#i fucking THOUGHT so. was terrifying when they gave me zero dollars and i am so glad it was a mistake

[arthur-r]

i have the most insane fucking news

#fafsa got reprocessed they gave me a pell grant and my college saw that and gave me 20 fucking thousand dollars of grants #i’m in a special club now too with a special name for Scholars with Exceptional Financial Need #i fucking THOUGHT so. was terrifying when they gave me zero dollars and i am so glad it was a mistake #anyway i told my teacher this and he says it’s cause i manifested it…. #i would say that my anxiety around the matter was not the kind of energy that brings in good things. but maybe i was secretly being positive #idk shdhdf it did arrive like five seconds after i decided i should commit anyway and figure out how to make it work #so then the universe said oh you’re actually gonna do it?? maybe i’ll save you from the hundred thousand dollars of debt actually #maybe college can be actually a possibility for you without ruining your life forever #so anyway everything is freaking incredible now and everything is okay #and i needed this. cause things have been getting worse and worse at home so like. positive news from an outside source is very much needed #i fucking knew i qualified for a pell grant and financial assistance i felt like i was being gaslit #they literally just miscalculated my family contribution. thought my dad must be funneling his income into something illegal cause we do not #have the money that the fafsa told me we did. but it was literally just fucking wrong and everything is okay #and my dad came into my room crying a couple days ago saying he wants to do everything he can to help me with my loans as soon as he’s done #with paying off his own or once they get forgave in a couple years. so arthur supportive father arc i guess. SHDHDHDF #that graph benji made about my dad getting less transphobic over time it’s coming true. guy put prefer not to answer in the gender section #of a form and he HOVERED OVER THE TRANS BUTTON. that’s insane coming from having screamed at each other about trans issues since before i #even knew that i was trans my dad and i had gotten in screaming debates about queerness and now he keeps saying weird stuff about how he #wants my life to be good. which is fucking baseline father behavior that’s what you’re supposed to get out of a dad but like. i have always #felt like i’m either drenched in expectations or that he just can’t wait for me to leave. so this is really good progress. and with the #financial aid that means that he’s actually going to be able to help. do you understand what this means my dad can help pay off my couple #thousand dollars of loans that are gonna be left over (cause now that they noticed i need aid it’s so fucking cheap) and do you fucking know #do you know what this means. i’m sorry for swearing i don’t know why i am. but what this means is. i won’t be in thousands of dollars of #debt when i graduate or i will be but the monthly payment will be so low and. i can get fucking top surgery is what this means. and go on t #i thought i was gonna be in so much debt that i couldn’t. but its gonna be like. a couple thousand dollars a year something insane like that #so foreseeably i could be getting top surgery by the time i’m 24. that’s insane i can’t even imagine #so anyway. just. everything is going to be okay and there’s actually hope in the world and i’m going insane #obviously saying this can very easily jinx me to literally never ever be happy. but i’m gonna take the manifesting route actually shdhdhf #my life will be So Good Forever. i Believe This Wholeheartedly. Good Things Will Come To Me #anyway i’m gonna run out of tags in a couple seconds but i really needed this you have no idea. i hope everybody is doing well

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 318: On Your Left

Previously on BnHA: The Hawksquad+Lurkers were all “well this sucks” and sat around a bit talking about how maybe they should actually come up with a new plan that is actually good, but then in the end they were like “nah.” Deku was all, “THERE’S SOMETHING INSIDE ME THAT PULLS BENEATH THE SURFACE!! CONSUMING, CONFUSING!! THIS LACK OF SELF CONTROL I FEAR IS NEVERENDING. IT’S HAUNTING HOW I CANT SEEM TO FIND MYSELF AGAIN. MY WALLS ARE CLOSING IN.” Just, literally that whole entire song. All Might was all “Deku you should take care of yourself, try eating a thing,” and Deku was all “BYE, ALL MIGHT,” and just LEFT. He left!!! What the fuck!!!

Today on BnHA: Endeavor is all, “maybe if Deku didn’t listen to All Might he’ll listen to me instead.” Deku is all, “[doesn’t listen to Endeavor]” because, well, yeah. The Vestiges are all, “surprisingly, even we are a little concerned -- maybe you should get some rest, kid.” Deku is all, “((Ò ‸ Ó)).” The Vestiges are all, “holy shit.” Deku is all, “[wanders the ruined city streets terrifying the populace on account of him looking like Shelob had a baby with one of the Nazgul].” Some shriveled-up puppeteer villain asshole is all, “HORIKOSHI SAID IT’S MY TURN TO ATTACK DEKU TODAY SO I AM GOING TO SUMMON MY FRIGHTENED HELPLESS ATTACK MOB!!” Kacchan is all “WHADDYA MEAN THEY FOUND THE NERD!!! -- oh wait, that’s me, I found him. I found the nerd, you guys.” And just in time, too. I was about to owe a whole lot of people a whole lot of dollars.

so I have been super good about spoilers this week as always, but let me tell you guys, for the past 36 hours my dash filters have basically been nonstop “manga spoilers” this and “bnha 318” that, and so I’m coming in with a fair amount of hype here. your move, Horikoshi

oh, good! they got Endeavor to call Deku to try to talk him out of it. what a great and wonderful plan

“listen up kid, you haven’t slept since March and you are basically a walking biohazard right now, I’m just telling it like it is. didn’t you get shot like three times?? and there was a whole thing about how you urgently needed medical attention?? and supposedly we gave it to you, but I mean you haven’t even changed your clothes and don’t seem to have any fresh bandages or anything, so did we?? did we, really?? and also we all got blown up yesterday, so yeah.” hmm he’s making some reasonable points here you guys, but you sure do go on and on, Endeavor

oh he says foreign aid is finally on its way! I’m sure they’ll be very helpful. I mean in fairness they can hardly be worse than the home-grown heroes at this point

hey Enji, could you maybe try appealing to Deku the sixteen-year-old human boy, as opposed to Deku The World’s Last Hope? he does have value beyond his quirk. I know that’s always been an incredibly difficult concept for you to grasp, but could you maybe TRY, jesus

and also we’re worried about you as a person?? you’re just a kid and you’re pushing yourself way too hard?? you were going to say that part next, right. why the hell didn’t Hawks make this call instead

“don’t worry about me... I’m completely fine” Deku you do understand that saying it over and over again doesn’t actually make it true

and again with the rush!! all the rush rush rush!! we’re running out of time, we can’t let AFO and Tomura keep getting stronger, I have to end this now, there’s no time to rest, etc. etc. etc. just the constant pressure of this whole big countdown on top of everything else

holy shit, you KNOW it’s bad when even the Vestiges are telling him to chill

these guys are basically the walking talking embodiments of self-sacrifice; if even they’re telling him he needs to take five, then he must seriously be like half a step away from death’s door

OH SHIT LMAO

DIDN’T EVEN LET HIM FINISH HIS SENTENCE BEFORE HE SENT HIM INTO THE FUCKING SHADOW REALM WITH THAT FUCKING LOOK. HOLY FUCK. DIDN’T EVEN KNOW IT WAS POSSIBLE TO DIE TWICE. SHIT

(ETA: so I’m pretty sure this was just Danger Sense activating and so he cut them off to go do more hero stuff, but I’m gonna go ahead and stick to my original interpretation anyway lol.)

anyway so how’s everybody doing. we all good? En, you good? Banjou? Shino? I’m imagining you guys all curled up in a little ball on the floor right now lol. can’t say I blame you though, no shame

lmaoooooooooooo

“SHEESH.” sheesh indeed, lmao. “what in the FUCK was that”

see, this is why y’all need Kacchan. you need someone who’s not going to back down from him no matter what. if it’s a matter of out-stubborning Midoriya fucking Izuku, then there’s only one other person on the planet capable of that, and we all know it. don’t pretend like you don’t. I am not going to shut up about this! we’ve had our hurt so now what about SOME COMFORT, DAMMIT

“I’m afraid that he’s becoming influenced by my conscience” nah are you kidding Nana this is all 100% made-in-Japan pure original Deku right here

see, Banjou gets it. “that kid, he’s totally going on his own.” exactly. this was so inevitable it was basically scientific law

“well I for one don’t see the problem with Deku being so obsessed with saving everyone else that he pushes himself until his body and soul literally fall apart” okay, whose speech bubbles are these?? we’re about to have words

lol of course

well you always did prefer the direct route didn’t you. but even you can’t possibly think this is okay lol

dark AU!Kacchan please tell us more about your badass doomed timeline in which everything went to shit and you apparently had the same character arc that Deku is having right now except it somehow made you sexier instead of turning you into a rabid t-rex. I have so many questions

oh so now you want to help??? well -- good, actually. sorry if that sounded offended just now lol

(ETA: so at first when I got to the end of this chapter I was wondering if Katsuki B. had somehow summoned his alternate-universe counterpart through trippy OFA space telepathy lol. but in the original Japanese there’s no reference to “we”, so this appears to be a mistranslation. this line should probably read more like “if there’s something/someone out there that would be able to complement/complete the current Midoriya Izuku [it would be]…” which, oh hello, is that Horikoshi once again reaffirming that Deku and Bakugou complete each other lol. “guess what guys, the Vestiges ship it too" heck yeah. they know what’s up!)

look how admiring his boyfriends are. HORIKOSHI GIVE US THE REST OF THIS BACKSTORY ALREADY GODDAMMIT

“meanwhile somewhere in the depths of the ruined city, Deku was having a dance-off with the villains”

I like how the villains all have this “AHH WHAT THE FUCK” kind of body language to them lol. I mean if it were me, and an eldritch horror suddenly clawed its way from the shadows with its writhing glowy tentacles and pants-shitting nuclear death stare, I would probably just die on the spot. no need to stick around. only pain awaits

lol for a minute I thought this was Can’t Ya See-kun and I was like “WHAT A FASCINATING CROSSING OF PATHS” but it’s just some random girl

he seems genuinely confused lol

Deku it’s because you look like something that crawled out of a sewer drain, sweetheart

lol they just took his word for it?

so trusting. even though they’re immediately hauling ass anyway just to be safe lmao

“my appearance is frightening to others” no shit Deku it’s because you look like a fucking alien exorcism. you look like a Lich that got caught up in an oil spill my dude

NO NOT THE CHOSEN ONE ANGST AGAIN

I RAN OUT OF ESSAY JUICE FOR THIS ALREADY HORIKOSHI!! I’VE BEEN TALKING ABOUT IT FOR MONTHS NOW WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG!! BUT ANYWAYS, GOOD!! I MEAN, BAD, THOUGH, OBVIOUSLY. BUT YES

“ENJOY THIS MONTAGE OF DEKU BATTLING A RANDOM KAIJU AND WANDERING THE WOODS LIKE A DERANGED GREEN BABA YAGA” okay yes but sir, exactly how much longer is this going to go on. if it’s a matter of you wanting to make sure we get it, let me assure you that aside from a few stray chuunis who think that Deku embracing the Darkness is the coolest thing he’s ever done, all of us here in fandom fully comprehend that this is Not Good

-- OH SO IT’S LIKE THAT

really. with the flashbacks to his loved ones’ smiling faces and everything. not even gonna try to aim above the belt, huh

AND NO KACCHAN??! NO CLASSMATES?!?! IS HE PURPOSELY NOT THINKING OF THEM??? OR ARE THEY BEING SAVED FOR THE NEXT PAGE??? SO HELP ME, IF THE NEXT PART OF THIS SENTENCE IS “CAN PROTECT THEM”, OR EVEN WORSE, “CAN SEE THEIR SMILING FACES AGAIN”, I...

