hug, you can feel the tears fall, your drunken façade falling immediately. The woman simply cups your hand in her face, delicately wiping the tears from your lash line, making sure to remove any heavy clumps of mascara. She asks you where Charles is, where your husband is. You can’t make any sound which you believe is cohesive, something about him being back at the house.

Max by now, has his own arm resting around your shoulder. You were Charles’ wife, after all. He knew Charles would do the same for Kelly if she was ever to be found in this state. Something strange stabs at his chest; maybe he was too protective, but he would have never of let Kelly get into this state, at least, not on her own. The driver carefully fumbles in his back pocket, unlocking his own device and filing through his contacts to phone Charles.

The phone goes straight to voicemail, not even a dialling tone. Max tries a second time, a third time. Instead, he leaves messages. How on gods earth did Charles feel relaxed, knowing his wife would be out, probably on some form of alcohol, and not think to check that she would be safe returning home? If only he knew.

The duo moves to a second plan. You needed some fresh air before they could attempt to get you into a car and take you home; standing in the corridor of a nightclub was not an ideal situation, instead moving you to the exit. Your eyes widen, looking up to Max and Kelly as if you had shrunk right down to Penelope’s age, as if they would be the saviours to get you home. By the way Max was holding you by his side and Kelly stroking your hair behind your ears, you may as well been their daughter.

Conversations are had; neither of them is sober enough to drive you home, nor do they think it’s wise to try and sneak you into their hotel room when they had already issues when checking in a little too late. Their prayers are answered when a group of men wander past, one of them stopping to smack Max, his fellow driver on the back. His dark eyes, ones you know so well, widen when he sees your figure, looking so fragile in the light of the early hours in the city.

“Mariposa.” He murmurs, running a hand across your cheek, wanting nothing more than to hold your frame against his chest. Your soft eyes meet his own dark ones, glossed in concern for how on earth you could do this to yourself. The man murmurs something to Max and Kelly, ensuring them that he’d been the sober friend out of his group; promising he would get you home himself. The duo has no reason to not trust him, both of them leaving a gentle kiss on your cheek before retiring to their own hotel.

As the couple walk away from the club, you can only feel the warmth of Carlos’ hand, still resting on your face. When he at last turns his attention back to you, he simply wraps a strong arm around your waist, supporting you to stand in those awful, heeled shoes. At the pace you’re walking back towards his car, you would get there just after the sunrise. Instead, he scroops you into his grasp.

The affection, the physical contact is all too much for you. It had been so, so long since anybody had held you, cared for you like this. Your clouded mind, now overwhelmed by warmth and alcohol allowed you to lean your head into Carlos’ sturdy chest. If you were sober, you’d be able to feel the way his heart raced when feeling you rest against him.

“Why do you do this to yourself, Mariposa?” He murmurs, settling you into the passenger seat of his car. He can’t help but remove his own jacket, wrapping the soft fabric around your arms, letting you nuzzle into the scent of his fabric softener and aftershave. Once settling himself into the driving seat, he begins the route back to the house, one hand gently resting atop of your leg, some form of comfort for the world in your mind which seemed to be caving in.

“I’d never do this to you.” He whispers, turning into the driveway that he had become accustomed to since the marriage.

Across the city, Max Verstappen is sound asleep. His phone, plugged in on the dressing table across the room buzzes once, notifying a text from his racing rival.

03:21: Charles Leclerc

Hey, sorry, was busy with something. Is everything good?

Charles Leclerc is a traveller.

You hadn’t expected anything to awaken you after the way your body had reacted to the previous night. A natural awakening, however, would have been a lot nicer than hearing the clicking sound of wheels against flooring. Whatever, whoever was outside of your room most certainly had a death wish to awaken you that morning.

It felt as if pins had been pressed into every square inch of your head, the task of even sitting up and forcing yourself towards the door of your bedroom, still dressed in your slinky garment and…somebody’s jacket? The night for you had truly ended as soon as you had that ninth shot of tequila; you thought you could remember Max and Kelly in the same location at some point, maybe that was your mind playing tricks on you, longing for people who enjoyed your company.

You were pulled back to the present when the figure of your husband appears at your doorway. He’s dressed already; loose hoodie and tracksuit bottoms cover his frame; his hand is clasping tightly onto a suitcase. There wasn’t a Grand Prix this weekend, you were certain. He would have left days ago for that. There was-

“I’m going to stay with…” He pauses, clearly trying to think of the correct way to word the fact he would be staying with his Mistress until further notice. Even in your state, you understand, simply raising your hand to stop him from speaking. You didn’t want to hear her name, you didn’t want to know that he would be spending the next nights wrapped in her arms, because for once…you didn’t care.

They say alcohol causes dangerous mistakes, but in this moment, your hangover seemed to be your best friend. Every single time, you would think later, Charles would come back from seeing her, would leave to spend an evening by her side or sneak away during your paddock appearances…and you would be focused, your sole attention being on when he would return. Now? Your sole focus was on throwing up the remains of alcohol in your stomach, placing on a facemask and ordering some kind of comfort food to your home.

You didn’t care about him, not right now. Your actions relay this, simply offering him a nod before speaking, your voice surprisingly clear for how much your throat was weeping for a drink.

“Okay.” You pause. There’s nothing left to say after that. What does he want you to do? Wish him a happy time? Charles looks equally taken aback, usually expecting some kind of warm drabble on how he needed to stay safe. In that moment, he can’t help but…want it.

“I’ll be back on Wednesday to pack for Singapore.” He pauses this time, taking in your appearance, your face so…gentle, soothing. “You’re coming, yes?” He remembers a conversation had many a time; his wife should be there to support him as much as possible, even if he wasn’t a fan of the sly ways he would have to leave her in front of his team members.

He isn’t expecting a shrug of the shoulders, bringing a hand up to rest on the door, clearly ready to close it at any given moment.

“I’m not sure.” You offer him, sighing as you begin to close the door yourself. “My father said that race isn’t a priority.” That was the last sentence you offered him before closing the door. You obviously do not see it, but on the other side of the wall, Charles stands in confusion for a full twenty seconds before snapping back to his reality, his clutch on the suitcase a little tighter as he begins his decent down the stairs, wondering where on earth he had seen that jacket you were wearing before?

Your own priorities that morning was in full swing; you had placed your phone on charge, messages beginning to thread through as you stepped into the shower, the cool water savouring your skin. A fluffy robe is tied around your waist, brushing your hair around your back whilst your attention focused on rehydrating your skin, brushing your teeth and cleaning the dirt from underneath your eyes.

The silence is strong when you walk back into your bedroom. In that moment, you opt for some music whilst changing into some comfortable loungewear, easy to roam around the house in and let your hair dry naturally. Sitting at the end of the bed, you’re able to check notifications, seeing Kelly had sent you a photo of Penelope that morning, smiling for her favourite aunt. You see your most recent text had come through from none other than Charles’ teammate, following one which had been sent early that morning.

03:45: Carlos Sainz

Sweet dreams, Mariposa. Let me know if you need anything please.

11:51: Carlos Sainz

Just seen on Twitter Charles is at the airport, he’s not off to see her, is he?

His message brings so many emotions to you, and also answers the question of who’s jacket you had been wearing that morning. Your heart can’t help but soften, knowing already that Charles is on his way to see...her. You think back to your mindset from earlier, how it was the last thing you wanted to care about. Why on earth would you care about them, when you could be focusing on ordering your favourite food and calling your nail technician to come to the house? That would make you feel better, better than he ever had.

You first drop a message to Carlos in response, wanting to let him know you had woken up from potential alcohol poisoning.

12:25: You

Yeah, he is. Didn’t seem so happy that I couldn’t care less. Thank you for the jacket last night, I hope you had a good evening.

12:28: Carlos Sainz

All the better for seeing you. Hoping the hangover isn’t too bad today.

The messages spring backwards and forwards between the two of you for the afternoon; you’re smiling whilst you go through your favourite meal, the taste of it filling your mouth in the best way possible. There’s still a smile on your face when your nail technician arrives, painting some delicate designs into your fingers and toes, subtly asking who on earth has you smiling that much.

It isn’t until that evening; you’re sat in front of the television, a series you had watched one-too many times playing, your eyes glued to the storyline as if it would change again. The notification on your phone instantly drew your attention away from the screen, looking down to see a text on your screen.

21:03: Carlos Sainz

Why don’t you come and stay in Madrid for a few days? I’m sure we could both do with the company.

Charles Leclerc is a stalker.

Well, maybe stalker was too strong of a word. However, his intentions were identical, having watched your latest Instagram story three- no, four times. Since leaving the home several days earlier, his mind could not stop thinking about the fact you truly could not care less about where he was going. This wasn’t you, was it?

He’d arrived at her house, being temporarily distracted by luring himself into her bedroom, an afternoon of escapades and touches until she had rolled onto her side, telling him she was going to shower, and he would be more than welcome to join her. Instead, he pulled out his phone, seeing if you had done your usual; texting him to check that he had arrived safely, asking when he could be coming back to the house.

There’s no messages, no notifications. Huffing to himself, Charles instead pulls up your Instagram, seeing that you had posted a new story that evening, a suitcase in hand, an emoji of an aircraft and a Spanish flag. You were off somewhere, and hadn’t told him? No, no. You always told him where you were going, you always-

“Are you not joining me, then?” Charles’ mistress’ voice suddenly draws him out of his trance, a towel wrapped around her body, hair around her shoulders. It was nowhere near as soft and as gentle as yours was, he realised in that moment. He eventually nods, pulling himself from his phone and following her into the en-suite.

He’s so…distant for the remainder of his visit. When the two of them go to a secluded spot for lunch, when they go for a drive in a car they had hired for the afternoon. When she’s lazily pressing kisses along his neck, trying to grind into his crotch, desperate for his attention. When she finally falls asleep, Charles pulls out his phone, looking through any of the photos you had posted from that day. The soft sands of the beach, a hugestrawberry ice-cream cone, a mirrored selfie of yourself in the most beautiful sundress, hair curled and clearly ready for an evening in the Spanish sun.

The routine continues, he sees your adventures, day after day. You’re touring small markets, trying local delicacies. One day, you’re simply lounging by a pool for the afternoon, a fat paperback resting on your stomach, clearly engrossed by the story which was resting on your stomach. Each time he sees a post, he can’t help but be drawn to how he wants to know how you’re doing. Maybe that’s why he drops you a text message, trying to gain some sort of traction from how you were doing.

23:54: Charles Leclerc

Are you home? I’ve got a flight tomorrow afternoon.

You don’t respond; now, your phone is at the bottom of your bag, resting on the inside cabin of Carlos’ boat. For your final day in Madrid, he had insisted on taking you for a boat ride. You’d shyly mentioned earlier in that week that Charles had never taken you on his own boat, despite the fact that you were indeed married.

The sun began to set over the rolling waves of the ocean; the boat is gently rocking, the sounds of water lapping over one another was music to your ears. You were sat at the edge of the now stilled boat, contemplating dipping your toes into the water. Your attention is so drawn to the scenery that you don’t hear him step away from the wheel, crouching next to you.

“You could just go in.” He teases, “rather than staring at the water. You know how to swim.” The taunt causes you to roll your eyes, simply looking to the Spaniard on your right-hand side.

“What? And have you speed off without me?” You retaliate, using your shoulder to nudge his body. Carlos clicks his lips together, mumbling something incoherent, before he’s suddenly scooped you up into your arms; despite your sounds of protests, he simply holds you against his chest tighter. His dark eyes flicker between yours and the ocean water below the two of you. Before you can say anything, his feet have made their own choice, jumping off the edge of the boat, both of you tumbling into the sea. Your briefly submerged entirely, before your head pops out of the waves, blindly reaching around until two strong arms encircle your waist.

Both you and Carlos laugh for a moment, in pure awe that you just did that. He moves first, one of his hands releasing from your waist, tucking a strand of wet hair behind your ear. There’s a silence between the two of you, where the only sound emitting from your surroundings is the gentle waves of the sea. In that moment, Carlos Sainz wants nothing more than to lean forward, pressing his lips to your own. They look so…soft. He craves to give them the attention they had been longing for so long. But…you’re married. And even if your marriage is loveless, to a point where your husband is openly in an affair, he would never do that to you. Instead, he settles for resting one hand on your cheek, gently kissing the top of your forehead, murmuring some Spanish wording you would never remember.

If you did understand it, however, you would have known that he said there and then that he would always be devoted to you.

Charles Leclerc is a loud shouter.

His voice seemed to travel for miles, you were almost certain the entirety of the secluded neighbourhood could hear him at this current moment. The man had returned home from his secluded stay with his mistress to an empty house; at that point, you were still in the depths of Madrid, packing up your own suitcase, wishing Carlos luck on the Singapore Grand Prix. You had intended to return to the house after Charles had left himself; the heartbreak of seeing him littered in love-bites, his eyes transfixed to his phone from her messages was too much for you.

However, if you had been at the house when he had arrived home, you would have seen his neck clear, phone shoved into his back pocket as he called out your name, wondering if you had returned home yourself. Charles notices your trainers haven’t been left on the shoe rack; there’s no music to signify your afternoon relaxation. A light knock to the door of your room signifies there’s nobody home. The house feels empty.

Maybe, Charles Leclerc was beginning to understand how you felt.

His first instinct is to message you. Surely, you would have seen his text from his previous message by now; what would it hurt to check in once more. The man feels against his rough jean pocket for the device, swiping away from the multiple notifications from his mistress, instead scrolling to your contact’s name, seeing you hadn’t been active in almost twelve hours. You hadn’t even opened his message.

His thumb hovers above the keyboard, not entirely sure what to say in this situation. Instead, he opts to call your number instead; you had always picked up to him; whenever he needed you to stay away from the house, or to remind you to be ready to leave at a certain time. The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, your voicemail comes through the speaker, signifying him that you were too busy to pick up the telephone.

