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mandoalorian · 3 years

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I Believe In Love [Maxwell Lord x F!Reader] — Five: War

Author's note: When you find your calling to leave Themyscira, you venture out to the World of Man with intentions of helping and healing a very specific person's relationship with his son. You've heard his voice before, but only in dreams. You've felt his pain and anguish and you've never been able to relate to anything more. But things don't come easy for you, and they certainly don't come easy for him either. [This series contains spoilers for WW84 and is my interpretation of what happens after the movie ends].

Warnings: just a smidge of angst, talking about feelings and a slightly steamy moment to look forward too.

Word count: 5,200>

Masterlist

Previous - Chapter Five - Next

When you returned back to Max’s home, the sky was pitch black. Max fumbled opening the front door, grunting in frustration when he couldn’t get the key in the hole because it was so dark. When the door finally swung open, he sauntered inside without saying a single word. You hovered behind him, following him around his home like a lost puppy. He strolled into the living room, walked over to the mini bar, and poured himself out a glass of honeyed whiskey. He contemplated taking the whole bottle upstairs to his office and using the alcohol to drown his sorrows away. The silence made him forget he had a guest. “Can I get you a drink?” he muttered, not even looking at you. His thumb grazed the expensive liquor label.

“I’m okay,” you denied quietly. Maxwell didn’t say a word, but he took a swing out the small crystalled tumbler. His eyes were still glossy from his tears and his blonde wavy hair poking up in random places. He was practically unrecognisable from the television infomercials, although you deemed it inappropriate to bring up his appearance right now. To you, he was still so handsome. You waited for him to say something, but a few minutes had passed and not a single word had escaped his soft lips. “Max, I think we need to talk.”

You had a lot of questions, and he had a lot to ask you. Maxwell poured out another glass of whiskey before turning around and leaning against the bar. “Yeah, I agree. Why did you read the letter?” He asked first through a shaky exhale. Clearly it had been preying on his mind. Inside that letter was information he wanted nobody to see. He didn’t even want to see it himself. But you… he actually cared about what you thought of him. He feared your judgement more than anything else.

“You’d really hurt yourself and I could see you were very angry. When I saw the letter crumpled up on the floor, I thought it might have something to do with it and I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” You explained your genuine concern, even noticing the way Maxwell’s face softened at your confession. Despite the fact you had invaded his privacy, he just couldn’t bring himself to stay mad at you. “I knew I was looking for a man named Lorenzano. If the letter hadn’t told me you were Lorenzano then I would never have gone to Thomas Family Lawyer’s.”

“I find it difficult to believe that you were worried about me,” Maxwell scoffed incredulously, rolling his eyes and taking yet another swing of his drink. The warmth your words had brought him were short lived and he was immediately engulfed in a cold, unwelcome chill.

“I was,” you reiterated. “I care about you a lot. You- you’re my friend. You gave me a home and you believed me when I told you about Themyscira and the God’s. Max… can I ask… why did you believe me?”

Maxwell hesitated for a few seconds, anxiously picking at his already short fingernails. He could lie. He could tell you that he only believed you when you demonstrated the lasso of Hestia on him, and that would be enough. But there was no time to be deceitful, not anymore. You’d been honest with him from the very beginning, and he owed his honesty to you too. For the sake of Alistair, he needed to be truthful. For the very first time, Maxwell was going to open up about what happened on the island when he made a broadcast to the entire world.

“Part of me already believed you when I saw you in the lobby of Black Gold for the first time. You were asleep on the sofa, covered in mud, in that crazy Amazonian costume thing…” he gestured to your tunic and skirt which was still discarded on the floor from when you had undressed earlier. He chuckled lightly at the memory of you. You were so beautiful and peaceful. He thought that when you awoke, it would be revealed to him that you were there to hurt him - just like everyone else in the world. “There was just something about you. When I saw you for the first time I just felt… I just felt like…” Max was struggling to get his words out. He couldn’t describe the feeling. For the first time, the well articulated and extroverted businessman was at a loss for words. All he knew was that every second he spent with you, this strange feeling grew stronger and stronger. “I just knew I could trust you,” he shrugged helplessly. That part was true at least. “It sounds dumb, I know. You’re a stranger. But I’m not a very trusting man in the first place, so feeling this was kind of a big deal. And then you mentioned Diana,” Bewilderment crossed your face as you wondered what exactly Diana had to do with any of this. “I knew a woman called Diana Prince. Worked at the Smithsonian museum,” Maxwell took a deep breath before saying your name. He took both of your hands and sat you down on the sofa. “I need to confess something.”

“What is it?” you asked with concern. You brushed your fingers over his knuckles and he relished the way your simple touches erupted a frenzy of butterflies in his stomach.

“I did a bad thing,” Maxwell told you, fear in his eyes. “And I’m still confused and… afraid. Look, I actually care about what you think of me so please-”

You placed a chaste kiss over Maxwell’s knuckles and Max swore his heart stopped beating. Your lips felt just as soft as they looked… just as soft as he’d imagined earlier in the shower. You didn’t know why you kissed his hands… you just felt like it. And it felt good. And you hoped that maybe one day you could do it again. Your eyes flicked up to meet his own. “Everyone makes mistakes sometimes. I’m here to help you Max. I won’t judge you.” you promised.

“Okay,” he said with a deep sigh. “My company… I’ve worked my whole life building up Black Gold Cooperative. I really just wanted to do something great. Growing up, I never really had an idol or someone to look up to. And when Alistair was born, I wanted to give him the world. Anything he wanted. Because he was my son and most of all I just wanted him to be proud of his father. I was led along the wrong path by a few businessmen who were trying to sell off their investments in oilfields for cheap. So I bought them. Turns out, the oilfields were completely dried out and they weren’t going to earn any money whatsoever. I looked at the data and nothing suggested that was going to change but I couldn’t bear to give up. I didn’t want to look like a failure in front of Alistair… in front of my wife,” he croaked out, rubbing his temples as the stress consumed him. “So, I clung on to hope. And I never let go even when I probably should have. I led the world on with my infomercials, telling people that if they invested in us they’d own a part of the most lucrative oil industry in the world. And as share prices rocketed up, they’d eventually earn more than what they put in. That was the plan from day one. But the cold war meant that-”

“-Max,” you cut him off with a gentle whisper. “You’re putting yourself down for having hope. You shouldn’t- you shouldn’t do that. Having hope is the most important thing in the world.”

“I was deceitful,” Maxwell grumbled, shaking off your comment. “I found this stone that supposedly possessed magical powers. I’m a realist, I couldn’t believe it but I had to see for myself. It dated all the way back to ancient Rome… was a beautiful citrine. After a heist in the mall it was stolen and… let's just say I got my hands on the stone by means I’m not at all proud of. The stone possessed wish granting powers and I-”

Maxwell was rambling but at this point, he didn’t need to give you any more information. You already knew. Everything was making sense. From your dreams and your visions and now this.

“No.” was the only word you managed to breathe out. You shook your head profusely as tears threatened to spill from your eyes. It couldn’t be. You remembered your mother telling you that one of the stones was magically destroyed and no one knew how or why. But if Maxwell had wished to become the stone... “No no no… you didn’t, did you?”

Maxwell swallowed as he immediately sensed your disappointment in him. He nodded in silence, unable to say any more words. He felt nauseated. It was already so difficult to live with - the fact he had spiralled into mania so fast. At his core, he was a lonely man who had nobody to guide him. He thought he was in control the entire time but the truth is, he had lost control.

“Romulus possessed you,” you exhaled shakily, wiping your eyes. You let go off his hands and stood up, brushing yourself down. You nervously began to pace up and down the area of the living room. Maxwell closed his eyes, unable to let himself even look at you. He figured you were so disgusted in what he had done, you couldn’t even touch him anymore.

“Who?” Max questioned you eventually. He wanted the answers too.

“The God of Lies, Max!” you snapped back, not even realising how you’d raised your own voice but you were so stressed and paranoid. “Oh goodness… what if he’s still in you. What if-”

“I renounced my wish.” Maxwell informed you with not an ounce of emotion in his voice. He felt empty. Your head snapped to face him once more and your face softened at his revelation. You wanted to hold Max, cradle him in your arms and promise him that everything would be okay. That you’d be able to figure all this out together. But there was still so much you needed to know.

“Why?” you gasped in defeat, letting your shoulders slump.

“Diana.” Maxwell shrugged weakly, fumbling with the sleeves of his sweater.

“No,” you shook your head. “Why did you wish in the first place?”

“I was so afraid of Alistair thinking I’m a loser. Sometimes it’s so easy to believe the whole world is against me. I just wanted him to love me the way I love him.”

“Alistair has always loved you, Maxwell.” you told the teary eyed man, grabbing his arm and squeezing it. Max’s breathing hitched under your touch and he spent a few moments contemplating your words. No person had ever shown him such unconditional kindness. People were either intimidated by him, or enemies with him. No one had ever even wanted to be his friend. Even his relationship with Julianna was a whirlwind fueled on lust and her desire for his money. That’s why as soon as the oil fields dried up, the marriage broke down, and she’d gone on to find someone else with money - Theodore.

“Julianna messed with me, a lot. Told me that Alistair cared more for Ted than me, that I was nothing but a low-life. Since I found out Julianna was pregnant I was filled with this fear. I wasn’t scared of becoming a father, I was scared of becoming my father,” Maxwell choked out, making a fist as anger consumed him. He tried not to hate, he really did, but he could never ever forgive his father’s actions. You watched as his lips trembled and he looked down at his feet. “The world almost collapsed and it was all my fault,” he shuffled his feet around uncomfortably. “And I’m filled with this gut wrenching guilt I just can’t escape…” He looked up at you and wiped his eyes furiously. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“No,” you said, moving his hand away from his face and wiping his tears away with your own fingers. “You are a beautiful man,” you whispered, cupping Maxwell’s face and stroking the height of his cheekbones. You saw him flush a gentle pink colour. “And Alistair is so lucky to have a father who would do all of this… just for him. You are loved. You are loved way more than you know.” you assured, and Maxwell found himself subconsciously leaning into your touch. He was so pretty you could just kiss him again. Maybe this time on the lips.

“How- how can you not hate me?” he choked out, taking you out of your thoughts about kissing him. “Even I hate me. I’ve been thinking, maybe I’m not good enough to be a father.”