WHAT DID I JUST SAY

(ETA: my man did Sero and Kaminari fucking dirty lmao. I miss their smiling faces too omg.)

the sheer, unparalleled irony of him saying this while he stands there looking like the gargoyle demon from Fantasia got crossed with an umbrella that got struck by lightning. Deku :(

oi who the fuck is this clown

is he controlling this mob with his evil hair. “what if I made an exhausted, running-on-fumes Deku battle a brainwashed mob at Ground Zero.” Horikoshi do you just have like a checklist of horrible things you want to do to your protagonist

easy there Sasori

well joke’s on you buddy because he’s apparently “completely fine”, so

“here’s to hoping that you know more about AFO’s location than the others” jesus christ Deku you really have hung your mercy out to dry huh

now he’s forcing his mob of terrified prisoners to attack Deku ahhhh. sucks to be them. at least they’re not being controlled by bees

so Deku is saying that Sasori’s control can be broken with “physical trauma.” similar to Shinsou’s quirk I guess. but so does that mean he’s gonna have to hurt them? ( •﹏•)

NO NOT MORE SAD EYES

“DEATH BY EMPATHY!!!” HORIKOSHI NO

fuck. he looks like he’s on the verge of passing out

this is what happens when you nerf a character’s self-preservation stats in favor of spamming their bone-breaking stats instead. NOW ACCEPTING BRAIN CELL DONATIONS FOR A BOY IN NEED!! with your loving generosity we can hopefully help him live to the ripe old age of seventeen

OMGFGGG

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

[grabs your hands] ლ(*꒪ヮ꒪*)ლ [swings you in a circle] へ(ﾟ◇ﾟへ)

THASSSSSSSS WHATSSSSSSS UPPPPPPPPPP

HORIKOSHI REALLY SAID FUCK THAT MASK (ノ°ο°)ノ YOU FINALLY LEARNED!! IT’S CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT!!!!

JUST FOR YOU KACCHAN, HORIKOSHI LEFT THIS ONE BAD GUY WHO’S STILL WEAK TO FIRE. GOD BLESS

IT’S YOUR COUNTERPART, KATSUKI B!!!! HOW WE DOIN OVER THERE IN THE TRIPPY COSMIC OFA SPACE REALM LOL. DO WE BELIEVE YET, FANDOM???

LIGHTS!!!!

INSTANT RESULTS!!! IT’S SUPER EFFECTIVE!!!

(ETA: imagine what this must look like to Deku though. he’s been caught up in this dark cloud of despair and exhaustion that’s been building up over... I’m gonna go ahead and say “weeks”, because yeah. and now he finds himself here, in the place where All Might’s legacy ended and the torch was passed to him. and the world is in ruins, and he’s surrounded by frightened people who are all trying to hurt him -- because who isn’t trying to hurt him, these days -- and he’s scrambling to figure this all out, but meanwhile the weariness is finally starting to catch up to him, and so he’s basically just standing there in a fog of complete and utter misery.

and then all of a sudden through that haze, he hears the one voice that’s more familiar than any other that he knows. like, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he thought he was just imagining it at first. Kacchan showing up to save him right when he’s at his most desperate and feeling the most alone. Kacchan, showing up to save him.

this is the person he always looked up to as a child (to be fair he was quite a strange child lmao). the person who was even closer to him than All Might. the person he always thought was amazing. and bam, here he is now. appearing in the sky out of nowhere to one-shot the bad guy with a single blast (which, btw, that was his armor-piercing attack too lmao dslkjlk take it easy there kiddo). like, that must have felt absolutely surreal to him, especially coming at a time when he’s already half-delirious and barely hanging on to reality. he must have really thought that he was losing it there for a second.

but he’s really there. it really is him. and for this brief moment -- before the rest of the situation catches up to him, and he remembers about all of the fucked-up AFO stuff, and remembers why he was so afraid and why he was pushing everyone away -- for just this one brief moment, he’s too exhausted and stunned to do anything except to just react. just stands there, looking up at him in awe.

and you know, it almost reminds me of...

just. you guys. the character development. the freaking character development. someone who brings reassurance. someone who shows up and makes you think, “oh, it’s all going to be okay now, because [person] is here.” the role reversals. the growth. the payoff!! because who is the one person who always had faith that Kacchan would one day grow up to become an amazing hero like that. WHO IS IT. YOU ALREADY KNOW.

omg. anyways, bless you Horikoshi, my feels which have been on backorder since fucking September have finally arrived lmao. yes, good, thank you. worth the wait. it is always, always worth the wait. fuck yeah.)

“LOWFRIES” SO YOU’RE TELLING ME THE WHOLE GANG IS HERE, AHHHHHHHH (º̩̩́⌣º̩̩̀ )

BEAUTIFUL. WONDERFUL. SENSATIONAL. I DON’T EVEN CARE THAT JUMP IS ON BREAK NEXT WEEK. THIS RIGHT HERE WILL SUSTAIN ME

#bnha 318 #midoriya izuku #BAKUGOU KATSUKI #!!!! #twowy mctwoface #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha meta #bakudeku #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha

[charlieknighte]

un jour tu t’en voudras - part 1

Ethan Hitchcock/Maelgwyn

Modern AU - University AU - Fake/Pretend Relationship - Pining - Hurt/Comfort but like significantly more hurt than comfort - french people being terrible

13,060 words

content warnings: terminal illness, drunkenness and smoking, unhealthy family dynamics

For three hundred dollars, Ethan Hitchcock will attend your family's holiday event posing as your shitty art school boyfriend and do everything in his power to wreck the night. Maelgwyn's getting tired of Thanksgiving.

(Featuring art from my dear friend Matt Prairiecryptid!)

For once in his life, Maelgwyn is excited to see Thanksgiving go to shit. 

Nausea always creeps up on him as he moves towards a family gathering, but he’s distracting himself with schadenfreudian thoughts of how much of the night’s chaos and strife is going to be his responsibility this time. They’re going to hate the boy he’s bringing on his arm so goddamn much. Ethan has taken it upon himself to sound like even more of an egregious Quebecois douchebag than usual, like he's cramming a handful of extra vowels into every single word. It would bother Maelgwyn too if it wasn’t a result of an evening back home spent excitedly brainstorming ways to make him insufferable. It’s all Ethan can do to make himself as disheveled and douchey as possible. Maelgwyn’s paying a pretty penny for him to antagonize his parents, after all.

The Hitchcocks rarely advertise their services through anything but word of mouth anymore. Exam cheatsheets, less than legal party supplies, forged doctors’ notes, winning Roll Up The Rim cups—everyone around campus knows there’s not much they can’t get for you if you’re paying. Their acting services don’t come all that cheap, either, but once in a blue moon someone needs to make an ex jealous or fake a family emergency. Maelgwyn had come to them with his dilemma half expecting to be turned down, but they’d just nodded knowingly and named their prices as if they’d performed this particular service a dozen times before. 

So now Ethan’s here in Louisiana with him, blowing cotton candy-flavored clouds into the evening sky as they walk through pretty polished suburbs on their way to Maelgwyn’s grandfather’s house. He didn’t come cheap, even if they gave him a discount for a year of friendship and for the fact that they know how much shit his parents piled on him. Still, Maelgwyn is relieved he’s here. The thought of affronting his family again is much less dread-inducing with the knowledge that he’ll have backup. Ethan is a good friend to have—he’d endeared himself to Maelgwyn mostly by sleeping through the film classes they’d had together and later begging to study with him, then slyly turning their study sessions into outings with his friends. It was one of the reasons Maelgwyn had finally broken out of the lonely shell he’d hidden in through his first year at university.

He can work with him, he knows that much. He just wishes they’d had more time to prepare a plan for the night. Maelgwyn clears his throat. “So, we’re starting off on too good of a footing already. My parents are way too happy to hear I’m bringing home a boy.”

Ethan tucks away his vape and gives him a sideways look. “Aren’t you bi?”

“Yeah, well… I rode out making them think I was straight as long as I could. It pissed my dads off thinking I wouldn’t even consider experimenting.” Maelgwyn pulls a face. “Samot wanted to throw me a coming out party.”

Ethan snorts. “Too much acceptance is really an unusual complaint to have.”

“I know, I know.” Maelgwyn lets the matter slide. It’s a petty thing to bring up, and really the least of his worries when it comes to his parents. “Anyway, you’re also going to get brownie points with Samot right off the bat for being, y’know… good-looking.”

Ethan raises his eyebrows at him and gestures at himself. His Habs jersey and ripped jeans are wildly inappropriate for a dinner party, and he’d purposefully smudged his eyeliner at Maelgwyn’s request. His earrings are even mismatched. “Am I, though?” he says, skeptical.

“I mean your face. You’re not ugly.”

“Oh.” Ethan puts a fist under his chin and pouts at him. “Well, that’s all I get? I’m not ugly?”

Maelgwyn sighs good-humoredly. “Yeah, yeah, you’re pretty.”

Ethan splits into a grin, having gotten what he wanted out of him, and puts a spring into his step. Maelgwyn shoves his shoulder fondly. “Pretty fuckin’ annoying.”

“ Oh! ” Ethan stumbles and clutches his chest. “Is that any way to speak to your beloved? You wound me, mon cher .”

Maelgwyn laughs despite the strange feeling creeping into his chest. He really wishes they’d had a chance to rehearse. Hearing Ethan refer to him so affectionately is strange. Something occurs to him. “Oh, shit. Um, one more thing. My parents are pretty PDA, so we’ll probably have to… 

“Match their expectations so they don’t assume your relationship is crashing and burning?”

“Good way to put it.” Ethan really has done this before. Maelgwyn’s not sure how to feel about that.

Ethan’s hand hovers by his waist. “Can I, then?” 

“Sure.” Maelgwyn lets him put his arm around him and tries to adjust to being held as he walks. It’s not that foreign of a feeling. He’s had to endure the Hitchcocks’ drunken snuggling enough to not be fazed by them being touchy-feely when sober. Still, people don’t usually touch him here. He feels like he’s being flirted with by a spineless frat boy at a party. 

As they near the house, Maelgwyn finds himself nervously hoping he knows enough about Ethan for their false relationship to appear plausible. He knows that Ethan’s the cheery, personable one in relation to his brother, and that his general knowledge of the world is extremely hit or miss. He knows he’s kind enough to once have comforted Maelgwyn as he heaved his guts out in the bathroom of a frat party, and that he lacks enough common sense to have been found passed out in the bushes himself twenty minutes later. Maelgwyn doesn’t know shit about his life before university, but he figures Ethan will fill in the gaps if he needs to. He’s resourceful like that. Spirits buoyed again, he turns them onto the driveway leading up to the house.

Samol’s mansion is deceptively quaint, vines creeping over its two-story columns and cheerful flowerboxes and porch swings decorating the wrap-around deck. You would imagine it had been purchased for a pittance and passed down through generations. In reality, the house had been built as a wedding gift a few years before Maelgwyn was born, and the charming plant life and Victorian-era aesthetic was a result of careful curation. Maelgwyn still doesn’t know if he’s relieved or resentful over his parents giving it up. 

American Thanksgiving has always been Samol's domain, which Maelgwyn is constantly grateful for. He couldn't survive his parents' dinner party posturing again after having to endure it once in October. He doesn’t think Ethan could survive a polite evening in their mansion without snapping either, based on the three-room shithole apartment the Hitchcocks share. It might have inspired him to ask for more money too, which Maelgwyn couldn’t afford without going through the mortification of asking his parents. It’s much better to be here, where their wealth is plausibly deniable. Maelgwyn knocks on the door and braces himself.

There’s a distant hubbub deep within the house as his family politely argues over who’s going to answer. Ethan pops some gum and starts chewing obnoxiously, getting on Maelgwyn’s already frayed nerves—but he supposes that’s the point. Finally, a flash of blond hair approaches through the frosted glass on the door. Samot swings it open, flashing his campaign-trail grin. Maelgwyn’s excitement for his parents to balk at his disheveled, offensively casual boyfriend starts to wane a little as he tries to estimate how much Mayor Samot’s qipao of black silk and golden gilding must’ve cost the taxpayers of Toronto. His hair is in an elegant updo that he must’ve paid an equally opulent amount for.

“Maelgwyn!” Samot says, delighted as if he had no idea that his own son would be attending the family dinner he’s pressured into year after year. He steps out and wraps him up in a perfumey hug, earrings tinkling. Maelgwyn pats his back to participate without having to hug him back. “Oh, it’s so good to see you,” Samot effuses, stepping back. “Come in, come in. Everyone’s been asking after you, sweetheart.” 

Maelgwyn lets himself be shuffled into Samol’s nicely decorated if overly floral foyer. It’s pointless to fight Samot when he’s turned into an overwhelming cloud of energy and charm in his determination to do something. Ethan steps in after them, and Samot looks to him like an apex predator zeroing in on movement. His smile gets a little wider, showing more of his painfully white teeth. “You must be Ethan.”