Charles didn’t grow concerned during the evening; he grew angry. You were his wife. You were supposed to be at the house to greet him, to welcome him with open arms, ask about his day. Even if…even if he had chosen to ignore your welcoming’s and kind heart for over a year. The man found a distraction in going through the information that Scuderia Ferrari had sent him for his journey tomorrow, making sure his passport was in the correct place. He hadn’t needed to pack; you had made sure to do that for him before your own departure, making sure his comfortable clothes were packed and sunglasses safely secured in the pouches of the case.

It was late, late for you when the door finally opened, signalling the arrival of a second being. Charles immediately sits up from his slouched position on the couch, stepping up from the sofa, almost ready to give you a piece of his mind. Upon reaching the hallway, he sees you, slipping off your trainers, leaving the suitcase next to the front door. Even underneath your jumper, he can see your skin is glowing from the Mediterranean sun, yet your eyes are watering, tears leaking from your lower lash line.

“Where on earth have you been?” He snaps, not actually wanting to hear an answer. You open your mouth to respond, but the man cuts you off before you can speak. “I am your husband. You’re supposed to wait for me!” His temper is getting the better of him, green eyes flickering with anger.

At this point, you’re exhausted, overwhelmed from the news you had received on your drive home, and for this man to question your loyalties to your marriage? You can’t help the scoff which falls from your lips, the emotions building a little too much.

“You’re my husband?” You mock in confusion. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise my husband was around at long last, not wrapped in the arms of another woman!” Your temper flares, pushing your hair behind your shoulders, grasping the suitcase to take upstairs and repack.

“You didn’t pick up your phone once.” Charles retaliates. Oh, the cheek of-

“Like when you pick up your phone when I call?” The tears are beginning to flow freely now, wanting nothing more than to get upstairs and completely ignore what has been happening. “You don’t Charles. You’ve done nothing to show that you’re my husband in the past twelve months!” You can’t help yourself now. Instead of seeking the new suitcase, you simply turn around on the step of the front door, slipping your trainers back onto your feet.

“Where are you going?” His voice is now laced in concern; you couldn’t leave yet, surely? You’d only just returned; you wouldn’t be safe to drive in this condition. Why on earth did he care now? His question is answered, but not in the way he desired.

“Like you would care.” It’s the last thing you say before the door to the house is slammed shut.

Charles Leclerc is an investigator.

When arriving in the Ferrari Garage of Singapore, there’s already an eerie feeling through the air; there are no smiles, sympathising looks thrown towards the back end of the garage. The driver isn’t stupid, he knows something must be wrong. He’s unsure of who to ask; who would know what is going on?

His original plan was to ask Xavi, maybe during their morning briefing, until he is told that his flight has been delayed and wouldn’t be there until the late afternoon. Eventually, he spots his racing partner, nestled in the corner of the garage, his eyes flickering across his own phone screen, rapidly typing a message to somebody he would rather not admit to.

“Hey.” He speaks softly, not wanting to startle the man. Silently, Carlos looks up from his device, offering his teammate a small nod, not wanting to prolapse the eye contact for too long. Charles can sense he knows what has happened, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Why is everybody so…quiet?”

The look on Carlos’ face signifies he’s said something wrong. His eyes darken, shaking his head in disappointment rather than fury. It correlates to the kind of look his father would give him during a long talk, when he had broken something and not admitted to it. The Spaniard isn’t sure he should even tell his teammate what had happened. Instead, he changes his phone application to the Emails App, handing the device over to Charles. His eyes flicker across the screen, taking in the information.

Ferrari’s biggest benefactor, your father, would not be attending the race weekend after the untimely death of his wife. Your mother. It suddenly correlates; how the night before, you had seemed inconsolable, despite the fact you had obviously had an incredible vacation. You’d tried to simply walk away, to let yourself grieve without bothering him. Instead, you had found comfort in Carlos as he had driven you to the airport, whispering sweet words of comfort, promising that everything was going to be okay.

Charles feels his blood run cold, he feels sick. The look on the man stood in front of him tells him enough; he had made the biggest mistake of his life. Murmuring an excuse, he leaves the garage, stepping to the secluded back area, the realisation that he is everything his mother never wanted him to be, hitting hard. He still had the ability to run to her, to ask for her advice. You didn’t have that anymore. You didn’t have anybody, least of all your husband.

The first thing he does in that moment, is pull out his phone, scrolling to the contact of his mistress.

10:09: Charles Leclerc

We need to talk.

Charles Leclerc is a phone call away.

The past day had been filled of tears, clinging to your father, to your younger siblings, to your elder cousins. How on earth your mother had left this world early was beyond you. It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair. Your mother was the one whom had been your rock for the past miserable year of your marriage. If not for her, you were almost certain that you would have thrown your silvery key to the house down a drain so long ago.

Without her guidance, without her tutoring, you felt like bird trying to fly individually for the first time; surrounded by fears and almost certain you’d fall into compromising position.

You hadn’t rested. Not since you had arrived at the bleak family home. As customed, every curtain was drawn close, doors to each room sealed, no natural light emitting to the large house, making every shadow and crook of the building seem more terrifying. Eventually, your father had retired to his own bedroom, your younger siblings tucked into their beds, butterfly kisses pressed against their foreheads, a silent promise you were only down the hall if they so desired you.

The bedroom you had grown up in remained almost identical to the one you had painted in your mind; pale pink wallpaper, a luxury bed lined with a rosebud-patterned quilt set. The vanity you had last used to get ready on your wedding day remained pristine, the perfumes and scents which had been your favourite still sitting atop of your shelf. And the photographs. A polaroid of your two closest friends from your childhood; one of your sisters on her christening day, the entire family dressed so elegantly; Charles is in that photograph, off to the side alongside his brothers; you had no idea there and then that boy with the ocean eyes would become your estranged husband.

You could have continued going down memory lane, if not from the buzzing which was coming from your bed. The phone you had carelessly thrown atop of the blankets when first entering the room had finally got some service, a thread of text messages and missed phone calls beginning to filter through. Silently, you take a seat on the edge of your bed, eyes flickering across each message. Some are from members of the Ferrari team, others from family members you hadn’t heard from in what felt like centuries.

There’s one. One from the man whom you had spent the previous week with. The one who had consoled you whilst travelling to the family home. Your husband’s teammate.

23:05: Carlos Sainz

Mariposa, please let me know how you are doing. I’m so worried about you. Let me know if you need anything at all.

23:31: You

Thank you, C. I should be heading home tomorrow, with a bit of luck I’ll be able to swing by and say hello.

You hadn’t expected anything else that evening. You were settled, ready to focus on yourself for the remainder of the evening; in your eyes, there was a high likelihood that your siblings would be burrowing into your blankets later. Once dressed in nightwear, the makeup that had stained your cheeks removed, you noticed the soft glow of your phone screen. Another message had just been received, and in your wildest dreams, you could not have imagined whom it was from.

00:24: Charles Leclerc

I heard about your mother this afternoon; I am truly so, so sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there is anything I can do. I mean it.

Your eyes had barely had time to view the message which had just been received, before your phone screen changes, taking the message away from your sight. The message thread is replaced by a photograph of your husband, his name lighting up on you phone screen. You don’t even think; instead, your thumb swipes across the screen, pressing the green button and holding the device to your ear.

“Charles.” You speak one word, hearing your husband visibly relax on the other end of the line. You realise it’s the first time you’ve said anything coherent in hours; the tone of your voices echoes around the room. Did you always sound that sad when you spoke to him?

“Hey.” He isn’t too sure what he wants to say; the lack of conversation between the two of you means he isn’t aware if there are any boundaries, anything you wouldn’t discuss with him. No, he just wanted to speak to you, to check in. In reality, he had realised how lonely the house was as an individual. His mistress was gone from his contacts, not inviting her around to fill the void had made him realise how you had felt for oh-so-long.

“How…” He pauses, not sure on how to finish his question. He doesn’t need to, because despite the lack of understanding of one another, you know he’s trying, trying to make you feel better.

“I’m…yeah.” You can’t find the correct words to say; ‘sad’ is an understatement, ‘fine’ is a rude response. Neither of you can find the words, but in that moment, you crave somebody who isn’t mourning the loss of your mother as heavily as you are.

“We have some new neighbours.” He’s trying to find anything to create some conversation. It’s almost as if he knows the quiet of the room is making you feel uncomfortable. “They left us an invitation to join them for a tennis session- not that I’m any good.” He laughs to himself, remembering the previous time he’d attended a tennis game alongside his fellow drivers; he’d had to step out after a few minutes, completely terrified he would end up breaking his hand.

He doesn’t hear anything from the other side of the line but continues to talk. “Are you…” He catches himself for a moment. “Are you coming back soon?” His voice turns into barely a whisper, as if saying the wrong thing will cause you to hang up immediately. He doesn’t hear anything for a moment, taking a gentle sigh and awaiting your response.

“Yeah.” You pause. Are you doing this? Are you having a conversation with your husband? “I’m going to fly home tomorrow afternoon. I think my father wants space.” Your sentence closes, looking around your room. The silence is deathly; in that moment, you don’t care about everything that’s happened. All you want is for somebody to hold you in their arms and tell you it would be okay.

“I’ll come and get you.” Charles has spoken before his mouth has had time to catch his brain. Your eyebrows quirk in confusion. The only time your estranged husband ever drove you himself was on your endless journeys to races; you would sit silently, curled away from his figure, eyes transfixed as the world passed by around you. The man not only offering but wanting to pick you up from the airport was a new-found curiosity.

“It’s okay.” You don’t let him continue. If previous standings have taught you anything, it’s that behind those mesmerising eyes cannot be trusted. You knew the secrets that lied beyond the ocean settled in his eye. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt you.” Part of your heart is craving to bring up his mistress; how she would probably be warming his bed in the current moment, walking around the house which you ached to find comfort in.

“You wouldn’t.” Charles is quick to respond; in his heart of heart, he knows getting you to trust him again would be a monumental task. He’d do anything to prove he would be the husband who would look after you. Who would love you unconditionally; the husband you deserved.

“I’ll let you know when I’ve landed, okay?” It’s your final compromise. The woman whom you had been twelve months ago would love nothing more than to run into Charles’ arms; whether he cared for you the way you did; you would always desire his attention and affection. You’d had to learn through the months that some of life’s biggest temptations had to remain untouched.

Charles Leclerc is your husband.

Landing back in the country was almost eerie; despite being away for only a miniscule amount of time, you felt changed; changed by the loss of your closest companion, changed by the fact your husband had been the one to call you, and not to throw some crazy request down the telephone line.

Arrivals, as always, were completely smothered; couples reuniting, children screaming at the sudden change of scenery. After obtaining your own bag, your eyes flicker through the never-ending crowds, desperate to find some recognition.

Standing apart from the crowd, looking effortlessly rugged in his athletic shorts and hoodie, hair pushed underneath a snapback. His eyes are trained on you, as if he had sensed your presence into the room in less than a moment. The breath catches in the back of your dried throat, a pair of eyes that you trusted undoubtedly. Stumbling, your feet carry you over to the arms of your favourite Spaniard, your head instantly finding solace in the joint between his shoulder and neck, the cologne you were used to from his attendances around the paddock creating a cloud of comfort.

Carlos’ hands effortlessly lock around your torso, pulling you tighter into his chest, one palm rubbing up and down your back. It was the first time, the first time in a long time that anybody had offered you this sort of affection. Mindlessly, the soft tears begin to pool at the bottom of your lash line. Soft snuffles emitting from your lips cause the man to hush you gently, pulling your face away from his body, cradling your head between his larger hands.

He mumbles something quietly, something about taking you back to the house. If it was him, the man would bundle you into his car and drive to his own home. He’d nestle you under his bedroom blankets, dress you in one of his hoodies. Instead, his rough palm finds your soft fingers, intertwining your hands together. Carlos takes your suitcase in his free hand, guiding you to his car parked outside of the airport.

Not much is said during the shortening journey back to the house; the tears glossing your eyes reflect the streetlights, transfixed on the roads which you had left for a few short days. The tears will continue to fall; her loss had taken a part of you that you would you never thought would return. The man to your right, eyes focused on the road can sense your heartbreak. He doesn’t wait to push you; he had spoken to you shortly after the news had originally broken, in that conversation, you had barely been able to say ten words before your voice cracked. Instead, Carlos rests a warm hand on your leg, a silent promise that he will be there no matter what.

The journey feels too short; eventually the driveway to the house rolls into sight, Carlos slowing down the car. When it comes to a halt, he steps out immediately, obtaining your suitcase from the rear of the car, placing it down on the wheels. By this point, you’d wiggled from the seat, ready to wheel your case into the house. However, before you can move, his arms engulf you once more, clinging so tightly, your feet began to lift from the floor. You had clung back just as tight, pressing a kiss to his stubbled cheek; a silent ‘Thank you,’ for everything.

The embrace ended, Carlos awaiting until the door had unlocked, nodding when he saw you safely enter the house. The building is practically silent; no television sounds, no gentle music, not even the whirr of Charles’ simulator in his downstairs office. Ears pricked, you could hear the jets of a shower from upstairs, the assumption that he must have been in the shower. Paranoia threads your mind, she wouldn’t be showering alongside, would she?

You don’t let your mind wander; instead, you focus on lugging the suitcase along the staircase, silently glad you had gotten further with it since your trip to Madrid. Beelining towards your room, the suitcase rolls behind you, resting it in the corner of the room, a silent promise you’d wash everything tomorrow. However, a delicate bouquet of soft, pink and fresh flowers decorated the vanity of the room; you knew you hadn’t bought flowers since Madrid, and these…They looked as if they’d been placed mere minutes ago.