“I know how it feels,” you admitted hesitantly, biting your lip. You’d never spoken about this to anyone before. “My father is Zeus, king of all Gods. My mother is Hestia, the Goddess of Truth. I know how it feels to be put on a pedestal. To be compared to others and I know how it feels to not feel good enough. Not important. To have no purpose…” you trailed off. “I’ve spent my life searching for some significance. Zeus had many children, most of which were never able to satisfy their duty as a God or Goddess. But when I started to have these dreams… when I heard your voice I knew in my heart that you… you are my purpose.” you took a deep breath and smiled. “But Max… the dreamstone…”

“What is it?” Max urged you, his dark eyes flicking to yours. “If you can help me with Alistair, let me help you with this. Whatever you need, I can help you.”

“I- I don’t know if you can.” you confessed with a sigh.

“What is it?” Max repeated, staring into your eyes.

“My mother told me the story of two brothers, Romulus and Dolos, both the God of Lies. They were evil… destructive. They wanted to watch society collapse and build a new world. A world they could rule together,” you explained and Maxwell winced. Maybe you were right. Romulus had possessed him… because all of this was sounding far too familiar to him. “When the brothers left Olympus, Zeus gifted them with two citrine stones. The brother’s practiced their wish-granting powers on the stones. Romulus created Rome and Dolos created Athens. And now, only one stone remains.”

“Dolos’ stone remains,” Maxwell said his thoughts out loud and you nodded in affirmation. “Because it was Romulus’ stone which possessed me. So how do we destroy Dolos’ stone?”

“My mother… my mother told me only one thing can destroy the stone.” you whispered. Maxwell looked at you with an urge for you to continue. “Love.” you revealed.

There was a deafening silence that filled the room. “I-I don’t understand,” Maxwell swallowed. “It was the truth that pushed me to renounce my wish. Truth is the opposite of lies… your mother is the Goddess of Truth so maybe-”

“She told me love would destroy the stone,” you repeated, putting your foot down. “There’s no question about it. She’s my mother and I trust her.”

“Okay okay,” Maxwell soothed you. “I trust her too. I just don’t understand how-”

“Me neither,” you exhaled, cutting him off. “But we’ll figure it out, right?”

“Right.” Max confirmed. “Are- are you tired?”

“A little.” you admitted.

“There’s five empty bedrooms upstairs. Take your pick. Make yourself at home.” Maxwell smiled wearily and you nodded your head in appreciation. He was so friendly with you. So generous.

“Thank you Max,” you whispered. “You know. I think you’re a good person.”

Maxwell swallowed. You were so softly spoken and you looked so gorgeous under the dim amber lights. If you were any other woman in any other circumstance, he’d press you against the wall and promise you a night you’d never forget. But he couldn’t do this to you. You were so innocent- and he could risk hurting such a delicate soul. “I’m going to tidy up down here first but uh- I’ll come say goodnight in a few minutes.”

You left the room and Maxwell stood alone for a few moments. As he tried to tidy up the mini bar, every single one of his thoughts were consumed by your beauty, your kindness… just you. And that’s when it hit him. Had he fallen in love with a goddess?

There was so much he didn't know about you— but if he could, he'd spend every waking moment with you, asking you questions about Themyscira and your family. He wanted to know what it was like over there, and if he could visit. He wanted to meet Hestia. He couldn't help but smile to himself. You were literally the daughter of Zeus— and you were in his home. If you had came into his life a week ago, he would've idolized you for your power, but now it was different. He genuinely liked you and wanted to be around you. It was crazy.

You walked down the long, wide corridor, not really caring too much about which bedroom you select. You had more important things on your mind— such as how you were going to find the dreamstone, and how you were going to destroy it. Maybe it didn't make sense right now, but you could only hope that the pieces of the puzzle would begin to fall into place sooner rather than later. The bedroom you had settled in was large, with an en-suite bathroom and a walk in closet. It was magnificent, but then again, it seemed as though every room in Maxwell Lord's home struck you with awe. The bed was enormous too, much bigger than the single one you had back on Themyscira. You wondered to yourself what the point was in having such an extensive sized bed, but you struck it down to comfort over anything else. And it certainly was comfortable. You kicked off your gladiator sandals and sat on the white sheets, sighing as the soft material silked around your bare legs. It was wonderful.

Taking the photograph from earlier out of your shirt pocket, you held it delicately between your fingers. Maxwell Lord, with dark brown hair and a smile that could break hearts, holding little baby Alistair. Every time you looked at the photo your heart felt like it was melting, but in the best way possible. You could practically feel the love radiating from the father and son.

You placed the photograph carefully on the nightstand and unbuttoned the pinstripe shirt that Max had loaned you. Folding it up, you placed it in his closet amongst his other clothes, deciding that's where it belonged. You climbed under the sheets, tangling your naked body amongst the blankets. It felt amazing. Your surroundings might have been unfamiliar, but you had never felt more at home.

Just then, the main light switched on, illuminating the whole bedroom. Max gasped when he saw you lying in his bed. "Oh- oh shit, hey!" he exclaimed awkwardly, his eyebrows raising. His expression was almost animatronic as he saw your shoulders and the top of your bare chest peek out from underneath the duvet. "So, you found a bedroom! Uh- that's good."

"Is everything okay?" you asked, sitting upwards and propping yourself against a pillow. "Is it because I'm naked?"

"No- I mean yes! I mean no! Everything is fine. And, I know you said you were used to sleeping naked before so, it's okay. I promise. I just- you see- this is actually my bedroom. And that's my bed. So…"

"Oh." you nodded slowly, feeling slightly embarrassed. It usually took a lot for Max Lord to get flustered the way he was, and that scared him.

"No! I mean, there's no way you could have known. It's fine. You can sleep here tonight. I'll take one of the other rooms." Maxwell smiled, reaching over to the light switch to turn it off again. "Good night."

"Max wait-" you called before he could leave. He looked at you but said nothing. "Do you think that you could stay with me tonight?" you asked hesitantly, shuffling around the blankets. "It's just… when I'm with you, I feel… safe."

Maxwell struggled to find words, so instead, he just nodded, and sat next to you on the edge of the bed. "When I'm with you I feel safe too," he confessed with a gulp and you smiled. "Although that's probably because you're some superhuman goddess. I suppose I also feel quite intimidated by you." he shrugged, a nervous blush flushing his cheeks.

Your gaze snapped to face him and you tilted your head in bewilderment. "Intimidated? You are intimidated by me?" you asked. "Why would you- why-? I don't understand. I mean, look at me." you scoffed incredulously, gesturing down to your body that was hidden by the thin white material of Maxwell's duvet.

"I am." he exhaled, his eyes not leaving yours once.

And there were the butterflies again. The feeling you just couldn't shake. Everyone he looked you in the eye… every time his voice got low and soft it just made you feel… you couldn't even put it into words. Maxwell rubbed his feet awkwardly along the carpet.

"You can come under the blankets with me?" you suggested after a brief silence. You pulled the duvet open and gestured for him to lay next to you.

"Oh I don't know," he shuffled around. "Here, in the world of man, people only really lay together if they're… well, together." Max explained.

"Aren't we together?" you shrugged your shoulders.

"Mm, not like that," Maxwell pursed his lips together. He wanted to lay with you— he really did, but he didn't want you to get the wrong idea. "People only lay together if they're… in love."

"Were you in love with Julianna?" you asked a little too quickly. Maxwell finally broke his gaze from you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I shouldn't have said that." you tried to retract but Maxwell shushed you.

"No, it's okay. The truth is… I don't know. I thought I was in love with her but… I'm not sure anymore." Maxwell sighed, running a finger through his hair. He wasn't sure because now he was having feelings for you and these feelings weren't anything like he had ever felt before.

"But you shared a bed with her?" you quizzed.

"Well, yeah. We were married."

"Have you shared a bed with anyone who you weren't married to?" you beckoned further.

Maxwell paused. "Of course."

"So please," you hummed, smoothing out the bed sheets. "Lay with me."

Maxwell smiled before taking off his shoes and climbing in next to you. "Have- have you ever shared a bed with a man before?" Maxwell asked, swallowing the hard lump in his throat. Just the thought of you being with another man made his head spin.

"No," you said quietly. "There are no men on Themyscira." you reminded him.

"Oh right yeah." Maxwell nodded understandingly.

You snuggled up close to him and laid your head on his chest. "You're warm," you mumbled happily. "It's nice."

Maxwell stretched out his arm and wrapped it around you. You and him were cuddling in bed. He wanted it to mean something, he really did, but he couldn't help but feel like it was platonic on your end. You smelled so amazing. And your body fit into his like a puzzle piece that had been missing his whole life. He could stay in this moment forever. And you were also more than content. Maxwell was broad, and his arms were strong. You felt safe laying with him, you felt like he could protect you from any danger. You trusted him. And he trusted you.

"So, am I the first man you met?" Maxwell asked you, clearing his throat.

"You are," you confirmed. You pulled the photograph of Maxwell and Alistair from the nightstand and showed it to your friend. "I found this earlier today. I like it a lot."

"Oh yeah, that was the day Alistair was born," Maxwell smiled. "I was happy that day."

"You're so lucky to be a father. I've always wanted children." you confessed, biting your lip.

"Well maybe one day you can have some of your own." Maxwell murmured, smoothing out your hair.

"I doubt it. Amazons can't bear children. Although, I suppose I could."

"What makes you different from the other Amazons?" Max beckoned.

"A lot, actually. They're all warrior queens. Fighters. But Zeus blessed me with the ability to carry children if I were to become a mortal, because I'm the Goddess of Home and Hearth. I reunite families. I'm maternal at heart. That's why he granted me that blessing, I suppose." you explained, trying your hardest to recall the words your mother had spoken to you when you were just a little girl.

"Only if you become a mortal? How would you even do that?" Maxwell anxiously slid his hand into yours, and his heart filled with joy when you intertwined your fingers with his.

"If I exposed my true self in front of a large crowd of people then I could no longer be a goddess. Zeus would take away my powers and I'd never be able to return to Themyscira. I'd be normal, just like you."

He wanted to laugh. There was nothing about Max Lord that could be considered ‘normal’— but he opted to let your comment slide. He knew what you meant anyway. "Would you consider giving up your powers and becoming a mortal?"