“Yeah. Hi.” Ethan takes one hand out of his pocket and shakes his hand. Samot’s sharp smile dulls a little as he takes in his outfit. Still, the fact that it stays on his face instead of dropping away entirely means Maelgwyn was right to say Ethan would pass his standards for appearance. He feels a twinge of annoyance. 

An unfavorable twinge passes across Ethan’s face too as Samot’s deceptively slender fingers crush his hand. “Samot,” he says, smile back up to its maximum brightness. “Charmed, I’m sure.” Maelgwyn wishes his parents didn’t feel the need to establish authority over every single person they meet, but then again he wishes a lot of things about his parents. Every interaction with them is a fucked-up give and take exchange mired in the complicated politics of their family.

There are heavy steps behind him, and his heart sinks. He turns unwillingly. Samothes is making his way down the hall with a drink in one hand, as tall and stern and regal and terrifying as he was when Maelgwyn last saw him. That was some time ago. The golden embroidery down the chest of his sherwani matches the pattern on Samot’s qipao, and Maelgwyn has to resist rolling his eyes. He steps out to meet him, wanting to get it over with. “Hi, dad,” he says, and doesn’t deign to add anything else.

“Glad you could come,” Samothes says, hesitating for a nearly imperceptible moment before he pats Maelgwyn’s shoulder heavily. His gaze goes past him and visibly grows darker. He leans in and asks under his breath, “What is this?” As if Maelgwyn’s brought home a stray dog he doesn’t approve of.

“This is my boyfriend.” Maelgwyn turns so he doesn’t have to interact with him further and marches over to take Ethan’s arm firmly and interrupt whatever invasive questions Samot was trying to wheedle him into answering. Samot smiles innocently. Samothes comes to put an arm around his husband’s waist, frowning openly at Ethan. Maelgwyn can watch him doing Ethan’s job for him and making a dozen unfavorable assumptions about him already.

Ethan raises his chin at him in greeting and snaps his gum. “What’s good?” he asks. He’s discreetly wringing out his hand from Samot’s handshake.

“This is Ethan, dearest,” Samot says, leaning into his husband and drawing himself up to his full height to rest his head on his shoulder. His eyes are getting narrower and narrower as Ethan’s dreadfully inappropriate outfit and lack of manners already start to outweigh his pretty face.

“Ethan,” Samothes says, and doesn’t make any attempt to welcome him. Ethan puts out his hand, realizes there isn’t a handshake waiting, fumbles and puts it down. Maelgwyn can see him start to take on a tinge of genuine nervousness. He feels like he should’ve warned Ethan in some way, but there’s really not much more he could’ve done after telling him my parents are politicians. Samothes, who relishes in his position as senator of Ontario largely because of his lack of contact with the public, is really the worst one to have to impress.

Then again, Ethan isn’t really here to impress. “Um, Samothes, I guess?” he says like he’s only half-interested, getting even more insufferable about his gum-chewing.

“Mm,” Samothes grunts, still glaring at him. Maelgwyn imagines how terrifying his parents must seem from Ethan’s point of view, tall and beautiful and hostile in that courtly, dismissive manner of theirs. Making them hate him is going to be easier than he thought. 

“Let’s not keep everyone waiting, yes?” Samot says, nudging his husband and sweeping them back off to the foyer. He throws Maelgwyn a look that says they’re going to talk about Ethan’s outfit later. Maelgwyn can’t wait. 

He kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his coat, throwing it over the rungs of the staircase to the second floor for lack of available racks. “Well, that was hostile,” Ethan remarks, following Maelgwyn’s lead with noticeably less care. “They’re very—”

"Don't joke about how hot my parents are,” Maelgwyn snaps.

Ethan raises his eyebrows at him. "I didn't say anything."

"I know. I’m just saying. I didn’t want to tell you in advance and hear a million dumb jokes from you and Edmund."

"They made a good-looking kid. I didn't really need a warning."

"You can’t deflect from calling my parents hot by flirting with me. That just makes it worse . " Maelgwyn jabs a finger at him accusingly, and Ethan raises his hands.

"I didn't say anything ,” he insists.

Maelgwyn sighs and leads him through the dim foyer and into the bright, bustling living room. The adults are dressed as if they’re attending a formal gala. Adults—Malegwyn hates that he still calls them that unconsciously. They throw a few judgemental glances at Ethan out of their cloud of cocktail dresses and tailored suits. Ethan’s jersey had set him back a few hundred bucks, but no one here would find that an exorbitant sum. “Well,” says Ethan, insolently refusing to be intimidated, “should we make the rounds?”

“Yeah,” Maelgwyn says, though he’s reluctant. He can see his grandfather in his usual rocking chair, swimming in a stark white dress shirt that used to fit him perfectly. He’s laughing at something his sister is saying. Maelgwyn makes a beeline for him, pulling Ethan along by the arm.

Samol catches sight of him and eases himself up, smile so wide and genuine it crinkles the corners of his eyes. He holds out his arms for a hug, and Maelgwyn leans into him much more gladly than Samot. “Hey, grandpa.” He puts his arms around him and feels a moment of protectiveness at just how frail he is.

“It’s been far too long. I hope they’re treating you well up north.” Samol steps back and grins over his shoulder. “And this must be the famous Ethan.” 

“Yeah, hi,” says Ethan, putting out a hand. Samol ignores it and pulls him into a hug, too. Surprise quickly flashes across Ethan’s face, and then he hugs him back politely.

“Good to meet you. I have to say,” Samol says, pulling away, “we haven’t heard all that much about you, son. I’m looking forward to getting to know just who you are.” He smiles, easy and kind. Still, there’s an edge to the statement that Maelgwyn doesn’t quite understand.

“Um, you too,” Ethan says. He can’t bring himself to be rude to Samol, as most people can’t, but he looks slightly discomforted by the idea that people have been wondering about him. Maelgwyn doesn’t blame him when it’s these people.

Samol holds out a hand to the rest of his family. “This is my sister Severea. Her partner Galenica. My… brother of sorts, Tristero.” Severea and Galenica glitter as always, and Tristero’s in his signature jet black suit. They give Ethan smiles in varying shades of politeness as he shakes their hands in turn. 

"Pleasure," he says, greatly enjoying his aggressive Quebecois shtick. Tristero narrows his eyes. His handshake looks painful. 

"Likewise," he says, with his perfect Parisian lilt. Maelgwyn can see the exact moment Ethan stops enjoying himself. Tristero snatches away his hand like Ethan has the plague and turns to speak to Severea in mainland French, abruptly cutting him out of the social circle.

Ethan stands there for a moment, taking furious breaths, and then he turns around to round on Maelgwyn. "You didn't tell me you were French."

"All sorts,” says Maelgwyn. “I said we were all sorts."

Ethan puts his hands over his face and mutters a long string of curse words that contains tabarnak no less than four times. Some of Maelgwyn’s family members look at him strangely, but none of them really grasp what he’s saying. “We’re in Louisiana,” Maelgwyn reminds him. “What did you expect?”

Ethan puts his hands down, but he’s still sulking. “Your family has a hell of a grip,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, it’s from all the political grandstanding.” Maelgwyn puts an arm around his shoulders and turns him away from the adults’ corner of the room and its dozens of empty martini glasses. “You wanna meet my cousins?”

Ethan nods miserably and lets himself be led over to where the Tristé siblings are sprawling across the couches texting. Adelaide is draped across the length of one couch, head propped on her arm, and Angelo is aggressively manspreading at the other end to try to win back some space. They aren’t dressed extravagantly, but they still drip in brand names and good taste and organic locally-sourced handpicked vegan textiles. 

Angelo rolls off the couch and hops up to give Maelgwyn that shining grin that he shares with his father and hates so much. “Bro,” he says, pulling him into a hug and slapping his back, “where’ve you been? Tristero’s made me go on a humblebrag parade around the room, like, five times. It’s your turn, Oscars boy.”

“Oh, god, I hope not.” Angelo’s been out of the house much longer than Maelgwyn has, but Maelgwyn knows he resents his father treating him like a child at these gatherings as much as he does. He punches Angelo’s shoulder amicably. “Nice to see you.”

“This your boyfriend?” 

“Yeah—yeah. Uh, Ethan.”

Ethan jolts to attention and steps in to slap Angelo’s hand. “Hey,” he says, a shade more friendly than he was with most of the family. He seems relieved not to have to shake another hand. Trusting Angelo to be polite unsupervised, Maelgwyn turns his attention to the other Tristé sibling.

“Hey, Adie,” he says, leaning down to give her a one-armed hug. “You guys look great.”

Adelaide squeezes his shoulders. “And your boyfriend looks terrible. You’re trying to piss off Samot, aren’t you?” Maelgwyn gives her a pleading look, and she raises her hands. “My lips are sealed. Enjoy whichever game you’re playing.” 

Maelgwyn breathes a sigh of relief and drops onto the couch across from her. He appreciates that the Tristés consider him to be enough of an ally in the political landscape of their family that they’ll call him out on his shit instead of pretending to fall for it. He and Ethan chat with them during the long lull before Samol announces dinner is served. Maelgwyn mostly sticks to small talk and half-listens to Ethan enthusing about his fencing team with Angelo. It’s completely unsurprising that they get along well. He just wishes he hadn't given Ethan free license to exaggerate his accent. It's already getting grating. 

It’s not even halfway into the night, and Maelgwyn’s weary and itchy and uncomfortably warm. He wishes desperately he could be home, not for the first time and not for the last. At some point Ethan leans over and asks if he can put an arm around his waist again. It helps to have some time to parse the feeling of Ethan’s arm around him in a place he usually hesitates to let people touch. It’s not so bad once he gets used to it.

Finally, Samol comes back from checking on his food and announces that dinner is served. The slow shuffle to the dining room starts, and Maelgwyn endures nearly ten more minutes of laughter and milling about and seats being scraped back and forth. Ethan’s arm around him starts being less of a touch he’s tolerating and more of a grounding sensation. Finally, the seating arrangement is established, with Maelgwyn sitting as far from Samothes as he possibly can and ending up by Samol, who’s taken up the other head of the table. His grandfather smiles at him for a moment before they say grace, eyes merry and twinkling between wrinkled lids. Maelgwyn can’t help but smile back. 

Samothes settles himself in his seat with gravitas, looking gravely out over candlesticks and seasonal decorations and heaping plates of Louisiana home cooking. "Dear lord," he begins, projecting his booming voice. There’s a flutter as hands are clasped and eyes are closed. "Thank you for this food. Bless the hands that prepared it. Bless it to our use and us to your service—"

Ethan suddenly shoves back his chair with a loud noise, makes sure people are looking as he spits his gum into his hand, and gets up to throw it out in the kitchen. The table sits in stony silence until he returns. Maelgwyn desperately holds in laughter. When Ethan returns, Samothes says in a low, dangerous voice, "Would you like to finish our grace, Ethan?"

He freezes. "Me?"

"The lord seems to have moved your spirit." 

There's a nervous chuckle around the table. Ethan's squirms, waiting to see if it's a joke that will blow over. It isn't. He opens his mouth and hesitates. As if someone else is saying it for him, he mumbles distantly, "And help us to give you glory each day through Jesus Christ our lord."

An amen goes around the table, and dinner properly begins. Samothes looks grimly pleased. Ethan rips apart a dinner roll violently. Maelgwyn briefly worries that Samothes has genuinely upset him, but Ethan's anger seems to evaporate a moment too quickly. Or maybe he’s imagined it. It’s never easy to tell what Ethan’s thinking. Too many of his actions are the result of one facade or another.

Either way, Ethan eventually pulls himself up from his childish slouch to serve himself like everyone else. He goes for his dinner fork, hesitates and purposefully picks up his dessert fork instead. Samot goes to say something, seems to think better of it and just purses his lips. Maelgwyn has always noted that Ethan has strangely impeccable table manners when he wants to, and he’s thrilled that he’s deciding to use his knowledge of etiquette for evil. He picks up his own dinner fork, because to do otherwise would be a little too suspicious, and digs into his food enthusiastically. Samol’s jambalaya has often been the only thing getting him through this fucking holiday.

"So, Ethan," Samol begins, smiling warmly, "where do you spend your Thanksgivings when my grandson isn't dragging you out to my neck of the woods?"