Overthinking had always been dangerous; instead, you keep yourself busy, wiggling your skincare bag from the suitcase, padding into your bathroom with that and a fresh set of long pyjamas; the late-night breeze had begun to tickle your skin since removing yourself from Carlos’ warm arms. The relish indulges your body, shampoo trickling through your hair, body wash bubbles tickling your body. You’d stepped out a few moments later, changing into the soft clothing, sitting in front of the mirror, brushing your hair out as carefully as you could have.

Silently, your feet carry you from the en-suite towards the main bedroom. Standing at the head of the doorway, is none other than your husband, hair own hair damp from his shower, dressed in soft tracksuit bottoms and a tight tee-shirt. He’d seen your suitcase nestling in the corner of your bedroom, your phone had rumpled the blankets of your bed. Charles had been the one to hear the shower this time, deciding to wait, just to see your soft eyes.

They’re bloodshot; you look so…frail. The years of heartbreak littered across your face. Charles’ heart practically breaks; before you can say a word, he’s across the room, arms pulling around your torso, pulling your head under his chest. Your instinct tells you to fight it, why on earth would you accept some form of affection from a husband who had openly destined you for so long?

And yet, you subcome to his affection, hesitantly holding your own arms to his chest. His scent, his warmth.You felt as if you were dreaming, eyes wet from the overwhelming care, feeling gentle kisses press to the top of your head.

You don’t remember when Charles scooped you to his chest, tucking you into your fresh blankets before nestling in behind you himself. You remind yourself; this is a one-off. You’re almost certain that by tomorrow, he’ll be back in the arms of his mistress, your moment tonight will be an absent moment to your husband. You’ll take it; if it’s one night in his arms, feeling his breath against the back of your neck, tip of his nose pressing into your back, one hand pressed against your stomach in comfort, you’ll take it.

Some point during the night, your phone buzzes, the sound barely audible on the blankets of your bed. You groan slightly, the bubble of yourself and Charles giving you a true form of sanctuary, a true form of home. Curiosity in the night takes the better of you, lifting the dying device to your eyes, slightly blinded by the glow of the screen.

Despite being wrapped in the arms of your husband; you can feel your blood turn cold when you read the one sentence which had been left for you to find.

01:46: Carlos Sainz

I’m in love with you.

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scoonsalicious · 1 month

Text

Unwanted: Chapter 11, Unsure - Pt. 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, Pocket not knowing how to navigate her emotions

Word Count: 1.9k

Previously On...: Jade just had to rub it in that she not only hears you and Bucky fighting about her, but that it brings her joy. So, you had to make sure you fucked your boyfriend extra loud.

A/N: My mom is coming up to visit after I get out of work today, so obviously, I cannot post while she is around (the contents of this story would stop her super-Catholic heart or, at the very least, have her send me out for an exorcism), so I'm scheduling this update.

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Please let me know if you’d like to be added!) @jmeelee @cazellen @blackhawkfanatic @les-sel @marcswife21 @buckybarnessimpp @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @erelierraceala @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @jupiter-107 @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @crist1216 @vicmc624 @sashaisready @j23r23 @wintercrows

Over the next few weeks, things between you and Bucky were technically better, in the sense that you hadn’t argued again, and he didn’t mention Jade to you, or answer her calls or texts in your presence, but they were so much worse in that she was taking up more of his time than ever before, and you saw each other less and less. You tried to rationalize it by telling yourself that the amount of time the two of you had spent together at the beginning of your relationship had been abnormal– nearly constant– and that the current situation was more on par with what regular couples experienced, but the truth of the matter was that you felt yourself pulling away from him, building a wall around your heart to protect yourself from what you saw as the inevitable heartache Bucky was going to inflict upon you.

He’d been right– you had been going around in circles, and every time you thought you’d made some progress, another event would transpire that would just end up leaving you feeling worse. Yes, he always had the sweetest words to say to you to bring you down from your anger, but at what point did they go from being the actual truth to just being something said just to placate you? More and more, you found yourself questioning the difference between the two, and as a result, your walls were going back up with a vengeance.

If he noticed, though, he didn’t say anything. He was preoccupied with preparing Jade for her first mission. She’d be going off to Malaysia with Sam and Rhodey (you may have begged Tony to ensure she was never partnered with either you or Bucky, and bless that man and his affection for you, he’d been more than willing to comply), and Bucky was working overtime to make sure she was ready.

And perhaps a small part of you was hoping she’d go MIA in the jungle. Not that you’d ever admit it out loud to anyone but FRIDAY.

The day before she was scheduled to depart, you were lounging on your couch, working on your laptop. Your crisis prediction algorithm project was finally ready, and you were putting the finishing touches on the presentation you were scheduled to give to the board in less than two weeks time. You were just adding some graphics when Bucky came in the door.

“You haven’t started getting ready yet?” he asked, kissing the crown of your head by way of greeting. He looked exceptionally handsome in a pair of tight black jeans and black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

You looked up at him in confusion. “Ready for what?” you asked, taking off your glasses and rubbing the bridge of your nose.

“Gino’s,” he said, as if that would clear it up. At your blank look, he prompted: “Vix’s first mission is tomorrow. We’re all going down to Gino’s for drinks. Come on, Pocket. I told you about this days ago.”

You scoffed at him. “You most certainly did not. I would have remembered because I would have laughed at you and said ‘hard pass.’”

Bucky rubbed his eyes. “Okay, maybe it slipped my mind, and I’m sorry for that, but you should have known. It’s tradition.”

“Tradition?” you asked him, surprised to find that the anger you had expected to feel, that you should have felt, just wasn’t coming. Instead, you were just sad. “There’s no tradition.”

“What are you talking about? We all went before my first mission.”

You closed your laptop and put it down on the coffee table before standing up to face him with a sigh. “Buck, that was something I did, just for you, because I wanted to. Because you were my best friend. I wanted you to have a night of fun before you went out, because I didn’t know what sort of shit you were going to see, or have to do, on that mission. I wanted to give you something good to hold on to.”

Bucky’s face softened at your words and he embraced you, holding you close. “God,” he said, rubbing his nose into your hair, “I had no idea. I’m the fucking luckiest man alive, you know that? To have a girl as special as you care so much about me. You’re more than I deserve, doll.”

A tiny voice in the back of your mind couldn’t help but think Maybe I am. You crushed the thought as soon as it came. You loved him, you truly did. He just… frustrated you a lot recently. Jade’s probationary period was going to be over soon, and you were hopeful that she wouldn’t get the votes to stay in. You knew that, despite the initial warm reception she’d received, she’d ended up rubbing almost everyone the wrong way with her attitude. You’d even heard Sam and Clint complaining about Jade refusing to participate when it was her turn for training room clean-up because ‘shouldn’t Stark have people for that?’.

It seemed like everyone was finally seeing what kind of person she really was. Well, everyone except for Bucky, anyway.

“So,” he said after a moment, “you gonna come?”

You thought about it for a second. A part of you was completely against the idea, not wanting the gesture you’d made for Bucky all those months ago to be tainted knowing he was making it now for her, but the prevailing part of you wasn’t about to offer Jade the opportunity of a night of drinking with Bucky, outside of your presence, on a silver platter. It concerned you that you were more motivated by thwarting any designs Jade might have than you were with spending time with your boyfriend, though. You tried to push your petty thoughts aside.

“Yeah,” you said, looking up into his eyes and allowing yourself to fall into them. God, they were beautiful. He was beautiful, inside and out. You needed to keep reminding yourself of that, of all the reasons you fell in love with him in the first place, and there were so, so many. “How much time do I have?” you asked.

Bucky pulled out his phone and glanced at the time. “About fifteen minutes,” he said.

“Fifteen minutes!” you shrieked, pulling away from him and heading over to your vanity. “Jesus, Buck! Give a girl some warning! It’s gonna take me twice that long just to do my hair and makeup!” You began pulling out all the accouterments you were going to need to prepare yourself.

Bucky came to stand behind you, wrapping his hands around your waist as he looked at you in the mirror. “You don’t need any of that stuff, doll,” he said, kissing your cheek. “You’re already going to be the sexiest girl there, but I’m not gonna complain about sitting around if you want to get even sexier.”

You smiled at Bucky through the mirror, and it felt like the first genuine smile you’d given him in ages. “That’s sweet of you, baby,” you said as you started putting on your moisturizer, “but I don’t want to make you late on my account.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing you for any trace of annoyance or anger in your words. Not finding any, he asked: “Are you sure, sweets? I don’t mind waiting for you.”

You nodded, moving on to fill in your eyebrows. “It’s fine, Buck. Go. I’ll meet up with you as soon as I’m ready.”

He lingered for several long moments, watching as you continued your makeup routine. You noticed him staring and paused contouring to turn to him. “What?” you asked with a small smile, expecting him to make some kind of comment about modern girls and all their makeup.

“Nothing,” he said, though there was a hint of sadness in his gaze. “You just seem… different, that’s all.”

You laughed. “You’ve seen me contour my face plenty of times, Buck. I swear, it’ll look great once I blend it out.”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head, “that’s not what I meant. You just seem… nevermind, it’s nothing.”

Shit. He could feel the distance you’d been building between the two of you. You didn’t want it to be there; you truly didn’t. You simply didn’t know how else to protect yourself. Closing yourself off had been your tried and true defense mechanism since you were eleven years old.

Making a vow to yourself to get back to where you once were, back to him, you turned around, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Hey,” you said, kissing him softly, “I love you. So much.” You needed to reassure him, to reassure both of you, of the truth of it.

“Love you, too, sweets,” he said warmly, not letting go of you. You let him hold you, relishing in the feel of him in a way you hadn’t let yourself experience in a bit. Unfortunately, the moment was interrupted by the buzzing of his phone, indicating he had a text. You pulled away and turned back to the mirror.

“What’s Jade need now?” you asked, feeling the wall building itself back up. There was no anger in your voice, just a kind of resigned acceptance. You glanced up from blending your contour as Bucky checked the screen, a look of annoyance crossing his face as he read her text.

“She wants to know if I can drive her to Gino’s on my bike,” he said. The way he looked back at you in the mirror almost made you feel ill, as though he were preparing for you to blow up at him. You felt the walls go higher around your heart.

“Well, you better head out then,” you said, focusing on your makeup. “Don’t want her being late for her own party.”

Bucky opened his mouth and then closed it again, as though not sure how to respond to you. Eventually, he said “It’s fine. Tony’s providing cars; she can hitch a ride with everyone else.”

“And deprive her the opportunity to wrap her arms around you?” you laughed. “Come on, Buck, you’re supposed to be giving her a night of good memories here. Don’t disappoint the girl.”

His brow furrowed at your words. In a single step, he was beside you, taking the contouring brush from your hand and turning your shoulders so you were facing him. “Pocket,” he said, licking his lips, “are we… are we okay?”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “Of course,” you said, taking the brush back from him and moving on to your bronzer and blush. “Why wouldn’t we be okay?”

“You’re just… you seem to be awfully relaxed about the idea of her being on the back of my bike.”

You arched a brow and looked over at him. “Should I not be?” you asked. “Is there a reason for me to be bothered by it?”

Bucky spluttered. “No! Of course not! It’s just…”

“Then I don’t understand what the problem is, Bucky,” you said, getting back to work on your face. His phone buzzed again. “You better go. Sounds like your ‘work wife’ is getting impatient.”

“My work wife? Doll, I don’t… I can’t…” he stammered, at a loss for words.

“Buck,” you said, patting his arm before applying your lip gloss, “it’s fine. Go give Jade a ride. I don’t care, honestly.”

“You… don’t care?” he asked slowly.

“Nope,” you popped the ‘p’ with your lips. “I really don’t.”

Bucky muttered his goodbyes, promising to see you at the party. As soon as he closed the door behind him, you closed your eyes, gripping the backrest of your vanity chair until your knuckles were white, your fingernails digging crescents into the palms of your hands.

You might have been able to lie to Bucky, but you couldn’t lie to yourself. You did care. You still cared very, very much.

<- Previous Chapter / Next Part ->

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #mcu bucky barnes #james barnes

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eco-lite · 6 months

Text

Finally making more progress on the pile of ST books I own but have yet to read. Here’s some good stuff from The Vulcan Academy Murders by Jean Lorrah.

[Image ID: The cover of the book The Vulcan Academy Murders. The background has lots of dark purple tones. In the foreground, Spock stands with a phaser pointed at a Vulcan creature with green skin, a cat-like face, a fin down its back, sharp claws, and a long tail. The creature is hissing down at Spock from a rock. End ID]

First of all, what is going on with this cover? Nothing like this happens in the book.

[Text ID: “Kirk recalled that all male Vulcans were married—had to be—and glanced at Spock. His First Officer, however, was very busy inspecting the almost un-touched wine in his glass.” End ID]

Interesting interesting. 👀

[Text ID: “Kirk had been given Spock’s room (underlined red by me) and McCoy the guest room in Sarek’s house—a house far from anything Kirk would ever have imagined as the home Spock had grown up in. He had envisioned either a sterile, unadorned ‘environment,’ or a castlelike ancestral residence. Instead, the house on the outskirts of ShiKahr was a simple single-family dwelling.” End ID]

This book is way too casual about Kirk sleeping in Spock’s childhood bedroom. Also, there’s no mention of where Spock is sleeping while they’re there???

[Text ID: “He remembered forcing Spock to control his emotions when he was five, and his schoolfellows taunted him for being ‘different.’ Under his father’s tutelage, Spock had refused to cry when the others shut him out of their games, calling him ‘Earther’ and ‘half-breed.’ Amanda had hidden her tears from their son, and Sarek had hidden his anger. Or had he? Perhaps I directed it at my son instead, he realized. He had intended to prepare Spock for whatever lack of acceptance he would face in life. And the message Spock received was that his own father did not accept him as he was, had to mold him into something he deemed acceptable.” End ID]

We love reflecting on our past mistakes. 👏🏼 We love character growth. 👏🏼

[Text ID: “’A computer cannot lie,’ said Spock. ‘Nevertheless, this one is giving false information.’ ‘Why don’t you try playing chess with it?’ came a voice from the doorway. Sarek turned to find Leonard McCoy, bouncing on his toes and grinning.” End ID]

I love them. I can picture this so perfectly.