"Maybe," you shrugged. "I would do it for love." you turned to face Maxwell, to look him in the eyes, but he was already looking at you— memorising your beautiful face. Everything about you was so perfect.

"Love." he repeated, validating to himself that he was indeed listening and not completely entranced by your beauty. His voice had dropped an octave and was no louder than a mere whisper. His eyes flicked down to your lips and he had never felt an urge so strong in his life to just kiss you. He remembered how soft your lips were earlier in the night when they'd gently brushed over his knuckles.

And now, you were looking at his lips too. They were pink and plush and— you'd never even kissed anyone before, let alone a man who was attractive as Maxwell Lord. From what you had learned about him, he was already so esteemed and had probably kissed dozens of girls in his lifetime. You on the other hand, were quite inexperienced. But that didn't mean you didn't want to learn.

You could hear his beating heart as you felt his chest rise and fall. He made sure that no piece of stray hair was in your face. He wanted to take in every detail. With a sudden air of confidence, Maxwell leaned in and nudged his nose against yours. Naturally, your eyes fluttered shut as his warm breath fanned over your skin. His hand dropped down to your waist and he gave your hip a gentle squeeze under the covers as he tilted his head and pressed his lips against yours.

It was magical. His lips moved perfectly against yours, like they were made for each other. Max closed his eyes and pressed his face further into yours, even using his tongue to teasingly lick a stripe over your lower lip. You felt your cheeks flush as an involuntary moan escaped your lips. As your mouth parted, Maxwell seized the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth… and it felt delightful. You wrapped a leg around his and tangled your fingers in his hair as he kissed you. You prayed that this moment would never end. His lips were sweet and you imagined they tasted vaguely of the honeyed whiskey he had been drinking earlier. His hand glided down to your thigh and you eventually pulled away from him with a gasp. He removed his hand from you.

"Too much?" he asked breathlessly, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your swollen lips.

You moved his hand back to its position on your thigh. "No- no," you whispered, shaking your head but unable to contain your smile. "It's just, I've never done anything like this before. I've never been kissed like this… or even touched… I've never even… you know."

"It's okay," Maxwell whispered, cupping your face. "We don't have to do anything you want to do."

"I want this." you confirmed, pulling your body on top of his and straddling him. Maxwell felt his cock twitch in his pants as you accidentally grinded over him, leaning in and reattaching your lips. The blanket was still draped over your shoulders but fuck, you were naked. You were naked and on top of him and you were kissing him. Maxwell was still practically fully clothed and he didn't want to remove the blanket from you but he did contemplate taking his own sweater off.

"You feel so good on top of me like this," he muttered against your lips. "Can I touch you?"

You hummed in response and grinded your hips over him again. "Please."

Maxwell brought his hands down to your breasts and began to fondle with them as you kissed him. You moaned and giggled as his thumb grazed over your puckered nipples, squeezing them gently now and again.

The make-out session must have lasted a good half an hour, and Maxwell swore it was the best he'd ever had. If he wasn't sure about his feelings before, this was only confirmation. He'd grown deeply in love with you.

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#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #max lord #maxwell lord #maxwell lord x reader #max lord x reader #ww84 #pedro pascal smut

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twolonesomestars · 4 years

Text

BJYX III

Japan Trip

This is a compilation post explaining the Japan trip and related theories (along with my own thoughts). Most of the theories in here are well-known. If you know the general gist of the Japan trip, you probably won’t see anything new.

Warning: This is all fake. Don’t take what I say to heart. These are just my random thoughts.

Extremely long post. Please beware.

All my explanations and thoughts will be bracketed and italicized: [like this]. If you would like to just read about the theories, ignore the bracketed and italicized bits.

I suggest reading all of the theories first and creating your own opinion on the trip before reading my commentary, especially if you’re a new fan. (AKA ignore the bracketed & italicized parts for now).

[One last thing before I start (and a test for those who want to read the theories first… ignore this for now): I believe this Japan trip changed their relationship… In that, I believe they began their romantic relationship after this trip. A quick timeline mention: truthfully, their relationship before and during CQL filming isn’t too important for this theory. However, I do believe that there was some sort of confession from WYB at the end of filming, which may have played a role in XZ’s decision to take the trip to Japan. I’ll provide my reasoning later in the post. All my explanations and thoughts are going to be based on these particular assumptions; although, I will try to include rebuttals & explanations based on countering arguments.]

OUTLINE

DATES

PRE-JAPAN TRIP

Character Bleed Changed Phone Number

MID-JAPAN TRIP

XZ’s 180911 Post + Story

POST-JAPAN TRIP

XZ’s 180913 Post & Story XZ’s 181119 Post WYB’s 181119 Post Time Gap WYB’s 190322 Post

FINAL THOUGHTS

Let’s get into it!

DATES:

180416 - 180823 Filming for CQL

180908 - 180912 XZ’s Japan trip

180913 - XZ posted his 521st Weibo post & 18th Weibo story

181005 - XZ’s Birthday

181119 @ 17:42 - XZ’s Japan trip post

181119 @ 18:47 - WYB’s response post

190322 - WYB’s Rome trip post

PRE-JAPAN TRIP:

Character Bleed

XZ’s reasoning behind his Japan trip in this interview @ 9:31

XZ explicitly says, “I told myself I had to walk out of it.” His reasoning being, “[I had to] leave him there. [I had to] return him to the one he loves.”

You can unpack a lot from that. I got two main things from it:

(“I had to walk out of it”): you can assume that XZ took everything from WWX and made it his own, including, and specifically, WWX’s love for LWJ. Essentially, by the end of filming, XZ himself was in love with LWJ.

(“return him to the one he loves”): XZ separates himself very clearly from WWX. He points out his reasoning to walk it off is him wanting to return WWX to the one he loves… the implication is that he figured out he doesn’t love the one WWX loves.

[The reason I think there was some sort of confession at the end of filming that pushed XZ to take this trip and figure himself out is because he already knew he loved LWJ. I think he may have attributed any romantic feelings he felt towards WYB to the fact that he plays the character he loves. So, if WYB confessed to wanting to pursue a romantic relationship with him, it makes sense that XZ would hesitate. I doubt he’d want to lead WYB on just to later realize all of his feelings were for LWJ and not him. I’m sure XZ would’ve walked off WWX eventually, but I think he did it as quickly as he could to give a certain person (and himself) answers.

Obviously, I don’t know how XZ goes about with his acting, so these are all just random assumptions.]

Changed Phone Number

I’ve gotten a few asks wanting me to clarify and give my opinion on the rumor about XZ changing his number and WYB asking around for it. I’ve heard two versions of this:

The first version has two variations:

XZ changed his number sometime after his DDU appearance in 2017 and before CQL began shooting, and WYB was asking the CQL crew for it.

XZ changed his number during CQL filming sometime, and WYB was asking the CQL crew for it.

The second version is that XZ changed his number before he left to Japan and WYB was asking around for it for months (who he was asking was undefined).

A related rumor I want to note: a fan who was at the airport when XZ was waiting for his flight to Japan supposedly saw him not answering his phone.

Let me clarify the relationship between WeChat & phone numbers:

In WeChat, every registered user gets a WeChat ID. There are three main ways people can add someone: (1) have the person’s WeChat ID (2) have the person’s phone number (3) have access to the person’s QR code. For (1) and (2), the other person must enable the option to be found via WeChat ID or phone number in order for you to find them. You can also choose to not show your phone number at all, so even if someone adds you via (1) or (3), they may still not have access to your number depending on your settings. To sum it up, you do NOT need to know another person’s phone number to message them on WeChat. Practically everyone in China uses WeChat as their main social messaging application… you can send messages (text & voice) and you can call (voice-only & video). People don’t use their actual given numbers to message or call too much (ex. iPhone messaging/ Facetime); phone numbers are typically used when making accounts on various social media apps, online payment, etc.

There’s a pretty well-backed up theory that WYB asked one of his DDU co-hosts (specifically DZW) if he could get XZ’s WeChat ID for him during/ after filming the episode with XNINE. If this theory is true, we can only be sure that he got XZ’s WeChat ID, not that he got his phone number.

If you do want to change your number or WeChat ID (prior to 2020, you could only change your WeChat ID once per account), you can simply go into the WeChat settings and update; this process won’t change your WeChat account and it won’t affect any of your contacts or chat history. If you want to stop receiving messages & calls from someone, you can either block or delete them from your contacts on the app.

I’m pointing all of this out because I’m pretty sure most of XZ’s & WYB’s communication takes place in WeChat. WYB has said in several interviews that he now prefers his phone and wifi access; he’s also said that he can’t go without WeChat now.

[I honestly don’t think this rumor is real. But, out of the two versions, I’d say the first version (either variation) makes more sense than the second version.

I have three reasons for thinking the second version is the most unlikely:

It’d be easier to block the other person for however long you need (and then unblock them or delete them depending on your choice later) rather than going through the hassle of changing your number. Remember when WYB’s phone number got leaked and he had to change it (August 2019)? He asked people to not use his number to log into accounts; he even mentioned that he would need to change all of them, which would be a large hassle. Sure, there could be circumstances where you’d want to change your phone number… but I don’t think this situation is that extreme, especially since it was supposedly at the airport before his trip and before he decided.

I don’t think XZ’s the type of person to leave someone hanging, no matter how much internal turmoil he may be dealing with, and especially not when that someone is close to him. I believe he’d at least inform others that he’ll be out of range and to not message or call him. Not to mention, if he told WYB to not contact him for the next couple of days, I’d like to believe WYB would respect that wish, whether he knew the reason or not. Since I do think that WYB confessed prior to the Japan trip, I believe he knew. But, even if he didn’t, he has integrity and self-respect. He’s going to respect others’ wishes, and even more so if he respects the other person… and he does respect XZ.

The theory specifically points out “months” … WYB literally celebrated XZ’s birthday with him about three weeks after this trip.

As for the first version:

Variation #1 implies that this happened at the start of filming/ bootcamp; it also implies that WYB got XZ’s number after he contacted him on WeChat. One assumption I have is: I don’t think celebrities/ people in the industry exchange phone numbers much, just their WeChat IDs. This is why I don’t think XZ & WYB exchanged numbers when they first met, only their WeChat IDs. As for WYB asking the crew for XZ’s number… if he already had XZ’s previous number, I kinda doubt he’d go around asking others when he could just ask XZ himself.