Ethan gives him a small, polite smile. Samol is too hospitable for anyone to stay standoffish when speaking to him. "At friends', with my brother." To tell the truth, Maelgwyn is tremendously envious of the friendsgiving he’s constantly missing out on. For Thanksgiving to be a pleasant night and not a drawn-out affair of family drama and faux-politeness would be a dream.

"Not with family?" Samot asks from across the table, masking judgement with concerned curiosity.

Ethan snorts. “Wouldn't know where to find them for it, and wouldn’t care to see them." They have the opposite problem, really. Maelgwyn has too much family, and Ethan has next to none. Ethan has never seemed to give much of a shit about it, which Maelgwyn envies tremendously. He wishes with all his heart and soul that what his family was doing didn’t bother or affect him.

Samot takes a slow sip of wine. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” His eyes are intense over his glass as he watches Ethan rub at his eye, purposefully smearing his eyeliner a little further.

Ethan shrugs and shovels more shrimp in his mouth. Samothes gives him a narrow-eyed, skeptical look Maelgwyn’s learned to fear, but Ethan seems completely unfazed by it. “This is great,” he says as an aside to Samol, mouth is full of shrimp. Samol smiles brightly, and Samothes moves on, having recognized that Ethan is outplaying him by winning his father’s favor. The strain between them tightens a few fractions more. 

“ Puis-je avoir du sel? ” Tristero says, gesturing to the salt shaker at Ethan’s elbow. 

“ Ouais, ” says Ethan, leaning unnecessarily hard into the a to make it absurdly clear that he isn’t saying a proper oui. He reaches out and drops it into Tristero’s hand. Tristero’s eyes widen as if horribly offended, and he straightens his back self-righteously. Maelgwyn braces himself for one of his insufferable speeches on table etiquette.

“ Il ne faut pas passer le sel de la main à la main, ” says Tristero, growing steadily more hostile with each word. “It should be set down on the table in front of your neighbor so they can pick it up for themselves. I just thought I should let you know, seeing as they don’t seem to teach etiquette up in your country.”

“Oh,” Ethan says, reaching the point of hostility much faster. “I see. Well, let me put this in a way you’ll understand, since there seem to be so many cultural stumbling blocks between us. Je m'en fous.” 

The table quiets slightly, everyone finally able to understand Ethan’s profanity (except for Samothes, who keeps eating his rice in blissful ignorance). Maelgwyn and the Tristés try to suppress snickers and smiles. Samot goes to snap at Ethan, finds himself in the position of not wanting to discipline a stranger, and instead says in exasperation, “Maelgwyn!”

Maelgwyn tries to stop smiling and look appropriately serious, but is only halfway successful. “Ethan,” he says, touching his arm.

“He started it,” Ethan says sulkily.

“I know, babe.” Maelgwyn finds himself rubbing Ethan’s shoulder and feels foolish both for acting like his father and for using a term of endearment for the first time. He should’ve rehearsed it earlier, as Ethan had. He drops his arm and goes back to his food, hoping he isn’t red in the face. Samot looks disappointed in him for taking Ethan’s side, but he doesn’t instigate the matter further.

“Well, it was always said that passing salt de la main a la main would cause a quarrel,” says Samol good-humoredly. There’s some reluctant chuckling around the table. The matter having been smoothed out enough to ignore, they continue picking at their plates. Still, there’s a considerable strain underpinning the evening. Ethan and Tristero keep trading blows, though neither escalate as far as the spat over the saltshaker. A steady, dull pain grows in Maelgwyn’s chest, and he starts desperately avoiding speaking with his parents. He almost thinks he’s home free when Samothes abruptly clears his throat and asks, "How are your films going, Maelgwyn?"

Maelgwyn swallows. "We don't really put out anything till third year, dad." 

It’s not technically true, but he doesn't feel like explaining the intricacies of his projects to his father and watching his eyes glaze over. He waits for a followup question and gets none. Samot touches Samothes's arm, making it clear to Maelgwyn that he told him to ask, and then he speaks up instead. "What about you, Ethan? What do you study?"

“Performing arts,” Ethan says, sounding appropriately contemptuous and uninterested in regular human interaction for someone of his major. Maelgwyn can see Samothes’s face completely drain of hope that he had brought someone normal home. Samot progresses to rubbing his arm comfortingly. It’s awfully early in the evening for him to be doing that, which is a good sign.

“I see,” Samot says, “and do you know what you plan to do with your degree?”

“Perform art,” Ethan says flatly. There’s a chuckle around the table, mostly from the Tristé siblings and Samol. Ethan splits into a shitty grin. “I’m joking. You can’t do shit with an arts degree. It’s join the army or marry rich.” 

The table finds this less entertaining. Samot’s hand goes still on his husband’s arm, and Maelgwyn can see him digging in his nails. Ethan sips his drink peacefully like he was just making pleasant conversation and as if Samothes isn’t staring daggers at him less than a day into knowing him. Maelgwyn finds himself wishing he hadn’t been thrown under the bus by association, but he still has to respect the balls Ethan has to have to act so unbothered by his father’s ire.

Samot lets out a fake, tentative laugh, pretending this is a joke to give him an opportunity to backpedal. Maelgwyn realizes he might’ve had too much wine. “But you… do have goals other than that.”

“Well, marry rich. I already said that.”

“That’s not…” Samot sighs. “Maelgwyn’s going to make films. You haven’t considered acting in them?”

“Sure.” Ethan drops his cutlery and pushes back his chair with a harsh scraping noise. “I mean, in case you haven’t noticed, you seem to be doing well enough for yourselves to look down your noses at me. I’m sure you’ll bribe someone to give your son a few dozen mil, right?” Samot’s mouth drops open in indignation. Ethan sits back, gesturing around at the dining room in all its faux-antique charm. He’s smiling one of his most horrible smiles. “Hell, I’m sure some portion of all this is willed to Maelgwyn, and your tête de la famille will keel over soon enough, won’t he?”

If Ethan’s previous outburst had quieted the table, this one completely kills all activity around it, forks clattering still and jaws pausing mid-chew. The silence is murderous. Adelaide chokes on something politely and brings a hand to her mouth. Samot sits back with his wine, staring at Ethan with open, intense malice for the first time in the night.

Samothes holds his knife like he wants to slice Ethan open with it. “What did you say?” he says, voice low and dangerous. It’s redundant. Everyone knows what he said. Ethan blinks at him.

“I said you’re doing well enough for—”

“No, you know what I mean. How dare you?”

Ethan slides back down, looking less confused than pissed off now. Maelgwyn tries to say something, but all that comes out is a squeak. It’s still enough to get Samothes’s attention, and he fixes him with his awful stare instead of Ethan. “How do you manage to be with someone like this? How could you trust him enough to tell him?”

Maelgwyn wants to disappear. He can’t even slink down in his seat, he’s so frozen with fear. The table hovers in its silence, no one daring to breathe. Samothes’s directed malice fades to an aimless fury. “You didn’t tell him,” he says quietly. It’s more of an accusation than a question. Maelgwyn shakes his head wordlessly. He feels like he was just plunged under six feet of water. Samothes sighs and looks to Samot. “Tell your son—”

“ My son?” Samot snaps, sitting forward again and sloshing wine onto the tablecloth in his indignance. Maelgwyn stares down at his plate and pushes around some rice, chewing mechanically without tasting his food.

“Aw, don’t kick up such a fuss,” Samol tries to say, but he’s spoken over immediately.

“I’m sorry, what was I not told?” Ethan says, something hostile about his tone even though Maelgwyn silently begs him to stay soft. He might’ve been pushed too far. 

The table becomes abruptly quiet again. Samot and Samothes sit looking at each other, not knowing how to break the news. They’ve never known how to talk about it. It’s like the mere mention of it has plunged them back into grief as fresh as the day the news was first broken to them.

“It’s stage four,” Samol says softly. Ethan blinks at him, opens his mouth to ask a dumb question, and then understands and slowly melts into horror.

Samothes pushes his chair back with a horrible screech and gives Maelgwyn a look before leaving for the kitchen. The blame is shifted to him as always. Maelgwyn didn't do enough, didn’t behave properly enough, wasn't enough. He should’ve better informed Ethan about his family’s history, and yet he should never have brought it up—or brought him home—to begin with. Tristero stands up in a huff and completely leaves the room, slamming the door to the back porch. Angelo and Adelaide jump up to go after him, giving Maelgwyn looks of apology and pity. Severea regards her brother with a deep sadness, and she and her partner rise and follow them out more slowly. The festively decorated table suddenly seems ridiculous and inappropriate in the sober atmosphere. Maelgwyn feels like slinking under it, pressing his head into a corner and hiding for the rest of the night. He can hear Samothes washing dishes aggressively, trying to regain some sense of control over the world. The way he bangs each dish brings Maelgwyn back to the arguments that used to echo through this house in his childhood, and how badly he would flinch at every little noise.

Samot rises from the table, still fixing Ethan with an openly malicious look. He walks around the table slowly, scaring Maelgwyn more with each step. "You've got a little something," he says, and then hauls Ethan up by the scruff of his neck like a kitten and scrubs vigorously at the corner of his eye. He drops him just as quickly, looking furiously satisfied, and storms off to the kitchen after his husband. Ethan sits there, blinking and stunned. When he looks at Maelgwyn questioningly, he can see that Samot had wiped off the eyeliner he's been so insistently smudging towards his temple. 

It almost makes Maelgwyn laugh despite everything, and then the hissing whispered argument beginning in the kitchen reaches him and all mirth he could’ve summoned evacuates his body abruptly. He took this too far. He knows that. He sinks down in his chair, every harsh consonant he can hear hitting him in the stomach like a blow. There’s nothing he can do. There never has been.

He, Ethan and Samol are the only ones left at the table. "I'm sorry," Ethan says, soft and genuinely regretful.

"It's alright, son. You didn’t know." Samol gets up and claps him on the shoulder. Maelgwyn watches Ethan re-evaluate how frail he is, how much trouble he has getting himself upright. For a moment Maelgwyn wants to burst into tears and rest his head against his grandfather’s bony shoulder and tell him everything, lay out their whole horrible scheme and try to explain why he thought it was a good idea. 

He remembers confessing the fear and unease of his home life to Samol when he’d been a child in the midst of his parents’ impending separation, and the relief of Samol telling him he’d take care of it and letting him sit in his Marlboro-scented car as he walked into the house to chew his fathers out. Maelgwyn aches for the same sort of relief, but he still can’t bring himself to speak. He watches Samol make his way across to the door out to the back porch and rest his hand on the handle. “I’ll smooth things over,” he says in his effortlessly comforting manner, and steps out. 

Maelgwyn feels a fraction better, but only that much. Even though there's no one left at the table, he finishes his dinner silently. Ethan sits there for a few more moments, then follows suit. He seems unsure of what to say.

“I didn’t think it would come up,” Maelgwyn says when he can be verbal again. It feels like a woefully inadequate excuse. Ethan looks up at him from his dish. He doesn’t seem angry with him, for which Maelgwyn is awfully grateful.

“I guess it worked in our favor,” he says, but he sounds unsure. He pushes his food around a little and then looks up again, eyes anxious. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t—Don’t worry about it.” Maelgwyn doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. He stabs a piece of shrimp a little too hard. It’s quiet for a few minutes as they finish their food. The argument keeps gaining traction in the kitchen, growing more and more heated. Samol is coughing outside. Something about the harshness of the sound makes something in Maelgwyn snap. 

He gets up abruptly and slams open the door to the porch. It’s darker than he expected it to be, none of the porch lights on and the suburbs glittering in the moonlight in the distance. Samol is sitting on the edge of one of the porch swings, a lit cigarette between his fingers as he rests his hand on his knee. The Tristé siblings lounge on another of the benches, looking sullen. Their father leans against the railing at the edge of the deck. They all blink at Maelgwyn’s sudden, violent entrance.

"You're not supposed to smoke anymore,” Maelgwyn snaps at his grandfather.

"Maelgwyn," Tristero says warningly, but Samol waves at him and goes to stub out his cigarette.