[Text ID: “’What dost thou know of Surak?’ she asked finally—but her voice spoke more of perplexity than challenge. ‘What everyone knows: he was the founder of Vulcan philosophy. I know he is a personal hero to my friend Spock, the way Abraham Lincoln, from human history, is to me.’” End ID]

Kirk will bring up Abe Lincoln whenever he has a chance. That’s canon now.

[Text ID: “’You are not only anything, Spock. You are more, not less, because of your dual heritage. It is fruitless to wish now that I had made that clearer to you when you were a child.’ ‘You wanted me to be Vulcan.’ ‘That is true,’ Sarek agreed. ‘And you are Vulcan, representative of IDIC in its fullest sense.’ Spock studied his father. ‘You never put it to me that way. The last time you and I spoke as father and son, before I went to Starfleet Academy, you reminded me of how important it was that I think of myself as Vulcan. Do you remember your words, father?’ Sarek remembered. ‘I am Vulcan by birth. Your mother is Vulcan by choice. You are Vulcan by both birth and choice.’ ‘And then I disappointed you by making a different choice.’ Sarek searched his memory, trying to recover the logical reason for what now seemed completely irrational. Finally, he said simply, ‘I was wrong.’” End ID]

Yes! Let’s talk about our feelings! Let’s resolve those daddy issues!

[Text ID: “He went back to his room—Spock’s room, really. Kirk had brought with him a sturdy suit and boots, for Spock had suggested they might go camping in the mountains after the summer heat abated. (Last sentence underlined in red by me.) He put on the boots and the trousers to the suit, but decided the heavy shirt would be far too hot—" End ID]

Spock wanted to take them camping. 🥹

[Text ID: “‘He will recover, though?’ asked Spock. ‘Yeah—you can see him later, Spock,’ said the doctor. ‘He’s gonna be in considerable pain—you’re probably the only person he’ll be able to stand. Your son would’ve made a good doctor,’ he added to Sarek. ‘I don’t know how he does it, but he’s really good with people in pain.’ Spock’s eyebrows shot up at the unexpected compliment from the man Sarek usually saw him trade barbs with. Then Leonard left them to go back to his patient, and Spock turned to Sarek. ‘May I ask you something, Father?’ ‘What is it, Spock?’ ‘When Mother became conscious, you called her…?’ ‘Beloved.’” End ID]

Spock being very concerned about Kirk’s injuries. Bones saying Spock is the only person Kirk would tolerate while in pain. Spock asking his father about expressing love for an outworlder. It’s a lot.

#the vulcan academy murders #jean lorrah #star trek #star trek novels #star trek tos #star trek books #spirk

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gffa · 2 years

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THIS IS EVERY INSTANCE WHERE THE JEDI TALK ABOUT ATTACHMENT IN THE MOVIES AND TV SERIES, which paint a very clear, consistent picture of just what attachment meants within the Jedi Order and Star Wars itself. It’s about how attachment isn’t the same thing as love or connection or feelings, but specifically about the inability to let go of someone when its time, that the fear of their loss is so great you would give up a thousand lives to save just the one because you cannot live without them, because you are afraid. George Lucas has been very consistently, explicitly clear about this as well, that attachment is always tied possession, fear, greed, the desire to control people, the dark side, and the inability to accept that life is transitory, that you can’t hold on to people, you can’t keep them, you can’t possess them. Attachment is fear, greed, the willingness to make a deal with the devil to save one person, no matter how many other lives it costs. But, setting aside word of god commentary, the above is still the way the term is used within the text itself. That doesn’t mean it’s not difficult! Feelings are complicated, messy things and it’s not that any personal desire is attachment, it’s not that moments of fear are the same as attachment, it’s the willingness to act on those feelings in ways that get a lot of people hurt, it’s about using the Force for selfish desires, because the Force is your emotions, if you do something for a selfish reason, if you do something based on fear, that is a step towards the dark side. Context for each of the scenes: Star Wars: Attack of the Clones: “Attachment is forbidden. Possession is forbidden. Compassion, which I would define as unconditional love, is central to a Jedi’s life.” Anakin is explaining basic Jedi worldbuilding to Padme and the audience, he directly ties attachment to possession (as Lucas says, this is about wanting to possess a person: “[Jedi Knights] do not grow attachments, because attachment is a path to the dark side. You can love people, but you can’t want to possess them.“), instead explaining to her that compassion is central to their lives. Star Wars: The Clone Wars - "Downfall of a Droid”: “I could take a squad out there, track him down.” "Anakin, it's only a droid. You know attachment is not acceptable for a Jedi." The context of this scene is that Anakin is willing to not only put his own life on the line, but that he would put the clones’ lives and Ahsoka’s life on the line, in the middle of a war where they’re facing a weapon that is killing them in droves, to go find his droid. This is the only time that Obi-Wan objects to Anakin’s affection for the droid throughout the entire series, when it’s about risking others’ lives to save Anakin’s favorite droid. Any other time Anakin favors Artoo, Obi-Wan just reacts with fond annoyance. Star Wars: The Clone Wars - "Jedi Crash”: "I can still sense your worry for Anakin, your attachment to him." "It's just... I get so confused sometimes. It's forbidden for Jedi to form attachments, yet we are supposed to be compassionate." "It is nothing to be ashamed of, Ahsoka. I went through the same process when I was your age with my own master." "You were right all along, Master Secura." "About what?" "If I had stayed with Anakin, we probably wouldn't have found this village in time to save him." The context here is that Ahsoka’s desire to stay with Anakin would have potentially cost all of them their lives, because she couldn’t do anything more for him other than worry over him, but they needed to find help because he was going to die without it. Ahsoka’s desire to be compassionate to her master is conflicting with her duty to help in a way that takes her away from him, and this is something young Jedi have to find the balance of, and that’s what the show is explaining to the audience. It’s not always an easy path to find, sometimes Jedi are going to struggle with it, but Aayla was right and Ahsoka understands that at the end, along with the audience, that staying with him out of Ahsoka’s personal desire to do so against her duty to go get help, would have cost Anakin his life. Star Wars: The Clone Wars - "Brain Invaders”: “Ahsoka, it's your duty to save as many lives as you can. Barriss knew you could save thousands if the worms were destroyed. Which she thought meant destroying her, too. But you did the right thing. You knew the freezing cold would kill the worms. Letting go of our attachments is a difficult struggle for all of us.“ Barriss posed a very explicit danger to anyone she would come across, just as the clones had infected other clones and then Barriss herself, she would go on to do the same. While Ahsoka found a way around it this time, the conflict here is that Ahsoka was weighing her personal desire to not have her friend die versus the thousands of people her friend might go on to hurt. Attachment isn’t just that Ahsoka cared about Barriss, but that conflict of saving her life at the cost of others’ lives, because Ahsoka herself wanted it, because she was afraid to live without her friend. The opening title card quote for this episode is, “Attachment is not compassion.” Star Wars: The Clone Wars - "Voyage of Temptation”: "My duty as a Jedi demanded I be elsewhere." "Demanded? But it's obvious you had feelings for her. Surely that would affect your decision." "It did. I live by the Jedi Code." "Of course. As Master Yoda says: 'A Jedi must not form attachments.'" Letting go of attachments isn’t easy, there’s sadness and remorse in it often times! But the scene here is once again that Obi-Wan is telling Anakin that his duty asked him to be elsewhere and that’s when the conflict between his desire to stay for his own reasons and his duty as a Jedi made it an issue. Up to that point, we’re given no indication that it was any kind of issue (and in a later episode we’re told romantic feelings are natural according to the Jedi, they’re not forbidden), we see Jedi caring deeply about their friends and Masters and Padawans, it’s only when they’re willing to abandon their duty to save lives, the lives that are depending on them, that it becomes an issue. Had Obi-Wan been willing to let those people’s lives be in danger because he personally was unwilling to give up being with Satine, then that is what the problem would have been. Star Wars: The Clone Wars - "The Rise of Clovis”: "You’ve met Satine. You know I once harbored feelings for her. It’s not that we’re not allowed to have these feelings. It’s natural." In this scene, it’s just after Anakin has beaten the crap out of Rush Clovis because he saw him kissing Padme and lost control, that it wasn’t about defending Padme, it was about his jealousy, even after the dust settles, he still believes she has feelings for Clovis. Anakin’s inability to trust her and his possessive jealousy are at a boiling point, he is unable to see her clearly, he is sliding into fearful, angry possession of her, which is when Obi-Wan comes to talk to him. In contrast, in “A Distant Echo”, Obi-Wan makes it clear he knows about Anakin and Padme, (”I hope you at least told Padme I said hello.”) but there’s no conversation about getting himself under control because Anakin is no longer at a boiling point with his feelings. The Jedi don’t forbid feelings, not even romantic feelings, while they do forbid attachment. They cannot be the same thing. (Though, they do say you can’t be in a committed relationship and be a Jedi, but that’s not the same thing.) Star Wars: The Clone Wars - "Front Runners”: “Ahsoka, remember what I told you about staying focused.” “I can't help it, Master.” “I understand.” “You do?” “I do. But try to remember, always put purpose ahead of your feelings.“ This instance doesn’t directly mention the word attachment, but it’s same the context--Anakin’s advice is in line with everything else we see in the series, that it’s not that Ahsoka’s feelings are an issue, but that she can’t let them cloud her judgement, because the people of Onderon’s lives are on the line here. It’s the same as how Obi-Wan’s feelings for Satine weren’t an issue until there was a conflict with his duty, just as Anakin’s feelings for Padme in Attack of the Clones weren’t an issue, Obi-Wan saw them quite clearly, until they were in conflict with Anakin’s duty. Star Wars: The Clone Wars - "The Jedi Who Knew Too Much”: “Every time I think about this, I feel conflicted. It's hard not to let feelings turn into attachment and pain.“ In this scene is that, with so many Jedi dying and the war being so hard on them, there’s a lot of fear and anger that they have to let go of, that Ahsoka and Barriss are coming back from a funeral for several Jedi and it’s a painful moment. Ahsoka compares it to the Brain Invaders storyline, “Like, when we were stuck inside the battle tank on Geonosis, it was hard not to be afraid. Still, you and I got past it. And I guess we'll get past this.” The concept of attachment is again directly tied to fear and pain and suffering, that the solution (the one Anakin teaches her, that Ahsoka says he would say, “Our struggle as Jedi is to move past [these feelings of anger and fear].“) is to let go of them, to move past them--which is something Lucas has said multiple times is the theme of his movies. "[The Jedi] trained more than anything else to understand the transitional nature of life, that things are constantly changing and you can’t hold on to anything. You can love things but you can’t be attached to them, You must be willing to let the flow of life and the flow of the Force move through your life, move through you. So that you can be compassionate and loving and caring, but not be possessive and grabbing and holding on to things and trying to keep things the way they are. Letting go is the central theme of the film.“ --George Lucas, Star Wars Archives 1999-2005 “The key to the dark side is fear. You must be clean of fear, and fear of loss is the greatest fear. If you’re set up for fear of loss, you will do anything to keep that loss from happening, and you’re going to end up in the dark side. That’s the basic premise of Star Wars and the Jedi, and how it works.“ --George Lucas, Star Wars Archives 1999-2005 Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith: “Attachment leads to jealousy, the shadow of greed, that is.“ This is a scene where Anakin has become so afraid of losing Padme that he’s starting to go off the deep end about it, he’s butting up against his willingness to make a deal with the devil to save her from something he doesn’t even know for sure is going to happen. The story of Revenge of the Sith is that Anakin is so afraid to lose her that he will murder not just the adult Jedi and help Sidious create an Empire, but he will murder literal toddlers to save the person he wants to save. It is the very definition of attachment, of greed and fear. The above are every time that “attachment” is mentioned by a Jedi in the movies and the TV series, this is the entire context for what it means to the Jedi and to Star Wars. Does the term have other meanings in popular lexicon? Sure, but this one is closer to the Buddhist meaning and the way the characters speak of it, the context of their scenes and when they talk about it, the events that surround it, are all consistent with that attachment means a specific thing, that it’s synonymous with the fear of losing someone, so intense that you’re willing to sacrifice a thousand lives just to hold onto the one person. Attachment isn’t just harmful for the person who can’t let go, it’s something that costs thousands of people their lives. And the Jedi only bring it up in that context, when it’s about the conflict of their personal desires against people who are depending on them, we see that otherwise personal desires and relationships aren’t commented on. It’s only when a Jedi is willing to let people get hurt for their own desires that the Jedi talk about attachment.

#obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #padme amidala #yoda #ahsoka tano #aayla secura #jedi order #george lucas #attachment #meta #long post

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tiny-sassy-aggressive · 4 months

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I am living blogging my reaction to the second watch through of WDAPTEO 4 bc the first run through was so much

00:00- I screamed when I saw the notif. I was alone in the car. Just pulled up to my apt looked at my phone and screamed “ no way “ I still can’t believe we got it

00:01- hi, they are SO BEAUTIFUL I’m squealing. I cannot stop staring it’s embarassing

00:27 what’s going on here? “Nothing” my heart. The smiles

00:50 oh I am LOVING the feature wall. And fish tank reveal project??

01:00 how dare they throw THAT japhan photo up there like it’s just some example. Who the hell do they think they are- also I want that doomed hoodie :( he is snug as a bug in a rug

01:50 terror not even 2 minute in and crack

02:03 I’m sorry Dan asking Phil about TikTok stuff is precious

02:13(What is cba)

02:39 I CACKLED. Phil’s sarcastic ass omg

02:44 dans little pat

02:58 phivorce

03:05 I know the ft, they are friends of course. But seeing the messages really warms my heart. Like it’s so normal why am I emotional

03:52 of course Phil sends millions of memes

04:10 how in the fuck did Phil catch his phone what??? Ft dans face during the whole interaction.

