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dominaelumine · 3 years

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𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒. ⠀

phobia ; /ˈ𝖿əʊ𝖻ɪə/ ; 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗇 ⠀⠀⠀⠀

— an extreme or irrational fear of or aversion to something ⠀⠀⠀⠀

— a type of anxiety disorder

a series of short drabbles about tandy’s most prominent fears.

tw: domestic abuse, unwanted touching, drowning, claustrophobia ⠀⠀

𝗶. 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗽𝗵𝗼𝗯𝗶𝗮 ; 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖻𝗂𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

It’s the most painful; she aches for it, hands in fists, nails grating against fleshy palms. She doesn’t remember the last time she was hugged but she knows she was young- eight or so, nestled in her father’s arms on some day he was feeling amicable. Now, Tandy skulks on street corners and watches couples holding hands, parents carrying their children, best friends with arms over each other’s shoulders. When she’s feeling brave, she longs for the feeling of someone pressed against her, for the privilege of being held; imagines curling into the lap of the boy who makes her blush, or having a friend to cuddle with whilst watching movies.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

But then reality hits. It could be a man bumping up against her whilst standing on a tram; a woman tapping her on the shoulder to get by in a store. The tightening of her chest, the way her mind retracts like a turtle shooting back into its shell. She wants to turn herself inside out, rip her skin off in the middle of the night when she remembers thick fingers pushing and legs holding her down and teeth at her throat- ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

When she’s done hurting herself, all thoughts of friends and boys have dissolved. She’s better alone- alone is safe, and her body is hers, and no one will ever touch her again. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

✧ ✧ ✧ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

𝗶𝗶. 𝗮𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗼𝗯𝗶𝗮 ; 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Eight. Two months after the accident, and a well-meaning teacher sends a letter home with Tandy, tucked into the pink backpack that’s beginning to fray. They’ve called before, they’ve sent letters through the post- her mother, Melissa, never updated their details after they were forced into the trailer park, trying to render them both unreachable. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

The letter is short, embarrassed, blunt. Tandy has gone from a well kept little girl with freshly pressed clothes, to one with grime under her fingernails and grease in her hair. She smells, and the other kids don’t want to go near her when they sit down for circle time. When Melissa reads this, Tandy watches, tearfully, as something in her breaks. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Years later, she only remembers fragments. Being dragged by the back of her neck, the soft glug glug of the running water coming through the rusty taps, screaming; her father would be so disappointed, dirty little thing, bringing shame, bringing attention- ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

-and then her head, thrust under the water, limbs once-rigid now flailing in blind panic.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Melissa never once stops to consider that, perhaps, her daughter is afraid of water after a near-drowning experience. When Tandy begins washing herself again, she forgets the incident within days. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Tandy does not forget. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

✧ ✧ ✧ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

𝗶𝗶𝗶. 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗵𝗼𝗯𝗶𝗮 ; 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

She thinks this comes from the sinking car, too; it certainly fits, and she still has nightmares of being trapped in that inky blackness, tiny fists hammering against the soft car roof interior, water lapping up at her chest, her neck, her lips, her nose. ⠀⠀⠀

Later, though, tearing through shrink wrap in Andre’s record store of horrors, Tandy sinks deep into repressed memories and finds something more. While she’s paralysed with white powder, stripped of her clothes and remade into something for consumption, her mind wanders; five or six, given a bright tablet to play with and noise cancelling headphones.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

They’re pink- the tablets and the headphones- and her daddy sits her on his lap to teach her how to use them. Here is the button to turn it on and off. Here are the apps that will replace my parenting. Here are the headphones that will block out the sound of your mother’s sobbing.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

But it isn’t the tool of distraction that he hopes. The cries carry regardless, seeping through the cheap foam around her little ears. Her eyes slip upwards from the tablet, and she sees; she can’t not see, mahogany eyes liquid and wide as her father’s fist breaks her mother’s nose. The blood is red, red, red, and the tablet slips from Tandy’s fingers onto the floor. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

She falls off the couch, chubby legs flashing; taking the half second to snatch the tablet back up. And then she runs to the place that she has designated as safe; the place she completely forgot, years later. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

The cupboard under the stairs. Even as small as she is, she can feel the walls closing in as she folds in on herself. Even as music and pretty cartoons play on the tablet she begins to writhe, panicking, desperate from fresh air away from cobwebs and dust. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

But there’s a monster outside; nowhere to go. Suffocating in the dark, it’s the start of the most primal of her phobias- one that carries through her in nebulous forms for the rest of her life. ⠀

✧ ✧ ✧ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

𝗶𝘃. 𝗮𝗴𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗼𝗯𝗶𝗮 ; 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Run away. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

It’s a powerful instinct; one that’s been with her for her entire life. From her father first, then her mother, then Rick, then Liam, then Andre and Lia and everyone and everything. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Run away. Run away. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Lia explains, in a sweet, honeyed voice, that the reason the place of her capture is called the Viking Motel is because that’s how the Vikings used to build their forts. One way in, one way out. It’s the same with her room- all peeling wallpaper, crooked prints of flowers, scabby carpets- and it’s single door, opening out onto a balcony where the men line up. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Afterwards, she struggles with rooms with one way in, one way out. Be it a window that opens wide enough, or another door, or even a vent that she can pry with the tip of her daggers- out, damned spot. She used to be reckless, and sometimes she longs for that spirit, that unrestrained belief in her own power. Now she can’t do anything without an exit strategy. Perhaps it makes her safer- but it also makes her sadder, having to constantly be on guard. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

On bad days, it traps her. Keeps her in her bed, in her room, chest of drawers pushed over the door so no one can get in. She’s spent so much time building a place that makes her feel safe, that she doesn’t know how to leave it. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

#𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓: 𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒚 𝒃𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒏 #𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔: 𝒃𝒆𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒔 #original content: photoset #original content: writing #cw: abusive relationship #cw: drowning #cw: claustrophobia #i had so much trouble posting this #please let me know if text is vanishing #it's all visible on browser but not great on mobile

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tinayoufatlarrdd · 5 years

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She

Frankly, they didn’t start on the best term.