Variation #2 probably makes the most sense out of all three, and even then it’s a bit of a stretch. This variation implies that it’s a few months into filming, at which point XZ & WYB were extremely close. I doubt he’d be too nervous to ask XZ directly for his new number. The only rebuttal I could think of for this is that perhaps WYB asking around instead of asking XZ himself was him being coquettish.

In the end, this rumor doesn’t make too much sense to me. But take it as you will.]

MID-JAPAN TRIP:

XZ’s 180911 Post + Story

We know that he kept deleting his Weibo posts before the number could reach *520. (*520 & 521 are both kadian for “I love you” even though 520 is more widely used.)

XZ posted his 520th post on 180911 (right in the middle of his trip). It was an ad for AHC. AHC is the first brand both WYB & XZ shared and spoke for; I believe WYB stopped his spokesperson duties on 180829 & XZ began his on 180907.

XZ posted his 17th story, also on 180911, of him on a ferry during the trip.

[I burst out laughing when I realized he posted an ad for his 520th post. He kept deleting posts to make sure he stayed away from #520; he could’ve easily deleted another post to make the ad his 519th. A lot of solo fans were looking forward to his 520th post being dedicated to them (exhibit 1), and then he did that. Sly as per usual. And the 17th story... leading up to the 18th. I think XZ pretty much knew/ made his choice/ accepted his feelings by this point, which is why he posted like this.]

POST-JAPAN TRIP:

XZ’s 180913 Post & Story

XZ posted this video on Weibo on 180913. It was his *521th post & *18th story. (*52118 = “wo ai ni yi bo” A BXG posted about counting XZ’s posts to find these numbers.)

His caption was:

以为在拍照的找🤣... (夏天的风结束了，假期也结束了🌿🌿🎋)

which roughly translates to:

“I thought I was posing for a photo🤣... (The summer wind is over, the holiday is also over 🌿🌿🎋)”

There are several theories about the caption.

the emojis:

The bamboo emoji refers to WYB. In this behind the scenes footage, XZ compares WYB’s face to a bamboo stick.

the words:

XZ is referring to the season ending and the weather in the video where the wind is blowing across his face.

When XZ states that both the summer wind and his holiday are over, he is implying that he has left the character he became that summer (WWX) behind and moving forward.

XZ is referring to the song Summer Wind (夏天的风) by Liu Rui Qi (刘瑞琦). I’m not going to go too deep into this; the lyrics in question are:

夏天的风我永远记得清清楚楚地说你爱我我看见你酷酷的笑容也有腼腆的时候

roughly translates to

The summer wind, I will always remember [you] saying clearly that you love me. I saw your cool smile [yet] there are times when you are shy.

Interpretations are: (line 1) “summer wind” & “always remember” - XZ is reminiscing on the things that have happened that summer when CQL was filmed. (line 2) “saying clearly… you love me” - a confession from a certain someone… we know of one on camera: “zhan-ge didi ai ni.” (lines 3-4) “cool smile” & “shy” - these adjectives fit a person we know.

[I didn't find out about half of these caption theories until way later, and once I had already formed my opinion on this trip. A lot of it seems like a stretch, but all the theories make some sort of sense. Meh, there’s a lot you can do with a caption, so just take it all in.

Personally, I didn’t pay attention to the caption too much. I knew about the lyrics, but I purposely avoided them precisely because they were lyrics; you can do a lot with them. I finally explored it for this post, and I actually like it a lot; it’s very sweet. I’m still leaning towards the reference being unlikely; however, XZ is very sneaky, so I wouldn’t put it past him. I also knew about the bamboo reference, but I never gave it much thought. I didn’t think that one scene of them joking around was enough to say that he used the emoji to refer to WYB. Though, if it was actually a reference, there’s definitely more to it that we don’t know about. Ultimately, for this one, my decision was based on the basics: the kadian (and later reinforced by the whole AHC ad post).]

XZ’s 181119 Post @ 17:42

A major theory for this post comes from his caption:

“一些存货... 现代人即将拥有姓名 [’silent giggling’ emoji]... ”

roughly translates to

“some stock [photos]... modern man will soon be named...”

The main focus here is the “modern man.”

Once the behind the scenes footage and interviews began releasing, BXG started noticing how WYB got whenever XZ mentioned LWJ. His facial expressions always changed… immediate frowns. BXG speculated that WYB was trying to show himself as separate from his character, but XZ didn’t take notice. The character LWJ is figuratively and literally from the past; the actor on the other hand is from modern society. Thus, XZ mentioning modern man was taken to be a reference to XZ’s love for the actor alone, not the character.

[To those who have sent asks about the “modern man” quote, I hope this clears it up. My interpretation of it is the same. At the end of the day, XZ most definitely separated the two.]

Another theory for this one is that the horizontal middle row pictures spell out “王一博” going from left to right.

王 (“wáng”)

The lines on the building look like the character

He could’ve meant “look towards,” which is what he’s doing in the picture. It is a different character (“望”), and has a slightly different pronunciation (“wàng”)

He could’ve meant “going in one direction,” referring to the arrow on the sign, which is a different character (“往”), and has a slightly different pronunciation (“wǎng”)

一 (yī)

The image looks like the character

博 (bó)

Another meaning for “博” is “extensive” or “rich” which you can take the design on the outside of the to be

The building is a museum, whose word (“博物馆”) begins with “博”

[For the spelling, my interpretations were all of the #1s. (I’ll explain a little bit more when we get to WYB’s 190322 post.)]

One last theory about this post: BXG then witnessed XZ editing his post in real time to change the position of the first two pictures. There’s a theory that he saw this post (below) from the previous day and changed the positions to match.

OP talking about the switch here and below.

[I was so enamored by this theory until I actually went looking for it. The post of WYB’s pictures is from a fan, and while I don’t doubt that they saw more of fans’ posts back then, this one wasn’t tagged or anything. It could easily have been XZ’s artist side popping up. But, maybe XZ was lurking on his private account. Even though it’s one of the more iffy ones, it’s such a cute theory that I actually don’t mind believing it.]

This is a side note and not part of the actual theory: On my search for all things related to this trip, I noticed one of WYB’s posts where he did a similar thing.

This was in June 2018, so before XZ’s post. Mayhaps inspiration.

WYB’s 181119 Post @ 18:47

WYB posted exactly *1:05 hours after XZ posted. (*105 = 10/5, XZ’s birthday)

His caption was “冒个泡”

He was using internet slang; it can be vaguely translated to “I am here.” In context, he’s using the slang to refer to him not posting for a long time; he’s ‘showing his presence.’

Notable Things:

He posted the day prior on 181118; it wasn’t an ad, but it wasn’t exactly personal either.

He posted a picture of himself with his DDU brothers during a trip on 181104.

He had not posted a selfie since 181004. (Back then, he updated personal posts once or twice a week, whether it was a selfie or something about his life, such as what show he was watching. The month & a half time gap between personal posts would’ve been unusual.)

The caption & selfie work as a response to XZ’s “modern man will soon be named.”

Another thing fans were intrigued about was the time stamp on the photo, 180525.

WYB never really posts throwbacks, especially with selfies, yet he did one here to a date in the middle of CQL filming. He also usually never adds the date to his photos.

Isn’t it interesting that he captions the post with slang that tells people he’s back from a break, but uses an old photo instead of a new one? If someone’s announcing that they’re coming back from a break (especially a celebrity), wouldn’t it make more sense to post a recent photo rather than an old one (in this case, one from 6 months ago)? And, why even bother including the date in the first place?

[I can’t believe I barely noticed that WYB posted 1:05 hours after XZ. What in the world WYB? I’m losing my mind. It’s down to the damn minute, and their minutes weren’t a “0” or “5” multiple either. I usually try to pass off a lot of things regarding YiZhan (especially kadian) as coincidences, but what even is this? If it wasn’t intentional… What kind of connection do these two share?

Yes, I do think this was WYB’s response. The throwback picture was probably the most telling for me; him including the date he took the photo was like a flashing sign saying: ‘hey look at this date. it’s important.’ And when you add the caption into the mix, it’s taken to another level. I feel the combination of hints in and related to the post is too much and too telling to be coincidental.]

Time Gap

There’s an interesting time gap between the two XZ’s posts (180913 & 181119). There are a few theories about what could’ve happened in those two months. Some of the ones I’ve seen and heard are:

XZ & WYB could’ve been taking that time to tell their parents and settle things with their agencies

XZ & WYB could’ve begun dating exclusively after XZ’s return

Both of these theories imply that everything got settled or made official around 181119.

[I never really thought about the time gap between the posts… mostly because I kept forgetting there even was one. They’re both ridiculously romantic so I don’t doubt that 181119 is something of importance to them. I think it’s especially proving that both of them did a throwback to the same seemingly important time period.]

WYB’s 190322 Post

This post is pretty similar to XZ’s 181119 throwback post to the Japan trip. The theory for this one is that WYB spelled out “肖战” using the vertical middle row, going from top to bottom.

肖 - The tree looks like the top part of the “肖” character; the branches look like the bottom part of it.

战 - Since WYB placed an image of the entire Roman colosseum (where gladiator battles took place) in the last spot, he may have been alluding to how “战” means “battle” or “fight” (similar to how XZ may have been alluding to the meaning of “博” instead of getting a picture of the character).

WYB filmed the DDU episode on 3/22; I don’t believe there’s another significance to the date.

[WYB spelling out the “肖” using the first two pictures backs up my thinking that XZ spelled out the “王” and “一” characters in his first two pictures. This also leads me to think that both of them alluded to each other’s last character rather than spelling it out in their third pictures.]

FINAL THOUGHTS:

[The reason I like this overall theory a lot is because I think the happenings really fit with the things they’ve told us in interviews and suit their personalities. It makes sense to me that XZ would want to take some time to think about it; it makes sense to me that WYB was probably the one who took the first step.

As for the theories about the details… some of them are really out there, but all of them are fun to consider. As usual, take everything with a grain of salt.]

Some of these posts & events have several theories (i.e. XZ’s summer wind caption); they aren’t mutually exclusive… more than one can be true at the same time.

I tried to be as neutral as I could when explaining these theories. I tried to include counters and other possibilities, but I’m sure some bias came out. Just take it all in and take it for what it is.