"Naw, he's right. C’mon, Tristé, ain’t there been enough unpleasantness tonight?” Tristero glowers at Maelgwyn, but relents. He shoots an even dirtier look over Maelgwyn’s shoulder as the door opens. Ethan steps up beside Maelgwyn and puts a hand on the small of his back. Maelgwyn isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be a comforting touch or just a part of the act, but it makes him feel better to have someone at his back. 

Tristero takes a step towards the staircase that leads down to the backyard as if Ethan’s very presence disgusts him. Ethan takes bold steps out to meet him, hand outstretched. "It's was good to meet you.” Tristero regards him with a moment of wary disdain, trying to figure out what he's playing at, before he clasps it.

"Have a good rest of your night," he says, enunciating his accent pointedly. The moment he lets go and steps away, Ethan jams his hand in his pocket like he wants to get rid of the feeling of touching him. Maelgwyn appreciates his dedication to his job, even if the rivalry he’s trying to embroil himself in might be a little bigger than his paygrade. 

Tristero descends the stairs and walks off across the lawn into the dark. Galenica and Severea wait for him by a streetlight. Samol stays behind, rocking back and forth on his porch swing quietly. Maelgwyn wonders if he hates the family falling apart because of him as much as he does. “Where’s everyone going?” he asks Samol. All the venom has gone out of his voice, and he sounds small and tired.

“Just to take a breather,” Samol says evenly. Maelgwyn wouldn’t be surprised if he was lying to spare his nerves. His grandfather’s guitar is leaning against one of his rocking chairs, and Samol hobbles across to sit in it and pick up a quiet tune. Even if it doesn’t quite match the situation, it’s soothing. Maelgwyn crawls onto the porch swing he just vacated and sways back and forth miserably. 

(Read part 2 here)

#friends at the table #marielda #ethan hitchcock #maelgwyn #maelethan

[chloemill]

On what I’ve been up to the last nine years

I have always been obsessed with food. It seems silly, honestly, to be obsessed with something that’s a basic human necessity. Food, water, shelter. Too bad there aren’t water disorders or I’d be all over that. Alcoholism, I guess, is a liquid-based disorder? This is getting dark quickly but I guess we should all know what we’re getting into with this one, shouldn’t we.

So, yeah, I’ve always been obsessed with food. I have alarmingly clear memories of food from childhood, and the sad(dest) part is most of it’s not even real fucking food, it’s like, cartoon food. I could probably describe every illustration from the Berenstain Bears installment where the dad bear and the kid bears randomly decide to go balls to the fucking wall and just mainline junk food until the mom bear is like “what the fuck is going on here” and gives them all apples or some shit and then everyone chills the fuck out. The pizza in A Goofy Movie when Goofy and Max randomly stop at a themed motel and the kids eat pizza while Goofy and Pete share what I remember to be a vaguely sexual moment in the hot tub? (There was definitely at LEAST a questionable power dynamic at play.) The kid at school whose weird helicopter mom came at lunch and hand-delivered her McDonald’s nuggets to the playground. Bake sales in the second grade - the cookies and brownies and “nachos” that were just round Tostitos with that terrifying and delicious fake cheese sauce that still honestly casts a spell twenty years later. It wasn’t quite normal, but as a kid, I didn’t think twice. When your parents are feeding you and your brain is the size of a baseball, you just kind of roll with the punches and settle for buying as much crap as possible at the bake sale with the two bucks your mom gave you. Shortly after I finished elementary school, actually, I think they stopped having bake sales as fundraisers because the school was trying to promote healthy eating. Go figure.

In high school we were allowed to go off campus for lunch and once or twice a week my sainted mother would give me money to buy lunch. It very rapidly became the bi-weekly Let’s See How Much Shit We Can Stuff In Our Body For Ten Dollars Challenge, but that’s not at all uncommon for high schoolers. At home we ate healthily, and I have a pretty fast metabolism thanks to my Slenderman of a father so I was more or less the size of a pencil for first few years of school. We’re talking, like, size double zero at Hollister. I actually used to peel the 00 size stickers off my low rise (!!!) jeans whenever I’d get a new pair and stick them on the side of my desk in my bedroom, which, as I became a normal-sized adult with not-normal-sized body image problems, morphed into a very creative form of self-inflicted psychological torment. I have some journal entries from the first few years of high school with “diet and workout plans”, but in teenage girl fashion, most of them were quickly forgotten about or amended with “forgot and ate mac and cheese today - whoops!” Stupid teenage shit. It’s actually kind of hilarious reading it back now until I remember how spectacularly fucked up everything got. ANYWAY!

My first real memory of hating my body was on a school trip to Scotland my junior year. I was fully indoctrinated into the cult of high school musical theatre and we were performing at the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh, which was an incredibly cool experience that I absolutely did NOT take full advantage of and instead did shit like drink way too much rum (fucking RUM because apparently I was a character in Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean franchise), try to climb out the window of the dorms we were staying in to go see my boyfriend in his building, quickly remember I was on like the fucking fourth floor, throw up all over the carpet of my room and then pass out. My room smelled like puke the rest of the trip but that, though tragic in its own right, is not the point of this anecdote. Being both across the pond and left to my own devices, I was eating nothing but beige-colored fried food to the point that I’m certain ketchup and fruit juice used solely as a mixer for alcohol were the only things saving me from full-blown scurvy. My clothes felt tight, and not in the 2010s way that everything was tight, but bad tight. My stomach poked out of my jeans in a way that my stomach wasn’t supposed to poke out of my jeans. Keep in mind - I was probably a size 0 instead of 00 at this point, and most of this change was just a product of being sixteen instead of fourteen and growing, but to me it felt ominous in a way I didn’t know how to explain. During a group trip to some Scottish landmark or another (see how much attention I paid to this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity my parents spent their hard-earned money to give me?) I remember sitting next to my close friend on the bus as we pulled over to stop for food. I was having relationship trouble with the aforementioned boyfriend, one of the first of many Musical Theatre Straight Boys™ that I would lose my fucking mind over, and I was getting emotional - more emotional than I expected. I realized something else was bothering me, and I turned to her and said “On top of everything else, I just feel… fat. I know I’m not fat, but I’m fat, like, for me.”

Two things here: first and foremost, yes, for that I know I am now the recipient of the Most Annoying Sentence Ever Spoken Aloud award and will provide the mailing address for my trophy at a later date. Second, I said that over ten years ago, and I remember it so clearly that I’m entirely sure that’s exactly what I said, verbatim. We got off the bus, and I walked into the restaurant and, after scanning the menu desperately trying to convince myself I should order something “healthy”, I ordered large steak fries and got back on the bus. I think this was the first time I ever really, consciously used food as a coping mechanism - the first time something small but powerful snapped in my head that told me fuck it - who the fuck cares? You’ve done enough damage already, what’s the point of stopping now?

High school ended, I graduated and we sang “Journey On” from Ragtime at the ceremony (baffling choice but the school was doing Ragtime next year and wanted to squeeze a promo out), I got into several of my top-choice musical theatre colleges and was so excited to go to the one I picked, which, you’ll be charmed to hear, was the absolute worst choice I could’ve made. I was 18 and a little bigger now, firmly in size 0/2 instead of 00 territory, had maybe graduated to a 32B bra instead of A, but still very thin by most standards. This was my first summer as a Very Online Person - I would stay up tlil probably 3 or 4 AM most nights blogging and watching Harry Potter movies for the umpteenth time. Because the rest of my family was, how do I put it, fucking normal, they’d go to bed at 11 or whenever and I’d be up alone for hours on the  computer. This is when I started bingeing. We didn’t really keep junk food in my house, nothing legit like Cheetos or Ben and Jerry’s or whatever, but we did have sugar cereal and reduced-fat Oreos and cheese and the occasional box of Triscuts. It became a nightly ritual for me - I’d wait for everyone to go to bed, then tiptoe in to the kitchen and, though I’d eaten dinner hours earlier, start eating again. Stacks of Oreos, multiple bowls of cereal, shredded cheese out of the bag. After a while my mom heard me banging around in the kitchen and told me (in so many words) to shut the fuck up, so my methods changed. I’d bring the box of cereal - Rice Krispies or Cocoa Puffs or whatever - a bowl, and a carton of milk into the bathroom with me. I’d run the sink and open the box and pour the cereal with the water running so no one would hear, and then I’d creep back out to the couch and eat it. Box of Oreos into the bathroom, water on, peel open the plastic, take out the biggest stack I thought I could with no one noticing, eat. Three or four granola bars into the bathroom, water on, wrappers off and hidden behind my bed or the couch or wherever, eat. Rinse and repeat.

I didn’t really know what binge eating was at this point, and some tiny, dark part of my brain buried way in the back told me that this wasn’t normal and it wasn’t good, but I pushed it away because of course I did. I did a few Google searches about it and came across the term “binge eating disorder” but was convinced that could never be me. This was just a thing, just a thing I was doing, and it would go away at the end of the summer when I went away to college because that’s when life was actually starting and it was going to be awesome and I wasn’t going to let this - whatever this was - fuck that up.

But I did, in fact, fuck it up. I fucked it up fast and hard (that’s what she said, ok back to being depressing) and college was not awesome, it was difficult and painful and I was drowning in something I had absolutely no chance of controlling on my own. I accepted very quickly that this thing I was doing had a name, and it was binge eating disorder, and I was all in. I gained weight - not a ton, maybe twenty pounds, and I was never actually overweight, but to me that didn’t matter. I hated how I looked. I overdrew my bank account spending money my mom gave me for groceries on binge food. I spent hours alone in the dining hall eating till I felt physically ill and sometimes threw up involuntarily because my body couldn’t handle what I was doing. One time I stood in the bathroom of my dorm and drank mustard mixed with warm water because I read online that makes you puke and I was so full I wanted to die (it didn’t work, please for the love of GOD don’t drink mustard water or, for that matter, anything else for the express purpose of making yourself vomit). I cancelled plans with friends and skipped classes to stay in and binge, or because I’d binged already that day and could barely move. I stole food from roommates, convincing myself no one would notice, even though of course they fucking noticed. I hid food and packaging and wrappers under my bed, in my closet, in my backpack, wherever I could because I didn’t want anyone to catch on. Lied about why I needed money so my parents would send me some and I could buy more shit. I ate stale food, food from the trash, once I literally ate straight up chocolate sauce (mustard water and chocolate sauce: 10 out of 10 doctors recommend!) because I had nothing else. Waking up for 8 AM ballet classes and seeing my body in a leotard under fluorescent lighting felt like a form of torture Dick Cheney might think was a little too harsh. I saw a therapist over the summers and ate with my parents at home, and things got better, and then I’d go back to school and everything would unravel again. I’m still kind of shocked I made it through.

I’ve been done with school and living in the city for five years now, and I can honestly say that things are better. I mean, not “better”, in the sense that this chapter of the book is still pretty fucking open. But I’m better at dealing with it. The majority of the time now, I eat normally. I still binge, sometimes a lot and sometimes a little, but I carry on and try again the next day. I don’t really restrict to make up for binges anymore. I can eat some foods now that used to send me straight into Eatin’ Town USA, like cheese and bread and maybe even Oreos sometimes. I started enjoying working out, not just logging time on the treadmill as a punishment and feeling like Jean Valjean in the opening number of Les Mis (look down look down you’RE HERE UNTIL YOU DI-IE). 

To be honest, I think I’m writing this mostly because the last couple months have been hard. I’ve fallen into some old stupid shitty habits, and I’ve been plugging along like normal and trying to claw myself out. But it’s not quite working like it normally does, and I don’t know why. I know I’ll make it through, because I always have, and what other option is there? But some days lately, I feel like twenty-year-old me, sobbing (very theatrically, natch) on the floor of my apartment because I should be over this by now - how am I not over this by now? This is my ninth year as a binge eater. Almost a decade! Far and away my longest and most committed relationship. When I hit 10 years strong, I should take myself out to a fancy restaurant or something but I don’t know what I’d order.