Ad time —— 04:25. Im sorry Dan looks fucking amazing, his hair is so curled and pretty? And he looks so comfy cozy and soft??? My Dannie side is really coming out rn

04:59 handsome devil, damn straight. Love this man he’s too precious for this world

05:23 🍑

05:55 are the Brits okay??? Bone daddies?? I’m too American for this

06:30 perfectly encapsulated Dan and Phil energy

06:35 Dan saying dude scratches a weird itch in my brain

06:55 again! Totally normal to call a friend in a taxi. But this moment makes them so real in my mind like yes. Call that friend. In that taxi. Make it less awkward. Why did I like this moment so much

07:05 A PRETEND CONVO OF COURSE HE WOULD. He’s so real for that

07:34 “these are very dan and Phil”

07:42 I’m in pain. Koala content and ouch I can’t even put into words

08:44 three days without a text sounds exaggerated. Or lie. Like cmon. All those messages and convos and yall went 3 days without a word?? Sounds fake

08:58 asking what he should do for his nails!!? Again totally normal but UGH I love their friendship

09:01 also Phil coming in with a STELLAR idea, hope to see it happen

09:11 Phil’s a little shit OMG he hated the nails Dan got.

09:38: dans precious little selfies

09:44 also who tf is that that does not look like Dan

09:52 wtf do you mean that they had the same weird Swedish bakery???? 10 years apart???? WHAT THE HELL??????

10:35 fuckin nerds ft cute ft selfie

10:52 Dan in Phil’s glasses hi what the fuck? Precious. Phil loves to take photos of Dan sleeping.

11:02 jump. Scare.

11:28 PHIL CALLED HIS MOM. NURSE LESTER.

12:11 Dan stalking the ring doorbell is not something I expected?

12:20 glad to know Phil and I share that we can’t hear someone saw our name bc it’s too intimate

13:16 ordering a roast dinner is so cute idk why

13:35 jump. Scare.

14:26 I hate them :( i so long for what they have

15:04 they didn’t see death note the musical!! Haters!!!!

15:20 HOT

16:00 Phil papping Dan>>>>>>

16:20 I rewatched this part so many times. Thsi entire sequence. This whole. Dare i say SCENE. Disgustingly familiar. Disgustingly cute. I- karaoke game???? What??? It was for them

17:06 omatone :(

18:22 hot? Worrying? Hmm???

18:45 Phil is so dramatic I love him

19:01 genre to dinner? I don’t get them

19:10 DAAAAAN AHHHHH

19:20 SCRIPTS AH???????3@2/9/@/9@22929 more writer Dan

20:17 this is so familiar

20:50 this has “would you still love me if I was a worm” energy? Can’t explain

22:53 “we dan and phil-ed it” we have to steal that! Asap’

23:24 when Dan sits up he is soooo much taller than Phil but he constantly slumps down and looks up to Phil. It’s very cute to watch.

24:30 oh they are fully embracing the joint channel and slowly moving away from gaming and honestly. I’m alright with it. They look so happy

Guys this was too much. So I just started reading fanfic and these conversations were right out of what I’ve been reading which is very odd tbh? But we were fed. This was amazing content and I can’t wait to see what the writers do with this. Cheers

#amazingphil #dan and phil #daniel howell #phil lester #dnp #philip lester #dan howell #danisnotonfire #dan and phil renaissance #Daniel and Philip #Daniel Howell and Philip Lester #Wdapteo 2023

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lollytea · 7 months

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in regards to that text post you tagged as hunlow followed by "listen to me". i have a chair. i am sitting down. i'm listening if you want to explain.

Waaah I am all jumbled up so this is not gonna be very eloquent but lemme do a little word vomit here.

Anyway. The poem 'Yes & No' by Natalie Wee and the complete huntlow overload it gives me every time I read it.

It works from both their perspectives on how they view the other person. Those parallels do be paralleling. I might blabber about it from Hunter's POV....another day. But because the poem is written by a woman and refers to a 'Him' lets focus on Willow's side of things. It's the side that gives me the most brainrot anyway. I really do love a good subversion. A girl who thinks she is too monstrous for a boy whom she views as too gentle.

I think very often about Willow's relationship with her own powers. The show went somewhat into depth about how being 'Half a Witch' destroyed her confidence. The part of her that could not excel at anything that wasn't plant-centric. There's nothing particularly complex about her feelings of inferiority. It's very easy to understand. She's Mildred Hubble coded.

HOWEVER it's also shown in her debut episode that Willow losing control of her emotions can lead to big destructive outbursts. This is the part that was touched on as a conflict in For the Future, but was never really explored at length.

This ability of hers is extremely dangerous. She can severely hurt both herself and the people around her. Surely, that must be a frightening reality for a little girl to live with.

I wonder when these outbursts first started. I wonder if that incident in the detention pit was the first time her own magic nearly killed her. I wonder if something happened on the day of Amity's birthday party when little Willow felt like she had lost everything. I wonder a lot of things. But mostly I wonder how being like this since she was young has effected Willow's mindset, her behaviour and her complexes. What does she think of herself? Is she afraid of what she's capable of? Is she afraid of her own emotions?

Anyway, with that in mind. Here is the poem. Beat by beat.

reasons to not kiss him:

1. you weren’t raised to love tender.

Willow was born and raised to be a sweet gentle girl with a soft spot for plants. She's silly and lighthearted yet mature for her age and tries to remain rational in irrational situations. She allows hugs from Gus and she allows Luz's touchy affection and cooing over how cute she is.

But by "love tender", I interpret it as Willow not knowing how to love and be loved in a way that puts her in a vulnerable position. The bleeding open wound kind of love. She's already been thrown away once in her life like she's something disposable so she has decided that it will inevitably happen again. Willow has already braced herself for Luz and Gus finding other friends and leaving her behind. She's loved them so sweetly this whole time but she's always been keeping them at arm's length, scared to pour too much of her heart into their hands. She's simply savouring the time she has with them until they drift away.

But Hunter is a different story. There is something about him that demands she love tender. And it's terrifying that she feels the pressure to do so. And it's even more terrifying that she so badly wants to.

2. when he’s around all you do is tremble. when he’s around you want to get on your knees. look how much power he has over you. it’s dangerous.

Willow is a girl who has been carelessly discarded like her feelings meant nothing, made to feel like she was a waste of an existence and who is also deathly afraid of herself and the unstable magical battery pulsing inside of her. This results in having to lock up her more reckless emotions in order to keep everyone safe, but also to protect her own heart. She's gotten good at it. And she's also now perceived as an iron clad witch who cannot be weakened.

But the presence of Hunter reveals something very concerning. She can be weakened. His smile and his voice and his entire disposition is a breach of the barriers she has spent years building. He is capable of puncturing her clean through. And the part that makes her lips tighetn is that he's not even aware of it.

It doesn't sound so foreboding on the surface. So what if he can make her smile until she can't stop smiling? So what if he can make her laugh until she's breathless? But then she'd have to regain herself and realize that as harmless as that is, it's a result of her losing control of her emotions. Which she rarely does anymore. And it's all because of him with his soft eyes and his kind smile and his shy adoration for her.

And if he can do that, he can do far worse to her. That's the scary part.

3. he’s too good at forgiving and you’re too good at violence.

4. you know what they say about monsters. you know what happens to the boys who love them. are you going to do that to him?

5. your hands don’t know how to be gentle. think about the last beautiful thing that shattered in your palms. the fresh rosebuds crumbling between your fingers like a bruise. you wolf-boy, you war machine. you wouldn’t know how to hold something magic and not destroy it.

Willow is not stupid. She's not unobservant. Hunter did not need to stay a word for her to realize that he is a boy who has been wronged by someone who he loved with his whole aching heart. He has been hurt in a way that will leave his heart aching forever and ever.

But it's a sharp sting to know that in spite of that, he continues to fall deeply in love with every person who shows him compassion. Nothing can burn out his warm glow. He loves and he loves until he's sick with the stuff. And Willow doesn't know how he does it, but his glow is so nice to graze in. Once you get too close to him, you don't want to leave.

When Willow hugs him, his fingers tentatively twist into the sleeves of her cardigan. She sees how he looks at her and she knows he'd like nothing more than to squeeze her tight and drown in her.

He's in love with Willow the way he's in love with everything and she desperately wants to give him everything.

She wants to place her hands on his cheeks and watch as she melts into her palms, finally satiated after all he had been starving for.

She wants to fall in love with him.

But she can't. Because she knows he'd fall in love with her too.

And then eventually, she would hurt him. Like he had been hurt before.

She can't trust herself to not hurt him.

And in the aftermath of the hurt, she would cry herself hoarse with ragged apologies.

And because she was kind and because he knows she didn't mean to hurt him, he would squeeze her tight and say "It's okay."

Then she'd hurt him again.

"It's okay."

And again.

"It's okay."

A painful cycle that spins until there's barely of him left.

And Willow is scared that by that point that she'll be too weak for his soft eyes to ever let him go.

She doesn't know what will become of her.

She doesn't want to find out.

So to stay on the safe side, they will never begin.

6. if you hurt him it might kill you

7. if you hurt him you might kill yourself.

8. you are very bad at rehabilitation. this is one addiction you’d fail to give up. he’s going to ruin you for all other kisses and all other boys and you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to forget his name.

Willow has analyzed the situation and she's come to the conclusion that if she allowed this sweet boy entry to her briar n' bramble guarded heart, they'd bend to his will, clearing a path to the delicate structure. And once he holds it in his hands, he'll leave his fingerprints all over it.

This is the damage she's talking about.

The damage he can do to her.

9. you still aren’t sure he isn’t a dream.

10. if you kiss him, you might wake up.

You would think, with all this lamenting Willow does over Hunter's existence, that he's making her miserable.

Far from it.

She's reluctant to admit it, even to herself, but she's already addicted to whatever it is that he's emanating. Like a flower stretching towards the sunlight.

Sometimes he doesn't feel feel.

Typical of an overthinker to not believe that could be as wonderful as it seems.

In an ideal world, they could both make each other happy.

If she doesn't ruin everything.

Mistletoe kisses. Parasitic in nature.

What if she leeches all the light left in him?

What if a kiss is her wakeup call?

reasons to kiss him:

1. because he’s beautiful.

He's so beautiful.

2. because he asked.

He's begging. He's begging every time he looks at her. He certainly doesn't mean to. Nor does he know that he's doing it. But somehow, without saying a word, he has crumbled to his knees begging for her to pour of a little of her heart into his lips to warm his blood.

He wants her to love tender and be loved raw. And he wants to do the same.

And if she said no, he would simply reply "that's okay."

But she doesn't want to say no.

She wants to give him everything.

That's the problem.

And even worse....she is pretty sure she is about to crack.

She will give him everything.

Because...

3. because he preceded please with, i’m not afraid of you.

#huntlow #man...#sorry im kinda unwell about them

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mykoreanlove · 9 months

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pushpull

“Tae, I don’t know..”,

you whined as he was assaulting your neck with his heart-shaped lips. Once again you talked about breaking up, about taking some time apart from each other. You had those kinds of final conversations before, but they always ended with you on top of him while he was confessing his love to you.

The dynamic of your relationship had gotten toxic, but you were the only one acknowledging that fact. Probably because you were the only one affected by that abuse. Tae toyed with you like a cat toyed with mice. When you were distant, he was all over you – expensive presents, endless calls, lovely compliments and thoughtful dates. He always was on his best behavior when he was about to lose you. But once you put down your walls and let him in? Silence, neglect, disinterest. You came to understand that he loved the rush of the chase more than the actual relationship.

This time was no different. You distanced yourself, ignored his calls and barely texted him back. You were growing tired of his childish games, tired of being toyed with. When you came over to his place that night you wanted to break it off. You dreaded life without him – you didn’t fall for him because of his shamelessly good looks (but they did help) but because of his softness, authenticity and rawness. You fell for him because he was unapologetically himself; something that you could only dream of being.

Before leaving your apartment, you gave yourself a proper pep-talk, cheering you on to not chicken out this time. No matter how much you wanted a good life for yourself it was undeniable that you loved him with all of your being. Breaking up was hard as it was but breaking up with Tae was fucking unbearable. Probably that’s why it took you so many attempts doing it.

“You know I love you, right?”

His breath was hot on your ear, his hands roaming all over your body. Tae squeezed your ass as he was pampering your neck with so many kisses.

“I can be better, baby. You don’t want to leave me baby, do you?”

Fuck, you could hardly concentrate. His musky scent clouded your vision, his raspy voice made your whole body burn and his big hands elicited dozens of butterflies in your stomach. You wanted to be brave, you wanted to stand your ground but now you were grinding your hips on him, giving into his devilish charms.

"I do make you feel good y/n, don't I? I care about you so fucking much."

His hands massaged the inner of your thighs, his long fingers grazing your hot core lightly. His tactics payed off - you were way too disturbed to fight, whimpering was the most you could do right now. Tae knew that he still had you. He knew you were his no matter how coldly he treated you. He had a giant smirk on his lips as he fumbled with the hem of your skirt. Brown doe-eyes looked at you innocently:

“y/n, can I?”

You knew it was wrong. You knew you had to say no.

“No Tae, you cannot. This relationship has gotten toxic. This is not good for either one of us. Let’s break up.”

You practiced those words relentlessly in front of your bathroom mirror. You even had a whole speech ready as to why you wouldn’t tolerate his shitty behavior anymore. But you couldn’t get yourself to say those things – just like you couldn’t do it the last couple of times.

You gazed into his beautiful eyes and forgot why you even came. You forgot about all his wrongdoings, about all the times you cried yourself to sleep and cursed him for treating you like shit. All you could see was him, all you could think about was your undying love for him. You knew it was wrong, but you didn’t care.