My intention with this post was to put everything into perspective and give a good timeline. (As well as get everything in one place.) If you’re interested in my thoughts, feel free to go back and read the italicized & bracketed parts (if you hadn’t already).

The following is something I want to say about these theories and the BXG community in general:

Every theory has inconsistencies and exaggerations… that’s what makes it a theory. As long as we discuss things knowing this fact, that’s all that matters. We’re here to have fun, not to prove what’s right or wrong.

I love seeing the various theories everyone in this community puts out, no matter how different or similar they are to the ones I like/ believe in. It’s fun to look into these things with different perspectives. Don’t feel burdened if you believe in a less popular theory. Besides, we will never know anything for sure.

Be kind. And, have a good time.

Once again, this is all fake. I do not personally know XZ & WYB, and I will never know anything about them; this includes the intricacies of whatever relationship they share. So, CPN.

#don't ask me why it took so long lol #japan trip #yizhan #bjyx

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mcwritingblog · 3 years

Text

Immortal: Chapter 1

A Girl and Her Cat

Pairing: Javier Pena x reader

Summary: A small town barista meets a handsome Javi.

Rating: G

Author’s note: Hey guys I'm sorry this doesn't have a lot of Javier in it, its really a big set up chapter for the story.

Word count: 2k

1975, a random fall Tuesday

I don't know how it even happened, or how I met him. At the time I was living in a small town in Columbia run by Americans, keeping to myself, not drawing any attention to myself. He walked into my cafe and got a small black coffee. He stayed a while, reading his small novel.

“Hi there, stranger, I got your coffee”, you said as you set down his drink. “Anything else?”

“No ma’am. Thank you”

“No problem”, you went to turn away but you had to know, “Um, hey?”

“Yes?”

“You've come in before. What's your name?”

“Javier”

“Javier. I'm y/n. Let me know if you need anything. Maybe next time you could try a latte”, he lets out a snort. You go back to cleaning. It was extremely slow today so you got the go-ahead from your boss to close up early.

“Miss?”

You turned around and saw Javier leaning up against his truck with a smile.

You grasp your chest. “You scared me. I didn't notice you there.”

“Were you about to walk home?”

“Yes”

“Would you mind a ride?”

“My apartment isn't that far from here, but thank you I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

And like that, you were walking home, enjoying the weather. It was chilly and the leaves were falling beside you everywhere. You didn't mind the ten-minute walk to your apartment. You don't even get in the door before your cat starts meowing at you.

“Avery, give me one moment. I'll feed you I promise.”. You love the hell out of the black cat but the girl is so needy.

You flick off your shoes by the front door, bending down to pet Avery. You walked past her to shake some food into her bowl. With how she rushes to it, you'd think she never got fed. Silly girl. You walk over to the couch and lay out, grabbing the blanket to get comfortable, a few moments pass and your cat hops up to snuggle up to you. You flip on your tv to find something to have in the background and settle on Hawaii Five O. There's something about cops that attracts you so much. You find yourself falling asleep, Avery radiating heat on your stomach.

---

You were woken up the next morning by your alarm clock; another day, another dollar. You were on second shift today so you didn't have to be in until 11. You got up and made yourself toast and eggs, making sure fatso had her food too.

“Pretty girl”, you say scratching her chin and heading towards the door, adding an “I’ll be back later. Byeee”

The walk to the shop today was extra nice. You can smell the aroma of a pumpkin pie as you pass the houses in your neighborhood and hear the sounds of children playing outside. The giggles brought life to the quiet afternoon. As you come closer to the city, the more you hear the sounds of cars passing and smells of bread being baked at the bakery down the street. The bakers wave at you as you pass the front window. You hold up two fingers, gesturing back. Two shops down is Mrs. Rivera trying to hang up plants, struggling to steady herself, AND the hanging ivy pot.

“Here let me help you.”, you say as you come behind her and catch the pot, succeeding in hanging it up on her awning.

“Thank you, sweetheart!”, she says as she wipes her hands on her apron.

“No problem. I have to get going but come by for a latte?”, you ask.

“Yeah. I’ll see you”

And with that, you were back to it. Half a block down and you come to the shop's front door. It dings as you enter.

“You're late”, your boss, Maria, gets on to you.

“Mrs. Rivera needed help again.”

“Uh-huh. Get your butt back there”, she snorts. She's not mad. Thank god.

“Been busy today?”You ask about taking off your backpack and hanging it up. The shop was basically vacant. The only customer you could see was a college kid studying in the corner. You walk around to pick up mugs and empty plates from various tables.

“Not really. The usuals mostly… Oh! A guy was asking about you! He asked if I knew if you got home safe?”, she asked, confused.

“Ah yes, Javier. He offered to take me home last night.”, you say while walking the dirty dishes to the back.

“He’s cute. You should get in there, girl”, she yells to you. “In there?”, you come around the corner and scoff, “I'm not that interested in dating right now.”

“You should. You can't just spend all your free time with your cat and nonexistent characters in your books.”

“Can.” You point out “And will”

“You're only 24, do you really wanna throw away that opportunity?”

You could only muster up an eye roll.

----

The rest of the shift went off without a problem. Maria went home shortly after her talk with you. The next few hours included a couple of customers but mostly some cleaning. Mrs. Rivera actually came to see you, even getting a hot chocolate for her grandson when she got her latte. You hold a conversation with her for a while, talking about her daughter’s new job at the school. Maria said something about that a couple of weeks ago. The rest of the regulars got their usual drinks, only sticking around long enough for their drinks. The clock soon hits 7 pm.

“Another tea?”, you ask the college student in the corner. He’s been here for your whole shift and has gotten two hot green teas with sugar.

“No ma’am. I'm about to leave but I appreciate it.”

‘Alright. Don't be a stranger”, you say, taking his cup and saucer to the back to clean it off. You place it in the strainer to left it air dry. As you are in the back, the customer packed up and left, leaving the shop empty.

You walk past every table, wiping it down and stacking chairs on top, then grabbing the broom. You quite enjoy the quiet chill night, humming a simple tune. The night offers an array of noises through the open door: Grasshoppers chirping and the soft whistle of the breeze. You finish sweeping and put up the broom. “The tips were pretty good today”, you think, pushing the money into your pocket, removing your apron, locking up, and heading home.

----

You had Thursday off and planned to spend it accordingly. You slept until you couldn't anymore, got up, and fed Avery, offering extra pets to the needy cat. She snuggles up to you on the couch, laying in the space in front of your stomach. Your newest interest? Murder mysteries. So you are relaxing on the couch reading Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile.

You get pretty far into the book before hearing a knock at your door. Weird. Then walk to unlatch the door, swinging it open.

“Uh... hello?”, you questioned the man in front of you. He’s standing there with his hand to the back of his neck, looking nervous

“Hi. Umm, I'm new to building. I live across the hall. I’m Anthony”, he reaches his hand out. You take his hand and shake it.

“Y/N”, you respond, smiling.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N”

“Would you like to come in for some coffee? I just put on a fresh pot”, you invite.

“Yeah, that sounds nice.”, his face sparks up in happiness. He takes your invitation and walks into your apartment, you close the door behind him.

‘Wow. Nice apartment. How long have you been living here?”

“Eh, a while”. Boy, you have NO idea.

He sits down at your dinner table and you bring over two coffee mugs.

“Cream? Sugar?”, you ask.

“Yes. Both please”, he responds and you hand him the containers of cream and sugar.

“Just moved here?”

“Yeah. From Arizona. The owner told me that you're one of the only Americans renting here. Thought I might come by and say hello.”

“Arizona, huh?”

“Yeah. I used to live in Georgia when I was a young girl but I’ve been around the world a lot. Been a while since I’ve been in the United States”, you drift off for a second but reel it in. “ Where in Arizona are you from?”

“Tucson. Wasn’t a bad place to live but I went to college for a major in the Spanish language. I wanted to visit places where I could hear the different dialects and see the different cultures. Thus, I am in Columbia.”

“Ah, you see I just wanted to see the world. I’ve been almost everywhere”

‘What was your favorite place to visit?”, he asks, fully focused on the conversation and not realizing Avery’s furry body rubbing against his shins. She meows. “Oh, well, hello there pretty girl. What’s your name?”. He reaches down to pet her back.

“That’s Avery. But back to your question, I was living in Greece for a while and I just adored the blue waters and sandy beaches.”

He takes a sip of his coffee and asks, “So what brought you here?”

“Need a change of scene. I had a friend who lived here but she passed away a couple of years ago”, you reply back nonchalantly, shrugging your shoulders.

“Oh, im so sorry to hear that. Not too pry but we’re you close?”

“Yeah, We knew each other for a while.”

“How’d she die?”, he asks further

“Old age”, you let slip.

“Old age? he responds surprised.

“Uh... yeah. A family friend.”, you try to make up a better story to keep suspicion off of you.

That conversation kind of ended before it started, instead opting for a conversation about Anthony’s studies in places like Cuba and Spain. The talk circled around to different places you’ve visited, Rome being a topic that seemed to trail on and on. The sun outside seems to start to set.

“I’ve got to get going but it was nice to meet you, Y’N”

“You too, Anthony. Let me know if you need a cup of sugar or anything”, you say following him towards your door. He steps through and across the hallway to his front door. When he shuts his door, you follow suit. You turn around and you can feel Avery’s judging eyes on you.

“I know, I almost blew my cover”, you tell your feline friend. She meows.

-----

You weren't wrong when you told Anthony you’ve been living in Columbia for a while. The problem is his definition and your definition of “a while” were completely different. The truth is you lived in Columbia for 40 years and in this town for about 20. You didn’t age. The only person who could possibly know is Mrs. Rivera but she is very good at minding her own business. You were one of the only ones who came to her husband’s funeral a year ago. You’re practically family. The town’s oldest residents have passed and the owners of the apartments change every couple of years. The rent is paid in cash and the tenets come and go. Every couple of decades you move to another small town in another country.

You lived a normal life but you didn’t know your parents. You lived in the orphanage until you were 18. It was then you took up a job, reading in your spare time, and traveling when you could. You didn’t even realize your immortality until you were 40 looking 20. And then 50 looking 20. You did try to date but soon came to realize that you’d outlive them, leaving a trail of broken hearts. You were pretty sure you were incapable of love. 80 years old and not prepared for what happened next.

Javier Pena was about to change your life.

