#not to mention the crushing fear of failure that comes with keeping your streak of perfect

[1-800-sin]

this is my first time requesting for a writing prompt so i apologize if i have a hard time describing it, but may i request nsfw (and maybe sfw) head canons of jason todd with a s/o thats a very violent vigilante but is very overly attached to jason

Omg yes, I’ve been wanting to find something Jason Todd to write for a while 😂

Jason Todd x Vigilante!reader sfw and nsfw head cannons

Warnings: smut, mentions of past trauma(bc it’s Jason Todd), reader is a vigilante with a violent streak, swearing, gn!reader, I took it in a very yandere-ish direction

(More detailed warnings before the nsfw part)

Sfw

Jason is shocked to come back to life and find there’s already another blood thirsty vigilante running the streets of Gotham, he just has to meet you.

And when he does he’s a little less surprised to find that you remind him exactly of himself. Vengeful and trying to keep justice in a more ‘efficient’ way than Batman ever could.

You notice him more around you in underground bars like the iceberg lounge, always trailing just a little behind you.

You think you’ve got a stalker, and you’re partially right.

His interest in you quickly turns into a crush one night when you grab him by his collar and demand to know why he’s been following you.

So he tells you, he’s always been an honest guy, never caring enough to bother lying or covering up what he really felt. Usually, that is.

As soon as you agree to be something with him, he’s almost a different person. Though it takes a while to break through that confident, cocky exterior he likes to front.

Soon enough though, you get to see the Jason that cares for his brothers, the Jason that’s a book nerd, the Jason that is deathly afraid of being a failure to the people he loves the most.

You soon discover he’s not all he pretends to be, and sometimes all he wants in the whole world is a few moments of peace with the person he cares for most in this world(you).

Often times(if you work a day job or do vigilante stuff in the day) you’ll find you always arrive later then you had before meeting him. He has a tendency to hold on to you and not let go in the morning.

Jason tries to hold out on you meeting his family for as long as he possibly can, especially Dick. He sees Dick as the highest standard, what he failed to be as robin. He (irrationally) fears like you’d leave him for his elder brother.

When you finally meet the rest of the bat family, they’re all just happy he’s found someone who loves him, and who he’ll actually let in.

You don’t know it, but as soon as you spend a night in his bed(or let him spend the night in yours) he’s already thinking about marrying you.

Maybe not in an official, traditional wedding way, but he’d put a ring on your finger just so he got to show everyone just how serious he is about you.

The intimacy of sleeping next to someone, the trust that they won’t stab you in your sleep(especially given your bloody history) is something Jason doesn’t take lightly.

If you like reading, he’ll recommend you books of all kinds. He’s had a lot of time to think and reflect on himself, most of which he had a book in his hands.

Speaking of hands, his are extremely rough and calloused. Years of scarring etched beautifully into his skin. He isn’t insecure exactly, he knows it shows he’s a survivor. How strong he is. But when his rough hands are on your skin he can’t help but feel like he’s too broken for you.

He isn’t easily consolable. He’s good at pretending your assurances worked as you’d planned, then overthinking the issue the rest of the day. But you quickly learn his tells, and call him out for it. To which he’s surprised at first, but just a little more in love with you.

He isn’t good at saying the words ‘I love you’. Not at first. He’s scared that once he lets those three words slip from his lips that you’ll be taken away from him.

When he does finally get used to saying it, it will be rare that he doesn’t say it during a conversation with you.

When he’s leaving for a patrol, you receive a kiss on the cheek, or even a deep and telling kiss on the lips, and a quick “I love you, see you tonight.” Before he’s out the door.

Or just before you fall asleep, you’ll get a passionate string of beautifully picked out words that Jason would never admit while fully awake.

When he’s been on missions that take him to other cities, he can’t fall asleep without you on the phone. Without your steady breathing soothing him to sleep. It gets to the point that there was a time when his phone ran out of battery, and he awoke immediately in a cold sweat. Forgetting he wasn’t next to you. He came home the next day. Unable to stand the thought of not being able to see you, to hold you.

Now in terms of you being overly attached to him, he wouldn’t say he ‘minds’ exactly.

He doesn’t want you to get hurt if something ever happens to him. He reminds you all the time that he can quite literally die almost every night. To which you shrug off. Making him laugh every time.

If you’re clinging onto him physically, he doesn’t mind at all. He loves your warmth and the pressure of your body against his. Especially if your on top of him. The weight of you on his chest gives him so much comfort it’s surreal.

Nsfw

Warnings: smut(obvi), mentions of rough sex, gn!reader and gn!body terms, heavy degradation, praise though too(separate),

He leans into being more dominant in bed. He likes the control and the ability to help you feel good.

He can be extremely rough if he’s had a stressful day. Railing into you with your legs hooked tightly over his shoulders. His hands on your waist. Squeezing the soft flesh while he chases both of your releases.

His words degrading and harsh. “Hey? Who owns this body huh? Spit it out slut.”

Sometimes he’ll edge you for hours while he gets himself off, painting your chest and face in his hot sticky cum.

But on the other side of the spectrum he can be very gentle if it’s appropriate. If it’s an intimate moment he has no trouble peppering kisses all over your beautiful body. Praising you until you can barely think.

“So good, so fucking beautiful for me yeah?”

He’s all for breathy whispers, whispering in your ear what he wants you to do. How he’s gonna make you cry his name from the pleasure.

He loves giving you head. But particularly taking it excruciatingly slow. Paying attention to every detail. Every expression or sound you make when he touches certain spots with his tongue.

Also being a Vigilante, you have scars yourself. Physical and emotional. He kisses all of them. Tells you how strong and gorgeous every one makes you look. How absolutely perfect he thinks you are.

Sometimes things slip out while you’re going at it. Words he never intended for anyone to hear. But he just gets so caught up in the moment, he can’t help himself.

“Want me to put a ring on your finger yeah? Want me to make you my pretty (wife/husband)”

I think for awhile after he came back he used sex as a way to cope, experimenting with his body and trying things he’d never thought to try before. It worked well enough for a little while, allowed him to take out his energy in a much needed outlet.

He was tortured and kidnapped when he was still a teenager, sometimes he needs to express that anger and resentment in a healthy scenario. Sex is a free, safe, and easy way to do so.

He insists on practicing safe words with you, sometimes even he needs to opt out for a water break or something like that.

After the fact, he’s extremely sweet on you. Cleaning you up however you need. Whether it’s with a wet cloth, a warm bath, or with his tongue.

He likes to hold you in the afterglow of sex, chests heaving, skin glazed over in sweat. He pulls you close against his chest, a hand on your thigh, holding you as close as he can get you. Whispering sweet praises.

“You did so well my love, so good for me.”

Hope you enjoyed this, I’m working on more requests at the moment 😘

#x reader #headcannons #jason todd x reader #dc comics #jason todd #fyp2023 #smut #jason todd smut

[klm-zoflorr]

I think being gifted in school is the worse -educational- situation a kid can be put in. Because no matter what, their problems will get ignored. Being bullied? Your grades are still perfect, nobody has any way to notice the difference. Having 375 health problems? Well you're still doing great, so it must not be tht bad since you can still push through. 15 undiagnosed mental illnesses? You can't have them, you're a good student. And every time you have a problem, you tell yourself it doesn't exist or it must not be that bad, since you still have good grades. Children with bad grades at least have everyone worry about them and try to find out what's wrong (even tho sometimes nothing is wrong at all, the test system is just really stupid and doesn't value the right competences)

#klm-zoflorr #not to mention the crushing fear of failure that comes with keeping your streak of perfect #and holding on the high expectations everyone has of you of course #I'm so fucking mad #Yes this is about me #Listen it's 3am I've been trying to sleep for the past five hours #And had a lot of time to wonder about every one of my problems #That got ignored for the past eighteen years #(even by myself) #And that I now have to deal with #gifted kids #good grades #school system #ADHD #mental illness #adhd feels #health problems #mental health #bullying #gifted kid burnout #oh and btw by educational situation i meant which kind of category you were in at school - gifted/average/behind as they like to call it #not that it actually means anything everybody is great and smart and lovable not matter how smart they were deemed by a flawed system ❤️ #just don't interpret this post the wrong way #i honestly don't believe how well you did in class will change that much your future #except for people that had unresolved issues that just got worse when left unchecked #rambling again

[glare0322]

sooo i was rereading overlord protocol (cause of quarantine) and completely forgot about shelby’s nightmares of wing dying and how alone she felt. i thought, hey what if those nightmares never stopped and one thing led to another ending in this short story being created...

✇ ✇ ✇

length; 1,760 words

pairing; wingelby (but shing or unconventional tactics is the better ship name don’t at me)

✇ ✇ ✇

The darkness dripped into an all-too familiar scene. Slow crashing of the waves against their wooden boat, the night sky painted with deep blues swirled into blacks dotted with glimmering stars, the overbearing salty smell of the ocean, the nightlife making their unique sounds all around them. His dark eyes catching the light of the sky, a peaceful smile that only grew whenever he caught yet another glimpse towards her, the white amulet standing out against the otherwise dusky scene.

Shelby loathed it all. The terror had driven her to despise this picture perfect setting.

A sigh escaped into the air before the most unpleasant moment unrolled. On cue, he reached for her hand gazing out onto the skyline as he did. Shelby gripped onto his hand tight, trying to conjure all the strength she had to maintain a solid grip he could not break from. Maybe just maybe if she held on, the story would play out differently. Tears were already finding their way onto her redden checks as her cloudy sapphire eyes looked up to him.

He was so content which made her already torn state more apparent. She should be grinning just like him, but that was impossible under these circumstances. "My mother used to tell me stories of the sea," he started as Shelby silently mumbled the familiar sentence. "Simple Chinese folklore you could find in any children's book, yet the way she told them never ceased to bring the characters out of the pages and into life."

Her heart ached as she realized the final outcome would still be inevitable even if she had a grip of steel. The evidence was piling up by the second: past experiences never changing, the destination, and worse of all were his words. Shelby could site his calm-toned sentences from having heard them rattle in her head for days on end before. So when the final sentence was delivered, her blood ran cold. "She would have loved to meet you," she said in sync with him, matching every detail of his sentence expect for the tone. While he had spoke a sentence laced with love only allowing a small pane of sadness to shine through, her rendition was much more somber.

