#I have never articulated anything clearly in my life I’m in a state of despair but hopefully this means something

[joshuaalbert]

troi <3 <3 <3

ok I feel like you may not like some of these answers but. blame the writers ok

favorite thing about them

troi is a character I like the potential of more than I like the execution. like. the setup for her character is so interesting! obviously one of the most famously compelling things about spock is that he’s half human half vulcan, and although betazoid and human values/culture are not necessarily at odds with each other to the same degree and she doesnt need to have the same type of conflict to be compelling, any character that is biracial in this sense should have a really unique perspective on things. her empathic abilities have the potential to be both extremely useful and also a really significant burden and there’s a lot of potential for examination in terms of keeping that balance. she’s effectively the humanities major on a ship full of STEM majors, so that’s another unique viewpoint bc goddamn sometimes they cannot explain Anything in words, and she has the most engagement with the crew as a whole, rather than just her division or the senior officers. there are a lot of cool and different things to work with here! boy howdy I sure hope they work with them!

I also like that she has the most interesting and complex relationship with her mother of any character in the series! there’s nothing inherently Wrong with exploring children and their fathers, but quite often we don’t get the other side of that, so I think that’s neat. there’s not really an ominous twist on this like there was in the last paragraph I just think it’s neat.

also this is a minor thing but I think it’s funny that her entire job is to be emotionally supportive but she does sometimes make jokes at inappropriate moments when talking to someone asking for her help with something. objectively terrible behavior for a therapist but very funny as a character moment.

so. all that said.

least favorite thing about them

well that would be the wasted potential. despite her being so potentially fascinating as a character, for most of the show it feels like she’s just there to be hot and say “i sense…” and i mean she does great on both counts but that doesn’t make a fulfilled character. literally the single most interesting scene about the fact that she was half human half betazoid was cut from 3x5 the bonding and it makes me want to commit vehicular manslaughter. who wrote this and why didn’t they write the rest of the show. she uses her abilities and sometimes makes references to betazed, but to the best of my recollection, that’s largely it, and while I think there’s significant value in having a character who has learned to balance both aspects of themselves, it more often comes off as “no one really put any effort into this so she acts mostly human but she can feel stuff” imo.

I can only remember a couple times off the top of my head that her empathic abilities were used in a truly interesting way, and of the times that the downsides are explored, a lot of those episodes are. idk they somehow seem to always stop short of being really good character episodes somehow. 4x10 the loss is probably the closest but even then I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s…standout? (in its defense it does come right after final mission, an episode i was being really normal about, so I should probably rewatch it). also there was a proposed edit to the naked now script that would have dealt with the potentially overwhelming nature of feeling everyone on the ship’s emotions and I’m really mad that they didn’t do that rather than like. I don’t even know what she did in that episode?

so many of her focus episodes are about her and some guy and like obviously I’m not being like oh a strong female character can never have a plotline where she’s into a man that’d be a fucking stupid take but it feels both disproportionate and detrimental to her individual character development. she doesn’t get any kind of fun and interesting hobby/interest until 6x8 fistful of datas where it turns out she’s actually super into westerns! her father used to read her stories about the old west and she always wanted to be the Mysterious Stranger!! that’s so fun!! why did it take us until season 6 to get to something like this!!! her best episodes are in seasons 6 and 7 when she gets involved in cool plotlines and wants to advance her career but not until the last two seasons and I can’t keep going like this or I will start Screaming. I feel insane. you understand my point. they do not utilize a potentially incredibly complex character to her full potential and I feel insane.

brOTP

I respect people who live that deanna/beverly life but generally speaking I like them most as friends. that said I will make an exception for the episode where they’re doing aerobics together in gay little complementary outfits.

OTP

I am a troi/riker heaux. no creativity here. such is life. I like that even when they’re kind of on again off again it’s generally not in a forced angsty drama way it’s just like ok this is what we’re doing today and regardless of where we stand we are friends first and foremost. also I think some of her most fun moments are when they are being Bitches together or she is heckling his musical skills.

nOTP

okay I am going to put this in as spoiler free terms as possible but. in season 7 they introduce a relationship that I don’t entirely hate on its own merits and that I think could have some interesting facets to explore but I think it’s a HORRIBLE misstep from a writing perspective. admittedly I had knowledge of the films and knew what the ultimate outcome was going to be, but I think even if I hadn’t, I would’ve known it wasn’t going to be endgame, and it feels like the time spent on it in the back half of the last season of the show could’ve been spent way better elsewhere. it also completely fucks over her chances for an actual interesting examination of her character in the finale, because why stop letting her be defined by men even at the very end?

random headcanon

I feel like she should listen to like. metal sometimes. or like a betazoid equivalent. because like! I think it would be A Lot to have so many people’s thoughts and emotions at the edge of your consciousness all the time even if you’ve generally figured out how to filter it!! I think sometimes you’d need a way to try to drown it out!! and like yeah she’s not Hearing Their Thoughts it’s a different sense so it’s not literally drowning it out but I still think having another really strong sensory input would help yknow?

unpopular opinion

honestly I don’t even know what the popular opinions about troi are. I’m just here.

song i associate with them

I think what we’ve learned from these ask games is that I have associated songs for literally 2 characters

favorite picture of them

uniform troi!! uniform troi I love her. idk why they were like oh people will not know she is Beautiful Woman if she’s in uniform so we cannot do that until like season 6. look at her.

#I have never articulated anything clearly in my life I’m in a state of despair but hopefully this means something #troi #tng #ask game

[emilianopavone]

Self Para 003.

Though he questioned the choice as soon as he walked in the door, there were several explanations Emiliano could give for why he was going to church on a Thursday afternoon. The first was his mother, a reminder that if he was meant to be a practicing Catholic it might help to actually practice. The second was mere happenstance, a trip into town for business that made the pitstop convenient if not incredibly ironic. But the third, and perhaps most important reason, was Montgomery. He wasn’t sure why and he wasn’t sure when, but after the second sleepless night wrapped in the man’s arms, it was clear that his magic bullet for quieting his restless thoughts wasn’t so magic anymore.

Emil wasn’t worried about the lost sleep, a problem that had become as familiar as its many remedies, but he was worried about his ability to keep hiding it. Montgomery’s habit for noticing things he didn’t want him to was matched only by his penchant for worrying, so in the interest of heading off a host of questions he couldn’t answer honestly, he decided to take him up on his offer. He decided to talk to someone.

Father Rosario greeted him with patient silence from the other side of the thin black screen, a comforting lie of anonymity when Emil was certain he would recognize his voice as soon as he spoke. The symbolism, however, was not lost on him, and he had faith that if there was anyone in the city he could talk to without fear of repercussions — social, legal or otherwise — it was him. So he went through the motions of a ritual that held more meaning in its familiarity than its sanctity, crossing himself as he finally broke the silence. 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two and a half years since my last confession.” It felt like a bad start, but at least it was an honest one, and whether he was out of practice or still searching for the right words, he paused long enough for the priest to prompt him gently along.

“What is it that you came to confess?” There was a neutrality to Father Rosario’s tone that Emil wished he could pin down so he could better emulate it, wondering how long he had practiced before he could ask his parishioners to bear their souls to him as if they were truly free of judgement. He wondered if he or Monty would ever figure out how to do the same.

“Well, I haven’t dedicated as much of my time to God as I should.” Or at least as much as his mother thought he should, and not enough to count time passed since his last confession in months instead of years. “I haven’t always kept the Sabbath or come to Mass. I’ve given into temptation. Temptations,” he corrected, trying to keep anything coy out of his tone when it seemed contrary to the point, “Drinking...a lot. A little less than before, but probably still more than I’m supposed to. Smoking — no drugs though — just the smoking. And sex. A lot of that, too. It’s just with one person now, so I’m not sure if that makes it better.” Emil was fairly certain it didn’t, and he opted to leave out exactly what kind of sex he was having when it was nothing he would apologize for.

“Honor your mother...I could do better with that one. Coveting your neighbor’s possessions, too,” he continued, ticking his way through the commandments and wondering if it was better to list the ones he was following rather than each one he wasn’t. “I’ve been trying not to lie, but I’m not sure that’s the same as telling the truth.” He paused after the words, sincerity surfacing in the midst of a shallow list that made him wonder if that’s what this was. A list of Catholic sins that were all true, but not honest. Stalling more than confessing, and it wasn’t surprising to know Father Rosario had practice with that as well.

“Telling the truth is hard,” he started, neutral tone replaced with warm empathy, “Confession is hard. We have to be at peace with ourselves and the world doesn’t make that easy, does it? It is filled with distractions. Temptations. Things that draw us away from God and make us feel shame. But God is never ashamed of us, that’s what we have to remember. He never stops loving us. Only we can chose to turn away from that love when we let shame block out His light.”

Emil listened quietly, gaze resting on his hands and staying there in the still silence that followed, a long moment that felt like a deep breath. There was a slowness in churches, a disregard for the passage of time that he needed right now. So far removed from the sharp, quick wit of his conversations, of questions that demanded answers, and quiet moments that spoke for him in ways he didn’t want when he couldn’t find the right words fast enough. He appreciated having time that didn’t tick, taking a moment to slip off the plain silver ring that hid his thoughts, playing with it between his fingers like he might have a chance to see them now, too.

“I don’t know if I’m a good person.” Another pause, another breath. “I think I am sometimes. I try to be. But I feel like it’s harder for me than everyone else and I’m not sure what that says about me.” It was a confession he’d already made, less painful the second time he said it out loud, but he wasn’t sure what that said about him either. An ebbing fear or a growing numbness to it.

“It says you’re human,” Father Rosario replied, “We are made in His image, but we are not divine. We see His image in us and we glimpse that divinity when we choose to do good. It is the choosing that matters, and choosing can be hard, even painful.”