He met Y/N during a photoshoot for a certain famous magazine. She was assigned to grace the cover of said magazine with the photograph of the world’s most it couple, Harry Styles and the supermodel who gained the universal acclaim for ‘taming the baby Mick Jagger’.

It was all fun and pretty until Y/N accidentally stepped on the girlfriend’s polished toes.

“For fuck’s sake!” Harry screamed at Y/N as the supermodel girlfriend suddenly started limping her way to Harry, asking for some sort of first aid.

Y/N couldn’t stop muttering sorry, offering ice blocks, even kneeling next to the supermodel girlfriend begging for forgiveness. The creative director, the crew, the editors—the whole studio apologized countless times for the tiny slip as the girlfriend pouted, complaining about the unbearable pain, causing Harry to hit the ceiling.

He yelled at Y/N and refused to go on. Y/N, knowing her inferior position in the equation, could only look down as the apologies continuously rolled out of her tongue. To be fair, everyone in the studio (except the lovebirds, obviously) knew it wasn’t that big of a deal.

Y/N was capturing Harry’s solo session while the girlfriend fixed the hair and makeup. She was up next for her solo session and then it’s a wrap. Of course the photographer would move around; every supermodel should be aware of the fact that angles were plenty and it took treads to actually find the right ones. Y/N was constantly moving, camera on hand, eyes on the viewfinder, then suddenly the ‘big accident’ occurred.

Y/N was barefooted, she wouldn’t even be able to squeeze a hard turd if she ever stepped on one with that wonky heel of hers. There was no way she’d had caused the girlfriend that much pain. And nobody blamed Y/N as they all witnessed how the girlfriend walked on set with her eyes on the phone, hitting Y/N first. Nobody but the girlfriend and Harry Styles, of course. So they all just watched in silence as Harry cursed and threw a fit on innocent Y/N.

The power couple didn’t want to continue unless Y/N was replaced. The crew had to comply no matter how irrational the demand sounded. And on top of that, suddenly Y/N was plastered on the internet as the girl who assaulted the world’s biggest supermodel and Harry Styles.

She would never forget the overwhelming uneasiness caused by the sudden rave of negative reviews about her, all from people who endorsed and supported her in the first place but decided to be the footnote of the Hollywood sweethearts’ testimony: ‘awful to work with’, ‘nothing without the connection’, ‘a mediocre photographer who got lucky’, and ‘talentless’.

And she still couldn’t wrap her mind around that dreaded event. She had heard tremendous chivalry and gentlemanlike attitude when it came to Harry Styles yet somehow, he was nothing but a certified dick who put her job on the line that day. Some friends who remained loyal to her speculated that the girlfriend was the bad influence. Some even were convinced that he was voodooed. She didn’t care about either, all she believed was that he’s an absolute wretch with an extraordinarily thick mask. A media trained monkey was the term she occasionally used after a few tequila shots.

“That witch is his Yoko Ono, I tell ya,” the creative director told her during their final meeting—the meeting to let her go, of course.

She just shrugged. All she wanted was her old life back. And if Harry Styles and/or that supermodel got into some terrible misery in that comeback, that would definitely be her cherry on top.

She still got a few gigs, just not as much and definitely not with big profiles like she used to. For Pete’s sake, she was deemed a promising photographer by those fashion executives! She was only getting started. She would have never imagined that with just a short answer during a talk show’s truth or dare game—who’s the one person you’d never want to work with ever again?—the power couple could diminish her entire life’s worth of hard work.

Within the next few months, she’s back to square one. Every morning she tried to contact some old clients who would perhaps still deign to be affiliated with, according to the world’s biggest supermodel’s words on that talk show, ‘the rudest effin’ bitch I’ve ever seen in the industry’.

And after countless unsuccessful attempts, she went back to the cafe she used to work at when she’s still starting her career, not to network like she used to but to pour some coffee for other people again. She’s back with the apron and the napkin and she couldn’t stop being cynical over some hopeful youngsters who got signed right in front of her eyes, on the table she just wiped.

Her cameras were laid unused on top of her rack and the mini darkroom she built in her apartment became a storage room. Believing she had failed miserably in life, she found herself no longer had hopes on anything. All she knew was to get by the day.

It was a cold December night. Everyone else went home to celebrate the holidays so she decided to do the shift. She’d be paid double plus she wouldn’t have to face her family, which would go eerie in this state of her life, so it was the better choice.

Having had just finished cleaning the whole cafe, she put on her coat. She was ready to come home to… nothing. Her mind raced back to this time last year, where she was fully booked and couldn’t wait to come home so she could recharge herself for an exciting tomorrow. Her life had become exceptionally dull and it was painful to go on.

An abrupt banging on the door halted her train of desperate thoughts.

“We’re closed. Can’t you see the time?! It’s almost midnight!” she snarked, back facing the intruder.

“S- Sorry, love…” the hoarse voice was paused with a couple of hiccups. “‘m just completely devastated…”

She rolled her eyes as she turned around and she almost had a heart attack. There stood the man who destroyed her life, terribly wasted out of his mind. He could barely stand straight without holding onto the doorknob.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she rolled her eyes, asking some deity entity if there was ever one.

“Hey! I know yeh…” Harry tried to get to her but his legs just gave up.

Falling face first, Y/N really wanted to leave him on the street. But of course she had that little voice of reason inside her that constantly screamed, “If you abandon him, you’re nothing better than him!” She was a decent person and she really hated it this time.

“Come on up,” she pulled Harry up and lingered his arm around her shoulder to help him walk. “Where do you live?”