The warmth that came from his hands was gone almost as quick as she dove into the deep ocean to follow him. She kicked as hard as her legs willed her, making sure to never let him out of her sight. Her lungs burned with the need for air along with her muscles now screaming from exhaustion. She could not give up, not yet. However, no matter how much she willed, he was disappearing into the shadows far too quickly for her to catch up with him.

"Wing!" she screamed allowing the water to entrap her lungs. Shelby reached for his hand and felt a small snap as he descended far beyond her reach, never to be seen again. She did not have any air and the water now clogging her airway only intensified the pain. Pushing through the overwhelming discomfort, Shelby made her way back to the surface and soon found herself back where their boat should have been.

As usual, the wooden boat was long gone and unable to comfort her crushing loneliness. This time, the loneliness came with an even more frightening moment. Sitting in her tightly closed hand was Wing's amulet from his mother. The white comma shaped charm stood out like a sore thumb against the pitch black water.

Why did she have it?

Shelby never got a hold of it. The scene usually went that he disappeared leaving her completely isolated, but this time differed. The amulet that sat in her hand spoke two messages to her. The first comforted her. Shelby's frantic mind jumbled together that maybe it was a sign of hope; that he would always be there for her. Yet as the thoughts arranged themselves the true meaning presented itself clear as day.

Wing would be gone and no matter what she did, it would stay that way. There was no saving him.

The tears returned as she slowly drifted with nothing but a reminder of her failure. Soon they turned from silent tears to full sobs as the loneliness set in like usual, only this time it was amplified by the amulet.

✇ ✇ ✇

Shelby woke with a start, immediately sitting up in her bed. Her irregular, quick breaths filled the room, over powering her roommates soft snores from across. Just as they were present in her nightmare, the hot, heavy tears were now tumbling onto her gray bed comforter making their arrival onto it present with small temporary stains. She swallowed hard as she tried to slow her rapid breathing, yet was unsuccessful.

'Just as I was in saving Wing' she thought trying to wipe away the tears before they overtook her bed sheets. Her eyes, still lingering with tears, drifted over to her Blackbox and slowly she reached for it. The time read 5:47 A.M. and she slumped into bed. There was way she was going back to sleep, so she was left there to wallow in her feelings of abandonment and failure. Shelby hastily thought of something to escape her feelings for a little longer. She knew that they were allowed to leave their rooms in a couple of minutes and Shelby already had a destination in mind.

As she got out of her bed, Laura's almost quite snores once again reigned over the room. Shelby gazed over to her roommate and a comforting smile found its way to her face.

A textbook for Advanced Villainy Studies sat open in her lap with one of her freckled hands rested on the pages along with her Blackbox, now with a black screen, sitting right beside it. As she made her way towards their bathroom, Shelby thought of Laura and Otto's most recent project: a secret channel just for them to talk on. It would take a genius to accomplish it, so it was a good thing there were two geniuses working on it. Both of them knew if they were successful, there was no possibility to keep it hidden for longer than a week.

The painful memories of her nightmares began to catch up with her as she quickly turned into the bathroom with her uniform in hand. When Shelby caught a glimpse at herself in their mirror, her gloomy feelings only worsened. Her messy blonde hair now being accompanied with puffy eyes and streaks along her cheeks where her tears were still carefully gliding down.

As if it were any morning, she got her uniform on and brushed out her bed head. Leaving the bathroom, she grabbed her Blackbox and headed straight for the door.

The sound of water from the waterfall in the accommodation area immediately sent her back to her previous terrors in the ocean. The strong emotions haunted her as she stepped out into the hallway to take her to the huge cavern that was accommodation area seven.

✇ ✇ ✇

The LED light in the room strained her eyes, just a little as Shelby stepped into the room full of equipment for training. Her hand traced the seem of the punching bag before she got into a ready stance. Just like she had done many times over, her fist collided with the bag swinging it back just a little.

The loneliness, sadness, and fear had finally reached her and there was no possible way of outrunning them now. She concentrated on her blows to the bag as if it was her nightmares that she was beating instead of the punching bag.

She wanted them to stop pestering her. The previous emotions swirled into anger as her punches became faster with more power behind them.

The peaceful look he gave her as he told his story and eventually his final line.

Another strong hit to the bag.

The chilling water engulfing the both of them and soon taking him away from her reach.

One more powerful swing at the equipment.

And that stupid amulet taunting her failure.

As she went to deliver another hit, a hand cut in front her causing her to punch that person's palm rather than her target. Her breath hitched as she prepared to tell off the person for getting in her way. However, once her fiery blue eyes met his she recoiled back a little.

"Your poor technique caused these," Wing told her mentioning her bloody, scraped knuckles that she had not even noticed. Shelby has been so focused on her nightmare that she had neglected the pain now coursing through her hands.

"Guess Ms. Leon is not going to be happy her best student is suffering an injury that will effect her results on the test today," she joked trying to distract him from her distant state, or her tear stained cheeks.

Although a small smile found its way to his face, his eyes still were serious and full of concern. "Shelby, what happened?"

How could she answer? There would be no way to convey her hidden pain and concerns of her terrifying nightmares to him. The overbearing loneliness she felt after he disappeared or fears now surrounding that pendent hanging from his neck. Her nightmares have now ruined something she has to see every day; it's mockery from her night terrors carrying over to real life.

"Well..." she began as her eyes trailed down to the floor. While looking at the floor she noticed him still holding her scraped hand with the same determination she had in her nightmares. Along with this, she became aware of the warmth from his hands and remembered how in the boat it disappeared right before he left. Anticipation built up as she waited for it to leave, just like it always did.

But it didn't. He was still there, patiently waiting her response to his question.

She felt that loneliness lift off her shoulders along with all the worries she had been escaping from all night and this morning. Shelby felt able to breathe normally, felt her senses return, and more importantly felt trust in the fact Wing was going nowhere.

Well until some psychopathic villain with a most likely well deserved grudge against the school came again.

"Come on big guy, I'll tell you as you bandage up my knuckles." Shelby let a smile along with a giddy feeling overtake her as she held onto his hand and led them out of the room.

#hive #h.i.v.e. #wing fanchu #shelby trinity #shing #unconventional tactics #oopsie its a lil angsty #they could stab me and i’d say thanks #wingelby #winglby

[chasmfriend]

What do you do with accumulated pain? How do you handle being in the world, making mistakes, hurting, and being hurt?

Every character in Oathbringer is trying to find ways of dealing with pain. Some are avoidant, some crushed under shame and guilt, some functioning through dark depression, and some figuring out how to take the next step and move on. Seeing their journeys, their missteps and their triumphs, was my favorite part of reading this book.

I promised a post to balance against my negative reactions to Oathbringer. Here are the things I truly loved about that storming book (very long) after the break.

As I’ve dealt with my own issues of denial and avoidance, and slowly learned to face things rather than run from them and pretend they don’t exist, I have eased off of Shallan. I used to resent her for not taking more positive steps, for feeding her unwillingness to come to terms with her past. But she made some strides forward.

Her fracturing of her self was concerning, but I loved it. I was so glad her deep issues weren’t all wrapped up nicely after WoR. She thinks she is all of her personas, and even though they might be based on aspects of her, they are still all covers. They help her hide and deflect. She has not yet embraced the scared little girl she actually is. She may not for some time yet. Shallan has a rough road ahead of her.

I’ve criticized her interactions with Wit, though I think what he did and said were generally perfect. He spoke many cutting and necessary truths. Shallan won’t be able to absorb all of it, though it will set her in the right direction.

“It’s not really her fault, but she’s still worthless.”

Shallan’s self-loathing, even while in the same breath saying that she didn’t cause her brokenness, hit me hard. She doesn’t let many people see how deeply she rejects herself. That quote above is said with “sneering.” She thinks she should have been better, somehow.

Wit stepped over to Shallan, then quietly folded his arms around her. She trembled, then twisted, burying her face in his shirt.

“You’re not a monster, Shallan,” Wit whispered.

Wit understands. He knows what she fears and what she needs to hear.

“Your other minds take over,” he whispered, “because they look so much more appealing. You’ll never control them until you’re confident in returning to the one who birthed them. Until you accept being you.”

How can she be “confident in returning to the one who birthed them”? Only if she likes that person. Only if she is comfortable with who that person is.

“For in you, I see a woman more wonderful than any of the lies.”

The flawed but genuine person is always better than the ‘perfect’ cover. The painful truth is better than a beautiful lie. You can love and connect to a real person. You cannot love a cover. Shallan has not learned this yet; she thinks her covers are actually more valuable than her true self.

“The longer you live, the more you fail.”

Let’s talk about failure. Let’s talk about Kaladin, and Teft, and Elhokar, and Renarin.

Kaladin, for all his limitations, really shines in Oathbringer. He hasn’t escaped his depression, but he hasn’t let that stop him from becoming a capable Radiant. He went to Hearthstone a changed man, assertive and confident, but still Kaladin. He gets set in his own thinking. He misunderstands. For example, he believes that Laral needs to be saved from Roshone, and is sure she is mistaken when she doesn’t agree with him. He has grown, but retains his stubborn overprotectiveness and idealism.

After Elhokar, Kaladin is reeling. This loss is the failure he feared. He had been so determined to protect Elhokar, to save Dalinar’s Tien.

“Kaladin’s not well,” she said.

“I have to be well,” Kaladin said, his voice hoarse as he climbed back to his feet.

And then:

“I survived Bridge Four,” Kaladin growled. “I’m strong enough to survive this.”

This reaction is so different from how he’s responded before. He’s trying to be better. We see more of his familiar struggle with his demons in his POV:

You’re just looking for something to latch on to. Something to feel.

Because the darkness was coming.

It fed off the pain of defeat, the agony of losing men he’d tried to protect. [...]

Get out, Kaladin thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Get out, get out, get out!

It would continue until numbness seemed preferable. Then that numbness would claim him and make it hard to do anything at all. It would become a sinking, inescapable void from within which everything looked washed out. Dead. [...]