“See I did that. I chose to do a good thing. I chose to save someone’s life, but I...” Emil paused, rushing in his explanation but hesitating in his confession, the scalpel feeling so much deadlier when it was in his own hand, “But I had to do horrible things to do it. I had to lie, I had to steal, I had to break laws.” It was another laundry list of sins, worse this time, crimes that felt foolish to disclose yet still didn’t feel like enough, so he cut deeper. “I hurt people,” he admitted after another moment, swallowing hard and pushing deeper, “A lot of people...mostly good ones. Mostly friends.” Messages he thought he’d see again every time he opened his phone, Isa’s number long since blocked when he only remembered a string of pleas. I miss you. Can we Facetime? Can you call? I just want to hear your voice. When are you coming back?

Emil stopped twirling the ring between his fingers, staring at it frozen for a long moment. “I think I hurt the person I was trying to save the most.” It was a cut deep enough that he could feel it, a truth both obvious and overwhelming, and whatever came next in his list was gone. Not sure if it was an argument or an apology that he’d lost track, but he did his best to reclaim the train of thought. “I chose the right thing — the good thing — that’s what matters. So when does it feel like it? When do I see that glimpse of divinity?”

He had looked for it. Some sign that blood could be repaid in gold. In honey-hued drinks and sun-painted skin. He looked for it beside him every morning and every evening, proof in his presence, in the warmth that wrapped around him. But there wasn’t enough comfort in the soft breath on the back of his neck, and he couldn’t find credit in a heartbeat that said Montgomery was alive. Too much blame stitched between still fading scars he was realizing might never go away. 

“God never asks us to turn to evil for the sake of good,” Father Rosario said after a moment of careful thought, “He will sometimes ask us to make great sacrifices, ones we may not think that we can survive, but we will.”

“But isn’t that what this is?” Emil interrupted, remembering he preferred an argument to an apology, “I gave up everything. I sacrificed my job, my relationships, my safety…” God he was going to die. He remembered it the way he always did, with a sudden terrifying intensity that he had to ignore before it paralyzed him. “I made the choice to do something good, the choice that screwed me over and ruined all of it. And I don’t get to complain. I don’t get pity or comfort or forgiveness because I gave that up too.” And you know why. He knew why he couldn’t be trusted, why he couldn’t be angry, why he’d lost every argument before it ever started, and why the only person he could talk to was sitting behind a partition. No sympathetic ear he could convince to see his pain as anything but self-induced, no friend who would pity him more than they hated him, and at least it hurt less to hear his justifications picked apart by a man who barely knew him.

“I gave up the chance to be the hero because being a hero wouldn’t have saved him. I made all the hard calls, I made all the sacrifices, and what do I get?” Emil tried to hold onto some shred of self-righteousness, but he felt it breaking apart as quickly as he built it up. Disgust replacing indignation as his anger turned back inward. A poison he couldn’t stop from spreading, and every time he tried it just got worse. I just want you to be okay too.

Father Rosario waited this time, letting the brief spark of resentment burn itself out before offering guidance both harsh and kind. “God does not pity sinners, and he does not comfort them,” he stated clearly, “But God does forgive them, and in that forgiveness you may find comfort.”

“How?” The blunt question was met by a pregnant pause, the priest cautiously picking through its ambiguity but as soon as he started to articulate an answer, Emil cut him off. “How is God’s forgiveness going to make this feel better? How is anything going to make this feel better?” His voice wavered, not from anger, but a desperate despair that was left in its wake, ring clenched in a fist that slowly tightened around it, searching for an anchor. “When I think about it for too long I can’t breathe. It is this...overwhelming weight and it is all-encompassing and suffocating and so I have to put it away. I have to ignore it or I can’t function. And sometimes it’s hours and sometimes it’s days but then I feel it again and it’s worse, it’s always worse. Because I put it away and I shouldn’t get to do that right?” The question broke on a single, sharp laugh, more hysterical than humorous. “I should have to feel it, I should have to feel this terrible, sickening guilt all the time, but I can’t. I can’t. So I put it away, and every time it comes back, it’s worse and worse and--” it feels like it’s going to kill me. 

Emil stopped short, words caught in his throat when it didn’t feel fair to say them out loud. Irrational, selfish fears that he pushed back down with everything else that came boiling over. Nails digging into his palm and holding his breath until he could let it out more slowly, waiting for something better than his heartbeat to fill the dead air between them.

“Do you know why God forgives us?” Father Rosario asked eventually, shifting on the other side of the screen to face him more directly, as if he might better impart his guidance if he could catch his gaze through cross-hatched holes, “God does not forgive us because he believes what we did is not wrong or that we have served our penance with a couple of prayers and a priest’s blessing. He forgives us because he believes we can do better. He knows we can. His forgiveness does not right our wrongs, and sometimes we can’t either. But his forgiveness gives us the grace to move forward without judgement. To do better.”

“What if I don’t want God’s forgiveness,” Emil replied, words heavy and numb when he felt too spent to offer anything but cynicism. A humanist boyfriend who might be proud of his skepticism if it wasn’t so self destructive.

“Then why have you come here today?” Father Rosario waited a long time for an answer, a practice of patience and of faith, but eventually even he was forced to offer a different kind of patience when Emil remained motionless and silent on the other side of the screen. “He offers forgiveness to all those who seek it. When you are ready, He will be, too.”

Emil cracked a crooked smile, not sure if he found the promise funny or just tragically ironic, but he could recognize a polite farewell when he heard one. Slipping the ring back on his finger, and standing up to leave, he was stopped by Father Rosario. One last question he asked as his professional persona dropped for something more personal. “Emiliano, why don’t you want God’s forgiveness? Is it because you’re not ready to ask for it, or because you’re not ready to receive it?” 

Somewhere between a lament and a plea, Emil thought it was the kind of question that would impress him in a game. Brilliant but brutal and cutting close to something important. But he missed by an inch, and so his answer came easily. “It’s because nothing worth anything was ever free.”

Before Father Rosario could refute the claim, the door shut, and the confessional booth was empty once again.

#c: montgomery

[loveless-lover]