“I don’t k- know,” he giggled. “I can’t remember, love…”

“Try,” she slapped his arm when he almost fell off yet again.

The snow was pouring down and they stood by the empty crossroad. Harry wouldn’t even remember his own name by now and she didn’t know how to get to his house. There was no other choice than to bring him home to her place.

It was nothing short of hard work to carry a man twice her size to her house on foot since there was not even a single cab around. It was even harder to hear him tell a story about his first imaginary friend during that wobbly trip where he tumbled more than five times and she had to pick him up every time. But it was the hardest when she had to take off his shoes so it wouldn’t mess with her couch—he didn’t want to take it off, nagging her with numerous ‘Go away, Mum!’s.

When she finally got to lay on her bed, she was too tired to even think of what just happened. She literally did some cardio workout bringing Harry home safe so unlike her usual nights, she fell asleep quite fast this time.

It was around four in the morning when she felt a body of weight sunk into her side. She turned around to face his uninvited guest sound asleep, legs tangled over hers like a knot. She quietly removed her legs and tried to get up. She needed to move to the couch, or anywhere far away from this invader.

This is my fucking house, why am I the one sleeping outside, she thought to herself. Anger boiling at the top of her head as her movement was stopped by his strong hand.

“Stay here…” he slurs.

He didn’t seem conscious to her. Maybe he mistook her as his girlfriend.

“I’m not—“

“I know,” he cut her off while still sleeping. “Just stay here for a while. It’s cold out there.”

She sighed and laid back down. Stiff and uncomfortable, but obviously exhausted, she closed her eyes as Harry’s arm pulled her closer to him. She could only hope the night would soon end or better yet, this was all not real.

When Harry woke up, he found a sticky note on his forehead.

‘You were hammered last night, didn’t know where you live so I took you home. Nothing happened, you just sorta burst into where I work around midnight so I kind of had to not abandon you. Don’t make yourself at home because this is my home.’

He couldn’t remember anything. He remembered getting blind drunk after gulping those spirit shots but what happened after that was redacted. His surrounding was unfamiliar and there was no other sign of life other than him that morning.

After splashing his face with cold water, he looked around the apartment. It was modest but very personal. There were random film rolls hung by the ceiling as Harry made his way to the living room. He put on his shoes by the couch as he observed the vinyl shelf at the corner of the room. It was filled with 60s-70s biggest musicians, from Jimi Hendrix to Van Morrison—which grew his curiosity of the owner. There were books that he also read, and the series of psychedelic photographs framed by the doorway was the biggest tic that made him wonder: how did he end up in this hippie’s safe haven, one that he actually wanted to live in when he was young? Did he get so hammered that he traveled back in time? His head hurt too bad to even think of the possibilities, all he knew was there was something about the owner that felt familiar and he ought to know them. He had to.

Harry rushed to shower at his home and got some aspirin. After running some overdue errands, he immediately went back to the apartment. He knocked on the door a few times to no avail so he decided to wait by his car outside.

Y/N was relieved when there was no sign of Harry when she got home that night. She would be lying if she wasn’t a tad bit worried of him considering he could absolutely die that night if he went to the wrong place, but then again he was the guy who ended her career so she couldn’t care less.

She picked Nick Drake’s Pink Moon from her vinyl collection and put it on the turntable. Relaxing by the couch that still reeked of alcohol and him, she ignored the constant knock on the door. It was usually her crazy neighbor looking for his nonexistent cat.

It was the sixth track that she finally got up and opened the door, hoping to end the annoyance of her peaceful evening.

Her eyes bugged out when she saw the figure by her door. It was him again.

Harry, with his furrowed eyebrows and lanky feet, looked just as surprised as she was. He clearly remembered who she was and somehow, not even Nick Drake’s soothing voice could calm her down. Filled with rage, she slammed the door right in front of his face.

Harry was shocked to see her. He’d never thought in a million years that he’d ever meet her again, moreover lodged by her. He wanted to thank her but he knew she’d probably throw a glass of water to his face. But he could not just leave.

So he did the tackiest trick in the book. When the track from behind the closed door hit Free Ride, one of his favourites, he began singing along as loud as possible. Some neighbors shushed him, some even scolded him but he didn’t stop.

She heard him loud and clear. She ignored him at first, but then she received a noise complaint call from the super. Upset, she thumped her way towards the door.

“Stop it!” she gritted her teeth as she opened it.

He stopped. “May I come in?”

“What do you want?” she barked.

“Just wanted to say thanks,” he muttered low.

“You’re welcome. There,” she slammed the door again.

There was nothing he could do so he decided to leave for now.

He came again the next day, this time saying there was something he needed to give back to her.

“What now?” she wasn’t as upset as the day before, but was still unfriendly as they just stood by the door leaf.

Harry handed her the sticky note she left on his forehead the day before.

“You can keep it,” she said as she closed the door.

No slamming door. A progress, Harry thought.

He came back again two days after that, carrying a limited release Fleetwood Mac record signed by Stevie Nicks herself.

“Got Stevie to sign it. They don’t have this at the stores anymore,” he presented it as if he was doing some product placement scene.

“Look, Harry Styles,” she crossed her arms. “I don’t even know what the hell do you want from me but I really don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore. You’ve done enough.”

“Yes, about that…” Harry scratched his forehead. “’m sorry.”

“Whatever,” she pushed the door but Harry was quick to hold it open.

“I’d help you make things right again,” his green eyes were desperate for her answer.

She let out a heavy sigh and moved aside as if cuing him to enter her little bubble. Harry entered immediately, not wanting to waste any more time in the outside world.

She was listening to Neil Young’s Harvest Moon, to which Harry sang along gently. She could hate him all she wanted but he really sounded divine especially within close proximity.

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere else, anyway?” she sat on the far end of the couch.