“Tae”,

your voice croaky, too emotional to put your feelings into words. He crushed his lips onto yours, arms pulled around you, hugging you as tightly as he could.

“I know, I know, I know baby, I know”, he mumbled in between kisses, no time nor space to breathe.

“I need you y/n. Don’t ever leave me, okay? I really fucking need you.”

You pulled his shirt over his head and helped him unzip his jeans. How could you deny him when he needed you like that? It’s not as if you didn’t need him, too. Tae did the same with your clothes, almost ripping them off you. He had his hands on your hips, tongue licking his pink lips in anticipation while his eyes were glued to yours. This exact scene right here had happened more times than you could count but he still asked for your permission every time.

“Tae..” you whispered.

“Yeah?” He pierced you with his dark eyes.

“This is the last time. Promise me.”

He took your head into his hands and kissed you passionately.

“Yeah”, he breathed out, “the last time.”

You pushed him back, giving him a stern look.

“Promise me you won’t push me away anymore once I let you in. I can’t do this anymore. Fucking promise me, Tae.”

His gaze softened, hands back on the sides of your hips, squeezing them lightly.

“Promise. I promise you y/n, I fucking promise.”

You got up from his lap and walked over to the bed. It caught him by surprise; hence staring was all that he could do. You turned around smiling:

“You coming, or what?”

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blainesebastian · 2 years

Text

mutually assured satisfaction (pt5)

words: 2,370 ship: austin butler x reader summary: reader’s agent approaches her with a PR stunt to date austin butler and promote both their careers. a mapped out plan, an electric relationship–what could possibly go wrong? notes: masterlist is on my sidebar :) thanks for any comments, reblogs, likes and asks! always appreciated warnings: grief via losing a family member tag list: @killerqueenfan, @karamelcoveredolicity, @elizabethrosecresswell, @gigisworldsstuff, @kittenlittle24, @slowsweetlove, @namoreno, @strokesofstokes, @callthedarknessdown, @kibumslatina, @al-co-hol-youlater, @frogoerson, @dancer4j

It’s one of those inherent things that as soon as you close the door to your apartment after the charity event, you just know. You don’t even need to check the message from your mother even though you eventually do—there’s this terrible weighted ache in your chest that makes it feel like two cinderblocks are sitting on your ribcage. There are so many emotions swimming through you, unable to be pinned down, and you feel guilty above everything else. Guilty for being too busy, for not visiting enough, for not always picking up the phone, for a hundred things in your childhood and adolescence that don’t even make a difference now but for some reason feel like they do.

Guilty for not being there one last time, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Everything just sort of comes to a screeching halt, like the world stops spinning for you. You attempt to communicate with people—Christina, the director on your movie, but it takes about a day for you to even move in a way that matters. Crawling into bed, you effectively shut down in a sense that you’ve never done so before. Your work ethic and your job mean so much to you but…none of it feels important right now, even though you can hear your grandmother’s voice inside your head telling you to stop moping around. She’d never want this for you, she wouldn’t want you to push people away or to jeopardize your career to mourn her.

And yet you cannot get yourself to do otherwise.

Christina informs you that your movie release has been put temporarily on pause and while you’re grateful for the moment to breathe, every bout of air you draw into your lungs is incredibly painful. It hurts to even be. You appreciate the time but are having difficulty even picturing what it’ll look like to move on, to go back to work, to pretend that your life hasn’t lost someone important. How do people do that?

What feels worse is that Austin has been trying to get ahold of you. A series of texts and then finally a few phone calls. For the first time in this thing together, you don’t know what to say to him. There’s this barrier that you seem to be straddling, the urge to tell him that you’ll be breaking up in a few weeks or so anyways so what’s the point of him trying to get in touch with you like this? He doesn’t actually care about you, everything has been fake, blown out of proportion, a façade.

And then on the other side—how desperately you want him to be here, to comfort you, to have his arms around you while you try not to feel like everything is falling apart. His lips on your skin, how his fingers feel running through your hair.

These opposing emotions pull so hard at you that you remain motionless, not doing anything, and a few days go past.

When there’s a series of knocks at your apartment door, you lift your head from your couch to squint at the wood. You’ve made it out of your bedroom, showered, and have eaten something, so, you don’t feel like a complete slug or failure. Your bones hurt, which feels like the weirdest sensation of grief. That heaviness that just…refuses to dissipate. Running a hand through your hair and over your face, you already know who it is even before he starts talking,

“Y/N—c’mon, I haven’t heard from you in days. Open the door.”

Sitting up on the couch, you let out a long sigh through your nose. There’s this twinge of remorse thrumming in your chest at giving Austin the silent treatment you just…didn’t know what to say to him, didn’t know how to say it. Nate gave you one piece of advice, one request from all the fucked up stuff that happened in your relationship and it was to let Austin in.

Already doing a great job at that.

“Y/N, I know you’re in there.” Austin sighs and while he sounds frustrated, you can pinpoint inflections in his tone where you can tell he’s worried. He’s not going to go away until you talk to him, so you pull yourself up off the couch and glance down at the leggings and oversized sweatshirt you’re wearing. This is gonna have to do.

“If this is about those articles, fuck them okay? They’re graspin’ at straws.”

Shaking your head lightly, you pinch the bridge of your nose. You know exactly what articles he’s referring to because Christina sent you the links to a few of them. Of course someone was at the charity event with a camera snapping pictures and they got some of you and Nate hugging hello and then you at the bar kissing Austin and decided to put aggravating click-bait titles along with them.

Are Nate Riley and Y/N L/N getting back together? Y/N L/N was seen cozying up to boyfriend Austin Butler at the same event— Is she playing both men?

Stupid.

Ironic almost, the language Austin uses to talk about the editorials and the actual articles themselves. The camera is essentially seeing something more honest than anything else—the fact that this whole thing is a fraud.

As you approach the door, you pause for a few moments to try and collect yourself or at least…figure out what you’re even going to say. Pulling all the locks free, you slowly tug the door open.

Austin takes in a short breath when he sees you, eyes sweeping over your form. He frowns, his eyebrows drawn together in a look of concern. He looks comfortable today, a simple pair of blue jeans, booties and that sherpa lined jean jacket he likes to wear. He leans against the doorjamb, waiting for you to say something, but the words are stuck in your throat.

“What’s up with your disappearin’ on me?” He asks softly, reaching out to gently tug at the fabric of your sweatshirt. “I was worried.”

You swallow, running your hand over your face because you really feel like an asshole now.

“If this is about the articles,” He starts and you quickly put your hand up to stop him because,

“No,” You whisper, pulling the sleeves of your sweatshirt over your hands, “It’s not the articles.”

Austin frowns again and patiently waits for a few moments but when you don’t say anything, he takes a step closer to the doorway, “What’s goin’ on?”

Swallowing down a lump in your throat, you stare at Austin as if you’ll be able to say the actual words about what’s wrong. But it’s in that moment you realize that you haven’t said it outloud yet, as if it won’t be true if it’s never said. You’re suddenly struggling to breathe and remain standing upright, your breath getting stuck in your lungs and oh god, you’re going to start crying right here and now even though you’ve finally just stopped.

“Hey,” Austin reaches for you, gently touching your arm, “What’s wrong?”

And that question alone breaks the dam wide open. Your composure crumples, one hand covering your face as a choked sob leaves your lips. Austin is quick, doesn’t ask for permission or concern himself with the distance you’ve created over the past few days. He draws you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you. One slips along your back, rubbing at your shoulders, while the other works its way into your hair. This was the last thing you wanted, to allow yourself to fall apart in front of Austin, to let yourself feel much of anything given that you needed to be able to get out of your apartment and function within the next day or so. Go back to work, live your life.

Seems undoable any way you look at it.

You turn your face into Austin’s chest and hide there, burrowing into his shoulder, shuddering cries emptying as he squeezes you close. He carefully moves you inside your apartment, the door closing behind him. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just keeps you against him, hands constantly moving, swaying gently left to right with you in his arms. You can’t imagine what he must think of you within these moments, no context as to what’s going on other than just knowing something isn’t right.

After a few minutes you pull yourself back from him, wiping your face. The skin of your cheeks is hot, splotched red, tear tracks left behind. You take a moment to gather yourself together to speak, sniffling as you look up at him,

“It’s m-my gram.”

Austin’s face shadows with understanding and his features twist with empathy as he cups your face, running his thumb along your cheek, “M’so sorry,” He whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead. He lingers, thumb swiping back and forth on your skin, only pulling back when you take a step away.

You sniffle, running your hands over your face.

“What can I do?”

Shaking your head, you can’t even begin to think about an answer to that question. You know that Austin is coming from a genuine place, that he means well, but…there’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing that you can even think of to tell him. There’s this skittering in your chest that feels like beetles crawling over your ribcage, slipping into your bloodstream, making you feel incredibly antsy. As much as it doesn’t make sense, you want to be alone, you don’t want him to be here. You can’t handle the soft way he speaks to you or the way you feel when his skin touches yours,

Such a small voice in the back of your mind says don’t push him away and yet that’s exactly what you do.

“Nothing,” You shake your head, “There’s nothing you can do.”

Austin runs a hand through his hair, “Why don’t you lay down on the couch, I can at least make you some tea or somethin’.”

“You’re not listening to me,” You swallow, “I don’t want you here.”

He looks at you for a long moment, his jaw working as he nods because…he knows exactly what you’re doing and he’s debating on whether he should let you do it or not. You’re not sure what you want out of him more, this entire thing so damn conflicting, a battle of emotions welling inside your chest that you feel like you might crack open at any moment.

“Y/N, I can’t imagine how you must be feelin’, but don’t do this,” He shakes his head, holding your gaze, soft blue eyes boring into yours, “Don’t push me out, let me be here for you.”

You feel yourself bristle, a chill wrapping down your spine. Drawing your arms across your chest like a shield, you swallow over that ache in your throat, like shards of glass, “You’re not actually my boyfriend, Austin.” And you hate the words even as they come out of your mouth but you desperately need that distance, that invisible wall between the two of you.

Otherwise…everything starts feeling far too real, far too raw, and you’re not sure you can handle that.

“I don’t want you here, I need you to go,” You sniffle, running a hand over your face, “Please, just go.”

Austin lets out a soft sigh, hovering for just a few moments before he finally does as you ask. He opens up your door and tilts his head back to the ceiling to seemingly collect his thoughts. Once he does, he looks over his shoulder at you,

“This PR stunt might be fake, but I care about you, you know that, —that’s real. And I’ll be here when you’re ready.” And closes the door after him.

You stand there for a slow few minutes, the sound of the door closing echoing in your ears. It does not take long for tears to well in your eyes and for you to sink to the floor, pulling your knees against your chest.

You fly home for the funeral, a quick two-hour flight that somehow feels like eons. It’s definitely not a time that you’ve been envious to be home. Usually you love visiting, making it back for holidays, birthdays, any time you can and yet that guilt still remains that you didn’t make it back in time or enough for your grandmother. A small part of you knows that’s not fair and yet you can’t stop lathering in it, soaking in the remorse, the feeling coming out of your pores at this point.

It's a quick trip, you have to go back to work in two days, but you don’t dare tell your parents that. They’ve always been supportive but they always have a quick word or dig about not spending enough time with your family. It’s something that you’ve had to sacrifice to follow your dream, your passion—your grandmother understood that and supported you. Told you never to feel guilty for it because regret is a bigger killer. Your parents have seen your movies, watched your interviews, your mom especially has always been a cheerleader but emotions are naked and raw right now, the last thing you want to do is make anything worse.

You sit in your childhood home, on the couch, listening to your dad make small talk about the time of the funeral and the wake and suddenly you feel like you’re being yanked into a black hole because your body automatically reaches for—something, someone next to you and come up with air.

It’s a stark realization but you automatically understand what it means.

Standing from the couch, you excuse yourself to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and take your phone out. Eyes blurring with tears but attempting to swallow them down, you draft a text—you are aware of how desperate it sounds, maybe a touch pathetic, but these emotions are strong enough to drown. Austin’s words vibrate in your mind, I’ll be here when you’re ready.

I was wrong, I need you. I’m so sorry. I really need you.

And hit send.

#austin butler #austin butler x reader #austin butler imagine #austin butler drabble #austin butler fic #elvis 2022 #mccall writes things #mas series #mas

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jinkieswouldyoulookatthis · 19 days

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Subtext

So I know that there is a lot of discourse on and around subtext and whether or not it is, or should be, considered part of canon, here are my thoughts on the subject.

Subtext is part of canon, but not in the way that most people seem to think. Subtextual elements exist in a work and, as such, are a part of the work's canon. But here's the kicker... what those elements mean is not part of canon. Subtextual elements exist, they are part of a story, but the meaning of those elements, left unspoken and unclarified, is a matter of interpretation. Any meaning that is gleaned through interpretation is subjective. Things that are subjective are different for different people, they cannot be agreed upon, and often are widely and wildly disagreed upon, so they fall into head canon or fanon territory. Now, I've seen folks who claim that calling something fanon/hc is insulting and belittling, that's not what I mean here. Head canons are valid, in that what you are seeing and interpreting, rings true to you. I may not agree with your head canon, but I will never say that you are wrong to head canon it the way you do. But at the same time, a head canon is not canon.