When I tell people this, I usually get some kind of “I had no idea”/“I’m sorry I didn’t notice”/“I would’ve never guessed” and the truth is that I didn’t, and still don’t, want anyone to notice. Of course I don’t. You don’t hide candy wrappers and empty pizza boxes in your closet with your winter boots because you want people to notice. It’s a very strange and secretive brand of shame that binge eating disorder brings and no one really get it unless they get it, and that’s not something I’d wish on anyone. (Okay, honestly, I’d wish it on some people, like it’s hard as hell but some people suck ass and probably deserve it? Anyway.) As I’ve grown up, I’ve started talking about this more and more. The first time I went public with all of this shit - I think I made a dramatic Instagram post a few years ago whilst day drunk during National Eating Disorder Awareness Week (absolutely incredible and Very Me start to a sentence) - I was shocked at how many people reached out to me privately and were like, hey, me too, and thank you for saying something. I’m still ashamed, but I’m trying not to be, and the more I talk about it the less alone I feel. “There are dozens of us! DOZENS!”

I guess one nice thing about this whole stupid nightmare is it’s kind of a reason why I am who I am. Not the only reason, but still. I started using jokes to cope with this while I was in school, and my sense of humor, whatever the fuck it is today, grew out of that. Except now I don’t joke about this stupid shit because I’m in denial, I do it because it’s real and I’m staring it in the face and it’s not going away, and the absurdity of something so excruciatingly difficult yet so entirely in my control gets fucking terrifying. I guess laughing at it makes it seem small.

[hoyoungy]

Stimulant | RM/Namjoon

genre: comedy, soulmate au, tattoo artist au | tattoo artist!namjoon x reader summary: with immense pain comes immense pleasure, and that was definitely the case when you could feel everything your accident-prone soulmate feels word count: 2722 a/n: i had a lot of fun writing this lol. warnings include swears, mentions of sex/masturbating, and that it’s a dialogue-heavy fic. as seen on my ao3

You hated your soulmate. You absolutely hated your soulmate, and you haven’t even met him yet.

You didn’t start feeling what he felt until recently. The very first thing you felt was a cut on your hand and you started to bleed. A memorable first impression, to say the least. Then you developed more cuts, some bruises, and even muscle soreness. You thought that maybe it was all completely normal. You thought that all of this pain came with the package of finding your soulmate. But when you asked around how long until the bruising disappears, your friends just looked at you like you were crazy.

It was then you realized that maybe your soulmate was either accident prone or a masochist.

Or maybe they were both.

You would go about your normal day being extremely cautious and prepared for all the pain you would have to endure. Sometimes you would wake up thinking that maybe today would be the day your soulmate wouldn’t hurt himself. Sometimes you even sympathized - or was it technically empathized? - because there were times you had to go see a doctor when the injuries were more severe, thinking to yourself honestly, fuck you for bringing me here, but I hope you’re all right, too.

The scarring and bruises weren’t even the worst part of all of this. No, the worst part about being able to feel what your soulmate feels was the random bursts of pleasure that made you go insane. It was fine when it was night time and you were in the comfort of your home - at least that way no one could see your blushing face. But when you felt it in the middle of the day while you were at work, getting lunch, or even just fucking grocery shopping, you had to run to the bathroom so your soulmate could finish.

This morning you had a, uh, pleasant start to your day. You woke up panting, sweating, and flustered, trying to come down from the euphoria your soulmate caused all too frequently.

“Is my soulmate a chronic sex addict? For God’s sake, it’s seven in the morning!” you muttered bitterly. A shower was necessary to wash away the shame you felt for your partner.

In the shower, you enjoyed the peace and serenity the warm water gave you. It was a peaceful ten minutes that you thoroughly enjoyed until it was ruined again only moments later.

“Ow! Fucking christ!” you screamed. You saw some redness forming on your hand from inflammation caused by something. From your previous knowledge, it looked like it was from a burn from cooking breakfast.

How incredibly annoying was it that you already knew the reason for the burn?

“I’ll show you a burn.” You turned the shower handle to the hot side of the spectrum and endured the 0.2 seconds of scalding water all over your body. The pain you felt was worth the satisfaction knowing your partner’s probably cursing you out right now.

Did that make you the sadist? Or did that make you both masochists?

It was a constant battle of stimulation between the two of you that you didn’t even know what was accidental and what was on purpose anymore other than the infinite shameless times he’s had sex. Maybe he thought the same about you, too. What if he thought you were the clumsy one and he was doing the exact same thing by hurting himself to get back at you?

Kind of fucked up, huh?

“Rough morning?” your roommate asks, raising her eyebrow at you. She probably guessed by the sour look on your face as you exited the bathroom.

“Woke up to my soulmate having sex again and a burn from when he was cooking. Who the fuck has the time and energy to fuck this early!?”

“You’d be surprised,” she smirks. “Maybe he’s not having sex, maybe he’s, you know.” She gestures to you a juvenile attempt at a hand job.

“Either way, it’s annoying and embarrassing, like does he not have any shame? I can’t remember a time where I’d go at least three days without having an orgasm because of him.”

“He’s just not embarrassed to touch himself like you are, obviously…”

“Shut up.”

She wasn’t wrong. You haven’t had sex nor have you touched yourself because honestly, you’d be thinking about your soulmate the entire time, and it was embarrassing.

“You need to relax and just do it, _____. You’ve been so irritable lately, it’s driving me insane.”

“I know, I’m sorry, ok. I’ve just been so preoccupied trying to find him for months, but I’ve had absolutely zero luck!”

“Maybe that’s why. You can’t just go out looking for someone with no leads. You have no idea what you’re looking for.”

“I don’t, and I’ve never felt so lost,” you pout. “But maybe I’ll find him after today.”

“Why, what do you have in mind?”

“He’s going to hate me so much after today that he’s bound to show up.”

The malicious smirk on your lips caused your roommate to take a step back from you. “You’re not gonna, like, fling yourself down the stairs so you’d go to the hospital, are you?”

“What, no,” you said. “I’m going to get a tattoo.”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“I am not! If anything, he’s the psychopath!”

“You two are meant for each other.”

“Honestly, that’s so sweet of you to say.”

“Ow, shit!” Namjoon curses. The oil from the pan pops and hits his hand, giving him a small burn.

Immediately, a running Jin snatches the chopsticks away and pushes him aside. “What did I say about cooking!?”

“But I’m hungry…”

“Just ask next time! Look, you’re not even cooking it correctly - you’re supposed to scrape the ice off the dumpling before you put it in the pan so the oil doesn’t pop. You’re also not supposed to use olive oil for frying.”

“Ohhh…”

“I feel sorry for your soulmate. How are you even alive and functioning?”

“Yeah, how have they not tracked you down to kill you yet?” Hoseok teases, pushing Namjoon further away from the stove.

“She’s probably smart enough to know that doing so would kill her, too,” Yoongi scoffs.

“Shut up - HOLY FFFFFF -”

Namjoon couldn’t finish his sentence as he hunched over on the floor feeling like he was on fire. He struggled to turn on the faucet to run cold water on his minor burns. His inked skin was flushed a painful pink.

“What happened…?” Jin asked with wide eyes.

“I think my soulmate burned me on purpose!”

“That’s what you get for being so careless. I’m surprised they haven’t done so earlier.”

“They have! Every time I hurt myself, they hurt themselves back so I can feel it. Can you believe that!? Who hurts their soulmate on purpose!?”

“Oh, I definitely would if you were my soulmate,” Yoongi said. “I’d be pissed if my partner was chronically accident prone.”

“You guys are great friends, you know,” Namjoon said sarcastically as he dried himself off.

“Thanks!” Jungkook chimes.

“I’m going to the shop.”

“What about your dumplings!?”

“Fuck ‘em, you eat it.”

“Don’t hurt yourself too much today!” Jin calls as Namjoon walks out the door.

“Welcome!” the receptionist at the tattoo shop greeted you. “How can I help you?”

“Do you accept walk-ins?” you ask.

“Yes, Namjoon is available once he’s ready - speak of the devil.”

The door chimed as it swung open. A very tall, very good-looking man walks through the door with disheveled hair and a grumpy expression that was all too similar to yours, but somehow made him unbelievably handsome. His expression melts as he sees you and shoots you a quick wink with a dimple-y smile as he passes you.

“He’ll be your artist today. Now, because you’re alone, I assume you haven’t met your soulmate yet?”

“I haven’t. Why do you ask?”

“Those who have met or feel their soulmate need to have a cosigner that states they consent to the feeling of getting a tattoo.”

“Really!?” you said a little too loudly.

“Yes, it’s the law. So have you felt your soulmate at all?”

“Uh, n-no,” you lied. “Not yet, surprisingly.”

“Ok, well, then you need to sign these forms that state that if you’re caught lying, we have the right to report you to the authorities.”

“R-Right,” you stutter, reading the forms thoroughly before risking hundreds of dollars in fines and possinly jail time.

“All right, then you’re all set! Namjoon will call you when he’s ready.”

You sit in the waiting area impatiently tapping your feet. Your nails dig crescents into the palms of your hand unapologetically, with you not worrying about if your soulmate could feel it. To be honest, you were completely terrified about getting your first tattoo. You thought about the design in your car for like, ten minutes and thought up a bullshit reason in case they asked.

It’s not like you were going to tell them you were getting a tattoo out of spite. How crazy would that make you look?

I mean, of course you were crazy, but you didn’t want anyone to know that.

“_____?” The man named Namjoon asked.

His arms were now exposed as he settled into the shop, showing you nearly a dozen or so on his sleeve. Even from far away, you could tell how intricate they were, telling you that it must’ve taken hours to complete each one. Your eyes widened, sympathizing with his soulmate, that poor person…

“Are you ready?” he asked you.

“Yeah,” you sigh, hesitation evident in your voice.

“Scared?”

You take a seat and watch him prep his needles and ink. Why were there so many tools…

“Y-Yeah,” you stutter. “Does it hurt…?”

“Oh, yeah, like a bitch,” he chuckles. “No matter how many tattoos I get, they all hurt as much as the last, although the very first one is unforgettable.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I’m just being honest! You’re here now, no use turning back, right?”

“I suppose… Has your soulmate ever felt any of those?”

Namjoon sits across from you and gives you another smile with his heart-stopping dimples. “No. I got these way before I even started to feel them. I haven’t gotten one since the day I started to feel.”

“How come?”

“Well, I haven’t met them yet. I’m also an extremely clumsy person, so they experience enough pain from me,” he chuckles. Man, did you definitely related to his soulmate all too well. “I could never ask them to go through with a tattoo if they’ve never had one yet.”

“That’s very considerate of you.”

“I suppose it is. It’s the least I can do.” Namjoon rolls his chair close enough for you to smell his intoxicating cologne. “So what am I drawing on you today?”

“Just an outline of a crescent moon.”

“Simple. I like it.”

“To be honest, I thought of the design in the car,” you said, scratching your arm nervously. “I just want to get the feeling out of the way before I meet - feel my soulmate.”

“That’s cute,” he chuckles again. “All right, this shouldn’t take longer than five minutes.”

He put on some nylon gloves and shaves the part of your arm where you want the tattoo. His hands are warm and comforting, easing your nervousness, although it quickly came back when he buzzes the needle.

“Oh, shit,” you whisper. Were you making a big mistake? Were you taking your pettiness too far?

No, you had every right to…

“Ready?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good enough. It’ll only hurt for a few minutes.”

When the needle touched your skin, you nearly blacked out.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” you screamed.

“Ow, fucking hell!” Namjoon screamed, too.

You both swung your heads to look at each other with wide eyes. At first you were extremely confused. The only reason Namjoon would be screaming in pain is if his soulmate was doing something reckless. Was it a coincidence that he felt pain as you were getting a tattoo? But then it clicked in your head that it was, in fact, you who was being the reckless soulmate.

“You!” you both said, pointing to each other accusingly.

“You’re my soulmate!? Are you fucking kidding me?” you sigh. “Boy, do I have a lot to say to you.”

“You have a lot to say to me!?” You look at him with a blank expression and your glad to see that he nods his head understandingly. “Ok, yeah, I probably do deserve a mouthful…”

“Yeah, you do.”

“But ~ you did just lie about not feeling your soulmate! I could report you!” You silently slump in your seat with a pout on your face. “But you’re really cute, so I won’t.”

“Normally, I’d be flattered, but I’m a bit angry at you at the moment.”

“All right, let me hear what you have to say about my clumsiness.”

You sighed, collecting all of your thoughts. “First of all, how?”

“It’s an innate gift I’ve been given.”

“Do you see all of my bruises?” You rolled up your pants to expose your purple shins. “And this cut?” You point to a healing scar on your cheek. “And this burn on my hand from this morning? What were you even making?”