He put the record on the coffee table. “Where, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Some talk show to say some shit about me with the girlfriend perhaps?”

“Look ‘m really sorry, I truly am,” he sighed. “And ‘m not with her anymore…”

He then explained everything. How he fell in love for the first time in his life with the supermodel who was perfect, beautiful, smart, and everything he’d ever dreamed of. How he was so sure of her but she didn’t feel the same so he tried to show it with everything he’s got—grand romantic gestures, going public (which was personally hard for him since he was a very private person), and siding with her on every kind of problem even if it meant hauling over an innocent photographer’s coals. He also explained how he felt awful most of the time since he’d changed so much for a person who didn’t even love him back and he began to feel lost. It all then culminated a couple nights ago when she decided that it was all still not enough and broke up with him over a phone call. That’s when he went crazy with the liquor and ended up wandering around.

She felt sorry for him and although she knew he could be lying, she could understand his pain. So, she decided to accept his apology. She knew it wouldn’t change anything for her but at least she wouldn’t have to carry around so much hatred in her life and he could also move on with his life, not haunted by the guilt.

He promised to help her gain her reputation back. The two planned to make some exclusive photoshoot of Harry himself.

They began meeting every now and then. At first, they would talk about all things professional and did photoshoots. She started receiving positive feedbacks especially after Harry gave her the shoutouts—it didn’t take a split second for his loyal fans to swarm her online profiles. With her raising popularity she started getting bigger gigs again, even bigger than her old gigs. She quit working at the cafe and her darkroom was occupied yet again.

Then, they would spend even more time together. He would make up excuses to meet with her, like he needed to see how she developed her rolls or coming by with a batch of eggs saying he was worried she ran out of eggs. Y/N knew Harry was just feeling lonely after the breakup so she always let him in. Nobody wants to hurt alone, she always thought.

He soon didn’t need any more excuses as he had become an extended roommate of hers. He always said he wanted to live in the 70s and her apartment was like a dream home for him. She just brushed it off, saying it’s because of her hidden interior designing talent. And with each passing day, as they grew closer, her hatred dissipated and was replaced with something strange yet pleasant inside her heart.

She learned the depths of him that no one else knew and it all became the little things only she understood. She felt privileged to gain the limited access.

Sometimes he’d show her the sneak peak of his newest song and she would give notes as she watered the many plants around her place. Sometimes they would play board games while discussing the possibility of living on Mars. Some other times, Harry would lay his head on her legs, not saying a word while Karen Dalton’s magnificent voice filled the air.

Her favourite moment with him had to be when they did the impromptu picnic under the stars. With a bottle of cheap wine, portable turntable, and shared blanket, they laid by the garden as they talked about their fears and desires. That was the first time in such a long time she could open up to someone and he said that made him feel so special.

Of course he was special to her. That’s why she still tiptoed around him from time to time, avoiding conversations like her love life because she didn’t want him to think that she’d like him when actually the growing feelings inside her heart had begun to suffocate her.

The way he spontaneously baked for her (and snobbishly told the infamous ‘I was a baker’ story), the way he laughed at her jokes, the way his eyes sparked when they were dancing around, the way he snored a little when he’s sleeping, the way he called her name—she wanted to just sink herself into his warmth and never let go.

Yet she couldn’t help but wonder whether he felt the same way too. The frequency of the supermodel’s name mentioned in their conversations has since reduced to almost never, but she still felt a sting in her heart as she knew she could never replace her. She was, after all, his first love. And don’t get her started on the physical prowess which she obviously lacked in compared to the supermodel. She didn’t dare to ask Harry whether he’s really forgotten about her, afraid that he’d find out her true feelings for him. So she remained the same. At least, he would be still by her side.

At least, there would never be any rejections.

The city was already blossoming when she realized that Harry had left traces of himself on every corner of her place. The hung film rolls were filled with his silly expressions, so was the polaroid collections stuck on her walls. He had installed a pile of pants by the corner of her living room so that he didn’t have to bring any change. And of course her bathroom now had a pair of tooth brushes. It rocketed her hopes but still, her doubts crept inside her mind every so often.

That lazy Saturday night, she went home from grocery shopping to find Harry asleep on her couch. He looked so soft and warm and she couldn’t help but to run her fingers through his smooth hair. She nervously came closer to his face and pressed a tender kiss on his forehead.

She got up immediately, afraid to wake him up. To her surprise, he suddenly grabbed her arm.

“What was that for, love?” he asked.

He didn’t even have the bed face he usually had, which led her to believe that he wasn’t really asleep.

“Were you pretending to be asleep?” she pulled away.

Harry stood up just as fast and within seconds, he wrapped her in his hug. He placed a kiss on top of her head and slowly traveled down to her forehead, her nose, her cheeks. His lips roamed over hers as he slowly pressed them. It wasn’t heated and full of lust but rather deep and passionate as if he was taking his time.

It didn’t take long before they made their way to the bedroom and undressed each other with no rush. There was no spoken words, no roughness, just two people tangled up in heated infatuation.

When she woke up, he was still there. And it was beautiful.

It was still beautiful the next few months when they became a couple. He was her world and everything else was just background noise. He made her feel like the only person that mattered, as if everything that happened before ‘them’ was unreal. That this was the only real thing and it was all too good to be true.

Y/N should know better though, that life came just like a full circle. She just didn’t expect to actually be put back into the circle so soon.

They were invited to an afterparty of a fashion line Harry was strongly tied to and Y/N was more than proud to be by his side when he was introduced to be the muse that season. He was having the time of his life and so was she. The two held hands the entire time as they talked to everyone.

The belle of the ball, Harry himself seemed overwhelmed with the amount of love he received. He occasionally pressed her hand a little tighter when he was nervous, to which she’d respond with stroking his hand with her thumb. The simplest gestures that they’d developed overtime as they grew accustomed to each other’s idiosyncrasies or as Harry said, the good stuff about you.