Were these his only two options? Pain or oblivion?

Fight it.

From Adolin’s perspective, those first two quotes, Kaladin is plenty strong and capable. Inside his own head, Kaladin is fighting something incredibly tough, and barely keeping himself from losing. He is precariously balanced against a darkness that will overwhelm him if he doesn’t work every moment to keep it at bay, and it’s only a matter of time before it consumes him. That is the hopelessness of trying to battle against depression.

You would think that I would want every success for Kaladin, You’d think I’d be cheering him on to victory at every step. Yet I am so, so glad he didn’t say the Fourth Ideal. Let me see if I can explain.

In Kaladin’s perspective, failure is inevitable. He might not say that he’s cursed, though part of him still believes it. In spite of that, he has an idealist streak: he pushes himself to be perfect. To protect people. To save everyone. (That type of all-or-nothing goal is part of why failure is inevitable for him, but I won’t go into that too deeply here. One initial “failure” made him want to prevent anything like that from ever happening again, but that wasn’t in his control (stupid free agency) and that failure spurred him into guilt and more idealism, and so on...)

Everyone says I will swear the Fourth Ideal soon, and in so doing, earn my armor. I simply don’t think that I can. Am I not supposed to want to help people?

--From drawer 10-12, sapphire

The Third Ideal meant standing up for anyone, if needed, But who decided what was “right”? Which side was he supposed to protect?

The Fourth Ideal was unknown to him, but the closer he drew to it, the more frightened he became.

The Fourth Ideal is something particularly difficult for those who want to protect others. I don’t have a guess about specifics, but it seems to be something related to...self-preservation?

You know what you need to do.

“I...can’t,” Kaladin finally whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I can’t lose him, but...oh, Almighty...I can’t save him.”

He couldn’t say those Words.

He wasn’t strong enough.

And later:

Storms, he could be down on himself sometimes. Was that the flaw that had prevented him from speaking the Words of the Fourth Ideal?

He knew the Words. He also knew he couldn’t say them and mean them.

Kaladin is sincere about his commitments. Combined with how deeply he feels his failures, how familiar the sense of not meeting some standard is to him, makes these moments of him not yet able to swear the next Ideal feel more like a triumph than a failure. When you’re not ready for the next step, it’s fine. Not being ready is not exactly a failure anyway. Kaladin accepts where he is. He’ll keep moving forward, and when he can meet the challenge of the Fourth Ideal, he will say the Words. That time is not yet.

I thought I’d be ready to talk about Elhokar, but I guess that’s a challenge I’m not ready to take on yet. Another time.

Shallan fears her value and makes up for it by creating aspects she believes are better than her true self. Kaladin fears he won’t be good enough but consistently tries to prove his worth, at great risk and often against impossible odds. I’d argue that no one feels more worthless than Teft does.

Teft doesn’t believe in his worth. He doesn’t deflect the pain through denial or repeatedly try to prove himself. He has completely despaired.

You’re already a shame to the crew, Teft, and you know it, he thought. You’re a godless waste of spit.

Oh, Teft. So focused on his weaknesses that he doesn’t see anything else. He sees his pain and his addiction, and nothing else.

He doesn’t admit his capable command, his support of the crew, or his determination to face the truth, even when it hurts. He doesn’t give himself any credit for what he does right.

I want to mention how wonderful Bridge Four is. When they find Teft in the firemoss den, they express anger not at Teft but at the den keeper. Rock wants to beat the guy with his own torn-off limbs, Kaladin insults him as he pays Teft’s debts. They show only care for Teft.

Storms, they were good men. Better friends than he deserved. They were all growing into something grand, while Teft…Teft just stayed on the ground, looking up.

And all he can think of is that he doesn’t deserve it. He keeps shooing away the spren who lingers by him, waiting for him to take the next step.

“Can you see it, Teft?” the spren whispered. “Can you feel the Words?”

“I’m broken.”

“Who isn’t? Life breaks us, Teft. Then we fill the cracks with something stronger.”

“I make myself sick.”

“Teft,” she said, a glowing apparition in the darkness, “that’s what the Words are about.”

And then he says the Third Ideal, swearing in his self-loathing to protect himself. Of all the journeys in this book, Teft’s is maybe the most human. He hasn’t conquered his demons, hasn’t yet discovered his worth. He’s taken a small and very difficult step towards something better. He isn’t healed. He doesn’t see his own value or love himself. But he’s started the journey.

And this is already really long and I still need to talk about Renarin. I’ve been saving him because I have so much to say about that boy...I’ll give him his own post soon.

#oathbringer spoilers #more processing #life and failure and self-loathing #I love all of these characters so much #even when they don't love themselves #failure doesn't mean what we believe it does #this book is a gift #shallan #kaladin #teft #stormlight archive #cosmere #character analysis

[fairyboyblr-blog]

Fairy Tale pt 1

I’m painting.