Example... In a literature class I took in college there was this one day when we were analyzing a short story. I don't remember what story it was, it was rather boring and didn't stick with me. But the professor was asking us what the author meant by having it be raining in this particular scene. No one was speaking up so she randomly called on me. This was a mistake, but whatever. I, irritated without realizing at the time why, answered, "because the story exists in a world with climate and localized weather and the author was setting the scene." Or something to that effect. And the teachers tsked at me and called on someone else who then said that it was to convey a sense of sadness. This was the answer the teacher was looking for. Now, at the time, I didn't have the words to explain why this entire thing annoyed me so much, but I do now. The issue that I had was that she'd asked what the author meant by the inclusion of this potential piece of subtext. I know that rain and other gloomy weather is often used to denote negative emotion, it's a pretty common thing to do. But what I don't know is what the author meant by it when they chose to have it raining in that scene, because it could have been put in purposefully to convey the emotional subtext of the character, but it also could have simply been a detail the author added to help flesh out the little world they were building in their story, to ground it and give it more of a sense of realism (a thing that authors 100% do). We don't actually know which they meant by it. If she'd asked, "what do you think the rain signifies about the character in this scene?" Well, that would have gotten a different answer out of me. And, truth be told, I did know what she was looking for, the answer that she wanted, it was fucking obvious, but I also knew that she asked the question poorly and in bad faith and that rubbed me the wrong way because the answer I gave was just as valid as the one she was looking for.

The existence of the rain in the story was part of the canon. It was raining. What that rain actually meant in the story was a matter of interpretation though. It's potential meaning(s) = subtext. Because there were more than one interpretation of what it meant, no one interpretation could be part of the canon. However, each interpretation is an equally valid head canon. The story didn't lose anything by head canonning that the weather was just weather, it was still obvious, from the rest of the text, that the character was fucking sad, so the soggy subtext provided an optional extra layer of texture, but no additional meaning. (Honestly it was just a stupid example from the getgo and, obviously, still rubs me wrong 30 years later.)

This is how subtext works. It is used to add levels of unspoken depth to a story that are not actually needed to understand the story on a base/fundamental level. Any reading of meaning from subtext is subjective. Readings that are agreed upon by a group of people are fanon, while more individualized readings may just be head canon.

Again, because I know that there will be someone out there that is just chomping at the bit to accuse me of being insulting towards their read of subtext...

YOUR HEAD CANON IS JUST AS VALID AS MINE and that is precisely why our head canons are not, in fact, canon.

We have these three different terms to use for reasons, each one means something different from the others, they are not strict synonyms. Just because you've only ever seen people use the term fanon in a pejorative way, doesn't mean that it only means something pejorative or that you can just chose to use the term canon (when you actually mean fanon) instead to sidestep what you see as a negative connotation. Utilizing all three terms allows us to have a better and more nuanced discussion of a work. But if we refuse to use two of the terms, we are limiting and confusing our discussion in ways that lead to unproductive arguments.

#canon vs headcanon #canon vs fanon

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mamabone · 7 months

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✨BPD Communication✨

Healthy communication can be so difficult with BPD - we often come with different responses and ways of handling difficult communication than other people because of our trauma. Some of us shout, scream and say things that we really don't mean while some of us shut down, stop responding and ignore the conversation which can often make it worse. Communication is so difficult and if you're having issues with it you definitely aren't alone. It's probably one of the most common struggles so let me give you a few tips for beginning to fix any communication issues!

Tip One: Awareness ✨

You can't fix issues if you aren't aware of what they are. Self awareness is essential if you wish to heal and grow, so let's practice that first.

I want you to get a notebook or piece of paper and a pen and I want you to think back on your difficult conversations, particularly those where you felt most triggered or upset. What about the conversation upset you? Was it the wording, the tone, the language used? Why did that upset you? Did you respond in a healthy way? What did you do well and what could you have done better? What do you want to be able to do differently in the future?

Questions like these will always be difficult to answer as they force you to look at what you did wrong as well as what the other person did. But that's growth. You cannot grow if you cannot recognise your negative behaviours as well. There's no shame in them but they do need to be recognised. Take your time to answer the questions and truly think about them.

Tip Two: Take a Break ✨

Now this one will take a little practice to put into order but I've found it to be extremely helpful in regulating emotions during tricky conversations.

Most people with BPD can feel a split coming before it does. Sure, we may only get a moment before it but that moment is going to be crucial for you. When you feel that split building and you can get that little gap of time before it hits, you must walk away from whatever is triggering you. I know, I know, easier said than done. It took me a long time to be able to do this so I understand fully how difficult its going to be.

If its a conversation over text, you're going to leave the messages and leave your phone entirely. Don't just switch apps, don't play a game, put it down and walk away until you can feel your emotions subsiding slightly. Make a cup of tea, watch TV, paint your nails, scream into a pillow, dunk your head into ice cold water, go outside and scream bloody murder at the top of your lungs. Whatever it is you need to do to let that emotion out. But don't reply. If its a conversation in person I want you to do your best to hyper focus on your breathing. Breath manually, control it, and walk out of the room or building. If they try to follow you, do your best to say something like "need a break, be back in 5".

This is always going to be difficult to do but try to work up to it. Both of these things are the very basic foundation for healing and learning positive responses to difficult communication. Work on them, try your best, and then you've already taken the first steps. You can do this, I know you can. It won't be easy and I won't lie and say it will be, but it's doable. You can do it, angels ✨🌙

#actually bpd #self help #mental health #therapy #bpd #bpd help #healing #communication #motivation #Healing help

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hes-writer · 2 years

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Fine Line Series: Adore You

Summary: harry and y/n are friends with benefits

Warnings: slight angst

Word Count: 1181 words

A/N: this is a continuation of the Fine Line Series! it’s been a while since I’ve updated it so you might want to give it a quick re-read 😅

___

I told you I love you. Say it back.

And he did.

Harry let the words fall with a genuine tone. However, Y/N knew that it was far from what she wanted because what she needed from him was something he couldn’t give. Maybe she was asking for too much. Maybe she hoped for the impossible. Maybe she wasn’t worthy of the full capacity of his love.

She didn’t know how to handle heartbreak. For years, Y/N had spent her days isolated. She was shy. She was timid. She preferred to stay away from the spotlight. Y/N spent countless nights holed up in her couch watching movies in her sweatpants, only being informed of the drama when she checked her social media.

Y/N wasn’t at all like Harry. No, Harry was extroverted. He was able to carry himself in a conversation. He was charismatic and charming and made everyone fall in love with him just from a gleam of his dazzling smile.

Sadly, that included Y/N.

She had spent years pining for his attention—not that he didn’t give her any. Harry considered Y/N one of his closest friends and he definitely saw her as one. Maybe even more than a friend at some point—she’d hoped— when their arrangement became more then friendly. Although, she wondered if his feelings could lead to a gateway of possibilities.

Maybe he could feel anointed to hold her in his arms. To sing her to sleep with the catchy raspy of his voice. To watch her smile at him with the most loved up, cheesy grin because it was an overwhelming love that she had for him.

Those happened more times than she could count. After every thrust of his hips paused as he finished, each one was worse than the other because Y/N could feel herself falling for him more and more.

Y/N was in love with Harry.

What she felt was a complete circle of love and adoration to this boy that captured her heart. She admired his caring nature, kind heart, and passionate actions. She was a blind-fool that believed the small deeds he did for her were a sign of mutual reciprocity.

Harry, on the other hand, was dealing with a mild case of infatuation. She was in farther with him. What he felt was an intense passion for the idea of her. Her body and her emotions were completely devoted to him and he cannot deny the smugness he felt to have someone put him on a pedestal for everything he did.

Y/N knew that entering this new relationship with Harry was a risk because she was already fond of him. They had an agreement of ‘no-strings-attached’.

No feelings, no problem.

They would tell each other if one was talking to a prospective partner—out of respect because it would be awkward to request a rough shag in the middle of the date.

And the day that message came in the form of a text bubble, Y/N could still remember the way her breathing shallowed. The words admitting that he was seeing someone new was hard to believe. She calmed herself, however, with comforting words that ‘it wouldn’t last’ because he was only captivated for a brief moment. Or maybe Harry would realize that a relationship—a serious one, at that,—wasn’t what he needed.

—

That was two months ago.

Their agreement worked perfectly fine, no? Friends with benefits with no strings attached. He could have all the physicality of ‘love’ with a partner that knew him. Y/N. She knew him like the back of her hand.

Why was he searching for a serious relationship when Harry already had the basis laid out in front of him?

Y/N dared not to admit that maybe it was because Harry held no romantic feelings for her. Though, he enjoyed the affection Y/N gave him through her body.

Y/N was in love and Harry was infatuated.

___

There was a kind of intimacy that Y/N could feel oozing between her and Harry. It was the type of closeness that enabled her to rip the band-aid from her lips and let the three coveted words linger in the air. She was in someways confident that she had nothing to lose. So, Y/N might as well live her life to the fullest; as one might say.

Y/N was ready to scorch her throat with three tiny words. She could feel excitement and nervousness brewing in her tummy. But this was the time.

Except, Y/N was not prepared for Harry’s response.

Y/N could feel everything in her deflate. Her lungs were punctured by a sharp knife detonating an exhale of air keeping her afloat. How foolish was she to think that this night was going somewhere?

She wished that she could return to a few minutes ago—when Harry was using her body as a crutch to walk to his front door. He had gotten a bit too drunk for the night out and his friends had carpooled without him, assuming that Harry was catching a ride with Y/N as he usually did.

Y/N could still replay—in perfect memory— the way he chuckled as she struggled to get the keys from the tight confines of his snug skinny jeans pocket. She blushed at the way his body molded behind her back. She liked to think that his closeness was needed but Y/N that it was because his ability to hold himself upright was teetering quite literally.

Her mind scrolled back to when Harry had gripped her waist, abruptly pushing her back against the door as soon as it was shut close. His alcohol-laced breath was puffing shortly on her cheek. The intensity of his stare was intimidating because Y/N’s heart was pounding tenfold.

Y/N didn’t know what he planned to do. However, she wholeheartedly accepted that maybe this was the time he confessed his feelings to her. Heat flooded her cheeks as embarrassment poured in her veins. She couldn’t believe her own audacity to lean forward, puckering her lips and closing her eyes for a kiss. Y/N guessed that she only had herself to blame for getting her hopes up.

“I love you, Harry,” A sharp intake of breath hissed through Y/N’s teeth as Harry collapsed his face on her neck. She wasn’t sure if he had heard her or not but Y/N was frozen.

Still, with her back against the wall and Harry’s fingers still gripping her hips—she waited for his response.

I told you I loved you. Say it back, Y/N thought.

“I love her, Y/N,” He mumbled against her neck in a drunken stupor.

So close.

“Y/N?” Harry repeated, grasping on her shoulders to meet her gaze again.

Y/N parted her lips. The close proximity dizzying her because he was so close—he was right there and Harry was staying over for the night but at the same time; he couldn’t be more out of reach.

“Then, I think you should tell her, Harry.”

____

the next part Fine Line Series: Lights Up is available on my Patreon as an Early Access fic. It will be uploaded on Tumblr on Jun 1st!

#harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagines #harry styles angst #harry styles x you

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tanoraqui · 1 year

Text

My Take on the Oath of Fëanor, half based on analysis of the text and half on what I personally find most interesting from a storytelling perspective

[AO3]

SUMMARY:

It really did have a real, “supernatural” effect on the oath-takers’ future actions, not like the Oath itself is sentient but rather like they locked themselves into the Great Music itself as being a certain way, that way being “fire-hearted gem-chasers/vengeance-seekers” and now can’t stop.

It’s not literal, but it can be and is no doubt often rules-lawyered; what is being rules-lawyered is not the literal wording but rather what Fëanor and to a lesser degree each son meant at the time.

The primary goal is to retrieve the Silmarils, with maybe a secondary goal of killing Morgoth and maybe anyone else trying to keep the Silmarils from them.

It will last until the end of time. Retrieving the Silmarils (after fucking up anyone in their way) will satisfy it, but not actually make it go away. If the gems were stolen again, it’d reawaken.

Even Fëanor doesn’t have the power to cast himself out into the Void, and the Valar aren’t going to do it for him. Eru would be well within his rights to do it while remaking Arda one day, but Eru would also be well within his rights to ignore the whole thing, at that point. Seeing as he’s re-composing anyway. But Fëanor and his sons have permanently Marred themselves, made themselves dangerous to everyone else’s peace, in such a way that Mandos is never going to let them out of his Halls even if their spirits are whole and healed in every other way.

EXTENDED EXPLANATION:

1. It really did have a real, “supernatural” effect on the oath-takers’ future actions, not like the Oath itself is sentient but rather like they locked themselves into the Great Music itself as being a certain way, that way being “fire-hearted gem-chasers/vengeance-seekers” and now can’t stop.

Fëanor put great power into his words, and invoked the power of Eru to back him up, and the result was that he changed the very nature of himself, of who and what Fëanáro Curufinwë is and forever will be, in the Music of Arda. On their own strength, and riding his wave, and also invoking Eru, his sons all did the same.

Or rather, they didn’t “change” themselves so much as froze themselves (if such language can be applied to such blazing spirits). All the burning rage and blinding pride, all the fear, guilt, and terrible grief being fed to the fire of pride and rage in order to forge determination, courage, something like hope and something salvageable out of all this horror— The selves Fëanor & Sons were that terrible night-before-night is now who they are forever.

And who they were was strong. They were a light in the darkness! They were the possibility of joy salvaged from sorrow, even if “joy” could only be defined as “bloody vengeance”! They changed the course of history with these few words!

They can calm down. They can lay slow siege, when interminably slow siege is the only option. They can resist the urge to chase the Silmaril for decades. But those emotions, that fire-steel strength, simmers in their veins, and the only way to access it is to lean into that fervor, into being who they were in that moment. Who they Sung themselves to ever be. The Oath-fire never fades, when all their other reserves grow weaker, and they need more and more strength just to get through the day, as Beleriand fell battle by battle...and it has gravity. They don’t even need to actively lean. When they don’t resist it, or promise their worse selves that they are pursuing the Oath (we cannot attack Angband outright...we’ll use the children as hostages...) it grows in their hearts and minds whether they mean it to or not.

The more each Oath-taker naturally grows past who they were that night-before-night, the more the Oath feels like an other thing, even an outside force. But even referring to it as “the Oath”, while convenient, makes it sound more like some single other force than it is. It’s just Fëanor, Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amras and Amrod each in one of the worst (but grandest) moments of their lives, and the fact that they set their mentalities in that moment as their personal baselines/first instincts for the rest of time.