#javier pena #javier x reader #Javier pena x reader #reincarnated au #coffee shop au #mostly plot #immortal au

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joachimnapoleon · 3 years

Note

May I ask you the question on a rather delicate topic (which bothers me from time to time, when I stumble upon Murat’s mentions in Poniatowski’s biographies etc.)? It is often repeated that they resembled each other in some areas, like their love for parties, dances, horses and women...

So my question will be on that, latter topic.

We all know about Caroline, but what about other women in Joachim’s life? Did he have other significant “love interests”? Was Caroline the first woman he proposed to? Did he... cheat on her???

If you know anything on the topic could you please share it with us? ))) (Because I am very curious why did prince Murat earn such a reputation ;)

Thanks in advance!

Oooh this is going to be a fun one. :)

Murat did acquire quite a reputation for womanizing. Napoleon would say on Saint Helena that Murat "needed women like he needed food." On another occasion (and for some reason Napoleon returned to the subject of Murat's sex life on numerous occasions) he exclaimed "How many mistakes did Murat not commit in order to establish his headquarters in a chateau where there were women! He needed them every day, so I readily tolerated a general having a whore with him, in order to avoid this inconvenience." (From Gourgaud's diary, 3 April 1817.) Apparently Napoleon was quite fixated on this subject because Bertrand records similar remarks from him in an undated note assumed to be from some time in 1820: "Murat supposedly needed a woman each night, but every woman was good to him, and nothing stopped him, whether she had the pox or not." (Vol. 2 of Bertrand's Cahiers de Sainte-Hélène, pg 438) Which is likely a reference to one of Murat's more well-known mistresses, Madame Ruga, a lawyer's wife, whom he met (and possibly fell in love with) in Brescia.

But I'm getting a bit ahead of myself. We'll get back to Madame Ruga.

Murat's early life is very poorly documented. Some of his early biographers allude vaguely to him womanizing while he was still a student in the seminary, and even claim that he fought a duel over a young woman before abandoning the seminary to become a soldier. Take it all with a grain of salt. The first actual evidence of Murat having an attachment to a woman, lies in his letters referencing a young woman named Mion Bastide, from his hometown. It's hard to tell how deep his feelings for her ran; he repeatedly asks his older brother for news of her--and also what her "intentions" are, and if she is flirting with the young men of La Bastide while he is away on his military duties. Perhaps they had spoken of marriage at some point while he'd been home. Anyway, he eventually got tired of her not responding to him and moved on. While a captain in the chasseurs à cheval, he apparently had an affair with a woman named Eléonore; I haven't come across any details about this, but his attachment to her was strong enough that he kept a pocketwatch with "Joachim Murat, capitaine de chasseurs à cheval: Eléonore to Joachim - do not forget her" inscribed inside; he only relinquished this watch during the 1812 campaign, as a gift to a Cossack.

During the Italian campaign, Murat had affairs with two men's wives; the aforementioned Madame Ruga, and one Madame Ghirardi (more on her shortly). Madame Ruga is described in Desaix's notes as "young, pretty; wife of a lawyer; like all the Milanese, loving pleasures, having suffered from the venom"--"the venom" (le venin) being a tactful way of saying she'd had venereal disease, which she soon passed on to Murat. "Murat is ill," Napoleon writes to Josephine on 22 July 1796; "the goddess of the ball, Mme Ruga, properly gave him une galanterie," which is another lovely old-fashioned euphemism for giving someone VD. Napoleon continues that Murat "is furious; he wants to put his adventure in the gazettes." But in typical Murat fashion, his fury burned out quickly, and he seems to have been quite infatuated with Mme Ruga--he continued the affair, which is probably what spawned Napoleon's later disgusted recollection on Saint Helena. He even temporarily neglected his duties, until Napoleon sent him a mild reprimand, to which Murat replied with indignation. "I have never had any idea which could be the least disfavorable to you," Napoleon responded drily on 21 June 1797, "but I thought that you were more necessary to your division than to your mistress in Brescia." When Murat was sent back to Italy in 1800--months after marrying Caroline--there's a very good likelihood that he resumed his affair with Mme Ruga. At any rate, they maintained contact for some time; she delivered a letter to Eugène de Beauharnais for him in 1805.

Now on to Mme Ghirardi. Apparently he also met this woman, wife of a General Lechi, in Brescia. Eventually Napoleon sent Murat to Rastadt for peace negotiations at the end of the Italian campaign. According to an article in the January 1908 Revue Napoléonienne, this is what happened next:

But Murat's conquest does not intend to let him go. Desperate to hold him back, she follows him. The beauty flees from Brescia, crosses the Alps and falls into Strasbourg; when Murat returns from Rastadt to Paris, she settles there with him and stays in the same hotel, rue des Capucins-Neufs, number 20. The adventure here is complicated by a comic novel. The husband, worthy and notable citizen of Brescia, makes a lot of noise about his misadventure and instantly demands the lost object. He brings his complaint to Milan; he comes as far as Paris to address a mournful petition to the Directory. He begs Barras and his colleagues to set themselves up as defenders of outraged morality: "Put this young woman betrayed by a vile seducer on the path of righteousness and virtue, give a mother to an innocent child; it is an honest husband who asks for this act of justice. He will be able to publish it throughout the Cisalpine and to his fellow citizens who expect it from you." (...) A singular crossover facilitated the outcome. While the husband brought his action in Paris for restitution of wife, Murat, perhaps judging that the follies of youth should not be prolonged, adopted the part of bringing the fugitive back to Brescia and resuming his military career in Italy.

Napoleon writes to Berthier to inform him that Murat is coming back to Italy to return "this heroine of Brescia," take a vacation in Rome, and then rejoin the army. And that is the last we know of Mme Ghirardi and her affair with Murat.

The short answer to your question as to whether Murat cheated on Caroline is, unfortunately, yes.

And, not to make excuses for him, but it's hard to see it turning out otherwise given that Murat was pretty set in his ways by the time of his marriage. He had long since gotten into the habit of flitting from one woman to another, and he was in his early thirties when he finally married. On top of that, his military duties made it inevitable that he would spend long periods far away from Caroline--which he did--and I just don't think he had either the self-control or the interest in remaining faithful after awhile.

(I'm just going to excerpt this next part from a post I did on Murat's relationship with Caroline awhile back, since it fits in perfectly here.)

They endured a long period of separation very early in their marriage–the first of many, adding up to several total years spent apart between 1800 and their final parting in May of 1815. Murat was sent to take command of a force in Italy in November 1800 while Caroline was pregnant with their first child; they did not see each other again until May of the following year. There are a couple of letters within Murat’s published correspondence that hint that, though he at first attempted to remain faithful to his wife during this interim, he may have given up on the endeavor prior to their reunion. The diplomat Charles Alquier, who befriended Murat in Italy, wrote to him in April 1801, lamenting not being able to spend a few days with him in Florence, teasing that he “would like to witness your gallant successes there and hear you talk about your marital fidelity, without believing it in the slightest.” The following month, after the arrival of Caroline, Alquier teases Murat again along these lines, in a postscript that reads “It was about time that Madame Murat arrived in Florence, or your hard-pressed fidelity was about to escape you.” He had almost certainly resumed his affair with Madame Ruga during this period.

There is a rather fascinating little affair that takes place early in 1806, in which Napoleon and Murat were having a simultaneous affair with a young woman named Éleonore Denuelle de la Plaigne, who was staying with the Murats at Neuilly at the time. Napoleon abruptly put an end to his affair with her when he discovered that she was also sleeping with Murat. Éleonore gave birth to a baby boy at the end of the year, and Napoleon believed the child was probably Murat's--up until he saw the boy in person prior to embarking for Saint Helena. What's particularly fascinating to me about this episode is the fact that Caroline pretty much arranged this affair for her brother--the Bonaparte siblings were so hell-bent on getting Napoleon to divorce Josephine by this point that some of them were acting like glorified pimps, hooking Napoleon up with girls left and right in hopes that he'd eventually produce a baby and prove that he wasn't to blame for the lack of an heir. But the timing of Murat, a man of proven fertility (he had four children by now), swooping in to plant a few seeds of his own at the same time that he undoubtedly knew Napoleon was bedding Éleonore just... let's just say I have theories about this. Suffice to say I think the Murats' sexual dynamic took some interesting twists and turns, and I'm fairly convinced that they each weaponized the other's sexuality on occasion--the Éleonore affair being the first example, and Caroline's affair with Metternich later on being another. This is totally, 100% my own personal theory and there's no way in hell to prove it either way, it's just my own reading of the situation given my current understanding of the personalities involved.

Anyway. The interesting thing about Murat's alleged affairs is that so few of his mistresses have been written of by name, the ones above being the exceptions. I've seen it written that he had a brief fling with the actress Mademoiselle Georges--who also allegedly had a short affair with Napoleon--but it's another one of those things that isn't well-sourced, at least from what I've found so far. As for his mistresses in Naples, I haven't come across the name of a single one. General Guglielmo Pépé only refers to them in the most general terms, remarking that King Joachim considered it dishonorable to refuse to grant a woman a favor "even were she not his mistress," and that he was especially susceptible to the "entreaties of the ladies about the Court". He also recounts Murat telling him once that "The Queen does not much like my giving audience to ladies," to which Pépé rejoined, "I pity the Queen if she notices the gallantries of Your Majesty." But I do find it extremely interesting that there seems to be absolutely no information whatsoever on any of Murat's alleged mistresses in Naples, which makes me wonder if his reputation in that area might be a bit exaggerated and if a lot of his so-called "gallantries" were simple flirtations. He never stopped being a massive flirt or enjoying having women's eyes on him. "He was very vain," Madame Fusil, an actress who met him in 1812, wrote of him, "and he liked women to watch out for him."

I hope I didn't forget anything! And thanks for the ask! ^_^

#asks #Joachim Murat #Caroline Murat #Caroline Bonaparte #Napoleon #Napoleon Bonaparte

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rigmarolling · 4 years

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Historical Holiday Traditions We Really Need To Bring Back

Here comes Santa Claus, and also a bunch of annual holiday Things we do to ensure he commits a truly boggling act of breaking and entering and leaves goods underneath the large plant in the living room.

Because I’ve always got a hankerin’ for the days of yore, here are some historical holiday traditions we really need to bring back:

1. Everything that happened on Saturnalia

Saturnalia was the ancient Roman winter festival held on December 25th--which is why we celebrate Christmas on that day and not on the day historians speculate Jesus was actually born, which was probably in the spring.