“The, uh, dumplings had ice on them, so the oil sparked.”

“Frying ice, of course my soulmate would do that.”

“I’m not good in the kitchen, ok,” he frowns.

“Second question, do you have a girlfriend or significant other or enjoy frequent nights out in the town?”

He raises a curious brow at you and you try to suppress any current thoughts about his handsomeness that distract you from seeing him as anything other than irritating at the moment. “Are you making sure that I’m all yours?”

“No, I’m asking you why you have sex almost every day at the worst times.”

“Oh, that!” he said, bursting into a fit of laughter. How he was not even at least a little embarrassed amazed you. “Well, to make things clear, I don’t have a girlfriend, or significant other, or enjoy midnight reandezvous.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing - Oh…” You paused. If he didn’t do any of those, then that meant… The growing smirk on Namjoon’s face only confirms your assumption. “Really? You masturbate every day!?”

“Relax, it’s not every day. As you said, I do so almost every day.”

“Do you know how embarrassingly frustrating and also hilariously ironic it is when I’m picking up an eggplant at a grocery store and I can feel you doing your business?”

“But you like it, don’t you?” Namjoon leans his face close to yours. Close enough that you could feel his breath tickle your cheek. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

“Of course it feels good, it always does, but I like to plan my orgasms, thank you.”

“But that was the beauty of it, my dear. Knowing that as I’m touching myself, somewhere out there, you were enjoying it as much as I was. It’s intoxicating.” He licks his lips and suddenly your mind became hazy. “Didn’t you enjoy it this morning?”

“Yes,” you stated plainly, though blushing deeply.

“Of course you did. In fact, I can already feel that you’re aroused just by the mere thought of it,” he teased. “Imagine the euphoria we could feel together. It’d be twice as ecstatic, wouldn’t it?”

“If you’re that curious, let’s find out.”

“Wait, Really!?”

“After this tattoo.”

“I’ve been meaning to give you a mouthful about that, too,” he said. “How dare you hurt yourself on purpose just so I could feel it. Does that make you the sadist between the two of us?”

“You know, I’ve thought about it before, and I think me getting a tattoo done by you confirms it.”

“After all the pinching, shower burns, and nail-digging,” he paused, showing you the indented crescents on his palm. “I think so, too. Though of course, I will admit to being the fuel to the fire.”

“So long as you acknowledge it.”

“Let’s get this tattoo over with so we can get to the real fun, shall we?” he smirked.

“Can I get some lunch or dinner before that, at least? Where’s the chivalry?”

“How rude of me. I’ll need the energy, anyways, I skipped breakfast this morning.”

#bangtan bookclub #raplinenetwork #btswritersguild #hyunglinenetwork #namjoon #kim namjoon #bts namjoon #rm #bts rm #bts #bts imagines #bts scenarios #kpop #k-pop #soulmate #soulmate au

[writingbarnes]

Tip of My Tongue - Bucky Barnes x Reader [ Ch. 1 / 7 ]

Prompt : Bucky Barnes was supposed to bring back her soul and take her to afterlife. He had one job (it was the only available job for someone like him in this in-between world) and he fucked up. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x OC

Genre : Fluff, slight angst maybe, idk  |   Warning : None

Author’s Note : I’m a sucker for AUs and I tend to use songs for my fic titles, in case you haven’t noticed. Anyway, here’s a Grim Reaper Bucky AU! let me know what you think? :) 

“Fury’s looking for you.” Steve’s voice woke Bucky up from his short nap. He blinked a couple of times, adjusting his eyes to the blinding light, and stretched his limbs, letting out a tired groan as he got up from the couch. “He said it’s time.”

“Is it about your new mission?” Steve sat across him, watching his best friend pick up his jacket and file from the floor with an amused look on his face. Bucky only gave him a glare, which would be scary if his hair wasn’t tousled from sleep and he wasn’t talking to Steve. “Good luck.” Steve offered with a slight chuckle that turned into a laugh when Bucky flipped him off on his way out.

***

It was a cold Saturday evening and [Y/N] found herself waitressing at the old Chinese food restaurant while the owner, Mrs. Liu, an old Chinese woman with shockingly clear dark brown eyes and silvery white hair watched everyone’s movement like a hawk. She let out a small sigh as she gazed away from her boss and scanned the room. The place was packed with customers and there was no way she could go home on time. At least I’ll have Sunday’s off, she thought to herself as she served the food to a rowdy family near the entrance. She ignored the smug voice of the husband and the nasty eyes the wife sent her when she set their food on the table. She has met too many people like this and served them food with a fake smile plastered on her face, people who always think they were better than anyone in the room, and [Y/N] still stiffened a little when the woman made an offhand comment about her appearance. Deep breath. You need this job, she repeated in her head, lips curling into a smile.

“Enjoy your food,” [Y/N] brusquely said before she left them with their food, going back to Mrs. Liu who had been calling her name the past few minutes.

Mrs. Liu was a sharp woman even in her late sixties. She sat with her back straight, silver white hair tightly twisted into a neat bun on top of her head, the jade bangle in her hand clanked against the marbled table every time she opened the cash registry. Her lips were always pressed into a thin line and [Y/N] realized she had only seen her boss laugh a few times in the three years she worked there.

“Yes, Mrs. Liu?” [Y/N] could smell the familiar incense her boss had been burning the past hours once she stopped in front of her.

“You go outside and have a break now,” She said with a heavy accent. “I don’t need my employee snapping at people because they are tired.” [Y/N] stared at her in surprise, offering her a small smile of gratitude before she slipped out of the restaurant through the back door.

***

“You’re a hard woman to find, [Y/N].”

[Y/N]’s eyes snapped open and she let out a small yelp at the sight of the stranger standing in front of her. She scrambled to her feet, eyes never leaving him.

“Who are you?” She narrowed her eyes. Was it one of her friend’s prank? She asked herself. He was dressed in an all black attire and she would notice how handsome he was if she wasn’t so startled and terrified of him. The man gave her a roguish smile and took a step closer towards her.

“I’m here to take your soul back.” He curtly explained and she immediately scoffed in disbelief.

“Are you drunk?” She raised her eyebrows and let out a small sigh. “Listen here, you emo wannabe. I am on my thirty minutes break and I will have to go back to that hellhole in a few minutes and I really just want to enjoy my last few minutes break in peaceful silence, okay?”

“Who are you talking to?” Mrs. Liu’s stern voice caused them to pause and looked at the door, where the woman was standing. [Y/N] pointed her finger at the stranger, frowning in confusion when her boss’ face paled.

“He said he’s going to take my soul and wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“She can’t see me.”

“Oh wow. How long are you going to do this? Do you want me to call the cops?” [Y/N] turned to him. He flashed her another smile, this time gesturing his hand towards the old woman.

“Ask her, then.”

[Y/N] rolled her eyes and approached Mrs. Liu, who was still standing by the door. “You can see him, right?”

There was a long pause before Mrs. Liu let out a shaky breath and pointed her bony finger at her. “You should leave.”

[Y/N] stared at her in aghast. The older woman seemed shaken and [Y/N] watched her take out a crumpled hundred dollar bill and shove it into her hands. “Wha–”

“Take the extra money and leave. I don’t want you and whatever spirit you’re talking to ruining my business.”

***

She could feel anger emanating through her body, overcoming her fear, as her (former) boss went back inside and reappeared five minutes later just to hand her her stuff. The man still stood behind her, silently watching her in amusement. She didn’t know which was worse, seeing a fucking spirit or losing her job.

Nope.

She knew which was worse. She spun on her heels and marched towards him, eyes filled with fury as she shove him back.

“HAPPY NOW?! I lost my job because of you and I’d kill you if you were alive, you fuck--”

“You don’t need a job if you’re about to die, [Y/N].”

“You can shove your death talk up your ass, you emo ghost.” She huffed. “I’m leaving.” [Y/N] added and took out her headphones from her old canvas backpack. He trailed behind her, ignoring the endless string of curses she sent his way.

“You know, it’ll be a lot easier… and more fun if you cooperate,” he told her.

She blatantly ignored him, focusing her attention to her jumbled headphones and crossed the street, pausing on her tracks when it fell to the asphalt ground. “Goddammit.” [Y/N] breathed out and crouched down to pick it up, turning to her left just in time to see the oncoming car and to jumped back before it hit her, falling on her ass while the driver sped by without stopping.

***

The prickling pain on her hands and the muttering voice behind her snapped her out of her shock. She winced as she slowly got back on her feet, wiping off the dirt on her hands on her jeans. She breathed out in relief despite her scraped palms, which she was sure are going to hurt like a bitch for the next few days.

“Oh my God.” She turned to the stranger, who was still standing behind her, gawking at her in bewilderment. “You’re alive.”

“I am.” She rolled her eyes. “No thanks to you.”

“You’re supposed to be dead. That car was supposed to hit you!”

“Oh no.” She responded in her flattest tone she could muster and limped away from the man, leaving him in the middle of the empty street.

***

She should have screamed for help. She really should. The article she read earlier that day mentioned how she should make noise to alert her neighbors. She didn’t know why she only sat on her carpeted floor in her sweatpants and hoodie and held her unfinished origami when he suddenly appeared in the middle of her living room. She hasn’t been getting enough sleep. That was probably why she was so calm in the face of this spirit or whatever deity he was claiming to be.

“Listen. I need to take your soul back and you were supposed to die on that street. This wasn’t supposed to happened. They’re going to kill me if they know about this. Do you know how fucked up this is? This is a mess and look-” He showed her his glitching watch. “I don’t know what happened. This was supposed to reset to zero when you died BUT YOU DID NOT and now it’s glitching.”

“What are you? A grim reaper?” Her question stopped him short. He paused and turned to face her. He let out a small exhale and shook his head.

“Not really, but you can call me that if it makes you feel better.”

She nodded and continued to fold her origami, setting it down on the table along with the ones she has finished before she picked up another piece of origami paper. “You have a name?”

“Bucky,” He grumbled under his breath as he sat down on the couch, fingers toying with the little paper cranes she has been making the past few hours.

“What kind of name is Bucky?” She snorted.

“It’s my nickname. Stop trying to change the subject,” Bucky snapped.

“Huh.” She exhaled, looking up for a moment to scan him from head to toe. “I thought you’d be scarier,” she muttered and set down another paper crane on the table.

“Excuse me?” Bucky quickly spoke out, clearly offended by her nonchalant attitude.

“Yeah, you just look cute and grumpy, like the cat I used to own, especially when you pout like that.” She stared back at him. “Do you want to see his pictures?” She put the origami paper and reached out to get her phone, stopping when Bucky grabbed it first.

“Listen, Miss, you need to die. I really need to take you to the afterlife.” Bucky leaned over and tapped the glass table with his metal fingers. She seemed to be mulling over her thoughts and Bucky swore he could hear his brain snap when she opened her mouth to answer him.

“Yeah. No. Not gonna happen.”

thoughts?

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[cinnamonswamp]

July

When my partner first casually proposed the idea of going hiking this weekend to me, I agreed with genuinely astounding nonchalance. I’d been hungering quietly for pointed and intentional time together, for motion together, to see something other than the inside of my home and the homes of my clients. On the hungover Saturday morning when we drove to a neighboring town to pick up our His & Her CBD products from his favorite clinic (His as a little THC, Hers absolutely does NOT), a single tiny little sidewalk sign with a lovingly air-brushed “Roses $15″ on the front nearly moved me to tears with its absolute and implicit beauty. On the way home we drove past a three table garage sale that perched in front of a house’s rod iron gate, upon the gate loomed a hand-made sign that said “End Police Brutality” and the entire scene twisted itself into a poem, I was so, so grateful to see just the smallest slice of the rest of the world. So when he asked if I wanted to go hiking it was an immediate and unobserved yes. That’s how hungry I was.

I could tell you all about how bad it’s been this month. I could tell you about how going back to work has turned into an enormous cyst in my brain that is pressing down on every functional piece of me that is capable of experiencing joy, creativity and enthusiasm. I can tell you about how angry and sad and sleepless I’ve been, how I had previously believed I knew what despair was but just in this last month I’ve been shown by the cosmos that I truly had no clue before this. I could tell you about the bruise and the best/worst Pap smear I’ve ever had, and everything else. 