It’s what I do these days. My phone is resting up against the wall to my right, playing Bob Ross. I’ve seen every episode of his show ever but I still like having it on in the background while I paint. Listening to his voice is relaxing, which is good, because I’m steadily becoming more and more pissed off as my colours refuse to do what I want them to. I’m working on a locket. Not surprising by itself; they are kinda my specialty by this point. Some guy commissioned a picture of his wife/fiancé/girlfriend. I don’t know his name - I don’t talk to the commissioners in person, I make them go through my agent. Fuck people. On the wall in front of me, several times my height, are two side-by-side photos. One is of the lady in question, smiling and wearing a green dress. She’s pretty in a girl-next-door way with big dark eyes and long black hair. The other photo is a shot of some mountains at sunset, a yellow-orange sky turning the mountains purple. The commissioner wants a picture of the-girl-he-is-presumably-fucking standing in front of the mountains, which is a massive pain in my ass. The mountains are refusing to cooperate. I’ve mixed up dozens of different kinds of purple and orange but it never looks right when I finish it. I’ve had to scrub all the paint off with turpentine and start over three times now. It doesn’t help that the whole thing might come out looking like shit anyway. I haven’t even tried painting the woman yet, so her colours might clash with the mountains and ruin the whole thing. I’m tempted to get my agent to ask the guy if I could change the dress from green to red, but that looks unprofessional as shit. I’m naked, my chest dappled with a thousand different hues of failed purple. I try to keep the paint off me but it’s hard when you’re finger painting, and I’m sick of having to throw out ruined clothes. I’ve probably got it smeared all over my face and in my hair as well. I’m kneeling over the open locket, one knee near each corner. I got it from a thrift store. It’s one of those old ones people kept photos in. The chain it came with runs between my legs, pooling in a tangled pile near the entrance to my hollow. Hmm? Yeah, I’m in a tree hollow. I live here. I’m two and a half inches tall. What, did I not mention that? OK, backing up a bit. My name is Ash, short for Ashley. I used to be a pretty ordinary guy. I was an ordinary human college dropout, with an ordinary human job and an ordinary human apartment. Then one day I come home after a long shift to find my Wizard apprentice roommate trying to pull off a magical ritual in our living room. I stepped on a chalk line I wasn’t supposed to and next thing I know I’m in the middle of a vortex of raw magic. When I came to our apartment block was totalled, my roommate had disappeared and I was a fairy. Like, with wings and everything. I was understandably pissed about suddenly being two and a half inches tall. I hired myself a fancy lawyer and sued the pants off Big Magic for letting my stoner roommate steal weapons-grade office supplies. The payday was huge and I used a small fraction of it to buy a cheap house in the suburbs.  The house itself was a crumbling ruin, but there was a big tree out the back with a large hollow in it. It was expensive to set up running water to a tree but I have the money. Worse is the fact I could only get one power outlet installed so on cold nights I have to choose between freezing my ass off and charging my phone. But it’s home. I’ve even got handkerchief curtains set up to block the entrance to the hollow and divide it into a few rooms. My phone vibrates and starts blasting what must be the world’s most annoying ring tone. It startles me and I smear the outline of the mountains. Again.  Swearing, I stand up and kick the edge of the locket, which does nothing besides hurt my foot. I limp over to the phone. Brooke’s calling. Brooke is my agent. She’s young – twenty five, only three years older than me – but she’s very well connected in the art world. Her mom owns a big gallery in the city. I can’t remember the name of the place (it’s long and French and pretentious) but owning it apparently makes the old dame part of “high society”. She gets invited to a lot of events where people dress up in the fanciest of clothes to stand around drinking wine and staring at sculptures made out of garbage by art students. Because Brooke is her daughter she gets to go too, so she ends up chatting to a bunch of rich old farts with a hard-on for fine art. Because it doesn’t get much finer than my art, we’ve both become very rich. I swipe the “answer” button and it takes Brooke’s call. “Hello. Thank you for calling the Ashley Ribbon Foundation. Your call is very important to us. Please hold and an operator will be with you shortly.” Then I make a bunch of ‘doot’ noises to the tune of bad elevator music. I am a huge dweeb. Brooke laughs “Fuck you Ash, you little shit. I’m out the front right now. I thought we could have a picnic while you show me all the progress you haven’t made.” “Whaaaaat? I’ll have you know I’m a consummate professional. I’ve made progress, I’ll prove it.” I lie, looking down at the unfinished locket. She snorts. “Sure you will. See you in a few.” She hangs up. I look down at myself. Naked, covered in paint. Yeah, I should probably shower and put some clothes on before meeting Brooke. I push through two handkerchief curtains to get to the back corner of the hollow, which serves as my bathroom. A normal-sized tap cuts through the wood of the tree, hanging over half an old soda can that serves as a bathtub. Wings buzzing, I float up to the tap’s handle. It’s one of those old-fashioned horizontal circular ones and it’s the bane of my existence. Bracing my feet against the wall behind it, I grab onto one side of the handle and push on it with my whole body. It budges slightly, emitting a loud squeak. Growling, I throw myself into it again and again. With each herculean shove the handle shifts a little. After two whole minutes of strenuous physical exercise I’ve moved it enough that the tap lets out a thin stream of water. Standing under it, I rub myself down with a sliver of soap. The water is ice cold (they don’t really do water heaters in my size). I try to get most of the paint off, but when my teeth start chattering I decide I’ve had enough. There’s only a few big streaks of paint left anyway. As I’m trying to pull the tap closed a loud knocking noise reverberates through my hollow. “Helloooooooo? Anyone in there?” says a booming voice. “Coming!” I shout. I give up on the tap (it’s not like I can’t afford the water bill) and duck through another curtain into my bedroom. The bed’s just an open glasses case with some scraps of silk thrown on top of it. Next to it is the compact mirror I glued to the wall, and on the other side of that is my wardrobe. Well, I say ‘wardrobe’. It’s really just a pile of clean clothes next to my pile of dirty clothes. At least I think that’s my clean clothes pile... I grab the nicest pair of shorts I can find and pull them on. I don’t bother with a shirt – my nice ones are all in what I think is the dirty pile, plus they fuck with my wings. Then I head to the entrance of my hollow. It’s huge, a hole in the side of the tree almost a foot across. A piece of thick flannel stapled to the inside keeps the weather out and serves as a curtain/front door. I push through the curtain that separates my room and the portal, but then I pull up before the entrance. Through the flannel I can see the shadowy outline of some creature the size of a mountain, a living being the size of a skyscraper. The sight stops me in my tracks and catches the breath in my throat. I know its Brooke. I know she’d never hurt me. But for a second, the sight gives me pause. Why am I so afraid of Brooke and other people in general? Well, as relative sizes go, if I’m 6 feet tall, other people are around 150 feet tall. If you can’t picture that in your mind, let me put it this way: if I’m on the ground I have to look up to see people’s ankles. Compared to me a foot is the size of a semi-trailer.  And that’s just height. My fairy body is like gossamer or spider webs compared to the weight of the average humanoid meatsack. An adult’s finger is thicker, heavier and more powerful than my entire body. If they’re not careful, all it would take is one pinky pressing down on me and I’d crumple into a heap of shattered bones and burst organs.  And that’s the smallest part of them! One misstep, one misplaced hand, one failure to notice me and suddenly one of the world’s most renowned artists is a thin red smear. The sheer vastness of them doesn’t help – it’s nearly impossible for me to keep all of a person inside my field of vision at once, and I can only focus on one part of them at a time. Whenever one of these Godzillas moves a part of them I’m not expecting it damn near gives me a heart attack. They’re just that big. It’s like standing next to a humongous living avalanche. You’ve got to constantly be on the look out to make sure you’re not about to be crushed by several hundred tonnes of snow. The figure outside shifts and the booming knocking noise vibrates through my home again. “Hellooooooo? You going to come out or am I going to stand out here all day like the world’s fattest lawn gnome?” The sound of her voice hits me like a slap in the face. Shaking off my fear, I move to the bottom of the giant hole and squirm up between it and the flannel. It’s a bit of a struggle. The flannel has to be tight against the entrance to keep the wind out. I prefer not to be tossed around like a leaf inside my own home whenever there’s a breeze, but having to fight to do every little thing in my life gets frustrating some times. No pun intended. I worm my head and torso out of the gap between the flannel and the rim of the hollow. Directly in front of me are two gigantic, thick thighs and a chubby, feminine tummy in a pair of high-waisted denim shorts. Above that, I see a smooth expanse of bare belly with an expensive handbag on one side and a not-so-expensive picnic basket on the other.   Further craning my neck reveals the bottom of a white crop-top and the underside of the biggest rack I’ve ever seen. Peeking at me over that are two large blue eyes under a mop of blonde hair. “It’s about time,” Brooke says, her voice magnified by our difference in size. She crouches down so her head’s level with mine. Brooke’s face is round, with big pouty lips, light blue eyes and a small, cute nose. Her hair is styled in a way that makes it look like a messy blonde waterfall, and she’s wearing eyeliner and cherry red lipstick. Also, her face is the size of a freaking house. Each of those blue peepers are bigger than my head and those lips could easily open and admit my whole body. The ‘blonde waterfall’ thing wasn’t an exaggeration; one sweep of her hair could wash me away. “What kept you? If you were putting on makeup, you didn’t do a very good job. Purple is not your colour.” Her voice is naturally husky. And very, very loud. If you asked me to put everyone I’d ever met on a list leading from ‘safe’ to ‘will probably eat me if they get the opportunity’ I’d put Brooke at the top of that list. I’ve spent more time around her than anyone else, so it takes very little effort for me to get past my anxieties about giants and answer her. “I was painting! Because I’m an artist!” I shout, planting my hands on my hips and standing up straight. Brooke raises her eyebrows “Painting huh? So that’s what they’re calling ‘bingeing Netflix on your phone’ now, is it?” “I was painting, dammit! I’ll show you!” I wriggle back into my hollow. Shove through a curtain divider to the small room I use to store my finished works. Two lockets are leaning up against the wall, nearly as tall as I am. I painted them both in my free time while listening to the relaxing tones of Bob Ross. One is a close up of a wave breaking at sea in a spray of sea foam, a beautiful blending of dark and light blue with a spattering of white froth cutting across it diagonally.  The other is a picture of a vibrant 1800s city street, with a row of buildings on one side and a low stone wall next to a cliff on the other. The clean blue of the sky contrasts nicely with the busyness of the buildings on the other side of the road. What? I wasn’t kidding. World. Renowned. Artist. I grab the sea spray locket. I’ve already pulled the chain off, so hauling it to my door is only slightly more difficult than carrying a thick metal tabletop. Muscles straining, I push it up under the flannel and over the rim of the hollow entrance. I hold it there for a few very long seconds before it’s pulled out of my hands by two log-sized fingers, lifting it as if it weighs nothing. I hurry back and heave the other over without putting my back out, thank god. Then after Brooke takes that one too, I push myself out of my hollow. I sitting on the rim of edge of the tree while dangling my legs over the side. Brooke kneels in front of me with the picnic basket and handbag forgotten by her legs. Her great eyes study the lockets, one in each hand. So while Brooke is distracted, I take the opportunity to admire her décolletage. Her sweater puppies. Her tits. Now, here’s the thing about Brooke. She’s STACKED. Each of her breasts is the size of her head. She has more boob in one tit than every girlfriend I’ve ever had combined. She isn’t shy about showing them off, either. Or at least, she’s not shy about showing them off around me. Remember that crop-top I mentioned before? Well now that she’s kneeling down, I can see it’s low-cut with thick, off the shoulder straps. So the straps of the lacy black hammock pretending to be her bra are exposed to the world, digging into the soft flesh of her shoulders. The edges of her bra’s two mighty cups poke out of her top tantalisingly. And this is on a woman the size of a skyscraper, so that mighty bosom is the size of a swimming pool compared to me – and what I wouldn’t give to dive into that tumultuous ocean of tit flesh, to sink into that deep, warm chasm of cleavage. Soft breast all around me, rubbing against me, squeezing me… Ah, who am I kidding? A fraction of the weight of one of those heavy mammaries would squash me flat. Being between them would be suicidal. Mind-bendingly sexy, but suicidal. “Okay,” Brooke says, moving her head up to look at me and tearing my attention away from her world-class tits. “These are amazing. Seriously, sometimes I forget how good you are, and then I see something like this and just… wow.” Hearing this, I sit up straighter and fold my arms across my chest. “See?! I told you I was painting!” I call out to her. “But neither of these is what Mr Barker commissioned.” She says. I pause for a moment. “Who?!” She gives me a flat look. “Mr Barker?  Friend of my mom’s, owns a fortune 500 company? Wanted a picture of his daughter in front of some mountains? He commissioned you for a very large amount of money so you’d have it finished before her twenty-first birthday next week on Wednesday? That Mr Barker?” “Oh, Mr Barker!” I nod knowingly, giving her the impression I remember things and am competent. “Uh, yeah, I’m working on it! Making real headway too! Yep! It’s nearly finished in fact! I just didn’t bring it out because, y’know,” I lean forward and rub my back “Hauling those things around is hard! I’m only two and a half inches tall, remember?!” I lie, smoothly and believably. Brooke just stares at me. “Uh-huh.” A pregnant moment of silence hangs in the air, as if someone just let out a really loud fart at a funeral. “So… Uh. What day is it today?!” I call out to her. Brooke continues giving me that look. “Friday.” I feel the bottom drop out of my stomach. “Oh yeah, no problem! It’ll be done way before then!” I wave my hand dismissively “Don’t worry about it. I’m totally on top of it.” “Oh really?” she says. “Well, would you mind if I had a look then? So I can tell Mr Barker when he can expect it?” Shit. She’s onto me. “Uh, you see… well…” Brooke sighs and rolls her eyes “Look, just try to have it done on time, okay? I don’t want to disappoint my mom’s old friend, especially not when he’s paying us six figures. Now, I’m starving. I’m going to walk over there and set up the picnic matt. Coming?” With that, Brooke picks up her handbag and the basket and starts picking her way over to a clear patch in my backyard. I flutter my wings and take off after her, hovering a metre and a half behind her at head height. As she walks in front of me I take the opportunity to look at an entire human body for once. I watch her, enjoying the sight of her hips rolling as she walks and the way I can see her tits jiggle from behind. Brooke is by no means a thin woman. She has rolls of flesh on her flanks, stretch marks on her belly and boobs, and the beginning of a double chin. But fuck she’s hot. It’s a casual kind of hotness – probably helped by the fact that we’d be fucking if I was normal-sized. I’m not an idiot. Women built like Brooke don’t just decide to wear low-cut crop tops on a whim. She can’t be unaware of the colossal amount of titty she’s showing off, especially to someone my size. She knows exactly how sexy her outfit is. She knows I check her out. Even if I think I’m being smooth, she almost certainly knows. She’s caught me in the past. When she does catch me looking, she hasn’t gotten upset or stopped wearing revealing clothes. She’s just smiled and teased me about it. Like right now. Brooke is laying out the picnic blanket. She flaps it in the air to spread it out, and bends at the waist as it floats down, legs pressed together, thick booty in the air for all to see. Women in real life do not stand like that. She kneels down and looks at me coyly over her shoulder.  “You want to join me, or are you just going to float there staring at my ass?” SEE? SEE? SHE KNOWS “I’ve got a meal for each of us, plus some supplies for you. I’m going to get them out of the picnic basket, okay?” I fly down and land on the blanket, about a foot and a half in front of Brooke’s right knee. I make sure she sees me do it so she knows where I am, which she acknowledges with a pointed look. Brooke takes two cling-wrapped six inch subs out of the basket for her, and one tiny lunchbox made out of paper for me. Brooke doesn’t reach out to hand me the food. Instead she puts it in the palm of one hand, and holds it at shoulder height. I fly up, alight on her palm, scoop up the lunchbox, and clutch it cautiously to my chest as fly back down to my spot. Settling back onto the picnic blanket, I open it up and see she’s packed my favourites – a piece of strawberry, a kernel of corn, some lettuce and a sliver of banana. This is why I love Brooke. Not just the food, the way she acts. A normal person would reach out to me to give me my food, and they’d terrify me by shoving their big-enough-to-squash-me hand into my personal space. Or they wouldn’t even bring me food; they’d bring themselves food, and offer to tear some crumbs off for me. Like I’m some kind of tiny animal and I should be okay with eating their scraps. I’ve never told Brooke I find this upsetting. She decided on her own to treat me like a person, to respect my dignity and my personal space. She understands that I find normal-sized people pants-wettingly frightening, so she moves slowly around me and lets me know what she’s doing before doing it. She’s honestly the most caring and empathetic person I know. I pick up my piece of banana and take a bite. As I chew I watch Brooke eat her sandwich. With every bite her gargantuan mouth consumes several times my body mass in bread, salad and chicken. I’d be a little intimidated if it was anyone else, but Brooke is a special case. Even back when we first met, she understood me and my condition better than anyone I’ve met. It was a few months after I’d transformed. I painted my first locket as a goof, then when I got sick of looking at it I’d decided to auction it off on eBay. When it sold for five figures I took a moment to pick my jaw off the floor and then promptly called the owner of the local gallery. The old dame, who had almost certainly had dollar signs in her eyes while we talked over the phone, had promised to come over the next day. She hadn’t told me she was bringing Brooke too though. I was really uncomfortable with the idea of talking to two giants alone, so I decided to hide in my hollow and simply talk over the phone. It was probably the most awkward conversation I’ve ever had. Then out of the blue, Brooke shooed her mother away and sat down in the grass, even though it was knee-length because tiny people aren’t good at lawn maintenance. She coaxed me out and we managed to hold a conversation about selling art. She never tried to grab me or touch me, she didn’t talk to me like I was a baby or a puppy, and she warned first whenever she made any sudden or extended movements. After a few minutes, I forgot all about my fear of talking and I enjoyed a conversation like a normal person, something I hadn’t done in months. It was the first time I really felt comfortable around a normal-sized person. As she left, Brooke gave me her number and promised to come see me again in a few days with some art supplies. We spent those few days constantly in contact over text. What started out as a few requests for paints turned into talking about movies, jobs, sports, videogames, dreams, everything. When it came time for her to come visit me again I was surprised to find I was actually excited to see her. Before then I’d always dreaded interacting with other people, but I actually wanted to see Brooke again. I still look forward to seeing Brooke, even years later. Hell, I’m enjoying being with her right now, just sitting together and eating lunch. I don’t care what it is – talking with Brooke, showing her how I paint. We’ve even watched Netflix together. It doesn’t matter what it is, I want to do it with Brooke. As I think about this more, a creeping emptiness seeps in and begins to dowse the good feeling I had before. I want to tell Brooke how I feel. I want to tell her I feel safe around her in a way I don’t feel with any other person. I want to tell her everything’s so much better when she’s around.  I want to tell her I think she’s beautiful, and that’s she’s the nicest person I know. I want to tell her I feel closer to her more than anyone else on this planet and if I could only pick one person to spend the rest of my life with, it’d be her. I want to hold her in my arms, entwine my fingers in hers, and kiss her lips. I want to touch her in a real, meaningful, romantic way. But I can’t. I’m too fucking small. Too small for Brooke. Too small for anyone. If I did dig up the balls to tell her how I feel, what would happen? It’s not like we could ever really have a relationship. Any attempt we made at sex would end in either disappointment or grievous bodily harm. I’m too afraid of the rest of the world to ever really leave my tree, so I can’t really go places with her. I won’t even go to her mom’s galleries when my art is on display. I spend my free time either painting in my tree or watching garbage on Netflix or YouTube. And what if she said no? What if all her flirting is just that? Flirting? “Oh no Ash, the reason I flirt with you so much is because I knew nothing would ever come of it. You’re too small to ever really be my boyfriend. I thought you knew? It’s why I felt comfortable enough around you to dress this way. Other people would call me gross or try to hit on me, but you’re too powerless to do that. So I can use you to feel like a sexy goddess and swan around with my tits out.” And then my worst fears would be confirmed and I’d lose the closest thing I have to a friend. I’d know she was okay with abusing her inherent power of me to make herself feel good, at my expense. This knowledge would forever taint our relationship. I’d never let my guard down around her again. There’d be no more jokes, no more banter. She’d show up, take the lockets from me, and leave. And for the rest of my life I’d sit alone in my tree. People need social interaction; without it we go mad from loneliness. We need to touch and be touched. It’s been years since I felt the touch of another person my size. I’m the only fairy in existence. Wizards hunted all the rest to extinction five hundred years ago because they thought fairy biology held the secret to immortality. There’s no one for me to hold hands with, rub shoulders with, sit next to, hug, play footsies with, spoon up against. I’m alone, alone, on this planet with giants I can never really interact with. After my transformation I went to all the greatest magical experts in the world to ask them if they could change me back. They said they had no idea how I got this way to begin with, much less how to fix me. The raw magic of the accident could have turned me into anything – an orc, a child, woman, a dog, a statue of myself, a statue of someone else, a potted plant, a tennis ball, three ounces of water… It should have killed me, they said.  Some days I wish it had. A lot of days I wish it had. Sometimes at night I have panic attacks. I’ll be in my tree, looking around at my wooden walls and my handkerchief curtains and I’ll realise that this is all I’ll ever know. That I’m doomed to spend the rest of my life living in that tree until someone kills me horribly. Alone for what could be decades, trapped in that hollow all day everyday, only leaving to talk to Brooke and a handful of others. When I think about this my heart will start to pound and my breathing will get short. Horror surges up inside me as I contemplate countless years of solitary confinement stretching out before me. No relief, no escape. Just an eternity of solitude. I’ll scream and I’ll cry and I’ll lash out. Sometimes I’ll pull down a curtain or two; I’ll kick at my furnishings, maybe ruin a locket. But it’s always hopeless. Nothing I can do will ever relieve me of this awful aching pain. Nothing, except- “Hey.” I snap my head up to look at Brooke as her voice breaks me out of my depression. She’s looking at me, one sandwich half-finished and held in her lap. There’s concern and sympathy in her eyes. “What are you thinking about?” “Oh nothing!” I say “Just thinking about that locket for Mr Barker!” I pick up my piece of strawberry and take a bite. “Then why are you crying?” This surprises me. I wipe at my face with one hand and sure enough tears have cut duel tracks down my cheeks. I didn’t realise Brooke could see my face well enough to notice things like that. “O-oh! I just… Well, you know us artists! We’re all prone to fits of melancholy and stuff like that! I was just having some deep thoughts about the transient nature of beauty, watching a bee collecting pollen!” I lie, smoothly and believably. Brooke continues looking at me. Slowly, she lets go of her sandwich, letting it rest in her lap. She takes her right hand and carefully lowers it to the picnic blanket, next to her knee, palm facing upwards. “What? I’m fine!” I call out to her “Don’t worry about it, really! It’s just-“ “Ash.” She says, looking at me with kind eyes “It’s okay to not be okay. I’m here for you.” I don’t say anything. I’d try, but there’s this weird lump in my throat and there’s a kind of tightness in my chest. I don’t know why, but I start crying again. Wordlessly I set my lunchbox aside and float over to her, setting down in her hand. I sit cross-legged in her palm and she carefully starts to lift me up. The terrain of her hilly body drifts past until I reach her face. Her other hand joins this one, cupping me. I look up at her eyes. She’s gazing down at me with soft, caring eyes. A gentle smile plays across her lips. She moves one thumb over, leaving it hanging in front of me. I scoot closer to it and wrap my arms around it. Her skin is soft, even to someone as small as me. She’s warm, and if I listen I can hear the blood pumping in her veins. I press my face against her flesh and wipe my tears on it. We stay like that for a while. I listen to the sound of her quiet, steady breathing, my face pressed against her. I can hear the wind rustling the leaves in my tree, the distant chirping of a bird, a car starting a street over. It’s quiet. The stress drains out of me, seeping through my legs and back into Brooke’s warm hands. My fears and anxieties melt away. I trace the grooves of Brooke’s fingertip with my own fingers, exploring the bumps and valleys of her skin.  We don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. We’re simply enjoying each other’s presence, being with each other. We stay like this for a minute that feels like a lifetime. Brooke takes her thumb away, and I feel familiar vertigo as she raises me higher. Being in another person’s moving hand is usually a scary rush but Brooke is slow and careful when she does it, like the world’s most sedate elevator. She raises me up, holding me next to her mouth. Her hot breath washes over me like a warm, humid breeze.  Her giant lips are coated in cherry-red lipstick. They’re big enough to cover my whole body, if I was to lie sideways in her palm. Her tongue slips out, wetting them, as if in preparation. I look up at Brooke eyes. Their light blue colouration reminds me of the sky. She’s giving me a warm, kind look that holds only caring tenderness. A fuzzy warmth spreads through my chest, and is joined by another feeling – a nervous fluttering in my stomach. Brooke’s lips part slightly, and she pulls me even closer- RING-RING-RING, RING-RING-ALING We’re both startled by the sudden sound of three cartoony, high-pitched voices singing in unison. RING-RING-RING, RING-RING-ALING CHECK YOUR PHONE, SOMEONE’S CALLING Brooke sighs. “Hang on, I have to take this.” She lowers her hand slightly, away from her face. I end up sitting next to her cleavage while she presses a phone to her ear. “Yeah? Ahuh… Ahuh… Okay. Hmm? Oh, no… Ahuh. Yeah, no, I’m visiting him now.” She says, glancing down at me. What the fuck was that? I think, feeling a sudden clarity. Brooke’s held me before, but she’s never put me next to her mouth like that. After my first year living as a fairy I told Brooke about my feelings of isolation, and she offered to hold me in her hands to help me. I’m not sure if its as good as hugging a person my own size, but it calms me down. And it’s really sweet. But why did she put me next to her mouth? She wasn’t going to kiss me, was she? “Okay, bye. No, goodbye.” Brooke hangs up and puts her phone down. “That was my mom. She wants me to come back to the gallery to help her get ready for an exhibition.” “Oh, well I won’t keep you then.” I say, and I start fluttering my wings to take off. “Oh no you don’t!” she says, although she makes no move to stop me. “We were having a moment just now. One I’ve been looking forward to for a while.” She reaches into her handbag and pulls out her lipstick. “And I am gonna enjoy it.” She flicks the cap off her lipstick casually and puckers her lips. She applies the lipstick several times, until her lips are glistening with the maroon coating. She drops the lipstick back into her bag and smacks her lips. “Now, where were we?” She brings me closer to her mouth, pursing her lips. I step away, but my back bumps against her fingers. There’s butterflies in my stomach but I don’t shout or ask her to stop as her huge pouting lips push closer. She presses me into her lips. My face and torso are completely enveloped by the wet red cushions. The butterflies escape my stomach and expand to fill my whole body. It’s hot and sticky, some of her breath leaking out between her lips. I can taste the cherry flavour in my own mouth. I try to move or squirm, but her lips keep me pinned to her hand. She holds me there for a few seconds, then releases me with a “mwah” noise. As her lips lift off me I tentatively try to move. It takes a bit of effort to sit up – I’m stuck to her hand with gooey lipstick. My chest, arms and face are coated in the stuff. As I peel myself off her palm and wipe it out of my eyes, Brooke giggles. “There. That wasn’t so bad was it? Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’ll be back on Tuesday to pick up Mr Barker’s commission. I’m letting you go now, okay?” she drops her hand away, and on instinct I flutter my wings to hang in place. She quickly packs up our picnic and stands up, the basket hanging from one arm and her handbag from the other. “See you again soon.” She gives me a small wave, then turns to leave. As she walks away from me she sways her hips from side to side. I stare at her booty until she disappears around my house into the front of my yard. When she’s gone, I look down at my chest. I run my fingers along it, scraping off some of the lipstick. Looking at it in my hand, I think back to my worries about Brooke not knowing how I feel. Floating here, it occurs to me that she might already know.