Care about me

Hey i haven't written in forever here comes an angst fic

Ship: Fae ❤ Simeon

Word count: 1033

Genre: hurt-comfort

Spoilers for chapter/lesson 6 of Obey Me

~~~~~~~

“H-hey! At least spare my life!” cried Mammon, dragged away from the room by Lucifer. “Well, looks like we’ll get to have some peace and quiet after all, right Fae?” smiled Simeon. Asmodeus was already asleep, and Fae was in her chair, a tense expression on her face that wasn’t overlooked by the angel.

“Fae? Is something the matter?” he questioned, and just with that, it’s as if a dam broke. Fae began to tear up, her expression turning into a sobbing mess, catching the angel off guard. “Oh my goodness, Fae, what happened?” he rushed to her side, gently hovering his arms around her shivering frame. “I’m so fucking tired, Simeon” her weak voice broke through, unable to speak any more as the rivers flooded. The angel worriedly pulled her into a hug, letting her empty her eyes onto his shoulder.

A long couple of minutes later, it seems Fae was nearly out of tears, and able to speak again. She breathed heavily, exhausted from the crying. “S-sorry, i didn’t mean to burst on you, Simmy” she apologized. The angel shook his head, “nonsense, you seemed distraught and i had to let you relieve yourself” he replied. Fae sniffed, drying her eyes with her sleeves, “thank you, you’re the only decent person in this place” she sighed.

“Would you be willing to tell me what upset you?” he asked, looking at the small human with concern. Fae looked aside, thinking of how to articulate her problem. “It’s just…” she sighed, “whenever something happens everyone start talking between each other and before i have a chance to comment they move on to the next thing and ignore me and start again. I never get to push a word in before everyone decides what to do without me. It’s always ‘Fae, do this’ ‘Fae, let’s do that’ ‘Fae come here’ ‘Fae go there’ but does anyone ask if i want to?!” she threw her hands up.

“Obviously fucking not, i’m just some lowly human, what i say and think doesn’t matter, those bigshot demons obviously have the authority to yank me around like some meat puppet. I feel like nothing i did here was of my own volition, i never asked for any of this. It’s like i don’t even exist to them, i’m just some toy to be pulled around” the girl cried out in frustration, eyes too dry to cry again. Simeon was shell shocked, unable to think of anything to say. She sighed, burying her face in her hands.

Fae managed to push out a few more tears, her palms getting wet as her face got more and more sore from the task of crying. Her expression was one of exhaustion and despair, her skin pale in sickness. “Just today i was pushed in front of a giant snake as bait and as soon as it was pacified they moved on like nothing happened. I was scared for my life, Simmy, nobody asked me if i was okay afterwards! I get that they’re immortal or whatever but it’s like they keep forgetting that i’m not!”

Simeon sighed, wrapping his tender arms around the human, his warmth comforting her. “I wish i had a helpful word to offer, my dear” he hummed quietly. “No, it’s fine, i just needed to get that off my chest” she huffed, clinging to his body as she shivered in place. “Do you want to get some fresh air? It may help you cool down” he offered, caring eyes gazing at the human. Fae sniffled, “y-yeah, i think i’d like that” she weakly replied.

The two were standing at the balcony, looking up at the starry night sky. The cold air was hitting Faes tear-stricken cheeks, her eyes too blurred to clearly see the stars. “Simmy… Do you think they actually care about me?” she prompted, looking up at the angel with puffy red eyes. Simeons expression was hard to read, somewhere between pity, sympathy, and concern. “I’m sure they do. They’ve never met someone like you before, and to them, situations like that are fully normal” he explained calmly. “They don’t understand how stress affects humans, they’ve never been human like you”.

Fae sighed. “I guess you’re right, they just don’t know. Honestly if this is just how they live everyday i’m not surprised they act like everything’s fine a second later, they’re probably numb to this by now” she lamented, her voice laced with a light tone of sarcasm. Simeon placed a gentle yet firm arm over her shoulders, pulling her into a gentle side-hug. “I think you should speak to them about this directly” he stated, “they won’t know unless you tell them”. “Obviously, yeah,” she grumbled, “i just don’t know how to do it without getting so angry about it that i just break down again. Plus half of them don’t even take me seriously” her gaze fell down, defeated and dismayed.

“Do you want me to be there with you?” the angel asked, Faes eyes perking up to meet his, “i can be there for you and help you stay calm. Additionally, i’m sure they’ll take your concern and stress seriously if i am there to corroborate it. No one else has seen you like this, correct?” he asked. “Y-yeah, i guess i just hide it whenever this happens…” she admitted, “i feel like i can’t even safely cry around them without one of them thinking less of me for it” her face plunged into his chest, seeking warmth from the angel.

Simeon sighed, “it’s very unfortunate you’ve been made to feel this way, Fae” his hand reached up to hold the back of her head as she clung to him. “They might not believe you at first but i’ll make sure that they’ll understand. With enough determination we’ll change their behavior” he promised. “Th-thank y-you…” the girls shaky voice squeaked from below, weak and tired of the day. The two stood in silence, basking in the cold air of the night until their feet could bear them no longer.

As the duo went to bed, a silent trust was felt between the two, assuring the human a restful sleep that night.

#loveless ramble #fanfiction #writing #hurt-comfort #selfship #fictional other #obey me simeon #simeon

[remuslupin-enthusiast]

Harry Potter and the eighth year he deserved

Chapter 2

As the weeks went by, Harry and Draco started becoming friends with one another. Draco and Harry were beginning to open up to each other about different things. One thing they found that they have in common is the fact that they have both been getting nightmares ever since the war happened. One night late in October, Harry was woken up by Draco’s screaming. Immediately, Harry rushes over to Draco’s bed to wake him up to get him out of his nightmare. It seemed to have worked because Draco woke up and eventually started to calm down, so Harry got up and went back to his bed. Just as he was about to lie down, Draco speaks to him. “Thank you for helping me. You didn’t need to do that. But I really appreciated it,” Draco said. The look of despair in Draco’s eyes made Harry crumble into pieces. It is not fair for one person to have to carry all that pain with them. “Of course, I couldn’t let you suffer. I know how terrible those dreams can get” Harry replied. Draco seemed to have immediately fallen back asleep because not even five minutes after they had spoken, all Harry could hear from Draco’s bed was his steady, quiet, breathing. Harry tried to fall asleep, and eventually, after what felt like forever, he drifted into a restless sleep, dreaming of Draco. ++++ As the weeks went on, Harry and Draco each slept undisturbed by night terrors, until one night when Harry was woken again by Draco’s screams and sobs. Harry rushes over to Draco’s bed and shakes him gently until he wakes up. Draco continues sobbing in Harry’s arm for a little while, but he eventually calms down. Once Draco calmed down, he asked Harry in a quiet voice if Harry could stay with him for the rest of the night. Harry obliges and lies down beside Draco. Slowly, Draco drifts off to sleep clutching Harry. Of all the things that Harry could have expected of tonight this was not one of them. Harry falls quickly into a dreamless and peaceful sleep, one of the best sleep he had had in a long time. ++++ When Draco woke up in the morning, he noticed something he wished he hadn’t. Harry was as hard as a rock, and it wasn’t helping Draco’s case either. Draco figured it was normal for Harry in the morning, but Draco knew that his wasn’t. If not entirely. Hopefully, Harry is not awake at the moment, because if he was, it would be very clear to him what was happening due to the position they were in. Harry lay on his back, and Draco lay beside him with his leg across Harry. Ugh, Draco thought, this is embarrassing, he doesn’t want Harry to find out about his feelings. Draco decides to get up and shower hopefully before Harry notices the situation that’s going on. When Draco got out of the shower, Harry was back on his own bed putting on his shirt. Merlin, Draco thought, Harry is beautiful. “You’re up early today,” Harry said, still sounding a little sleepy. “Yeah, I woke up about half an hour ago and decided to shower to kill time” Draco replied. “Shall we go down to breakfast now?” Harry asked. “Sure, that sounds good,” Draco said, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. Draco was still worried about this morning’s incident and hoped that Harry didn’t notice. If he did, he hasn’t mentioned anything about it so far, and Draco hopes that it stays that way. That’s a conversation Draco never wants to have. Ever. Later that day, Draco sits in charms class unable to focus, because Harry is sitting right in front of him, and all Draco can think about is how gorgeous his hair is, no matter how messy and untameable. Draco decided he’s finally going to tell Pansy about his love for Harry, so tonight after dinner, they are going to meet in the restricted section of the library, where nobody can hear them talk, and he’s going to tell her. After his classes are over for the day, Draco goes back to his dorm and drops his things off. He’s glad that he doesn’t have to worry about doing homework tonight since it’s Friday and Draco has all weekend. So, before dinner, Draco decides he’s going to take a walk around the castle to clear his head. During his walk, Draco stumbles upon two people having a somewhat heated conversation. And when Draco discovers who it is, he freezes in his tracks. “No, I can’t just tell him, Hermione! He probably doesn’t even feel that way about me anyways. And even if he did, we’re supposed to be sworn enemies for life. What would people say when they found out?” Harry exclaimed, sounding extremely distressed. “Well Harry, you can’t just do nothing. I think you should at least try and be friends with him first, then maybe work your way up to telling him about how you feel” Hermione reasoned. “But that’s the thing, our relationship isn’t weird or malicious or anything. We’ve become friends” Harry says quietly. Draco is stunned. Then he hears the dinner bell go and realizes he needs to get out of there before he gets noticed by Harry and Hermione. So Draco runs down the hall then slows down to a walk once he gets far enough away from them and heads down to dinner. At dinner, Draco sits with Pansy and Blaise and they talk about the week and their homework and everything they need to do. Afterward, Pansy and Draco bid their goodbyes to Blaise and head off to the library where they said they were going to work on ‘homework’, when in reality, Draco was about to tell Pansy his deepest darkest secret. When they get to the library, Pansy and Draco go straight to the back to the restricted section and find the most secluded table in the whole room. “Ok, so. Spill. You need to tell me what you’ve been dying to tell me all day” Pansy says sarcastically. “Ugh, do I have to?” Draco groans. “Yes, you told me about it, so now you are obligated to tell me” Pansy states. “Why do I ever even tell you anything” Draco sighs. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll tell you. Just please, don’t hate me” Draco says. “No promises, love” Pansy says. “Okay... Well… I sort of… have feelings... For a boy..” Draco begins. “I figured as much. Continue” Pansy murmured. “The boy I’m in love with... Is.. uh... Harry Potter” Draco says as quietly as possible. “HA! I knew it! I called that back in third year when you were obsessing over that damn dementor attack on the train. Blaise owes me fifty sickles now” Pansy smirked. “Wait… you KNEW? You knew this whole time and didn’t tell me? You let me wallow in self-hatred over my love for Harry Potter and how terrified I was to tell you, and you knew the entire time?!” Draco squeaked. “Yes, I did, sorry for not telling you?” Pansy giggled. “It’s not funny!” Draco cried out. “It is a little bit” when Pansy saw the look on Draco’s face, she immediately shut up. “All right fine, it’s not funny. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner” “Thanks, Pans,” Draco said quietly. “Anytime hun” Pansy replied in a caring tone. “Alright, well that’s not all I wanted to tell you. Today before dinner, I went on a walk around the castle to clear my head, and I stumbled upon Harry and Hermione having a somewhat heated conversation. Harry was talking about how he’s in love with this guy, but shouldn’t be because they used to be sworn enemies and now they’re friends”  Draco articulated. “Draco, that must be you he’s talking about. You’ve got to be the only one Potter has been sworn enemies with before and are now friends in the whole castle” Pansy elaborated. “I don’t know, Pans, but yes, we have been becoming more friendly over the past couple of months since school started,” Draco admitted. “What’s that supposed to mean,” Pansy asked. “You know Harry and I are roommates right..?” Draco replied. “Well, it turns out we have a lot of things in common. One thing is that we both get nightmares after the war. Harry helps me, and I help him. It almost makes them go away completely, but they still happen occasionally” Draco said. “Oh, wow. That’s not where I was expecting that to go, but I’m very happy for you that you’ve both found something that helps the nightmares” Pansy replies. Draco’s very glad he’s finally told Pansy about his love for Harry. He hated keeping that big of a secret from his best friend. “Alright. Well, you may not like it, but I think I have a plan of how to get you and Potter together once and for all” Pansy exclaimed. “Okay, let’s hear it then,” Draco says. “I think we should do an eighth year game night in the common room” Pansy states. “What do you think?” she adds, apprehensively eyeing Draco. “I think that would be a lot of fun. But the only thing is, how are we gonna get people to play with us? We’re not exactly popular” Draco uttered. “I was thinking you could make use of your newfound friendship with Potter and ask him to help us out,” Pansy said. After some thinking, Draco decides to agree with Pansy. This may be his only shot at getting with Harry, no matter how small. “Alright, fine. I’ll do it. But I can’t promise you that it’s gonna work” Draco says finally. “Great. Now let’s go back to the common room, I don’t want to be here any longer than I need to” Pansy said, clearly excited for her new plan. ++++ When Draco gets back to his dorm, Harry is sitting on his bed reading a book, but when Draco walks in he puts down his book. “You’re back late tonight,” Harry said. “Out snogging girls in secret corners?” Harry asked jokingly. “Uhh yeah, I was talking with Pansy in the library. And no, I was not out snogging girls. I’m... uh... Gay..” Draco said sheepishly. “Oh, haha,” Harry said. “Well if it makes you feel any better, I’m bisexual” Harry added, smiling. Merlin’s beard, Harry had the best smile Draco had ever seen, and Draco was doing everything in his will power to stay focused on their strange conversation. “Oh cool,” Draco said. “So uhh, I wanted to ask you something” “Sure, knock yourself out” Harry replied. “So Pansy and I were talking, and we came up with the idea for an eighth year game night to help us bond,” Draco said. “That sounds like a lot of fun! You should talk to people about it, and we could maybe do it next weekend! Ooohh, someone could go to Hogsmede and pick up some firewhiskey from Madam Rosmerta” Harry exclaimed. “That’s where I’m stuck. You see, not a lot of people like me very much, and I have a feeling that if I’m the one to ask people, they won’t be very likely to say yes” Draco admitted. “I’ll help you then. I’ll talk to Ron and Hermione and see what we can do for you. I’m sure they’ll love your idea” Harry stated. “Thank you so much, I owe you one” Draco replied. “It’s what friends are for” Harry smiled.

#harry potter #fanfic #drarry #draco malfoy #eighth year #harry potter and the eighth year he deserved #fic #chapter 2

[9uk]

Let Me Stay Close To You : part 3

⌲ summary : you were finally free from the worst nightmare of your life in high school. the doors of college welcomed you with open arms, you were set on living your best life in here, away from the toxicity back at home. that shimmer of hope in restoring your life, was somehow effortlessly crushed by a tap on your shoulder. “Hey Y/N, why don’t you say we catch up for a moment?”

⌲ pairing : bully!jungkook x reader

⌲ word count : 4.7k

⌲ genre : angst, pinch of fluff

⌲ warnings : battling of demons and mild suggestive terms, mentions of torture, other than that enjoy.

⌲ a/n : hehe hope you guys enjoy this, it’s kinda draggy for me (i feel) but it plays a huge role to character development. thank you all for patiently waiting, & like always, feedback is more than welcomed ;>

part two  >  part three  >  part four

“So,” She props her elbows on the countertop and begins, raising her cheeky brows and lips curling up in mischief. You aimlessly scroll through your dusty twitter feed, nothing in particular that lures your undivided attention to it.

Tossing your phone onto the couch, you grab to hug a pillow as you switch on the television instead, and absent-mindedly wait for your roommate to finish her sentence.

Sooyoung, however, has quickly spun around with her back facing you, placing all attention on the pot of boiling soup on the stove without a word—pretending that she never said a word in the first place.

Brows furrowed in confusion, you thought you could be aid to remind her of where she left off just a few seconds ago.

“Um, carry on..?” You shift your gaze back to the television, heading for Brooklyn 99 instinctively and almost immediately, heart craving for a series of laughing fits.

You might be too stressed out ever since the beginning of the term—today being your first day of classes—and it just couldn’t turn out any better with the unridable stench of Jeon Jungkook.

A small scream breaks into your ears and—

“Goddammit Y/N! Can’t you see that I’m trying to salvage this pumpkin soup right here?”

The loudness of her voice makes you jump, her words of despair shattering the quietness of the entire room apart.

Sooyoung looks like she is about to rip off all the hair on her head in pure frustration—with a smell akin to a burnt pumpkin soup diffuses into the living room and into your nostrils.

Oh no.

“Oh my god, hurry turn the stove off!” And the sight before you is a major trigger to your anal retention: your poor friend bends to look at the gas knob, hair almost catching on fire, hot soup on the ladle she’s holding dripping onto her wrists and the orange liquid in the pot bubbling violently, threatening to spill onto the kitchen floor—which you had just responsibly mopped earlier in the morning—at any given moment.

In sheer luck, she manages to put the life-threatening, disastrous situation under control—hand coming out to switch the stove fire off, everything settling into a silent aftermath of a warzone.

Both of your fearful and panicky states dissolve into a huge sigh of relief as the pumpkin soup retreats back to safe home— amused chuckles of disbelief erupting from the two of you.

“On the bright side, this serves as a gentle reminder for you to not ever try make soup again.” You raise your brows at her with arms crossed.

“And that I didn’t burn down the kitchen.” Sooyoung adds, smiling gleefully. You can’t believe she’s real.

“You had something to say to me?” You inquire again, blowing onto the soup that was quite surprisingly, not half bad after all the hassle.

Sooyoung narrows her eyes hard, at the bowl of pumpkin soup, trying her best to recollect her intentions of speaking just a while ago.

“Ah!” She points a finger in the air when she manages to hook onto that piece of memory floating away.

“What were you doing with Jeon Jungkook during the party yesterday?”

The question drops onto your tense body like an atomic bomb.Your hand freezes, soup dripping from the spoon back into the ceramic bowl. You open your mouth to answer Sooyoung, but how exactly were you supposed to explain that?

“Erm...” It was all you could manage while you figure out the best way to articulate your relationship with Jungkook to her.

Where should you start?

“Well..” Sooyoung leans foward on the countertop in unnecessary anticipation, looking at you with sparkly expectant eyes.

From the day you made him fall face flat to the ground?

“You see...” You drag for as long as you could, not so sure how to put it, at least in the most decent manner possible.

The thing between you and Jungkook—if it’s not obvious enough already—is a bully and a victim. There’s nothing worth bragging about that relationship.

And no, you’re definitely not trying to victimise yourself or anything of the sort. It’s a fact as clear as day that you have accepted long  ago. Or too used to belonging to the title ‘victim’ in this whole bullying situation. There’s also nothing much you can do honestly. You were destined to live life this way, having a father who has a financial fraud vandalised on his records forever, a mother who wakes up before the sun does to brew coffee for the people setting off to work— making the child of aforementioned people inferior to the child whose parents own one of the top three largest companies in the entertainment market.

You were inferior to Jeon Jungkook.

Power and money-oriented society, remember?

Something between a scoff of resentment and an unamused chuckle leaves your lips to the thought of the awful past life you have finally abandoned (sort of). But Sooyoung seems to lack the ability to interpret your tone well, eyes lighting up at the sight of your teeth.

“No way, don’t tell me you guys left the party to make out at the front porch.” She gasps in shock, eyes widening and hand flying up to cover her mouth.

No way.

You immediately deny her absolutely outrageous and almost laughable guess.

“What? No! We were just-“

Suddenly, the memories of his calloused nail-bitten fingers and soft palm on the side of your face aggressively fights to replace every brain cell that you have, causing all the pores on your skin to vibrate as you quiver at the feeling. It almost seems like it was a mere hallucination of your drunken state of mind, not until Sooyoung brings it up again in your face to remind you that it was real. It did happen. Jungkook had caressed you.

“just…” Your voice drifts off, the electricity of pretence flowing through the tiny tangled wires in your head, smoothly making their way to light up the bulb in your mind. “..talking!”

You already feel bad for lying to her.

“About making out?” Sooyoung is not one to concede defeat to your lame, clearly-made-up excuse, the picture of you and Jungkook sucking off each other’s faces sticking onto her suspicions like gum on the bottom of a shoe. The direction of her imagination is going polar opposites from your initial fear of the revelation of your devastating past—to which you softly sigh in relief to.

“About whatever you think of, detective.” You try to lighten the mood, sending a cheeky wink her way and escaping the conversation—the perfect resolution to avoid spilling the truth and fabricating more lies.

She scorns at your open answer, leaving her only to imagination to take control of her doubts out in the air, wandering freely as she sulkily stirs at her soup.

You giggle at the cute pout beginning to form on her scarlet lips and slowly drain the warm pumpkin delight from the bowl into your stomach.

You would tell this kind and lovely lady about everything—from something as simple how a Corgi barked and wagged its tail at you while on the way to campus, to your deep inner conflicts between your passion and confidence and the dire situation of your family, and how you’d really missed the way things were when you were still in pigtails playing with doll—but not the major happening in your history. 