I guess I’m not gonna. I’m so much more interested in telling you about me being so, so pitifully brave. Three times this month I had to cancel whole days because I couldn’t sleep the night before, so finally I attempted to get on the phone with my psychiatrist to talk about a possible new medication because with drawing horror I was beginning to feel like the Ativan is not as effective as it used to be because I took so much of it this month. I couldn’t get ahold of her. So I did a thing that really demonstrates how desperate I’d become, I ordered a 50, that’s five-zero, dollar itsy bitsy teeny weeny bottle of CBD oil despite the fact that one of the things I am most afraid of in this whole goddamn universe is putting marijuana anything inside my person. 

(This is largely but not entirely due to a genuinely traumatic and unfortunate evening with an edible that I will not describe today, but I hope you will take my word for it that it was enough for me to get itchy if I even smell that shit in the air at a drum circle these days.)

So we drove to the neighboring city and got the stuff while listening to Taylor Swift’s new album and I saw pretty, sincere and human things and it was nice. 

When we went hiking on Sunday, which is today, my partner parked a little ways down the sloped street from the entrance to the trail and while we were walking up, before we were even able to see the entrance, I already knew I was in trouble. See I don't know what y’all been up to but for the past three months I have barely moved my body more than dragging it from one room to another. And I was not what anyone would consider “in shape” before the pandemic. So I get winded on the fourth step of a flight of stairs now. And what’s more is there were so many people coming in and out of this trail, and I had to wear a mask that makes me feel like I’m suffocating when I’m standing still. 

All of that is ok. But I also have a 16 year old panic disorder that is rooted so deep in my body and put there by so many novel and repeated instances of physical abuse that my trauma is less of a dark spot inside me and more like rings inside an ancient tree. So when I think people can see me weak and in pain, my body instantly sends a signal to my brain that there’s blood in the water and the sharks are coming. The results of this can vary depending on the situation but typically I tend to start a) crying b) hyperventilating and c) being mean to anyone around me. 

“This was a bad idea.” I said

“You're doing fine,” he said

“There’s too many people,” I said

“We’ll be ok.” he said.

One of the things I love about my partner is how keyed in he becomes when he recognizes that I’m going into crisis and how immediately the situation becomes all about me and whatever I need to be ok. So him gently edging me forward when I was clearly descending into fear and rage was this bizarre little light on the edge of the oncoming storm. He never does that, he never pushes me, I should be mad he’s doing it now, but I’m not, because this is a weird and rare thing for him to do. Maybe he knows something I don’t. So we waddle our way in and break off just inside the entrance so I can lose my shit sitting on a stump under a tree, fully locked in my funhouse of my brain now and seeing the faces of all these passing strangers twist into sneers and disgust when really all that was on those faces were masks obscuring literally any sense of emotion. I couldn't have seen disgust on anyone’s face if I tried. Eventually everyone more or less passed and I calmed, apologized. He tried to apologize and I wouldn't let him. This is why I usually do this stuff alone, because I always have to sit down and cry at first, then when I’m done, I get up and keep going. If I have to cry some more, I do it. I find another stump and cry some more, and then get back up again.

See that’s the secret to completing a difficult thing when you’re a soft, soft baby with deep body trauma: unconditional and compassionate permission to be completely pathetic. 

As my breath and heart rate slowed and I finally accepted the water he’d been trying to offer me for 15 minutes, this fact began to come back to me. 

The evening before, around 5pm, I stood there with the little bottle of CBD oil in my hands for a good twenty minutes, bring the stopper in and out of the bottle, like a little kid attempting to eat a vegetable for the first time, getting it to my mouth and stopping, whimpering, and trying again. Eventually I ran into the bedroom to do it in front of the mirror so I could be sure I only put a single drop under my tongue. Then I entirely dissociated from my body like I always do when I’m trying a new chemical and I’m convinced this is going to be the one that puts me back in the funhouse and permanently locks the door. 

We played a two-person round of combat with our DnD characters to keep my mind off it. My cleric absolutely kicked his ranger’s ass. I even gave him a full heal so we could keep fighting. By the end of the fight we’d both gotten a KO on each other and I was feeling... really, like seriously really good. A little scared, because it did sort of remind me of being high and I was on a kind of alert for the nibbling unpleasant sensations of being stoned, but they never came. I was just- chill. Happy to be around. And that night I got the best night’s sleep I’ve had since before the pandemic started. I hadn’t had a single drop of alcohol. 

When I woke up in the morning I felt like a shiny new thing. I was hungry, actually hungry and while I wallowed around in bed I only thought about how badly I wanted to experiment with making fries from scratch and trying to make a new candle. So when it was time to go on our hike I was in good spirits. CBD is a miracle drug and I am all better now. I can’t wait to tell my therapist. 

You can imagine my heart break when a few dozen steps on a slight incline and a handful of strangers pushed me right back into the funhouse. I don’t know how I can still be so naive at my age, really. But eventually I pushed myself off that dumb stump and we kept going. Every five minutes I scampered under another tree and waited for my pulse to calm the fuck down, but I didn’t cry again. I took pictures of trees and flowers and got into a terrifying and nearly fatal battle with a large fly that liked the way I smelled but entirely ignored my partner and by the time we were done it’d been about an hour and we’d gone about 2 miles. He told me if we did this once a week for three weeks he’d buy me one of those fancy hiking water bottles. I know that may sound condescending to you but I work well with reward systems. As it stood today I just occasionally suckled at his little water back pack set up with its little pipe like a baby calf and made a commitment to be good to myself. 

I haven’t even mentioned that I started an especially brutal and painful period this morning at 3am. And finished reading a good book while waiting for the Advil to kick in so I could go back to sleep. 

I could talk about how miserable I’ve been this month, and I have been. Worse than I could have imagined. But I don't want to, I want to talk about how this morning after I’d gotten back into my bed at around 6am I genuinely relished the feeling of being in bed, feeling the duvet’s pressure against my skin and hearing the subtle purring of my cat next to me. I haven’t felt that at all this month. 

I’m gonna try CBD again tonight and believe it or not I’m still scared. But sometimes scared is ok. That’s kind of where I’m at. Sometimes scared is ok. 

I’m going to the beach next week with my mom and sisters. See you at the end of August. By then I’ll be 32 and if I’m especially brave, I may even have a new water bottle.

[theastonishingkylejackson]

“It gave me the opportunity to learn about my city, learn how to communicate with other people in pleasant ways, but most of all, it took me out of my comfort zone.”– Written By K.M. Woods, Staff Writer for The Astonishing Tales Digital Magazine 

  There Was A Liberating Moment In The Late Winter Of 2016, And A Feeling That I Hope You’ll Experience One Day If You Haven’t Already.

The Astonishing K.M. Woods, Staff Writer for The Astonishing Tales Digital Magazine

Have you ever had a job that was draining? A job that felt like a burden to go to, day after day after day.

The tasks were menial and pointless. Your higher ups were demanding and insistent, even if they didn’t know exactly what they wanted.  

The work was hard, and the reward was minimal. Any chance you could, you’d go to the bathroom to try to kill twenty minutes, even if you didn’t have to go.

A job you hate can change your whole way of thinking….

You’d sweep the floor and stare at the clock just waiting for that minute that you could clock out and go home where you would dread returning the following morning.

Have you ever quit a job like that?

Oh, the rush of happiness. Of liberation.

Like slowly inching your body into a hot tub, you fill with warmth and relaxation.

My job was so bad, that on the day I quit, I picked my brother up from school. When he asked why, I said, we’re going to go burn my uniform.

We gathered some sticks in the backyard, piled them into a fire pit, then threw my uniform shirt and apron into the flames and watched them rise up in smoke.

To this day, that moment remains a fond memory.

The two of months after were not so fulfilling.

I was young. I hadn’t quite understood the that the workforce doesn’t exactly hand out employment like Denny’s does hot cakes on free pancake day.

I watched my bank account drain like water in a pulled plug bathtub. Really, it was more of a flush. I watched my money disappear.

The look on your face when you watch money drain out of your bank account….

And when your money disappears, you of course have no recourse but to find another job, and when you ain’t doin’ so well financially and you’re young, desperation seeps out of your eyes like blood in a horror movie.

It’s not what I would call the best look for a job interview.

Employers hold this gaze while talking to you, a gaze that says, Something isn’t right. What’s wrong with them. It’s the eagerness. Eagerness is attractive to not so many people.

I finally got a lead on a job that I wouldn’t mind working, per se, but a job that intimidated me.

Driving a pedicab.

I had been a sou chef, and aside from my fellow employees, there was no real need to talk to customers.

Pedicabs were the opposite. You were placed on an intimate trike ride with your customers, and were expected to physically pedal them to where they needed to be, while also entertaining them in the process.

Despite my nervousness though, I suited up and put on the best clothes I had. I slipped on some black slacks that were too large, a nice purple button up that got oddly puffy at the waist, and my dad’s dress shoes that were two sizes to large, before driving down the French Quarter for the interview.

Being a pedi-cab driver in New Orleans was one of the best jobs K.M. Woods ever held, he said…

Interview clothes flapping in the wind, I walked down the block of Bienville. I opened the doors which lead to a long hallway where maybe seven giant, red tricycles were lined up along the right-side wall.

The office was on the right at the end of the hall. I slowly walked down, and when I got to the glass door. I took a breath and went inside.

After shaking the boss’s hand with my own that was trembling, I took a look around. It was a bike shop with yellow, dingy walls, tools, stacked bike tires, red cubby holes, and of course bikes.

The whole place had a smell of sweat and rubber.

Then I noticed a poster on the wall, and on the poster was a cartoon penis who wore a shirt that said red rider and a smile, and a speech bubble was coming from his mouth that said Don’t forget to wear protection in the rain.

That’s when I thought that maybe I was overdressed for this particular interview.

We talked a little, the boss and I. He mentioned to keep an eye out for passengers with nice watches…those were the ones who would give you the best tips.

Hired on the spot! Winning much?

After simply telling me some tips on how to do the job, he gave me my paperwork.

“Am I hired?” I asked.

“Well, yeah,” he replied.

I took about a month to get the proper licensing.

I started on a Thursday. I remember rolling down the street, aimless and shy, hoping that someone would get on the bike and tell me, “If you don’t talk to me, I’ll give you a hundred dollars.”

But that ride never came. At two o’clock PM on my first day, I had zero dollars in my pocket.

Boss-mode face at its finest

I rolled up to the casino where another red rider was waiting. Despite my nervousness, I went to him and asked him what to do. He talked for about ten minutes, giving me tips and the tools of the trade when a young couple walked right by our two bikes. He yelled at them.

“Hey! Need a ride?”

“No!” they shouted back.

“Alright, well fuck you then!” he yelled back.

My mouth was hanging wide and cracking into a shameful smile, but I couldn’t help but think that this fellow rider had just put the killing blow on his job. Surely, they would complain.

Instead they laughed, and then got on the bike! I watched them cruise away into the distance.

I look back on that memory now and I immediately see how far I’ve come.

I ended up driving a pedicab for four years, and while I was never charming enough to yell, “fuck you” so that they’d give me money in exchange for service, it brought me out of my shell.

It gave me the opportunity to learn about my city, learn how to communicate with other people in pleasant ways, but most of all, it took me out of my comfort zone.

I’ve recently moved away from home (the reason I left the pedicab job which is easily the best job I’ve ever had). And it’s one of the best choices I’ve made so far. 

I urge you that if something makes you nervous, or scared, to not underestimate yourself.

Discomfort when doing something new is normal, but the effort of taking risks and letting yourself out is crucial to a fulfilling life. It will change you, both in the moment and over time, and you owe it to yourself.

I never would have had the courage to move across the country if it weren’t for doing the one thing that terrified me.

And if that thing that terrifies you is quitting a job that you hate, do it anyways, if not for the feeling of freedom that you’ll get when you do.

Many things feel good, but there’s nothing like that immediate satisfaction.

I’d do it again tomorrow.

I’m The Astonishing K.M. Woods Of The Astonishing Tales Digital Magazine and I Approve This Message!

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Hate Your Job, But Scared to Quit? Embrace the Fear "It gave me the opportunity to learn about my city, learn how to communicate with other people in pleasant ways, but most of all, it took me out of my comfort zone."