#my writing #my g/t #my garbage

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, MINTY!

You have been accepted for the role of DMITRI ALEKSEEV. Admin Rosey: This was honestly the most difficult app decision I have made to this date. I read both applications over four times, comparing them point by point, sample by sample. I cannot emphasize how incredibly beautiful both applications were -- their prose was unparalleled, their potential even more so. My heart literally stopped, my breath was whisked away each time I read them over because it was as if I was reading them anew all over again. But Minty, I ultimately had to go with yours. You did so much in such a short amount of time. There were certain parts of your application where I felt my stomach tighten because even the prospect of Dmitri made me so nervous, so unsure. There was this certain frankness in the way that you wrote him that made him so unapologetic. Thank you for this wonderful application and welcome to the Rule and Ruin family! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS:  hi, friends! i go by mint. or minty. or min min. or ho where’s my reply so really the world is your oyster

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: that / it when i’m feeling deplorable but she/her most days.

AGE: 23

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: pst and i work from home so from a scale of 10 to 10. i’d say a 10?

but i have friends (surprisingly!). and my mom can’t drive so she forces me out to buy crabs to murder from 99 ranch market. so some days i might be gone girl.

TRIGGERS: OMITTED

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: let my writing here speak for itself please! otherwise known as i haven’t been in a tumblr rp for over a year and my old accounts are uggo.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Dmitri Matwei Alekseev

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

Several traits drew me to him.

I. темнота (darkness)

When I read his bio I went, “Oh!” Then I continued along reading the other bios but none of them drew that same sort of “oh” from me. The admins of this group  sure don’t shy from character flaws which promises a really interesting game. Dmitri is a dark character. Not the darkest, of course, with a character in-game literally called The Darkling. But he’s up there. A lot of what keeps a social construct together is basic respect for other human beings and respect for the law. Dmitri makes a mockery of all this. That social decency that keeps everyone nicely lined up fails in constraining him. His edges rip them apart, and he ends up cutting into anyone close to him. Out of the cast in-game, he only respects The Darkling, and all everyone else gets is a front of politeness which quickly falls apart when he opens his mouth and bleeds with his words. Even princes are beneath him, because he considers weakening their resolve a show of weakness. Dmitri only answers to one man, because the lives of everyone else are worth much less than his. To him, everyone else is there for his amusement. They’re a game to him, and so he tries to move them around with touches, words, or threats as he sees fit.

II. амбиц��я (ambition)

I love driven characters like Dmitri. It’s not a trait I myself have. but it’s easy to admire strengths in others that you lack. Dmitri is cocksure and arrogant. Who can fault him for it when he ‘s capable of delivering? He could have sat spoiled in his parent’s home, but Dmitri chose to travel to Os Alta and cross the Unsea, just to make a name for himself. He wants to be–no. Will be the most notable Heartrender of his generation, He’ll do anything to ensure his notoriety spills over to the next generation. His name will be in history books. But unfortunately, his ambition blinded him, and he took his position at the Darkling’s side for granted. Now that he’s fallen out of favor, he’s still reeling from the lack of attention and he’s hungry to get it back. So he’s driven even more to outshine Altan and to prove his skill on every battlefield the Darkling sends him to, whether it’s a war or a bedroom. This passion to dominate has totally enamored me to him. He’ll crush a hundred hearts if it will get The Darkling to stop from turning away.

IV. очарование (charm)

tw sex mention

The guy’s a snake. But he’s smooth about it. It’s his face that hooks them in first. He’s got this way about him when he focuses on you, like you’re the only one in the room. After all, he doesn’t waste his time. He only approaches the ones that are worth his while. So when he closes in, you know you’re special. If anyone tries to draw him away from you, he’ll shake them off. It’s a sort of intensity that would be almost uncomfortable if he didn’t soften it with a curve of lips and the way he asks permission. “May I?” To stand by your side. “May I?” To slide his hand down your back and gripping your hips, pulling you into a dance. “May I?” To feed you sweets, his fingers coming away wet from your mouth.

But he only feigns politeness at first. The closer he gets to you, the more rotten his words. “You’re blushing. And I haven’t even touched you. How virginal.” As he corners you in empty hallways. “Would you like me to?” Teasing. Only to pull away and abandon you while wiping his fingers on his kefta. He isn’t above toying with your heart. figuratively and literally. If decadence could be harsh and edged? That would be Dmitri. I’m smitten with him because of it.

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?

один - He will prove himself as worthy to be the Darkling’s left hand, of that he has no doubt. But it will be easier to earn if Altan’s reputation is cracked. It will be no easy feat. Altan stands solid and unshakable, and his reputation is one of dominating fear. However, Dmitri had crossed the Unsea and had only found euphoria. He doesn’t fear darkness or death because he himself is ruination. Finding a chip in Altan’s armor will be a challenge, as will sinking his nails in and digging until it gapes open enough for weakness to spill out. But he’s patient. He will throw test after test of Altan’s abilities, set challenges Altan’s way until the Shu eventually stumbles. Then it will be Dmitri who steps up to fill in the space to cover up Altan’s failure. Then the Darkling will have to finally hold out his left hand for him to take. Dmitri will accept it as his due.

два - Anton doesn’t deserve the throne. What Dmitri and Viktor share isn’t love, but even the Heartrender can see that the younger prince is the more worthy. Anton is a fox–wily and quick. But Viktor is the wolf–savage and strong, demanding his lessers to heel and grinding his enemies between his sharp teeth. What they share isn’t love, but Dmitri has nothing to gain from Anton, and there’s a glimmer of potential from Viktor. So he will offer a hand, if Viktor wishes it, in seizing the throne. Bastard is what they whisper in the dark, and if it’s sentimentality towards the family that’s holding Viktor back, Dmitri doesn’t mind being the one to slowly open the Pandora’s box of secrets the Lantsov family hides. It’s all well and good to fuck a prince. But imagine burying his face between the legs of a king.

три - Dmitri has no interest in thrones. What he wants it to be backed by the power behind it. It’s why he endears himself to both the Darkling and Viktor, the former ruling the Grisha and the latter having a hand in Ravkan politics. He wants to be free to play his hand with pretty chaos, wants to seize and stop hearts, steal the air from their lungs, and still crowds with fear from a single look. He mocks Iskra for trailing at the heels of a human. But I can see them having a bit more in common than they both think. I want him (if the Viktor player is willing) to grow more twisted and tangled with his relationship with Viktor. To reap the benefits of it, and despite himself, have thin threads of sentimentality, only for Iskra to notice and call him out for being a hypocrite. This will cause him to yank violently away from Viktor for a time. Their relationship might degrade into volatile sparks until, of course, they catch fire and explode in either violence or passion. Perhaps both.

On this note, I want to figure out why Dmitri has been slipping out of favor. Is it due to the Darkling being privy to Dmitri being in bed with a Lantsov? Or is the Darkling trying to see how far Dmitri will go to earn his approval? If it’s the former, Dmitri will abandon Viktor, but I doubt he’ll be able to stop himself from his usual flirtations with the prince, even if he refuses to follow through. If it’s the latter, I would like Dmitri to step further away from being human and closer to being a monster by committing terrible crimes for the approval of the Darkling.

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: Oh my god. It’s that kinda game, huh. Bye!

I mean sure if you really, really want him to be dead.