That was until he saw a glimpse of her in the middle of the crowd that he suddenly let go of Y/N’s hand as if he was afraid that she would see him with Y/N. It would have been a little over a year since she last saw the supermodel and almost a year since Harry last met her.

All this time, Harry constantly convinced her that her insecurities over his love was nothing, that he only wanted her. And yet, he never even said those three words to her.

She knew now why he never did.

All this time, it wasn’t doubt that kept haunting her. It was a hunch.

The music was blasting but for Y/N, everything was silence. It only took a few seconds before she realized the look in Harry’s eyes. As if it was never truly her his eyes set on. That she was just a company to pass time. That she was the one he wanted just never loved.

She was never the one.

She tried to grab his hand before he’d be gone for good, and could only let out a faint ‘Please, don’t.’

But he could only mutter a little ‘Sorry.’ as he let go of her grasp and made his way through the crowd, trying to get to her, while leaving Y/N drowning in the sea of human who celebrated the man that she loved.

Part two.

Part three.

#harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles angst #tinayoufatlarrdd #harry styles fanfic

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smitten-miqitten · 4 years

Text

Finally, I finish this series of chapters. I hope you all enjoyed learning about Era’s past :3

The Past, pt.3

Ao3 Link

……… ...id.”

He was being shaken, the shadows of his memory being knocked loose like so many cobwebs.

“Cid!”

Cid awoke to Era leaning over him, face full of panic. He felt rather out of breath, his body covered in cold sweat. The mess of sheets told him he must have been flailing.

“Was it… were you dreaming of Carteneau again?” One of her hands was running up and down his back reassuringly, her other making its way to his head, pulling him in close.

“Not Carteneau, no. Something else, though very nearly as unpleasant”, he said once his breath returned to him, tucking his head against her chest. “I’ll be glad to forget it.”

“Your headaches, they’ve subsided?” Cid asked, pondering the content of his dreams. To tell her, or to let sleeping dogs lie? Which would make her happier?

He felt Era nod. “I feel worlds better now, though I’m not sure what finally sent them away.”

“It’s the strangest thing”, she muttered into his hair, “I don’t think I dreamt at all, or if I did it’s since been forgotten, but… I awoke with the feeling that we had been speaking.” Her fingers twirled one of his locks idly. Sigh “Maybe you were talking in your sleep.”

“Maybe. Say, Era… do you think when you were small, you had one of those stubby little tails we see on the miqo'te kids about town?”

“I suppose, I wouldn't think it’d be very long that young. But whatever brought that on?” She laughed, index finger drawing lazy circles on his shoulder blade.

“Nothing”, Cid lied, “Just a stray thought. Speaking of stray thoughts, though, I have a little theory I’d like to run by you.” This way would be better, give her the choice.

“Hmm?”

“I was thinking it’s rather peculiar how you arrived in the Shroud, what with a shipwreck and all that. Not too many people are daft or desperate enough to try and sail to a place with few to no docks. I think… and if this isn’t to your liking I’ll drop it, but...I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea to check with Jessie and see if there weren’t any refugees bound for the Black Shroud at around that time.”

Cid paused, adjusting to look her in the face, seeing the realization of what he was implying dawn on her. Light began to filter in through the window, leaving odd patterns on her skin.

“We’re just about the only group able or willing to help Garlean defectors, and Gridania would be the go-to place to hide a Keeper of the Moon. The Ironworks may have been stretched a bit thin in my absence, but I know Jessie wouldn’t have quit trying. Though I imagine we wouldn’t have had the resources to search for people who didn’t manage to meet at the rendezvous point.”

“So you think I might’ve been on a ship fleeing the Empire?”

“Possibly. I think it’s worth a look, at the least.”

Era was quiet for a time, mulling over his argument.

“Would it bother you, if I had?”

“Bother me?”

“Yeah, I just...no, nevermind.”

“No, not ‘nevermind’. What are you asking?”

“Nothing. Really.”

“Era, you could be from the moon and I wouldn't give a damn, and you know that. What’re you asking?”

“....If I were from a province, I don’t want you to feel badly about it, is all. I see the way you look at the people who come by the workshop hoping for a new start…it’s as if you think you took their homes from them yourself. I don’t want that, those sad eyes.”

"I don't…!"

"You do."

….."You're right. I do. But it's not like I'm not responsible for some of that"

"It's been fifteen years!"

"It has, and many of the weapons used today were developed from schematics my father or I drew up! I'm not blameless. But I get your point." Cid adjusted so that he was now holding her, flipping onto his back to rest Era on his chest. "It's hardly my business bearing it all, either."

Cid considered for a while, hands wandering her back and shoulders absently, one sliding down her arm to take her hand in his, examining the length of her fingers in comparison to his own. “You really aren’t bothered by the possibility? If you are from a province, I’d have been…”

“You’d have been Cid”, Era cut in, her tone heavy with finality. “The man I love, the person who’s always at my side when I need him. I’ve no use for any past that says otherwise.”

Cid didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he said nothing at all, nodding softly and resting his chin on the crown of her head. The sun had risen higher in the sky whilst they spoke, the patterns of light moving from Era’s skin to rest on the far wall.

Perhaps he was wrong, and Jessie and co hadn’t tried to smuggle Era’s family out like he thought. They weren’t responsible for every refugee’s relocation. Maybe they would find nothing. Maybe. A part of him hoped.

But Cid also knew he owed it to her to try. Without Era, Cid wouldn't be Cid. He’d still be Marques, trying to fill the shoes Alphinaud claimed belonged to him. Even at the risk that she would come to hate him for it, he ought to make the effort. She wouldn't hate him, would she? He hugged her, squeezing tighter than probably should have, though she offered no complaint.