The story of the scar on the left side of your temple was something you had never want to dig up and elaborate on to your friends. Once they have a whiff of your pitiful side, those eyes that currently look at you with admiration and adoration will very quickly turn into unwanted sympathy and abomination—and your pals will gradually drift away from your side, knowing that they can do so much better than having a true loser stick around.

So you would never disclose the truth between you and Jungkook to her. You could never do that.

Nothing felt more suffocating than standing outside an extravagant yet simple looking bungalow. The darkness of the sky cannot further accentuate the black matte walls of the exterior of this home. The hazy moonlight shines on the stagnant turquoise pool, topped off with the stationary shrubs along the perimeter of this whole compound, flaunting the estate’s overall tranquility. This house looked like it belonged to some clean freak who never steps foot in or out of it through the front door and owns about eleven Dobermans. If you were a passerby, you would have never guessed it belongs to a boy currently studying in college. You clasp your hands together, fingers locking onto one another —a little too tightly— for emotional support and courage.

His fingers lift the heavy material with ease, as he watches you through the gaps of his curtains from his bedroom. 

You were about five minutes away from meeting Jungkook. Alone in a room most likely. As the number of steps you take increases, with an angry-looking security guard escorting you on your way, you can feel your heart hammering hard against your poor ribs, teetering on the edge of rupturing out of your chest there and then.

Finally, in no less than a blink of an eye, you were in the chilly immaculate bedroom with Jungkook. You aren’t even exaggerating when you say that the man in black had practically threw you in like a fresh piece of meat flung into a lion’s den—waiting to be ferociously devoured by the beast himself. At least, that was how you felt.

The slamming of the grand double doors echoed through the room and you scan your surroundings.

 Why were you even in his bedroom?

 Did that mean he doesn’t even have a study room in this uselessly big house? 

Your eyes fall onto a small desk at the corner of the room. Yep, the both of you were going to work on that.

 Finally, they fall onto the main subject of this room, standing at the window, gazing out to the night sky. You stared longer than you wished, no that you can help it because—he looked so innocent and normal like that, watching the stars and moon quietly in appreciation. 

Your breath hitched when Jungkook suddenly turns around to face you. Releasing the curtain from his hand, they flowed close again, effectively blocking out the the pitch-black sky. He looked you in the eye, before his lips curl up into an amused grin. 

You are mirroring his emotion as well—that you’re actually alone in his room for no other reason than a homework assignment—but the limelight of amusement is stolen by the overpowering terror and anxiety. Jungkook could quite literally kill you and feed your body parts to his dogs—if he even owned one, but that isn’t the main point. The main point is that he could do anything he want to you right here and right now and his guard, instead of helping you, would probably help Jungkook lock the doors. He could easily tie you up and use you as a sex slave or hold you captive in this plain bedroom, abusing you as and when he liked.

 You hate yourself for coming, but you knew that worse could happen if you hadn’t obeyed. You feel a trace of ease when you are reminded that now, you have actual friends who would call the cops upon the realisation of your disappearance.

Stay calm and stop overthinking, gosh.

Avoiding his gaze, you begin fishing out the worksheets and your laptop from your backpack. “We should start on it-“

“No, no, no,” He waves his hand in disagreement and walks over to you. His long legs bring him across the wooden floor swiftly reaching you within a second. 

And subconsciously, your hand movements halt as you retreat a step back. 

“Before we start on that useless assignment,” You narrow your eyes fiercely at him, putting up a brave front. He exhales, “I think you have the answers to the many questions in my head right now.” 

Stunned, your eyes hastily search the white walls of the room for answers. You visited his house for nothing else but one cause—and that is to finish the planning on the whole anatomy project, leave in one piece and hopefully never to come back ever again. You weren’t here for an unwanted session of questioning—and you weren’t about to give him the answers that he wanted. You will not allow him to have you at the tip of his fingers again, for you have become a strong, firm and fearless women. Whether he had plans to slaughter the fuck out of you here, is now placed in the back of your mind for a moment.

Seeing as to how petrified you look—your whole face going pale as paper, Jungkook feels as if he’s some kind of monster to you. 

Maybe he was, but he most definitely isn’t now. 

He purely just wants you to answer a few questions of his before the both of you can start on the project—which is why he was rather confused at why you seemed so afraid of him. 

You were never like this, even when he mistreated you and committed those unscrupulous acts on you, you would show zero emotions, to only ignore him and see his entire existence as irrelevant—so why were you look so scared now that he was standing so close to you?  

Nonetheless, Jungkook wants his question marks to be depleted.

“First of all-“

“No.”

Shut. Him. Out.

“We either sit down and start the planning, or I’m leaving.”

You feel a gush of confidence breeze past you, your heart hardening and a side of you never known before appearing. Wow, did you really just stood your firm to Jeon Jungkook, the guy who bullied you for the past 4 years? A heavenly warmth of pride runs through your blood.

Jungkook is momentarily perplexed, mouth halfway open as the remaining words are stuck to his throat. He gulps and blinks repeatedly, absorbing what you had just said in disbelief—that you’ve noticed.

Call it a bipolar disorder, because you too, have no idea how your pyroclastic flow of nerves transformed into a solid indestructible mountain of rock in a snap. It was either you were too determined to protect the life you have now, or that you’re beginning to catch the smear of vulnerability in his eyes. You really have no clue.

With a tilt of his head to the side—a habit he hasn’t got rid of since highscool, be it from confusion, rage or happiness—he mumurs an approval. “E-Erm, okay.”

Success.

Parallel universe, indeed.

Nothing is going through his head right now—not as you speak and point to the various ideas you have come up with for this homework, not as you explain which idea is the best and start listing the pros and cons of it, not as you ask him to do the mindmap for the planning.

You notice that you’re speaking tons of words more than talkative, nonsensical-blabbering Jeon Jungkook, and he was being unusually quiet. Maybe he was thinking of ways on how he was going to torture you later on. True or not, you wanted a high grade on this assignment.

Be professional, the rational side of your brain puts your drifting thoughts back on track.

“Hello. Are you there.” You slap a hand so close to his face right infront of his big doe eyes, and he doesn’t even blink. He’s staring so hard at the crotch of the human body diagram you printed—probably doing it unintentionally amidst busy building sandcastles in the air—and you try not to laugh at the sight of him doing that.

“Jungkook!” You finally decide to yell in his ears and he flinches away hard, flying up from his seat.

“What! I’m right here!” He shouts back in the retaliation of being shocked, rubbing his earhole and you irresistibly laugh at his reaction.

Wait what, you laughed at Jungkook? 

This felt so…strange, yet it is a very typical interaction between two friends. Maybe that is why, solely because it is a normal conversation between the both of you—a duo that have never experienced an ordinary interaction before, other than the occasional rubber band shots and verbal attacking of your outer appearance.

Hold up, did you just say friends? Impossible.

Your bright and smiley face falls into a blank expression at the sudden realisation faster than a flash. Jungkook’s face mirrors the falling of yours too, but his features drains from something a bit more—something like actual fondness— to scepticism and worry.

Clearing your throat, you turn to face the splayed out papers on the table.

“Let’s um, start on what we’re supposed to do.”

Jungkook slowly, warily sits back down to join you, staring at the laptop screen, lost.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Namjoon would have seriously made a better project partner. Now you would have to repeat your instructions, something that you hated.

Sighing in complete impatience, you start from the top again.

“Of course you’re right here.”

Silence.

It blankets the both of you squeezing two chairs into the desk made for one, quietly doing your individual parts in utmost concentration. Add on his vigorous smashing of the keyboard and the rough flipping of the pages of the handout (because you can’t wait to get out of here.)

It wasn’t unacceptably uncomfortable, but it wasn’t particularly settling and peaceful as well. The tension between the two of you is almost palpable—when the undesirable memories of the past sporadically appears in each other’s minds—one’s heart filled with guilt and the other filled with ache. 

Up to you to figure which is who.

You are extremely thankful for how complexed and meticulous the planning of the project is, allowing the both of you to fully immerse in doing the annoying details well and answering the challenging questions.

It is also silent because—none of you had dare speak to each other unless it was involving the task at hand.

The clock ticked to ten and with the shut of both laptops and the zipping of your pencil case, the papers gathered in a neat rectangle stack_it was time to face reality again.

Jungkook breaks the silence first.

“Can I ask my questions now?”

It was weird. The way Jungkook was asking for your permission to do something as simple as firing the burning questions in his mind. If you were him, you would not even be able to stay one bit focused on the mindmap creation, only able to ponder about how the girl beside him had changed into someone…so different.

It was weird because you weren’t used to Jungkook speaking nicely (normally) to you. There was an absence of irritation and danger in the tone of his voice, which made his words seem too kind to be true. It never fails to send you into a stupor when a swear word is missing from his sentence to you. Maybe, for the better or worse, in the fleet of eight months, Jungkook has changed. Maybe, and just maybe, it was time to view him in a different light.

“Yeah, you can.” You easily give him consent.

“Okay first question, why were you sitting next to Namjoon in anatomy lecture?”

Was that really all he had wanted to ask?

You shoot him a look of bewilderment. You don’t know what you were expecting, but it definitely did not include who you sat with in lecture.

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“What-“

“You do know that he is a pervert that goes after girls whenever there’s a chance right?” Jungkook warns you, and you are at a loss for words.

Namjoon wasn’t someone like that, and you strongly believe the impression you have of him.

“Listen, he’s actually a really nice guy okay?” You counterattack his assumption. Jungkook rolls his eyes in disbelief, scoffing as you speak.

“That’s what everyone says.”

You actually felt like believing him. Jungkook is effectively inserting doubts about Namjoon into your head, and you’re actually starting to question the guy Namjoon really was. Did you not know him well enough? Was the low self-esteem just a plain act?

No, you have no reason to trust Jungkook—who was capable of manipulation and you were one to know best about this.

He seems to be able to sense the distrust from you to his claim, but what he said was true. You weren’t the first girl Namjoon has tried approaching. But you were the first to accept him.