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):

  один .     tw torture     The Fjerdan bows his head. The bones of his fingers are broken, and blood drips from his bottom lip and trickles from both ears. His tears, too, are red streaks down his chiseled face. When he breaths there is a rattling sound, like coins caught in his rib cage.     Already so broken and Dmitri’s just warming up.     “Is it my accent? Years in Ravka and I can’t seem to strip the Kerch from my tongue.” He raises his right arm, feels for the Fjerdan’s liver with tendrils of his power, and snaps his hand closed into a hard fist. The spy throws his head back with his mouth gaping open, empty of sound, a keening exhale of pain. Dmitri knows which organs cause pain, and which organs kill. He’s had plenty of practice.     “Listen closely.” He paces around the chair the Fjerdan is strapped to, stops behind him and brings his face down to whisper in that bleeding ear. “How many of you escaped with knowledge of the Sun Summoner? I need to make sure I killed all of them.” Words in Fjerdan, barely discernible, and the man spits on the floor. ”So you won’t make this easy.” Dmitri runs his fingers through the Fjerdan’s hair, grips the strands and pulls the man’s head back. “Good.”     два .     It’s easy to find iskra in a crowd. Not because of the prominence of Anton. He always finds her in spite of that, even when the prince is gone.     When he was a boy, he’d let loose his pet raven on his parent’s aviary to test it’s obedience. It perched on a faux maple tree and eyed the smaller finches and doves with a haughty sort of hunger. They clustered as far away from the black bird as they could, as if they understood that the raven was behaving for Dmitri’s benefit, but at any moment that control could snap and they’d be torn apart by that sharp, curved beak.     That is why he always finds Iskra in a crowd. She surrounds herself with soft, weak humans while she herself is a hawk. She doesn’t fit. She never will. Always the outsider even as she perches on their branches, the other birds scattering away.     He calls to her. “Iskra.” The name falls with heavy intimacy that he knows irritates her. “You have something right here.” He points to her throat. “Is it tight? Anton’s leash? If you wanted to be collared I would have accommodated you.”    He stands too close, speaks too intimately, and he repeats, “Iskra.” When she finally looks up, he holds her gaze. He won’t be the one to look away first.     три .     tw sex     He places his palm flat on Viktor’s chest. Some hearts beat rapid and weak, like moth wings. Others quickly like a rabbit’s when he touches them. Out of anyone he’s ever stripped down and spread, Viktor’s beat the most solid and strong, a fighter’s heart, as if he considered even this intimacy a war.     “Your majesty.” He purrs, kissing the inside of Viktor’s calves. “My prince.” His mouth slides soft, up Viktor’s knees, stopping to sink his teeth in those muscled thighs. He wants to bruise and leave that part tender, so when Viktor’s walks down the halls he’ll feel it, stabs of pain to remember him by.     So tempting, to make it quick and take Viktor into his mouth. But he moves higher, his chest pressing Viktor’s legs apart and he kisses the ridges of that hard abdomen. He whispers, “My king.” Laying bare the prince’s ambition in private. He feeds that hunger for blood right on purpose, because Viktor’s appetite thrills him. Dmitri may lay with lambs. He may lay with beasts. But it’s this prince with his teeth bared and jaws snapping for the throne that is his favorite. Without a doubt the most fascinating. Anton will kiss and serve his diplomacy with a sprinkling of sugar, but it’s Viktor who will hold his knife-tongue to their throats and threaten to cut.     Like the Darkling, that pursuit of power is what tethers Dmitri to Viktor’s side. Dominance always, crushing the weak. A world at war is cruel and Dmitri thrives in the company of those who will survive it.     He promises, “If you ask nicely, I’ll lay bodies at your feet. I’ll kiss you while I do it. So you can feel it on your mouth when I kill. I get cold, and I get very, yery hard.” He strokes Viktor then, between the legs to make his point. “Just say it. Command me, Viktor. We’ve already fucked each other raw. There’s no need to be shy.”

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:

- While others dread trips through the Unsea, Dmitri relishes it. Aside from the front lines against the Fjerdans and Shu Hans, nowhere else can he lash out with his power without tethers. Once they escape the darkness there’s a visible thrill on his face and he proudly shares the amount of volcra hearts he’s stopped. The Unsea is proof of the power of Grisha. How one of them can bring an entire nation to it’s knees, a slow bleeding death of resources as Ravka is cut off from the coast. It inspires Dmitri to be the same–a name feared for his power. Should the Darkling’s true history ever come to light in the game Dmitri’s loyalty won’t waver.

- He is fond of interrogating. If spies are caught, Dmitri always volunteers to drag the truth out of them. Sensitive to the palpitations of a lie, he mercilessly tortures and picks apart his prey until they beg to confess, for it to end, for their bones to stop cracking and to stop drowning on the blood in their lungs. Either they confess, or they die slow. Either way there’s no chance they’re leaving that small cell alive.

- He has a very mixed reputation among the Grisha. Either you love him or you hate him, but rarely are any of them ambivalent towards him. Dmitri either focuses on you like a hawk, or he doesn’t care to waste his time on you at all. The latter is your best bet. If it’s the former, his attention is either savagely sweet, or a slow and lingering cruelty that takes it time picking you apart.

EXTRAS: none i just found this group five hours ago i’m so sorry

ANYTHING ELSE? OMITTED

#accepted #accepted: dmitri

[aileen-hollingsworth]

T h e   F i n a l   D e c i s i o n ~18

previous | next (last one guys)

A/N: I know, ages later, but this is my last fic before my final fic lol. Brief Colleen as well as an rp that happened with @haidenschreave but I never finished to write out before. This is my actual last rp with him (rip). Kind of like closure for the last Selection. Enjoy. Next fic will be pure Colleen if it goes as planned. It might happen soonish? Ft. Cole & Haiden

I led him through the gardens silently and he looked around as if he could somehow stare at things through the blindfold.

“I still don't understand why all the mystery.”

“Because it's your birthday present.”

“Yeah….but when your birthday is on April fool’s day you learn to be careful with birthday surprises.”

I kissed his cheek after laughing. “I already pranked you today, remember?”

“Kind of hard to forget the fact that I still have paint on my hair.”

“And you look lovely with pink streaks.”

He shook his head in disappoint but the action didn't have much weight considering the smile on his face. “One day you'll be the death of me.”

“Maybe if I embarrass you to death.”

He raised the hand I was using to guide him up to his lips and kissed it gently. “Impossible.”

Glad he couldn't see my blush I continued. “Stop being cute, this is your birthday. I’m the one that should be making you feel nice!”

He laughed. “Fine. But I’m getting impatient.”

We only had to walk a little farther before we reached the spot I’d picked out. “Okay, you can take the blindfold off.”

And so he did.

He blinked a couple of times and smiled down at me before looking at the cloth I’d spread across the grass. A picnic basket and some plates already there. Cole blinked again, but this time because he was stunned. When he glanced back at me there was a wider grin on his face. “A picnic.”

“Under the stars.” I added, linking my hand with his again.

He leaned down and kissed my nose, his hand cupping my cheek and stroking it. “No turning into a lobster?”

I smiled, an involuntary blush spreading across my face, so I guess you could say I was a lobster in the end. “No, but I have sandwich cats.”

“That’s all I need.”

Haiden was in the gardens, staring at the ground beneath his feet, deep in thought. I silently made my way to him, making sure he wouldn’t hear or see me coming. Once I was behind him I yelled a “hello,” poking his back. He turned around, startled with a shriek.

“What the f—!” He paused, eyes wide as he realized it was me. “Oh, Aileen.”

I did my best not to laugh at his reaction. “Very manly, Hai.”

He gave me one of those slightly annoyed glances. I almost thought I heard him make his voice sound deeper when he replied, “Very mature.”

“More than you? Yes.”

“I am 20. You are practically a child.”

That again. “You've mentioned it before.”

“Still relevant.”

“In case you weren't aware, I'll be 18 soon.” Just a few weeks away.

“You're not even legal.”

I snorted. “Wow, okay.” Because that’s precisely what defines maturity, Haiden. Being legal.

I thought I saw the hint of an awkward smile on his face at my reply. “How's Cole doing?”

He and Cole did seem to tolerate each other a lot more, but it was still hard to hide my surprise at his asking. “Cabbages is doing okay. As adorable as ever. Though he's a bit too worried about my sleeping hours now.” My fainting had made him a little paranoid, but I couldn’t blame him...I’d do the same thing in his position.

Haiden wrinkled his nose slightly at my words. “Please don't call Cole adorable or cabbages in front of me.”

“Aww,” I nudged him teasingly. “Are you jealous?”

He didn't even bother with looking at me. “No.”

“I mean, it would be completely understandable. There are only a couple of girls as amazing as me.”

“And those are?” At least he seemed a bit amused.

“I can't know them all. They're hard to find.”

“You've never made a truer statement.”

“You’re lucky to have me as a friend it seems.”

“Obviously.”

I smirked. “I'm being incredibly humble today.”

“I can see that.”

“Seriously though…” My smile faltered, I knew there was something bothering him. It wasn’t that hard to tell. “Maybe one of the remaining girls is that amazing too.”

His gulp was barely visible, but it was there. “Yeah, maybe.”

I tilted my head at him for a minute, trying to figure out what to say. Even after our reconciliation I was hesitant to talk about anything serious. Before I’d passed out we’d talked and settled things, but it had felt somewhat unfinished. He didn’t want me to be upset of course, but what if he didn’t think we should go back to normal just yet? What if he didn’t want to trust me with things anymore?  “So...how are you doing?”

“Alright, I guess.” He replied with a shrug.

“Hmmm.” Always so vague. “Always so ominous.”

“That's me, I guess.”

“You always guess.” I did air quotes with my hands at the last word.

Haiden remained nonchalant. “Because I don't know anything for sure.”

“I'm not sure if that's a wise decision or an inconvenience.”

“Probably both.”

“It makes you hard to read sometimes.”

He shrugged once more. “It's never been my goal to be easy to read.”

I glanced at him, but was scared to keep the conversation going. It’s fine, Aileen. You can't mess it up. “Not even with your friends?”

“I've never really had friends.” He didn’t act particularly sad about it, but he shifted uncomfortably.

“Oh…” I looked down at my feet. Never really had friends. Did that mean-- “But we're friends.” Right? We’re back to normal? I hated that it sounded like a question.