………

Indeed, Jessie had received word from contacts within the empire that several people from a predominantly Keeper of the Moon inhabited province in the eastern foothills required immediate assistance and relocation. A fairly well-to-do family (for a province, anyway) had run afoul of their Viceroy benefactor by unwittingly housing a child of a resistance movement for the night, mistakenly believing the boy to be lost rather than a fugitive on the run.

The viceroy had little tolerance for pets that bit the hand that fed them, and ordered the parents put in chains and their daughter, a young woman, immediately enlisted in the military. He had kept her from it in hopes her clever mind would make a name for his province and leadership, but the endeavor had borne little fruit, and those brains in a rebel mind were naught but a threat.

They were spared their fate by the very same resistance movement that uprooted their lives, who had come to rescue the boy. The family and the child could no longer find safety in any Garlean land, and were strongly advised to flee. The resistance contacted smugglers, who in turn contacted the Ironworks, and the group set sail in the hold of a merchant ship bound for the Black Shroud.

Jessie confirmed they never received word from the escapees, and that their arrival date would have roughly matched the day Era washed ashore. The wood wailers had found no other survivors, Era knew. If she had been on that ship, she alone lived.

It was a long shot, Jessie said, as to do so was quite dangerous, but the smugglers occasionally kept dossiers of their charges to serve as sort of tombstone for those that didn’t make it to safety. They could request "Era's" and be sure.

Era merely shook her head at Jessie’s offer, hugging her and thanking her for the help. She'd heard enough. If she was indeed this family’s daughter, she wasn’t sure she’d like the person she was. A Viceroy’s pet? She’d take Warrior of Light over that any day.

She didn’t notice that Cid had been holding his breath, nor that he seemed to breathe a bit easier upon her decision.

As the days passed, however, his silence away at him. He found it increasingly difficult to look her in the eye, constantly on the verge of blurting out what he knew, and his guilt. Finally, one evening as they readied for bed, Cid sat her down, looking grave.

He had to tell her.

“Era”, he said, “I haven’t been entirely honest with you… I..”

“Saw something, didn’t you? When I had my headaches. They only went away after you had that nightmare.” She looked at him knowingly; his face an open book. “Really, what was so terrible you couldn’t tell me?”

With a deep breath, he began to regale her of his echo adventures, of his dream and his memory, but Era raised a hand to stop him. “I already know”, she said, smiling kindly. “It took a day or two for the dream to come back to me, but I remember it all now, both the bit that makes no sense and the bit I'm sure was your memory. I don't have my half of that memory, for the record. It's as blank as it ever was in my mind."

She laughed softly at his befuddled look, a somber thing, no true mirth behind the act, and reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. "You seemed so stressed, I wanted to wait till you felt comfortable talking about it before I said anything.” She stroked his cheek, aiming to comfort him. “I’m so sorry you had to live through that again.”

"Era, I failed you, left you to their mercy when helping was no longer convenient for me. I wasn't by your side when you needed me."

"Of course you weren't! Are you daft? Your father had just passed, why in the world would some girl you just met be a priority?"

Cid looked dumbfounded, like he'd been struck overhead with his own hammer.

"I'm really sorry about his passing. I know I always say, but…"

"I could have found you after. Should have." He insisted.

"You needed to be in Eorzea." Era countered matter-of-factly. She wasn't particularly interested in being the cause of his guilt. He had enough of that about too many things already.

"You could have come with me." The somber note in his voice was lifting; now he was just being stubborn.

Era wasn't having it.

"Why would I have run off to a whole other continent with a boy I just met? Especially with a family relying on me? Enough of this. You're confusing then with now, and being bullheaded about it besides. I promise, it worked out in the best way it could."

Cid huffed, having lost the not-argument. Really, she was far too measured, too calm, about things at times. The trouble with that being, despite desperately dreading it, he had been fully prepared for her anger. Prepared for her forgiveness, even. He hadn't been at all prepared for her to just not give a damn. There was no use in being petulant about it, however, not when she was like this. He knew if he kept up she'd just go sleep on the couch, and he hated that.

So he conceded, nodding his head with an "Alright, alright" and changing the subject. "Your little stubby tail was adorable."

"Wh...what?" Era stammered, taken aback by the abrupt shift. "You think so?" She blushed. "Oh I don't know, I much prefer it as it is now."

"Well of course I prefer it now, it's lovely, but you have to admit it was quite cute, all short and fuzzy, waggling whenever you spoke." He paused for a moment, struck by a sudden realization. "...Do you think ours will have cute little tails?"

"Ours....?...Oh! Oh..." Her face was truly a remarkable shade now, burning as it was.

Cid's was no better off, a bright pink dusting his cheeks. "If...if you want them that is. In the future. I don't mean to… you know… considering everything..."

"I hope so!" She announced in a shaky voice, her face flushed deeper still, aforementioned tail quite fluffed. "I hope they have the cutest tails, and your nose, and...", But she could say no more, for he had occupied her mouth with a ferocity. Whatever else she had intended became little more than a squeak as she was swept up into his arms.

He released her slowly, begrudgingly, regaining warmth he had lacked for days with each kiss. His gaze smoldered, woes not forgotten but set aside for now, voice heavy not with guilt, but with an almost unbecoming primal desire. It felt as if lead weights had been lifted from his shoulders. Despite it all, the insanity of it, the cruelty of it, she was happy. Actually happy. With him, and their lives...even wanted his children. Seven bloody hells she wanted his children.

"Then I'd say you're right, everything really did work out in the best way that it could."

#ffxiv #ff14 #cid garlond #era hess #my self indulgent minifics #cid/wol #cid x wol #cidera

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curiouserxandxcuriouser · 5 years

Text

The Rise and Fall of the Middle

Chapter 1: Show Your Work

“Who in the world am I? Ah, that is the great Puzzle”

Lewis Carroll

Almost all of us start the same place. The first years of school serve us as a marker for the future. We are collected, cataloged, and groomed for a life of education. Each day in early life is filled with the promise of more. There is always more to understand. The world is a vast collection of data that we will never fully grasp, but constantly manage to chip away at. Our ability to comprehend complex matters that started long before our own story are what I feel inherently make us human.