“It’s really up to you whether to heed my advice or not—which is to stay away from a guy like that,” Jungkook puts his hands up in surrender, “but I’m just giving you a heads up, lest you fall into his trap of feelings or get taken advantage of... you know.”

Blinking, you take ten seconds to administrate what he told you into your  mind. For what exactly, was Jungkook being so kind towards you for?

You don’t have the answers to that, you think it is because he only wants you to himself to bully—and not share that privilege with Namjoon.

“I just..hope you don’t get hurt, again.”

And then once more, you were wrong about him.

The word ‘again’ reminds you of how bad he had hurt you physically, and emotionally, placed humiliation above your name and put you down to rock bottom. Everyday you would emotionlessly stare at yourself in the mirror and see a girl full of flaws and insecurities. A girl so unhappy and afraid to do anything she truly liked and follow her dreams. A girl who built up in four high walls around herself and not let anyone in, scared to feel the pain of losing someone again. A girl who was so, so tired of living. The undeserved death of your late bestfriend demolished the happiness in your soul, and Jungkook further crushed all its shattered fragments into fine dust—which made you become that girl.

However, the Jungkook you knew all those years back was gone—that you’re still trying to register—and he had changed. Not his face, which was still the same old handsome Jungkook back in highschool, but his heart had turned into something like pure gold. 

It may not be every part of him, but one thing you were sure as of right now, was that Jungkook had a kind side to him that was just never shown to you before. For all you know, he may have grown well from that immature brat in the past and became someone who’s trying to repent from his mistakes.

“Um, sure..” You’re not sure how to respond to such words coming out of his mouth—were you supposed to say thank you ?

Jungkook hesitates for a split second, before shooting the next question.

“Second thing, why did you act like you didn’t know me at the party?”

The thing is, did you really know him though?

It was harmless to attempt to keep him out of your life. It was also harmless to not have Jeon Jungkook in your happy new life.

“I’m not answering that.” You strictly follow the initial plan and Jungkook doesn’t seem too pleased at your answer.

“Are you sure you’re not gonna answer me?” He steps closer and the gap between your faces shrunk so much, that you can feel the fanning of his breath on your cheeks. He was riled up, threatening tone rebirthing and fury dripping in his eyes. Jungkook cocks a brow up, challenging your stand. 

This was the Jungkook you knew.

 He is a breath away from grabbing the collar of your shirt and slamming you against the wall and you flutter your eyes shut and squirm away from his menacing form. Witnessing how you switched into someone so fearful of him, he lets out a groan of disappointment.

Instead, all you hear next is the string of curses coming out of his mouth and you slowly open your eyes to see him running his fingers through his thick hair and pulling harshly at it in frustration.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit-fuck!”

It was like, he was trying to stop himself.

As he slapped himself back to the better of his senses, you realised that everyone had their own demons in their head. And Jungkook was no exception. At that moment, you felt pity for the guy who stood before you battling his detestable old self. His demons were overpowering, and just when you thought Jungkook excelled in manipulation, you thought wrong again—it was the demons fucking with his head, and Jungkook didn’t know how to properly deal with them, resulting in outbursts of physical and verbal abuse—the only way Jungkook knew to express his pain. 

What did Jungkook go through, that made him the monster he was?

“I-“ He starts again, cautiously speaking to you this time.

His breaths quickened and he grunts, exasperated at the failure of his words. You keep quiet as you wait for him to settle from the fit with his arms on his hips. Calming down, he turns around and suggests.

“It’s late, let me just send you home, okay?”

He was being so thoughtful for you—something you were still getting used to.

You felt so useless, standing at the side to watch him helplessly fight his inner conflicts—and being the main cause of his struggle.

The fear you felt at first has evaporated at Jungkook’s effort to not hurt you in the slightest way possible. You saw it in his eyes the first time he stroked his finger along your scar and heard it for yourself when he cared for your wellbeing.

It is in fact, time to see him in a different light—a better one.

Jungkook drives you safely to your dorm, a short and quiet journey given that his house is around the area. You wouldn’t have a peace of mind going back to campus alone through the dark alleys and streets—so you were rather grateful for the ride offer.

You mutter a ‘thanks’ before carefully exiting the grey Lamborghini you didn’t dare to cause a tiny scratch on. You speedily walked towards the entrance of your dorm building, before you hear the door of the sports car clicking open, followed by hurried footsteps.

“Wait Y/N!” Jungkook yells out and makes his way towards you.

His footsteps slow down as he reaches your patiently waiting form.

His eyes drop to the road, followed by a tilt of his head. He was nervous.

Scratching the back of his head in strong apprehension, Jungkook forcefully gets rid of all nerves and puts his words into correct place. And it goes way back when he clears his throat, bringing him to the time he faced the mirror and practiced this for a couple of dozen times.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t even have to question what for, because he has a lot to be remorseful and repentant about.

You can tell that it took a lot from him to say these three words, especially for someone who didn’t have to apologise to anyone with all that money and power. He wasn’t obliged to give you an apology. And so, he didn’t have to go through the trouble of apologising to you for what he has done. But here he was, handing you his words of redemption wholeheartedly. You were appreciative of his gesture, but you weren’t so prepared to readily forgive him just then.

“I’ll..see you around?”

Jungkook continues after your silent reply.

“Yup.” You smile assuringly.

And your answer itself sufficed for him.

#jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook scenarios #bts angst #bts scenarios #bts fluff #bts smut #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #bts fan fiction #bts fanfic #bangtan

[bibleteachingbyolga]

While I was attending a class at church in my twenties, we took up the topic of heaven — what it will be like and why we would want to go there. I distinctly remember that one of the class leaders said, in all seriousness, “I can’t wait to have my mansion and my Maserati!” Now, given how little I knew of this man (and how careless I myself can be at times with words), I will not assume his statement captured the whole of his deepest longings for heaven. However, it did have an immediate and lasting effect on me. As I pondered a vague mental image of a celestial mansion with a luxury sports car parked outside, it filled me with a profound sense of emptiness. This was not because big houses and expensive cars never held much appeal for me, but because the clearest, most passionate expression of someone’s anticipation of the joy of heaven that morning didn’t mention God. I don’t know how well I could have articulated it back then, but intuitively I knew that if God wasn’t, far and away, the greatest joy of heaven, if the eternal reward for Christians was essentially enhanced forms of the earthly things we enjoy most now, it would be no heaven at all — at least not a heaven I wanted. The idea had the ring of Ecclesiastes-like vanity. It left me with an aftertaste of despair. That class was a moment of clarity for me. I began to see that I didn’t so much long for eternal life as I longed for the One Thing that would make eternal life worth living. I didn’t so much want the created delights of heaven as I wanted the One Thing that made those delights delightful. At bottom, what I really wanted was, in the words of the old hymn, the “wellspring of the joy of living,” the very thing that made heaven heavenly. I wanted God. Heaven on Every Page In referring to “heaven,” I’m just using the common shorthand term for everything a Christian experiences after the death of our fallen bodies, from the intermediate state (2 Corinthians 5:8) to the resurrection of our bodies (John 5:28–29) and the new creation (Romans 8:18–21) — everything we anticipate in “the age to come” (Luke 18:29–30). In one sense, the Bible tells us relatively little about the specifics of heaven. Descriptions of heaven are often analogical or symbolic, framed in archaic images we might find strange. In another sense, however, the Bible speaks of heaven all over the place, and in ways very relevant to us. The Bible, on almost every page, speaks not so much of the mansions and Maseratis that may come, but of the great Satisfaction for which our souls deeply long. C.S. Lewis put it this way: “There have been times when I think we do not desire heaven; but more often I find myself wondering whether, in our heart of hearts, we have ever desired anything else” (The Problem of Pain, 150). What he’s talking about is the desire at the core of all our desiring, the thirst that is never quenched by anything we find in this world: our desire for God. Our Unappeasable Want Lewis calls this core desire “the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work” (152). This “unappeasable want” is a daily experience for us to lesser or greater degrees. Its presence is pervasive in our pursuits. Yet quenching this thirst eludes us in every earthly well we drink from. And no heavenly mansion or Maserati will satisfy it either. Only One Thing will. As Randy Alcorn says, We may imagine we want a thousand different things, but God is the one we really long for. His presence brings satisfaction; his absence brings thirst and longing. Our longing for Heaven is a longing for God. (Heaven, 165) God himself is “the fountain of living waters”; apart from him every other cistern we dig will leave us dry (Jeremiah 2:13). Only he can give us the drink that will forever end our deepest thirst (John 4:14). Our unquenchable thirst, our unappeasable want, is a desire for God (Psalm 63:1–2). This is what the Bible reveals from cover to cover. Heaven of Heavens We hear this desire for God throughout the Psalms, especially ones that express the broken emptiness of earthly cisterns: Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. (Psalm 73:25–26) We hear this in their declarations that “a day in [God’s] courts is better than a thousand elsewhere” (Psalm 84:10) and that God was their “exceeding joy” (Psalm 43:4). We see this desire in the prophet Moses, who “considered the reproach of Christ greater wealth than the treasures of Egypt, for he was looking to the reward” (Hebrews 11:26) — the only reward he really desired: God (Exodus 33:18). We see this desire in the apostle Paul, who “count[ed] everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus [his] Lord” and “suffered the loss of all things . . . count[ing] them as rubbish, in order that [he] may gain Christ” (Philippians 3:8) — the one prize he really valued (Philippians 3:14). And we hear this desire on the very lips of the Lord Jesus himself: “this is eternal life, that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent” (John 17:3). God does not merely give us eternal life, he is the life, the very source and essence of eternal life (John 11:25–26). In this sense, the Bible is very much a book about heaven. For at the center of redemptive history, the apex of biblical revelation, we discover that the very reason Jesus came to earth, the reason he “suffered [on the brutal cross] once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous,” was in order “that he might bring us to God” (1 Peter 3:18). And in giving us God, he is giving us heaven. God, in his Trinitarian wholeness, is himself our life, our ultimate gain, our great reward, our exceeding joy, our portion forever, and our eternal home. He is the very Heaven of heaven. Substance, Sun, Ocean Few have seen the Heaven of heavens as clearly from Scripture as Jonathan Edwards: The enjoyment of God is the only happiness with which our souls can be satisfied. To go to heaven, fully to enjoy God, is infinitely better than the most pleasant accommodations here. Fathers and mothers, husbands, wives, or children, or the company of earthly friends, are but shadows, but God is the substance. These are but scattered beams, but God is the sun. These are but streams, but God is the ocean. This does not devalue the shadows, the scattered beams, the streams of this world. Every good gift comes from God (James 1:17). The gift of himself, however, is what gives every other gift its inestimable value in the first place. They only devalue when separated from the Substance, the Sun, the Ocean. And every good and perfect gift we receive from God in the age to come, whether mansions and Maseratis or whatever else he has prepared for us, will be far better than those we’ve received and experienced in this life (1 Corinthians 2:9). But still, they will never compare with the Joy of joys, the Love of loves, the Light of light, the Life of life, the Heaven of heavens. For God will always be, as Lewis says in Till We Have Faces, the one satisfying “place where all the beauty came from.”