“I know.”

Giving him a wary smile I added, “Best friends, right?” Can I be any more pathetic? Unlikely.

If Haiden noticed my inner turmoil he gave no sign of it. “Obviously.”

“Ok, good.” I sighed, the tightness in my chest dissipating. We didn’t say anything for a while. “So do you know who you'll pick yet?” I finally wondered. Cole had mentioned that Haiden would tell me the name of the winner later, however, he hadn’t brought it up when he came to check up on me. I knew he was announcing the winner by the end of that week

“Um…” He was hard to read sometimes, but not always.

“You don't know yet, do you?” He shook his head slowly after my question and I could tell it was bothering him. A lot of things were bothering him. A lot of pressure was on him. I took a big breath deciding maybe that was my chance to finally get that stubborn head of his to understand he could deal with all of it. “Well then…” I paused for a second biting my lip thoughtfully. Okay, time for a pep talk. “How about we clear your head with a good old dare?” I didn’t wait for an answer and dragged him further into the gardens.

“I feel like this is going to be painful.”

“Very likely.”

“Then let's do it.”

I let out a laugh and guided him all the way to the big old, branchy tree that was in the most abandoned area of the Royal Garden. It was probably the biggest tree on the palace’s grounds. “You have to climb all the way up.”

The prince stared at it as if my suggestion was crazy and impossible. “And if I die?”

“I doubt that'll happen.”

“But it might.”

“I climbed a tree twice as big in Dominica. I was fine.”

“Yeah, but I'm a trashbag who can't climb.”

I hit his arm lightly. “Which is exactly why I want you to do it. I'm trying to prove a point here, work with me.”

“Do you want me to die?”

I chuckled. “That's the last thing I want, now stop being so dramatic and climb.” He grumbled a little, but started climbing and I watched him as he began. I didn’t know what else to do. I needed to make him understand he could do it. All of it. The Selection. Being the Heir. Being a King. Making him climb a tree was the only way I could come up with to start a pep talk. Call it unconventional, but I had to do something somehow. “Tell me Haiden, what scares you the most?”

He didn’t look down. “That's sort of an odd question.”

“I'm sort of an odd friend.”

After my minutes of silence he mumbled under his breath, “All right. I guess failing.”

I’d guessed something similar.

Leaning on the tree I watched him hoist himself up with another branch. He was really slow and struggled to find places that could be used as footholds but it was good enough. “Why?”

He glanced down at me. “Because it's inevitable.”

“Why waste your time being scared of something you can't avoid then?”

He continued climbing. “That's the thing. You do everything you can not to fail, not to let your biggest fear take control, and then it does anyway and all you feel is powerless.”

“But what if failure is what you need to learn something new?”

“Then it's not worth it.”

I smirked to myself, thinking that was my opening. “Do you think light bulbs are an important part of society, Haiden?”

He seemed to understand where I was trying to lead the conversation and quickly replied, “Of course not.”

I rolled my eyes. There goes a perfect way to make a point. “You are truly impossible.”

“That's why you love me.”

Okay, maybe we can do this another way. “No, that's not why.”

“Wow, ouch.”

“I love you because you're between the handful of people I get to be my crazy self with, because you're willing to go with whatever dumb idea I suggest and you'll come up with a way to make it even weirder... I love you because you put up with me.” Like Cole and Mila and Naomi and Aliya, even Tracie and Sophia, and my friends back in Dominica.

“Oh.” He blushed a little at that and I looked down at the ground. Plan B for the pep talk meant mentioning a couple of things I rarely trusted people with, but he was my friend. I could tell him.

“You want to know what my biggest fear is?” I started. Silence met me alongside Angeles’ dry wind. “It’s letting myself get close to people, so close that if they leave me I'll be crushed. When we met you guessed I was self-conscious about myself, but tried not to be. I am. I am because I'm scared I'll mess up. I'm scared I'll be too pushy, too demanding, too annoying. In a way I'm scared of failing as a friend. Failing so bad people will realize maybe I'm not worth putting up with...but I still do it all the time, Haiden.”

I heard him sigh and sit back on a tree branch. “I know.”

“So you see, I still try to be myself and get close to people, close enough to get hurt by them. And you know what? It's worth it. It's worth it even if I fail. It's worth it even if they leave. Will I be hurt? Sure. Will I feel powerless? Heck yes. But what would I have missed if I hadn't tried? What would I have missed if I hadn't let myself get carried away by our shenanigans? Maybe I would have been eliminated on that first round. I wouldn't be your friend. I would have never met Cole. The other Selected girls would mean nothing to me. All because I was too scared... So please don't be scared to fail. You have an important choice to make soon and others will come with time. Whatever your decision is, don't be scared to take it, no matter what it is. Who cares what the rest of the country thinks? Just do what you think is right, and in this particular case, do what you think will make you happy, even if others don't agree.”

I looked up at him again and he looked away for a moment before meeting my eyes. Something seemed to cross his mind. “Thank you. Truly.”

 “I try my best.” I smiled. His feet dangled from the branch he’d chosen to rest on. “You're halfway up, you know?”

“Don't remind me.”

“Not too bad for a trashbag who can't climb.” I winked.

“Right.”

Laughing, I gestured for him to continue. “Come on, keep going.”

“Do I have to?”

“Well, Cole and I went all the way to the top…” I cooed, teasingly. It wasn’t a lie. I had to prove I could get to the top before he could.

Haiden raised both eyebrows. “Wait, wha--Oh, you're talking about the tree.”

After a moment I gasped loudly. “YOU LITTLE-- OF COURSE I'M TALKING ABOUT THE TREE.”

He laughed and I felt my face heating up. “You better be talking about the tree.”

“I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT IT WOULD MEAN IN A DIFFERENT CONTEXT.”

He only laughed even harder at that. “Your face. It's so red.”

The heat was up to my ears. “DON'T MAKE ME COME AFTER YOU.”

“On the tree? I feel like that would end badly.”

“It surely will for you!”

“You don't want to hurt me.”

I fanned my face in an attempt to push the blush away. “It has now become debatable.”

“But you'd get in trouble if you hurt me.”

I began climbing. “I could always make it look like an accident.”

“Easy enough. I am a klutz.”

“And I have a royal on my side.”

“Cole? Royal my ass.”

“Rude.” I made my way halfway up the tree quickly. “Besides you don't get to choose who is royal all the time.”

“But I could.” He started climbing a little more to get away from me.

“Fine, but you would need a reason.”

“Maybe tell the council his nickname is Cabbages. That'll be a good enough reason.”

I laughed. “You know, Princess Winter once told me your dad got nicknamed Trashton on his Selection. He still managed to rule a country with that nickname and it's not even a cute one. I think Cole will manage.”

“Trashton was not affectionate. Wait, you don't even have a nickname for me. I'm hurt.”

“Not like you have a nickname for me either. It was hard enough to get you to call me Aileen.”

“But your nickname is Lady Aileen.”

“Because that's very affectionate.” I smirked.

“It's meant to be.”

“You called everyone a Lady and ever since we became friends you've never used Lady again. I fail to see how this nickname works.”

“You want me to use it now, Lady Aileen?”

“It sounds like I'm another Selected or diplomat.”

“I don't call anyone Lady anymore.”

“What's so special about being a Lady though?”

“It means you're special to me.”

I stopped climbing to smile at him. “I guess it's not that bad then.”

“Of course not. Would I ever do something bad to you?”

I sat on a branch and thought about our argument weeks ago. “Umm, I don't know...Hopefully not knowingly.”

“You have to think about it?” He actually sounded hurt for once and I looked down at my hands, reaching for a random leaf to shred.

“You can be harsh when you're upset.”

He sighed. “I'm sorry. I just-- don't ever think I'd hurt you. Ever.”

I nodded slowly. “But...if you ever do...just promise you'll try to fix it, okay?”

“Aileen…”

“Yeah…”

“I promise.”

“Thank you.” I glanced at him. “You made it to the top.”

“I guess I did.”

“See,” I laughed lightly “climbing a tree and running a country are practically the same thing.” Trying to give him a reassuring smile I added, “you'll be okay.”

He looked off into the leaves. “You know I won't be. But I'll make it through.”

“Hey, you don't have to be the greatest King in all of history...but you'll be okay.” Climbing the rest of the way up to him I sat down on a new branch. “Who knows, maybe you'll end up being what the country needs for a change. Then I'll be there to say: I told you so.”

“Then it'll be my mission to never let you say that.” He joked and I glared at him before rolling my eyes with a sigh.

Well, getting half the message through is better than nothing. “I'll leave it at that to restrain myself from pushing you off this tree.”

“I'd appreciate it if you did.”

I raised an eyebrow amused. “If I did what? Push you or not push you?”

“Either.”

“Of course...Keats.”

“Ew, don't say my middle name.”

“Why not?” I asked between laughs.

“Because it's gross.”

“It would be a great nickname. Nobody calls you Keats.” I snickered.

“I’ll hate you.” He grumbled, but there was a half grin on his face.

“That’s what friends are for.”

“So did he tell you?” Cole asked as we stood a few feet away from everyone else. Haiden was in the middle of the room, about to make the announcement to the camera. And the winner of this Selection is…

I shook my head. “I’m as clueless as you are.” The only thing he’d told me before going on The Report was “I’m choosing what will make me happy.”

Cole and I looked at each other and then back at Haiden as he began his speech. He greeted the public and mentioned his experience with the Selection as well as all the girls, explained how some of them were now considered dear friends of him—an affirmation I couldn’t help feeling proud of—but when it seemed the time for him to say the final name would come he said something else.

“I have come to the realization that to make any of these final girls happy I would need to be happy myself, but that cannot become true under my current circumstances, so I hope you all forgive me for breaking tradition. This Selection will not end with me choosing a wife.”

I could see from the corner of my eye how Cole gave me a questioning, wide-eyed look, but I kept my eyes fixed on Haiden. He spared me a brief glance and I could tell he was still a little nervous by the decision, but it was final and he hoped everyone would accept it.

“Is he saying what I think he is?” Cole asked, whispering in my ear.

I nodded. “He chooses no one.”

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#colleen blooming #haiden #fic