Saturnalia was bonkers. As the name suggests, it celebrated the god Saturn, who represented wealth and liberty and generally having a great time.

Above: Their party is way cooler than yours could ever hope to be.

During Saturnalia, masters would serve their slaves, because it was the one day during the year when everybody agreed that freedom for all is great, actually, let’s just do that. Everyone wore a coned hat called the pilleus to denote that they were all bros and equal, and also to disguise the fact that they hadn’t brushed their hair after partying hard all week, probably.

Gambling was allowed on Saturnalia, so all of Rome basically turned into ancient Vegas, complete with Caesar’s Palace, except with the actual Caesar and his palace because he was, you know. Alive.

The most famous part (besides getting drunk off your rocker) was gift-giving--usually gag gifts. Historians have records of people giving each other some truly impressive white elephant gifts for Saturnalia, including: a parrot, balls, toothpicks, a pig, one single sausage, spoons, and deliberately awful books of poetry.

Above: Me, except all the time.

Partygoers also crowned a King of Saturnalia, which was a predecessor to the King of Fools popular in medieval festivals. The king was basically the head idiot who delivered absurd commands to everyone there, like, “Sing naked!” or “run around screaming for an hour,” or “slap your butt cheeks real hard in front of your crush; DO IT, Brutus.”

Oh, wait. Everyone was already doing all that. Hell yes.

(Quick clarification: early celebrations of Saturnalia did feature human sacrifice, so let’s just leave that bit out and instead wear the pointy hats and sing naked, okay? Io Saturnalia, everybody.)

2. Leaving out treats for Sleipnir in the hopes of avoiding Odin’s complete disregard for your property

The whole “leave out cookies and milk for Santa” thing comes from a much older tradition of trying to appease old guys with white beards. In Norse mythology, Odin, who was sort of the head god but preferred to be on a perpetual road trip instead, took an annual nighttime ride through the winter sky called the Wild Hunt.

Above: The holidays, now with 300% more heavy metal.

Variations of the Wild Hunt story exist in a bunch of European folklore--in Odin’s case, he usually brought along a bunch of supernatural buddies, like spirits and other gods and Valkyries and ghost dogs, who, the Vikings said, you could hear howling and barking as the group approached (GOOD DOGGOS).

That was the thing, though; you never actually saw Odin’s hunt--you only heard it. And hearing it did not spark the same sense of childish glee you felt when you thought you heard Santa’s sleigh bells approaching as a kid--instead, the Vikings said, you should be afraid. Be VERY afraid.

Because Odin could be kind of a dick.

Odin was also known as the Allfather, and like any father, he hated asking for directions. GPS who? I’m the Allfather, I’m riding the same way I always ride.

And that was pretty much it: “I took this road last year and I’m taking it again this year.”

“But,” someone would pipe up from the back, “there are houses on the road now--we’re gonna run right into them. We could just take a different path; there’s actually a detour off the--”

“Nope,” Odin would say. “They know the rules. My road, my hunt, my rules. We’re going this way.”

So if you were unlucky enough to have built your house along one of Odin’s favorite road trip sky-ways, he wouldn’t just plow right past you.

He would burn your entire house down--and your family along with it.

Kids playing in the yard? Torch ‘em; they should have known better. Grandma knitting while she waits for her gingerbread Einherjar to finish baking? Sucks to be her; my road, my rules, my beard, I’m the Allfather, bitch.

Above: Santa, but so much worse.

To be fair to Odin, he could be a cool guy sometimes. He just turned into any dad when he was on a road trip and wanted to MAKE GOOD TIME, DAMN IT, I AM NOT STOPPING; YOU SHOULD HAVE PEED BEFORE WE LEFT.

To ensure they didn’t incur Odin’s road trip wrath, the Vikings had a few ways of smoothing things over with Dad.

They would leave Odin offerings on the road, like pieces of steel (??? okay ???) or bread for his dogs, or food for his giant, eight-legged horse, Sleipnir, because the only true way to a man’s heart is through his pet.

People would generally leave veggies and oats and other horse-y things out for Sleipnir, whose eight legs made him the fastest flying horse in the world and also made him the only horse to ever win Asgard’s coveted tap dancing championship.

(Side note: EIGHT legs...EIGHT tiny reindeer...eh? Eh? See how we got here? Thanks, nightmare horse!)

Above: An excellent prancer AND dancer.

And if Odin was feeling particularly charitable and not in the mood for horrific acts of arson, children would also leave their shoes out for him--it was said that he’d put gifts in your boots to ring in a happy new year.

If all that didn’t work and the Vikings heard the hunt approaching, they would resort to throwing themselves on the ground and covering their heads while the massive party sped above them like a giant Halloween rager.

So this holiday season, leave your boots out for Odin and some carrots out for his giant spider horse or you and your entire family will die in a fiery inferno, the end.

3. Yule Logs

Speaking of Scandinavia, another Northern European winter solstice tradition was the yule log. Today, if you google “yule log,” something like this will pop up:

...which isn’t an actual log, but is instead log-shaped food that you shove into your mouth along with 500 other cakes at the same time because it’s CHRISTMAS, and I’m having ME TIME; so WHAT if I ate the whole jar of Nutella by myself, alone, in the dark at 3 am?

But that log cake is actually inspired by actual logs of yore that Celtic, Germanic, and Scandinavian peoples decorated with fragrant plants like holly, ivy, pinecones, and other Stuff That Smells Nice before tossing the log into the fire.

This served a few purposes:

It smelled nice, and Bath and Body Works scented candles hadn’t been invented yet.

It had religious and/or spiritual significance as a way to mark the winter solstice.

It was a symbolic way of ringing in the new year and kicking out the old.

Common belief held that the ashes of a yule log could ward off lightning strikes and bad energy.

Winter cold. Fire warm.

Everybody loves to watch things burn. (See: Odin.)

The yule log cakes we eat today got their start in 19th century Paris, when bakers thought it was a cute idea to resurrect an ancient pagan tradition in the form of a delicious dessert, and boy, howdy, were they right.

In any case, I’m 100% down with eating a chocolate yule log while burning an actual yule log in my backyard because everybody loves to watch things burn; winter cold, fire warm; and hnnnngggg pine tree smell hnnnnggg.

(Quick note: The word “yule” is the name of a traditional pagan winter festival, still celebrated culturally or religiously in modern pagan practice. It’s also another name for Odin. He had a bunch of other names, one of the most well-known being jólfaðr, which is Old Norse for “Yule father.” If you would like to royally piss him off, or if you are Loki, feel free to call him “Yule Daddy.”)

4. Upside down Christmas trees

I just found out that apparently, upside down Christmas trees are a hot new trend with HGTV types this year, so I guess this is one historical trend we did bring back, meaning it doesn’t really belong on this list, but I’m gonna talk about it, anyway.

Side note: Oh, my god, that BANNISTER. I NEED.

Historians aren’t actually sure where the inverted Christmas tree thing came from, but we know people were bringing home trees and then hanging them upside down in the living room as early as the 7th century. We have a couple theories as to why people turned trees on their heads:

Logistically, it’s way easier to hang a giant pine tree from your rafters upside down by its trunk and roots. You just hoist that baby up there, wind some rope around the rafter and the trunk, and boom. Start decorating.

A Christian tradition says that one day in the 7th century, a Benedictine monk named Saint Boniface stumbled across a group of pagans worshipping an oak tree. So, instead of minding his own damn business, he cut the tree down and replaced it with a fir tree. While the pagans were like, “Dude, what the hell?” Boniface used the triangular shape of the fir tree to explain the concept of the holy trinity to the pagans. Some versions have him planting it right-side up, others having him displaying a fir tree upside down. Either way, it’s still a triangle that’s a solid but ultimately very rude way of explaining God. Word’s still out on whether anyone was converted or just rightly pissed off that this random guy strolled into their place of worship, chopped down their sacred tree, and plopped HIS tree down instead. Please do not do that this holiday season.

Eastern Europeans lay claim to the upside-down tree phenomenon with a tradition called podłazniczek in Poland--people hung the tree from the ceiling and decorated it with fruits and nuts and seeds and ribbons and other festive doodads.

(God, who lives in these houses? Look at that. That’s like a swanky version of Gaston’s hunting lodge. Where do I get one? Which enchanted castle do I have to stumble into to chill out in a Christmas living room like that?)

Today, at least in the West, upside-down trees are making a comeback because...I don’t know. Chip and Joanna Gaines said so.

Some folks say it’s a surefire way to keep your cats from clawing their way through the tree and then puking up fir needles for weeks afterward, which checks out for me.

5. Incredibly weird Victorian Christmas cards

So back in the 19th century, the Christmas card industry was really getting fired up. Victorians loved their mail, let me tell you. They loved sending it. They loved getting it. They loved writing it. They loved opening it. They loved those sexy wax seals you use to keep all that sweet, sweet mail inside that sizzling envelope. (Those things are incredibly sexy. Have you ever made a wax seal? Oh, man, it’s hot.)

The problem, though, was that while the Victorians arguably helped standardize many of the holiday traditions we know and love today (Christmas trees, caroling, Dickens everything, spending too much money, etc.) back in 1800-whenever, a lot of that Christmas symbolism was, um...still under construction. No one had really agreed on which visual holiday cues worked and which...didn’t.

Meaning everyone just kind of made up their own holiday symbols. Which resulted in monstrous aberrations like this card:

What the hell is that? A beet? Is that a beet? Or a turnip? Why is it...oh, God, why does it have a man’s head? Why does the man beet have insect claws?

What is it that he’s holding? A cookie? Cardboard? A terra cotta planter?

And then there’s this one:

“A Merry Christmas to you,” it says, while depicting a brutal frog murder/mugging.

What are you trying to tell me? Are you threatening me with this card? Is that it? Is this a threat? How the hell am I supposed to interpret this? “Merry Christmas, hide your money or you’re dead, you stupid bitch.”

Also, why is the dead frog naked? Did the other frog steal his clothes after the murder? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS?

Victorian holiday cards also doubled as early absurdist Internet memes, apparently, because how else do I explain this?