2. It’s not literal, but it can be and is no doubt often rules-lawyered; what is being rules-lawyered is not the literal wording but rather what Fëanor and to a lesser degree each son meant at the time.

3. The primary goal is to retrieve the Silmarils, with maybe a secondary goal of killing Morgoth and maybe anyone else trying to keep the Silmarils from them.

Of course it’s not literal. The literal text of the Oath [reference] makes no mention of even retrieving the Silmarils, just murdering literally anyone who so much as holds one, even if they immediately throw it away, and Eru help anyone who tries to stop us. It doesn’t even clearly exempt “Fëanor and Fëanor’s kin” from this promised murder, just says that they’re the ones who will do the death-dealing. Or, hell, if it IS literal, the translation we have into English is not, because it says “ere Day’s ending” and “days”! did not! exist yet!

Also, some offense, but anyone who genuinely thinks dwarves, hobbits, etc. races are “allowed” to hold a Silmaril because they’re not specifically named, rather than just enjoying the idea as a crack au, is an idiot. Fëanor first said “Be he friend or foe, be he foul or clean”—the specification of Maiar, Eldar, Aftercomer, etc. is just for dramatic effect. We’re not saying a woman can hold a Silmaril because her pronouns aren’t he/him, are we? It’s not literal like that, and even if it was, your interpretation would be wrong. Pay attention to the tone!!

The text clearly suggests that the non-literal primary aim of the Oath is to regain the Silmarils: "[Maedhros and Maglor] prepared...to attempt in despair the fulfillment of their oath; for they would have given battle for the Silmarils, were they withheld…” and Eonwë responds in kind, speaking as though the only question is will he give them the Silmarils. If the Silmarils weren’t withheld, Fëanor’s last sons would’ve walked away satisfied, gems in hand. Killing anyone between them and the gems is undeniably a key element of the Oath, the explicitly defined method of its completion, but it’s not actually required for its “fulfillment.” Negotiation was an option. Killing anyone who had held a Silmaril after getting them back is also not at all mentioned.

Of course, a secondary objective on Fëanor’s mind almost certainly WAS to murder the shit out of Morgoth no matter what, for Finwë. And murder maybe anyone else who deliberately stole and/or withheld the Silmarils from him, maybe even retributively after (hypothetically) stealing them back...

But here we reach the debate I’m certain Fëanor’s sons spent ~600 years at: What did Father mean when he swore the Oath, and the related but different question, What would Father want us to do right now? Because, while I said above that each Oath-taker is essentially haunted/semi-possessed by the fiery shadow of who they personally were that night, Maedhros, Maglor, etc. did not swear the individual Oaths of Maedhros, Maglor, etc. They all swore the Oath of Fëanor. Or I could say: part of who they were that night, what drove them so furiously, was siding with their father and doing his will, in defiance of cousins and gods alike. That is what the fire in their veins requires.

The nuances and maybe even the primary goal of the Oath may then differ dramatically by son! I think “What did Father mean when he swore the Oath?” is likely pretty well-agreed-upon between them, because Fëanor was projecting his fey temper and savage intent like a fire projects heat. But it’s still a question based on their personal understandings/interpretations of Fëanor at that time. And “What would Father want us to do right now?” is that PLUS things like,

“What might Father have said once he had a chance to calm down/experience additional, more slow-motion trauma/hit what is surely rock bottom (oh hey, shovels!) like we have?”

“Would Father ever have calmed down? Shouldn’t we act as though in the first glorious burn of the Oath at all times, like he surely would with his eternal fire?”

“What could I, personally, persuade Father into, for practical, personal or moral reasons?/What line might I refuse to cross, even to his face, even to the point of my own death?”

It’s notable that despite likely differing opinions on all of the above, Fëanor’s sons only ever acted as a group. That’s consistent with the way the Oath, the burning echoes of their past selves, can be reasoned with in things like, “we can’t just charge at Angband.” All Fëanor’s sons are following the best path to victory that they can a) see and b) morally/emotionally endure, and that means working together even if they likely disagree in their hearts on nuances of what the Oath requires.

Though it is what they believe in their hearts that matters ultimately, because the Oath is a thing of emotion, not logic. So, would those nuances have cause bloodshed between them if they ever arose in a way that couldn’t be ignored, and bloodshed was truly the only option left to settle them? Maybe. Depends on the Oath-taker, depends on the nuance... No Oath-taker would ever be, like, puppetted against their conscious will to do something. It’d be more like...at the extremes of resisting the Oath, the obsession it brings, they might become like Smeagol and Gollum. Who were, ultimately, the same person. Ultimately, either they hew to the aims of the Oath or they’re tormented ceaselessly by the desire to do so, or they kill themselves—and because of who they are, who they already were before they swore the Oath and who they still are with it, they will all take option 1 or, at best, 3.

Example of a hypothetical struggle against the Oath: I headcanon that Maglor saw Elrond and Elros as his sons, and thus permissible Silmaril-holders—ie, he did NOT want to kill them, and in an ideal world Grandpa Fëanor would also find the idea abhorrent. But I don’t think Maglor thought he could’ve convinced his father of that, born of Fingolfin’s line as they were. I think if Elrond and Elros held and refused to surrender Silmarils, Maglor would’ve done his fucking best to knock them unconscious rather than kill them, then stood and argued with his father in his mind that this was enough, he had the gems and he could leave the children...

And if he couldn’t pull that off, he would’ve made their deaths as swift and painless as possible, then likely flung himself into the sea with the gems in guilt. Maybe at a different time in a different place, with the world and his last vestiges of mental health not both crumbling, and less inertia to the Song of killing Beren & Luthien’s heirs generation after generation, and less desperate need for this to all just be OVER, he could resist the burning despair...either walk away to live forevermore in yearning torment, or decide “you know what, yes I COULD persuade Father of this”, or at least let them kill him instead... But not at the end of the First Age.

(The whole course of the First Age, and Morgoth’s ambient malevolent influence pushing everyone to be their worst selves, definitely exacerbated the effects of the Oath. I don’t think he specifically targeted them that much about it, though. I don’t think he needed to. He was just catching them in his psychic AoE and eating popcorn while they tore Doriath and Sirion apart.)

Or maybe Maglor could have resisted, in this scenario! Maybe he loved them enough, and had enough shreds of hope left, to pull through! But “what does Maglor think Fëanor would do/demand, and thus psyche himself into being Oath-compelled to do” is the lens through which we should be interpreting the issue.

Another edge case is Celebrimbor. In contrast to the peredhil, I do think all of Celebrimbor’s uncles, and even his father, would’ve been (unhappily) satisfied with him holding the Silmarils, had that option been offered. Even after he defected from their House. Due to a combination of: they know Fëanor himself would never have thought of harming his own grandson, and even if Celebrimbor had defected...even if he was then deliberately withholding the Silmarils, rather than merely holding them on behalf of the House of Fëanor while not officially associating with them anymore...could they picture their father drawing a sword on Tyelpe then, with the fell fire that had been in his eyes at Alqualondë, at Losgar...

(Note to self: write like 500 words about Curufin having this nightmare post-Nargothrond.)

I think they still could’ve endured all that. For much longer than they gave Elwing, for sure. Through a combination of You Have To Draw The Line Somewhere (eg, around still-beloved nephews), and knowing that if Fëanor had, in such circumstances, killed his own grandson in order to regain the Silmarils, he would immediately have done something like, oh, charge forward and get himself killed by Balrogs.

A note relevant to both these scenarios: the phrase “Fëanor, and Fëanor’s kin” describes who is going to be doing all the death-dealing from which neither dread nor danger nor Doom itself shall protect an unlawful Silmaril-taker. But per the “the Oath means whatever Fëanor meant” rule, it IS also a good rule for who is a lawful (to Fëanor) Silmaril-taker. Fëanor had no intention of turning his sons against one another over who exactly was holding a Silmaril; I do NOT think that is a concern at ALL (except in fun angsty fic). His whole thing is clinging desperately to the few people he believes love him utterly and trusting nobody else. He names “Fëanor, and Fëanor’s kin” in his terrible Oath about completing what he feels in this moment is the most important job in the world, and his seven sons promptly prove themselves deserving of such trust by swearing it themselves as well, so of course they’re all allowed to hold Silmarils! …and nobody else. Except little Tyelpe, and Nerdanel if he could be SURE she wouldn’t just give them to Aulë (how can he be sure...). And Finwë, of course, if only…

4. It will last until the end of time. Retrieving the Silmarils (after fucking up anyone in their way) will satisfy it, but not actually make it go away. If the gems were stolen again, it’d reawaken.

Okay, this is literal wording, as expressive of savage intent; and implied in Point 1; and pure What I Like: The line, “death we will deal him ere Day's ending, woe unto world's end!” indicates Fëanor’s intent that this is a FOREVER promise, and so it is. Their role in the Great Music of Arda is changed by this Oath, and it will never be changed back. (Because you need an ASTONISHING amount of personal strength of will and/or fever-pitch of driving emotion/determination to do something like that, maybe the sort that unlikely to happen even once in a lifetime, or maybe the sort that is a finite resource for even the Spirit of Fire? Or maybe because this sharp shift into a menacing minor key was part of the Great Music as written already? ...Yes.)

They are the Oath-Takers, Fëanor and his terrible Sons. Inventors of murder, initiators of fire and war, monsters of late First Age Beleriand and countless horror stories and dark folklore for many Ages after. They are Silmaril-seekers, kin-slayers, simultaneously unstoppable in their quest and fated to never achieve the one goal to which they’ve committed themselves. They are pride and wrath personified (and guilt, fear, grief, determination, hope, bitterest despair and the dream of joy salvaged from it); they are walking death and fire. That is who and what they are, until the world is unmade and remade. Even if they could regain the Silmarils (which they won’t, not until the End of Days), they would only be satisfied-for-now, Oath-flame simmering lower and quieter than ever, until anyone should dare take one of those precious gems from them again.

(Because I’ll give the ‘literal interpretation’ take this: there’s no actual mention of regaining the Silmarils in the Oath, and there’s also no mention of being done once they achieve that. “Woe unto world’s end” COULD mean “we’ll seek vengeance even after getting the gems back”, but as discussed above, that’s contra-indicated in the text, so...eternal Oath!)

However, as suggested in Points 2/3, the Oath can be...lived with, while unfulfilled. It’s pure canon that it can be approached slowly (Siege of Angband), or even outright ignored, albeit maybe only temporarily (not attacking Sirion for a few decades)! So maybe if the Oath-takers were to go through a lot of therapy in Mandos and conclude that they REALLY regret everything (except ably guarding Beleriand, etc. good things) and have no interest in doing it again, that they’d even rather stay in Mandos rather than bring violence back to everyone else in peaceful Aman...maybe if they then were released, and got to live without the stressors of war, sudden loss, Melkor actively fucking with them...maybe if Fëanor finally accepted Fingolfin (et al) as “full-siblings in heart” in truth, and thus Eärendil as trustworthy kin, and he agreed that Eärendil is doing well at his undeniably important job with the Silmaril (and Eärendil doing that job is a Notable Part of the Great Music by now in his own right, so he can’t just give it to someone else).....

And if in his 6000+ years of depressed, somewhat off-sane beach singing, Maglor achieved through steady building/tread-wearing of repetition, rather than through sudden blaze, the same Music-shaping intensity of emotion (guilt/grief/abnegation/pride/veneration) and determination/certainty (never again/[that star above] is the Best Thing and also Not For Me) as that terrible night-before-night in the Great Square of Tirion... Not enough to undo the Oath, no; that’s not an option, and he doesn’t even call on Eru for anything. But enough to kinda...twist it...in conjunction with:

(not quite lucidly) ceasing to mentally/emotionally distinguish between Eärendil, the Silmaril, the Star and the whole concept of Hope (Estel); and

concluding through keen literally analysis that Hope is one of the most important things in the world, one of the primary messages and gifts from Eru Iluvatar to his Children

...the functional sum of which is that Maglor, when Elrond drags him gently and mercilessly onto a ship, will now defend Eärendil’s bearing of the Silmaril with Oathly fervor and lethality-if-necessary, albeit more on the verge of tears about it than he used to be.... (Tears about the possibility of losing Hope more than about the necessarily lethality, though that, too.).... And neither Fëanor nor any of his other sons have ANY interest in fighting Maglor, especially when he’s not still, like, weirdly emotionally fragile about this.....

I’m a huge fan of stories where people literally magically curse themselves as a metaphor for some big emotional issue and/or bad life choice, and then eventually figure out that they can reverse the curse through the power of major character growth. But what if instead characters literally magically curse themselves as a metaphor for some big emotional issue and/or bad life choice and it’s NOT reversible even with major character growth? What if sometimes you just have to live forever with the possessive, paranoid, vengeful, murderous instincts you cursed yourself with, and growth is about not just moving past them with the rest of your heart, but accepting that they’re permanently part of you and learning how to manage them without making them anyone else’s problem? While living with your newly-welcomed extended family in a land of, okay, not the pure peace and bliss that was once promised, but close enough because now we’ve figured out how to work around all our respective Marrings?

5. Even Fëanor doesn’t have the power to cast himself out into the Void, and the Valar aren’t going to do it for him. Eru would be well within his rights to do it while remaking Arda one day, but Eru would also be well within his rights to ignore the whole thing, at that point. Seeing as he’s re-composing anyway. But Fëanor and his sons have permanently Marred themselves, made themselves dangerous to everyone else’s peace, in such a way that Mandos is never going to let them out of his Halls even if their spirits are whole and healed in every other way.

...but what if he did, huh. What if he let them give it a shot. What if we salvaged a happy ending out of this after all?

#the silmarillion #feanor #sons of feanor #oath of feanor #analysis #theories #rampant speculation and headcanon #yknow the good stuff

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