[valamerys]

New Constellations, A Rhys/Lucien AU Prequel fic

When Lucien flees the Autumn Court, it's not Tamlin he seeks.

[in the same continuity as my fic Insufferable] [on ao3]

***

Lucien Vanserra is dead.

They say he stumbled north, drenched in his lover’s blood and mad with grief. They say it was suicide, technically: no one would approach the Night Court alone and unprotected like that if they didn’t want to die. They say his brothers’ murderous pursuit turned to a search for a corpse but they never found the body, that the beasts must have eaten him whole.

They do not say that Lucien collapsed, ragged and half-delirious ten miles from the border, a name, a summoning, in his mouth, and that the forest trembled with the beat of answering wings.

***

“You’re dead.”

Lucien slowly blinks awake. The motion hurts his eyes. His entire being feels like a scar torn open, ragged and raw and pulsing, and as he shifts he feels the pull of bandages.

“Congratulations.” Rhysand sits across from him in the sunlit room, stirring what looks to be tea, his feet propped up. “Or should I say, you’re welcome.”

“What?” It comes out as a croak, Lucien’s throat like sand.

“I had my spymaster encourage the rumors,” Rhys says with a shrug, conversing as though Lucien is not being crushed under the wreckage of his entire life. “I probably should have planted a lock of your hair at the mouth of some Wyvern’s cave to really eliminate any doubt, but I admit seeing you half-conscious and covered in old blood didn’t put me in a terribly strategic mindset.”

Lucien is comprehending roughly every other word, squinting helplessly at his surroundings. “Where…”

Rhys mercifully does not make him articulate a full sentence. “My house. Well, one of them. My court, like my personality, is not as dark and dreadful as I make it out to be.” Lucien can barely keep up, much less formulate a response to this. Rhys goes on. “You’ve been in and out for four days. The healer said you likely hadn’t eaten or rested for almost a week when you fainted at my feet; she did what she could for that and your other various injuries.”

Rhys brings his teacup to his mouth and sips. There are bags beneath his eyes. If Lucien’s been in bed for four days, how many of those days has Rhys been here, with him?

All at once Lucien’s mind is fully awake, memories slamming back to him with the force of a kick to the chest. He has a dozen things to say— thank you, what happened to my brothers, why are you doing this for me, does my mother know, but the only thing that comes out is the only one that matters.

“She’s dead.”

Even to Lucien’s ears, it sounds broken. Numb. He feels outside of his own body, not in control of his own speech. Rhys sets his teacup down on its saucer with a porcelain clack.

“Jes. She’s dead,” Lucien repeats.

Rhys’ brows draw together. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

Something in Lucien’s chest cracks, the force thunderous, like a mountain breaking apart, and a low, unearthly wail crawls from it. Tears blur Lucien’s vision and the sound fractures into a sob because she’s gone, she’s dead, he watched her die, he watched Beron kill her and didn’t stop it, wasn’t strong enough to stop it—

At some point he registers that Rhys is gone, leaving him to sink into his despair.

***

Lucien truly does not know how much time passes in that room, in a haze of pain and fitful sleep. Food is left for him by unseen servants; sometimes he can bring himself to eat, sometimes not. He tries not to see himself in the mirror, not wanting to meet the eyes of the haggard, greasy-haired spectre there. His mind is a whirlpool of hateful blame: for himself, for his family, for the culture that fostered their evil. Some hours he wants to die, thinks he should have let his brothers catch him, and some hours he wants to stay alive with a passionate fury, plots feverish retributions and revolutions, future plans grand and impossible and mad and always crumbling the moment Lucien remembers her blood spurting from her neck.

He hopes someone buried her.

***

Even for immortals, nothing lasts forever. Not even the endless swirling abyss of grief.

The day does come where Lucien hauls himself from the bed and into the oversized bathtub, mind having exhausted itself to the point, finally, of blankness. The bathwater is a little cold. He doesn’t care enough to heat it.

A knock sounds at the bathroom door. Lucien doesn’t respond but Rhys lets himself in anyway; maybe the invisible servants told him Lucien’s finally gotten out of bed.

If it’s weird for them to talk while Lucien is in the bath, neither of them make any effort to care. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time—Lucien could hardly have picked someone with who he has less interpersonal boundaries to take shelter with. Rhys leans casually against the bathroom wall and for once in his life, does not speak.

A protracted silence grows between them. Lucien is the one to break it.

“Now what.”

Rhys shrugs. “Whatever you like. Dead men don’t have any obligations.”

Lucien still can’t muster any emotion, but he can lift his eyes to Rhys’ face. The Night Court may not be a pit of nightmares, its High Lord no sadistic dictator, but there must still be a catch. Lucien’s no fool. There is always a catch.

“That said.” Rhys puts his hands in his pockets. “I do have a job opening for someone with political experience, if you’re interested.”

Lucien leans back in the bathtub. “And what’s that?”

“I need an internal ambassador to communicate between the different Night Court city-states. They largely have my blessing to self-govern, which makes my job both very easy and very hard; the laws are becoming too fragmented, the governors consolidating too much power. I need someone who can balance charm and force to politely remind them that they still belong to a larger court.” Rhys inclines his head for emphasis. “My court.”

Lucien drags a hand through the water, watching it lap against his skin. “That sounds like something you could do yourself.”

“I’m a High Lord now,” Rhys says arily. “I don’t do things, I make other people do things.”

A Lucien of mere weeks ago would have answered with something witty, but this Lucien doesn’t respond, just stares into the bathwater. He supposes he could hardly expect anything else— Rhys is not evil, but he is practical to the point of ruthlessness, making sure every asset at his disposal is working in his favor. And in throwing himself at Rhys’ mercy, Lucien has made himself an asset.

He wonders if it would be any different, if he’d gone to Tamlin, instead. Perhaps he should have. But Rhys had won his trust, all those years ago, however much he frustrated Lucien, and his was the name to come to Lucien when his only thought was sanctuary.

“I don’t know the court,” Lucien says.

“Of course not. I’ll teach you everything you need to know, make introductions to the right people.” Rhys’ gaze appraises him. “Cauldrons knows I won’t be sending you out any time soon, unless there’s someone I want cried on.”

Again, Lucien can’t summon a response.

Concern flickers across Rhys’ face, but it’s fleeting. He pushes himself upright from the wall, heads for the door. “Consider it. In the meantime, if you need anything, ask the servants.”

Lucien expects to hear the door close, but Rhys lingers.

“Something else?” Lucien asks.

Rhys’s hand rests on the brass handle. “I’d like you to meet my friends tomorrow night, if you’re feeling up for it.”

The way he says it is odd, heavy. Lucien does not know what it means, but clearly Rhys is offering him something important.

“I didn’t think you had friends.” He says finally.

A lopsided smile cracks Rhys’ face.

I missed you, you know, he says, and it takes Lucien a moment to realize Rhys spoke directly into his mind rather than aloud, the door closing behind him.

***

Rhys has exactly four friends, as it turns out, and they’re a strange group. Lucien does not know what to make of the way they tease and taunt each other, asking Lucien questions that avoid any reference to his family or… her, politely pretending Lucien is not conversationally near-comatose at the dinner table.

The blonde left early on account of some business or other, and the Illyrians followed shortly. Lucien got the impression Amren wasn’t terribly enthralled by his presence, and so excused himself thereafter.

But, embarrassingly, he can’t find his way back to his room.

Rhys had led them here originally, through the labyrinthine marble halls of this place, past eight hundred balconies overlooking the mountains, and so Lucien finds himself wandering aimlessly, marking progress by the spare potted plants he passes.

He freezes at a faint voice down the hall.

“Not…….. went well, I……”

It’s Rhys’ voice: Lucien has made it full circle. It’s almost a relief; at least now Lucien can ask Rhys to take him back to his room. He walks towards the dining room, opening his mouth to call out, but some instinct stops him. He peers into the cracked open door.

The sun is going down, throwing a long orange light and dark shadows across the table. Rhys’ back is to him, but he can just make out Amren in profile, swirling her glass.

“I don’t know whether to chide you for thinking with your dick, or for bringing another stray dog home. Somehow this is both.”

“More of a fox than a dog,” Rhys says quietly.

“That’s worse. You can’t tame a fox.” Amren sips her drink. Lucien doesn’t know what’s in the iron goblet; he has a sneaking suspicion it’s not wine but was too afraid to ask at dinner.

“He’s a talented politician,” Rhys insists, “Or at least he could be. He has a temper, but he’s smart and capable and—”

“You’re High Lord now, boy.” Amren cuts him off coldly. “Don’t justify yourself. If you want to take in refugees, you don’t need my approval to do it.”

“No, but I’d like it.”

There is a shade of vulnerability in it— Lucien can count on one hand the number of times he heard that from Rhys, in their years of secret meetings. It’s almost shocking to hear it now; to realize that for all Rhys’ bluster when they were princes together, he’s been High Lord of the Night court for less than a decade, and he’s still unsure.

“You like him,” Amren corrects, and Lucien’s chest tightens.

Rhys heaves a long, labored sigh. “His fiancé was murdered a matter of weeks ago, his hellspawn family tried to kill him too, and he came to me for help. What do you want from me, Amren?”

She stands. “I want you to stop acting like a spoiled little prince and start acting like a High Lord.” Before Rhys makes to respond, she strides from the table, goblet abandoned. “In the future, if you want my advice, ask for my advice. Not my validation for a decision you’ve clearly already made.”

She leaves Lucien’s limited vision of the room, but he hears a door slam shut on the other side.

There’s the creak of Rhys leaning back in his chair, and Lucien waits half a minute before clearing his throat.

Rhys swivels to look at him.

“I, um, can’t find my room,” Lucien says lamely.