Take for example the alphabet. It is one of the very first teaching points, and yet we don't consider it's origins until much later in life. We do not teach young children that these weird symbols stem from an ancient Latin origin. Children do not question where the symbols come from. We accept from the earliest ages that these odd scribble holds value. They will provide us a key to countless door, and elevate us to a world we can't begin to fathom. The goals of each child might differ, but the end result is the same. Once you have learned this, more is waiting for you.

I can not speak for the current state of the school system, but in my experience creative approaches to solved problems were not acceptable. Math is a great example of this. I doubt I am the only person who was told to “show your work”. While in practice, this request would appear to prevent some from cheating, it can also stifle the ability to think critically. The downfall of the “show your work” system is, the answer may remain the same, but how you get there is more important. It would seem in the haste of reaching our end result, we have forgotten to cater to a growing mind. We force a narrow minded approach to a situation, that could in fact allow for a much more engaged approach.

Even now I can hear the chanting of “Don't reinvent the wheel!”. I can feel the pull of a dozen voices all saying “This is the way we do things.”. Despite this, I can not feel that a degree of value is missed. Let's take for a look at the process of learning. Why do we start with the alphabet?

The answer to this seems simple enough. It is a cornerstone. By decoding these twenty-six symbols, we have taken our first steps towards communicating in a second language. You read that correctly. While we may not think of written English and spoken English as separate languages, I would argue that they are. We are taught to sound out letters for spelling. Is this nothing more than translation? We are taught to recognize commonly used words like “cat” and “bat”. Is this not the same process for learning another language?

For a majority of children, speaking comes long before reading or writing. We learn speech by mimicking our parents and associating real world consequences with those words. It is not a huge leap to realize most of our first words were likely “no” as we explored something our parents might find dangerous. Even “dada” or “momma” are simple associations of the person in front of you continuously repeating and pointing at themselves. So now that we have figured out how to learn, let's dig deeper in to how it functions.

Learning at it's most core level, appears to me at least, to be a series of recognizing patterns. While repetition is the most common method of achieving this, as in the momma/dadda method, I can't speak at all to it's efficiency. We are, by nature, repetitive creatures. Most of us have a favorite restaurant we frequent, or a movie we watch on repeat. I am willing to bet, you even have a series you binge watch over and over. The down fall of this behavior seems to be when our pattern is disrupted. If your restaurant closes, how you you react? If your favorite series is no longer available to view, how do you feel? This interruption to our repetition ignites an emotional response in us.

When applied to the process of teaching and learning, we do not see a change. When you are taught your alphabet, it is done over days and weeks of repetition. When you are taught the summation of two plus two, it is done on flash cards, and repeated until you can parrot it back. The fault of this thinking comes from the child who counts on their fingers, or makes marks on a paper. This child has shown that they do not just accept two scribbles to equal another scribble. They have asked “why”. They may struggle to show their work by marking a 2 + 2 on paper, because they have thought about this critically. It is more than just symbols to them, there is a reason for the answer.

This child has recognized that there is a pattern in the education before them, and set out to find an answer. They will be celebrated in their early years. They might even be moved to a gifted class, because this child has recognized the essence of learning. They have taken the first steps to understanding that in questioning the origin of something, you gain a deeper understanding in it's functions.

And yet, what happens as the child grows? At what point do we turn the corner to “Do not reinvent the wheel.”, or “This is the way it is.”? At what point in our lives do we stop accepting that the “why” of life is the key to more, and start hammering away at the all definitive “Because I said so.”. At what point do we stop looking to grow, and improve on the topics and subjects at hand? When do we look at the answer and say that it is good enough? How do we reach a point where we stop looking at the problems of our world, and finalize on these solutions?

It is a lot to ask, and even more to answer. The state of our lives is a lulled and sleepy one. While we never stop learning, it is undeniable that we severely reduce our efforts. Whether through being told that the answer “just is” enough times, or just genuinely finding dissatisfaction with the answers at hand, almost all of us eventually slow our efforts to improve.

My youth was filled with promises of being able to accomplish anything. Even then I remember telling the teacher that they told every student that. Of course they protested. That was their job. I was told early on that I was special. I was moved to advanced classes because of my ability to think critically. They wanted to inspire a creative thinker, but only if that creative thinker followed the bounds and parameters that suck to their pattern. These advanced classes had an excess of one thing. They insisted you show your work.

Personal Notes:

**Let's take a break here. I decided that through this book, I am going to take some chances to better explain myself to you at key points. For example: I realize how dangerously close I am coming to a “color inside the lines” argument. I wanted to take this paragraph to explain that I am in no way arguing with the processes at hand. This is not some conspiracy about being trained how to think. The entire purpose of this chapter is to establish a premise for how a wide eyed “gifted” child can turn in to an insignificant adult. I am well aware that the examples provided in these paragraphs are open to speculation. They serve their purpose for demonstrating a mindset.**

When we review the patterns of learning, we can very easily make a connection to how showing your work will turn out. We have already seen this child start questioning why number work the way they do. It is well within reason that they will question why they need to show their work. The answer here will vary wildly, even when looking at the same child. I remember thinking that it was because teachers did not trust me. The next day I would assume it was because they wanted me to do it their way. By the end of this process, the damage was done. I had settled on not knowing the answer, and had a much more important question haunting me. “How do I show on paper that I just get it?”

It is fair to say, in retrospect, that I might have invested in my own hype. Maybe the other kids didn't get it. Maybe I was picking it up quicker. Who am I to say how smart I really am? The only person I can actively compare it to is myself, because if I have these detailed thoughts questioning everything, who is to say others don't? It's not as if they would vocalize it. I certainly didn't.

The second downfall of the show your work thinking, and the inevitable “How do I show on paper that I get it?” mindset, was a feeling of responsibility to have an answer. This led to a very nasty lying habit. If I didn't have an answer, I would simply make one up. If I knew something, but couldn't explain how, I had to come up with a reason. Of course the lying itself would grow to spiral out of control. I felt a need to be special. I had an urge to live up to who I was being told I was.

At one point the class was being asked about their pets at home. I spun some story about a goldfish I had that could jump through hoops on command. No one believed me. So I aspired to be a better liar. I had a need to be different. I felt a drive to be better than those around me. At that time it was more important to me to learn “why” people chose to believe a story, than it was to just be honest about my boring gold fish.

This kind of learning did not follow a typical pattern of repetition, at least out loud. It simply could not. The class laughing at my unbelievable goldfish story had hurt too much. It was too embarrassing. So the process of telling lies over and over until it made sense would not have worked. It would need to be approached through the method of observation.

It's obvious to see where this mindset was headed. I spent a lot of time in trouble. Finding believable lies was so much harder than telling the truth, but it was something I would learn to do. It was a challenge, and smart people never backed down from a challenge. If I could recognize a pattern of what people would find believable, I would be able to be the smartest person in the room. I would have the most amazing stories, about the most unbelievable things, and not be... well me.

I knew who I was. I was born to a poor family. I was the child of soon to be divorced parents. I lived in a house that had burned down, and with clothes that were donated by other kids. I was the kid who was always in trouble for one thing or another. I certainly was not special, but someone believed I was. If I could convince them of that, I could convince them of anything.

The stories I would come to tell through my next years in life got better, but never lost their unbelievably. The more I managed to convince people I was something else, the less time I had to spend being me. In point of fact, isn't that exactly what it meant to be whatever you wanted? If you could dream it you could be it, no matter the social, financial, or parental standing.

That is enough of about me. Let's return to the essence of learning. This example provides us a look at how quickly value can take root. It allows us to see how, for better or worse, when there is no structured learning system it still occurs and flourishes. Most importantly, it is a look a how a pattern formed, and produced a learning experience. It is a learning method that did follow a pattern, without the need for repetition. Although it is undeniable that repetition did make it better over time.

I feel it is also important to review the end line here. The Insignificant Adult who can't rise above their station is a theme I see among many of those around me. The idea that we are handed this lot in life, and the window to fix it has closed, leaves a lot to be questioned. When did we become this mundane monstrosity? At what point in this story did we stop being the hero challenging the world? What happened to cause so many of us to take a passenger roll in our own lives?

I believe the answer to this all comes back to the time the detachment of our social needs. As we grew, we had a sloppily structured calendar. We would wake up early to get to school, but then would spend countless hours interacting with peers. Most of us in a working family would spend more time with friends than with family. We would come home to untapped hours were we got to explore personal interests and dream big.

By comparison, as an adult, the social element is more and more removed. For most of us, we wake up to the same hour, of the same day, of the same week. We go to a job with coworkers, but adversely need to spend our time focus on the task at hand. We have limited interaction with the people around us. If you work some form of customer facing job, you are likely to slip in to a trance like state in an attempt to just make it through the day. You probably have a “work self” that you need to maintain. You use this persona to hide your interests, temper your expectations, and control your emotions.

All of this leads to a sense of helplessness. You want to reach out, but are afraid of the ramifications if you do. You want to connect, but are afraid that exposing yourself will lead to rejection, or worse might cost you your lifestyle. You want to explore your creative passions, but have a nagging feeling that you should be doing something else, like socializing. In summation, you just aren't getting enough living out of life.

If you are still reading by this point, you may be asking “Well what can I do to fix it?”. There are no easy answers here. Being an adult in today's world requires these things of you. Your creation of that “work self” was a necessity born from the environment you work in. If you work in an office, you fear the repercussions of being unprofessional. You know that stress levels are high, expectations are higher, and there is no room for you and your opinions. Despite what HR tells you. If you work retail, your “work self” was created in a mimicry of the lack of humanity you are shown. You shut off yourself because you will get yelled at, chewed out, and blamed for everything. Even when it comes to following the rules. If you were able to turn off that work self when you got home, maybe there would be a level of redemption.

So you make it home. Your inner sanctum. Your closed doors where you are able to be yourself. There are a few snags here. Now you have to socialize. You haven't gotten a chance all day to see a welcoming side of humanity that wasn't paid for. So you reach out to friends, or family, or social media in an attempt to feel some warmth from another person. The downside being that they have all had the same experience you have. So now you spend your time comparing battle scars, or worse dominate the conversation with how bad your day really was.

By the end of this encounter, that has likely drained away precious hours of your self exploration time. Has it helped you unwind? When you are done talking about your day, are you done thinking about it? Have you managed to move past the pitfalls, or do they haunt your thoughts and continue to come up? Do you dwell on conversations and interactions? I ask you, has this social encounter left you filled with hope and the power to carry out another day?

Some will say yes. This book is not being written for them. It is for those of you that have said no that I am writing this. This is for the twenty something who is wondering when they became the “adult”. This is written for the 30 something, who looks at their social media and wonders why everyone else seems to be adjusting just fine. For the person who clocks out, but can't leave work at work.

It is my hope, that through this book, I will help at least one person look at their life for what it truly is. That the one person will evaluate their situation, and realize that there is not a fantasy out there waiting, but that it is going to be okay. I am hoping that by the end of this, the macabre of normalcy will be seen for the beautiful world that we live in. That each person who reads this will realize that you are not helpless. You are still the hero of your own story. You just need to change the narrative. You have done a lot of work, so let's start by showing it.

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