Rhys blinks at him for a moment, clearly troubled. “Oh, yes, of course.” He gestures, "Down that hall, turn right, third door on the left. You’ll see it.”

Lucien half wants to do the opposite, wants to go sit with Rhys and—he doesn’t know, brood together, perhaps, but he just nods. “Right. Thanks.”

“And— thank you for coming tonight,” Rhys adds softly.

Lucien does not care to decipher why it even matters. “Of course,” he just says instead, awkwardly, before backing away from the door.

But he doesn’t make it through all the instructions before being intercepted. The blonde woman— Morrigan, he reminds himself— is back, and loitering outside his room.

“Lucien,” she says, brightening when she sees him, her voice clear as a bell. It exhausts Lucien just to hear. “I was hoping to chat with you a little more. Do you have time for a walk?”

Lucien doesn’t particularly want to talk to her, but in the moment it would require more effort to be rude than to merely acquiesce. “Where to?”

“I thought I’d show you around the city a bit,” She slips her arm through his like an old friend and leads them, her stride confident. “If you don’t have a strong objection to stairs, that is.”

“Not at all.” It’s a rote response, no feeling behind it.

“Good.” Mor gives him a winning smile as they round a corner into the main foyer. “I’m sure you’ll love Velaris. Our relative separation from the rest of Prythian has allowed us to foster cultural liberties frowned upon elsewhere, in addition to our economy.” she pauses to flick her wrist, and the massive double front doors of the House open noiselessly. “Of course, I’ve only been in charge since Rhys took over, so we’re still solidifying our plans for the future. But we’re quite pleased with the progress so far.”

Beneath a sharp drop in the mountain lies a clear view of the city below, coming alive in the twilight, sloping roofs and winding stone streets bound together like a sparkling heart of the Night Court itself. Mor’s face glows with almost a hunger as they survey it.

His impression of Mor is of diamond-like charm, sparkling and lovely and deceptively hard. Nothing about her is not deliberate; he imagines this interaction is not either, but he can’t imagine why she would be trying to sell him on a city, however proud of it she is.

“Is there something specific you wanted to discuss?” He asks, as she releases him to start down the stairs, holding her long dress up delicately.

“Not particularly, no.” She stops and turns back to look up at him, smiling sweetly. “But my family tried to kill me for fucking the wrong person too, so I thought we’d have a lot to talk about.”

***

Lucien Vanserra is dead.

But a courtier calling himself Reynard, with long hair glamoured black and a smile as bleak as a late-autumn landscape makes his debut some months later in the Court of Nightmares, and never looks back.

#WELL i tag rambled about this the other day and now it exists because i have no impulse control #rhycien #rhys/lucien #acotar fic #lucien #mine #alicia: claire i thought this was smut #me: WELL YOU THOUGHT WRONG IT'S ANGST HA

[notesfromthepen]

Slavery

I am owned. I am a ward of the state. I am not a free man. I am a SLAVE. The state of Michigan is my Slave Master, and Master expects my life and everything that comes with it.

He make us work, for literal pennies a day. If we refuse, he puts us on what's called double-O. I don't know what it stands for, but it means that we can't leave our cells.

Its either out in the yard or inside the unit, field or house, either shovel snow or clean toilets. I clean toilets.

Master gives us just enough food to survive. Minimal calories. He covers us in the cheapest clothes: two pairs of pants, two shirts, three pairs of socks, a pair of thin cardboard like shoes, and a few pairs of underwear and a windbreaker-thin coat. They stack us, one on top of the other, eight men in a cube the size of a small two car garage.

There is nothing productive to do in here. Nothing, not in ANY meaningful way. It's up to you to figure out how to be how to be positive, how to avoid mental atrophy and emotional deformation.

Master has all these cliche inspirational quotes, well, they're more like insinuations, like "hard work pays off" and "strive for success." They're meaningless. Master says that he wants us to be free someday, that he will help us be successful, to become contributing members of society, to be born again, rehabilitated, but it's all bullshit. Words are just words; in a place like this, only actions matter. He doesn't want us to leave and he definitely doesn't WANT us to succeed. At best he's indifferent.

When I'm not scrubbing flecks of dried shit from the rim of a toilet, I spend my time writing. For nearly six years I've committed myself to honing my craft. I've let all that was frivolous fall away. I put in hours and hours, day after day, of hard work. While others were gang banging, I was writing and editing. While others were playing cards, I was meditating, going inward in an attempt at becoming a better person, and I was there, everyday, documenting my experience. While others were playing basketball or watching TV, I was reading books on grammar, I was sacrificing to my craft. I was getting better, and my passion, for this thing of mine, grew. Through this commitment I'd discovered my calling, my purpose, my reason.

I'd finally found a place to put all of these dangerous ideas, with their jagged edges and sharp corners, that have been crashing around in my head, causing chaos for years. I found a way to pour out some of the gravity pulling at my heart, to release some of the rage in my gut; and it wasn't long before I realized that I had something to say, and that sometimes, when I'm at my best, I can help people. I can express things that they're thinking but can't articulate; I can make them question things, I can help them wake up, I can warn them of pitfalls so that they can avoid disaster.

I figured out the secret, the thing everyone's looking for. On this plantation, I discovered my holy grail: how to make a difference and a living at the same time.

Once discovered, there is nothing to do but commit yourself to the task of fulfilling this purpose, no matter where you find yourself, slave or free man, all else should fade into the background of your craft.

After hearing that master wants us to have a foundation for when he sets us free, to establish some financial security, I started to think about doing something with my craft to provide for myself, my son, and my family. I mean it's what master wants.

How stupid I was!

I thought that if I could work hard enough and figure out a way to help people with my writing, all while becoming self sufficient, well that would be something to make this time actually count for something. I could help my kid with school clothes, maybe get him his first phone, I could try to repay my mother for the countless blessings she's bestowed upon me, I could pay fines and court costs so that when I am set free I can get my license back and maybe have enough to get a car and my own place to live, so I don't have to be a burden to my family anymore.

With all this in mind, I started to write. I sat down and told myself that it was time to stop messing around, time to start producing something real, something meaningful, something of value.

It was indeed time.

I decided to write a full length novel. I started in November and gave myself a year to finish. I had never even attempted something that would take years to complete, much less finish it.

I said I was gonna do it and I did it. Everyday I sat down, when master wasn't counting us, making us shovel snow, or clean the toilets, and I wrote. November was on the horizon and I was getting close. I wrote my ass off, hours on end, everyday until I was successful. 

I had finally done something worthy of my abilities, something that I could stand by and be genuinely proud of. This thing I created is a part of me, it is from me, it's special, and it's fucking good, I mean REALLY GOOD. I stayed focused, worked hard, never took my eyes off the prize, and I never gave up. I finally had something to give to my loved ones.

A few months after I was done, I was contacted by someone who said that they thought I had created something of value, that I had something to say worth listening to and that this thing, it could be worth something.

I didn't tell master, but I didn't keep it hidden either. I figured he'd, at worst, be indifferent, but maybe he'd actually be happy, or proud even, that I'd be able to help take care of my family, that I was building a foundation so that, when he sets me free in a few years, I'll have something to go home to, that I'll have a chance at success, that all my hard work as a slave would count for something when I became a free man.

And then my friend told me what master was really like. He said, I didn't have to hide my hard work, but don't ever, ever, let master find out that you expect to do anything with it. If he finds out that it's helped you in anyway, especially financially, that he'll take whatever he can find. I told my friend that it can't be true, that it can't be legal for him to do that, for him to just steal from his slaves like that. My friend said that he CAN do it, that it is legal because he's the one that makes the laws. Master said that while he owns us, that the things we do or make aren't ours, they're his.

All this time I thought that what we think and what we say is safe, that it's ours, that they can't own our thoughts or words, but it's not that simple. They're ours as long as we don't gain anything from them. The moment we do anything productive with those thoughts or ideas or words or beliefs, master says they're no longer ours, they're his.

It’s such a heartbreaking thing to see. The slave master's hypocrisy renders anything he says, anything he does, corrupt. All the proclamations that he's been spewing from his greedy thin-lipped mouth for so many years, about how hard work pays off, and doing the right thing is rewarding, and how he's not here to punish us, he's here to help us, that he wants us to succeed and prosper, it's all bullshit, hollow words from a heartless man meant to be spoken but never acted upon. 

Your heart can only be crushed so may times before it suffers permanent, irreparable, damages. You can only be let down by your fellow brothers and sisters so many times before you're unable to trust their motives. You can only be betrayed so many times by your community before you give up and stalk off into the woods never to be seen again.

How do you trust a system that feigns empathy but fucks you over at every turn? How does hope survive when basic human compassion dies? How does a slave hold onto faith in humanity when his freedom is taken and his spirit is actively, repeatedly, broken?

The emancipation proclamation has a provision. Read the fourteenth amendment and you will see clearly that slavery after conviction is indeed still legal, you will see that I am not a freeman, that I am a ward of the state, that I am a slave. And it turns out that master DOES own any and everything I am, anything I create, say, or do.

Eventually frustration turns to anger, anger turns to hatred, hatred turns despair and finally, despair turns to exhaustion.

This is the point where spirits break; when you're too tired to fight back, when you can muster no more rage, and are no longer able to summon hope...this is where spirits go to die.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

p.s.

This is modern day slavery and the state of Michigan is actively crushing our spirits, outright stealing from prisoners and their families (or allowing private companies to), and blatantly ignoring any attempt at real rehabilitation or positive reinforcement. It has to stop, and only you have the power. Use your voice, for we don't have one, speak up for us because we've been silenced, and stick up for us because we are your brothers, fathers, sisters, mothers, friends and family. We are your fellow human beings.

We need your help to reach out to our state representatives to bring back good time in Michigan. We need some form of hope in here, some form of positive reinforcement, we need a chance to make it.

#MichiganPrisonReform

#BringBackGoodTime

#ModernDaySlavery