Is this some sort of tiny animal Santa? A mouse riding a lobster? Like, the mouse, I get. Mice are fine. Disney built an empire on a mouse. And look, he’s got a little list of things he’s presumably going to bring you: Peace, joy, health, happiness. (In French. Oh, wait, is that that Patton Oswalt rat?)

But a LOBSTER? What’s with the lobster? It’s basically a sea scorpion. Why in the name of all that is good and holy would you saddle up a LOBSTER? I hate it. I hate it so, so much. Just scurrying around the floor with more legs than are strictly necessary, smelling like the seafood section of Smith’s, snapping its giant claws.

This whole card is a health inspector’s worst nightmare. It really is.

I gotta say, though, I am a fan of this one:

Presumably, that polar bear is going in for a hug because nothing stamps out a polar bear’s innate desire to rip your face from your skull than candy canes and Coke and Christmas spirit.

This next one is actually fantastic, but for all the wrong reasons:

I know everyone overuses “same” these days but geez, LOOK at that kid. I can HEAR it. SAME.

If you’ve ever been in a shopping mall stuffed with kids, nothing sums it up better than this card. This is like the perverse version of those Anne Geddes portraits that were everywhere in the late 90s. “Make wee Jacob sit in the tea pot; everyone will--Jacob, STOP, look at Mommy; I said LOOK. AT. MOMMY--everyone will love it.”

Actually, you know what? Every other Christmas card is cancelled. This is the only card we will be using from now on. This is it.

Wait, no. We can also use this one:

Merry Christmas. Here’s a fuckin’...just a dead fuckin’ bird.

#victorian #listory #christmas #holidays #mythtory #norse mythology #odin

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jamilelucato · 4 years

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1.Beautiful [hog. heathers]

Summary: This story is based on Heathers, the musical. It’s set in Hogwarts, back in the last year Tom Riddle studied there. Y/N is a Ravenclaw student.

Pairing: Tom Riddle x reader (later on)

Heathers Series || Musical Hogwarts List A/N: first chapter! Here you get a vision of this world I built but soon Tom will make an appearance. Hope you enjoy it! If you wanna be tagged, ask!

Tag List: @just-an-outstanding-auror @starcrossedyanderes @doctorriddle @cchris-a

---

September 1st, 1943:

Dear diary, I believe I’m a good person. You know, I think that there’s good in everyone, but—here we are! First day of senior year! And uh... I look around at these kids that I’ve known all my life, and I ask myself—what happened?

Another year back at Hogwarts. Your parents were excited — you, not so much. Not that the school wasn’t great, but you just couldn’t take the other students anymore.

Your family was pureblood and that generally meant some sort of status. Not anymore — the most popular kids in Hogwarts were either half-bloods or muggle-borns, so you and some fellow friends that were also purebloods were generally bullied. They saw you as potential threats, and you couldn’t understand why. It was not like purebloods wanted to see muggle-borns dead; most of you just didn’t want to mix the blood.

One step inside the train and the gossip started:

“Freak!”

“Slut!”

“Burnout!”

“Bug-eyes!”

You sighed on your way to finding an empty space to sit. You were so tiny, happy and shiny; playing tag and getting chased. Singing and clapping, laughing and napping; baking cookies, eating paste.

You looked inside one compartment and weren’t welcomed.

“Bull-dyke, get out!” screamed a large boy at you.

Well, diary, you continued later when you finally found a place to sit, then we got bigger, that was the trigger, like the Huns invading Rome.

“Oh, sorry!” you said the boy before leaving his cabin.

Welcome to my school, this ain’t no high school. This is the Thunderdome. Hold your breath and count the days, we’re graduating soon. A job will be paradise if I’m not dead by June!

You were almost reaching the end of the train, and you still couldn’t find an empty place.

But I know, I know, life can be beautiful; I pray for a better way. If we changed back then, we could change again.

We can be beautiful...

There were fewer students as you were walking, but still, none seemed so happy with the idea of sitting with you.

Things will get better soon as my letter comes from the Charms Specialization Center in France. Wake from this coma, take my diploma, then I can blow this town. Dream of ivy-covered walls and smoky French cafés...

“Watch it!” shouted a tall blonde boy that had bumped into you. You didn’t even notice, but he was angry, and, as a revenge, he made you drop your diary. “Ooooops,” he laughed.

You looked at the boy. It was Ram Sweeney. Third-year as Gryffindor’s beater and seventh year of smacking kids, and being a huge... “Dick,” you whispered, suddenly angry for having to get the diary from the floor.

“What did you say to me, skank?”

Shit, he listened. “Aah, nothing!” you quickly got out of the way.

You know, diary, we were kind before; we can be kind once more. We can be beautiful...

An empty cabin at last! You sat down as fast as you could, scared it could disappear. A girl walked in just after you, and, for a moment, you were frightened.

“Hey, Myrtle!”

Myrtle was the only one you could call your friend at that place. Both of you were from Ravenclaw and had a lot of fun together, even though you two had some different perspectives on life.

“Hey,” she smiled, sitting next to you.

The train trip wasn’t much fun, but after Myrtle and you found a place to sit — and nobody tried to take you two out —, things were more peaceful.

School, on the other hand, was the same nightmare as always.

Professor Dippet said a couple of nice words before the start of the first feast, kind words about how to treat each other. For a second, it seemed as if everybody listened and were committed to obeying. But as said, it didn’t last the whole second. When the Headmaster finished his speech, people were back at their normal mean behaviour.

Days passed like a blur, or at least, you pretend that was how it went. You tried not to focus on the offensive words the students called you and Myrtle, but sometimes it was just too much.

“We on for book night?” asked Myrtle while leaving the Great Hall and walking towards the dorms.

“Yeah, you’re supposed to be with them,” you replied, smiling slightly. Myrtle had a way to trick the librarian that you never managed to have.

“Got us the ‘The Princess Bride’,” she smirked, making you giggle.

“Ho-ho-ho, again? Wait, don’t you have it memorized by now?”

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a happy ending” Myrtle crossed her arms and squeezed herself as if she had been hugged by a prince.

So different from you, but yet, the only friend you had.

“Myrtle Crybaby! Hoow!” Kurt Kelly screamed, knocking Myrtle to the ground.

Kurt Kelly was the famous Chaser from Slytherin. The smartest guy on the team, in your opinion, but that was like being the tallest dwarf.

“Hey! How dare you?!” you barked at him, helping Myrtle to get up. She was lived red, ashamed of the situation.

“I’m sorry, are you actually talking to me?” Kurt smirked in a mean way, challenging you.

“Yes, I am. I wanna know what gives you the right to pick on my friend. You’re a high school has-been waiting to happen. A future human house-elf,” you hoped your face was as severe and furious as you were inside.

Kurt waited for you to end your speech before confidently pointing something on your face. “You have a zit right there,” he said and laughed, followed by all the other kids around you.

November 13rd, 1943:

Dear diary, why do they hate me? Why don’t I fight back? Why do they act like such creeps?

Why…

You looked around the room, making sure everybody was already asleep. Myrtle was even snoring, which made you giggle in the dark.

Writing a diary was a private thing for you, but there weren’t many ways to be in private in Hogwarts.

Send me a sign, God! Give me some hope, here! Something to live for!

***

The next day promised to be as tedious as the day before, but something was different. At first, you thought it was just the change of seasons — the cold air of Winter. But it wasn’t all that.

Classes were nice. You liked your Professors, at least when they were teaching, they were neat.

You ate lunch at the Great Hall at the Ravenclaw table, just like all the days before. But that feeling in your stomach of something unusual was still there.

“Going to the toilet, okay?” you told Myrtle before leaving. In fact, there was nothing you wanted to do there except splash water in your face and see if things went back to normal.

That was when the Heathers walked in, and you hurried to close yourself behind a door, too terrified to face them.

The Heathers was a group of girls that floated above it all.

Heather McNamara was the hot witch form Hufflepuff. Her dad is loaded— one of the wizards with more money, but he was a muggle-born, so your family usually didn’t talk about him.

Heather Duke was the head girl from Slytherin, with no discernible personality, but blessed with an incredible body.

And Heather Chandler, the Almighty. She was a mythic bitch from Gryffindor and had everyone at her feet.

They’re solid Teflon—never bothered, never harassed.

I would give anything to be like that, you thought, lamenting in the toilet.

You sit in quiet, listening to their conversation. One of the girls rushed to the toilet, and you heard her vomit.

“Grow up, Heather. Bulimia is so ‘37,” said one of the Heathers, and based on her tone — such leaderlike— you guessed that was Chandler.

“Maybe you should see a doctor, Heather,” the other Heather suggested.

The one vomiting exhaled loudly before answering. “Yeah, Heather. Maybe I should.”

“Ah, Heather and Heather” oh shit, you gasped, recognizing that voice immediately, “...and Heather. Perhaps you didn’t notice the time with all the vomiting. You’re late for class.”

That bossy voice belonged to Ms Fleming, the second in command when the Headmaster wasn’t around, and also identified as the Herbology Professor. And knowing her, she was about to punish the girls.

Noticing you kept your diary in hands, you took a piece of paper out and scribbled on it.

“Heather wasn’t feeling well. We’re helping her,” H. Chandler told the Professor.

“Not without a hall pass, you’re not,” you could feel Ms Fleming was smiling even though you couldn’t see her. “Week’s detention.”

Done!, you thought before rushing out of the toilet.

“Um, actually, Professor Fleming, all four of us are out on a hall pass. Christmas committee,” you informed, getting out of the toilet, keeping a straight face and handing her the paper.

Professor Fleming took her time to analyze the piece of paper, and you held your breath until she finally returned it to you.

“I see you’re all listed. Hurry up and get where you’re going.”

Heather Chandler was staring at you like you were an abnormal animal she had just discovered, but you couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.

“This is an excellent forgery. Who are you?”

“Uh... y/N y/L/N,” you fastly replied. “I crave a boon.”

H. Chandler raised a brow at you as if you made no sense. “What boon?”

“Um, let me sit at your table at lunch. Just once. No talking necessary,” Heather remained silent, so you continued, “if people think that you guys tolerate me, then they’ll leave me alone...”

The first Heather to laugh was Chandler, of course, but it didn’t take more than a second for the other two to follow. It was as if they needed Chandler’s permission to laugh.

“Before you answer, I also do report cards, permission slips, and absence notes,” you added, hoping this would change their view.

Heather Duke widened her eyes, raising her eyebrows at an abnormal height. “How about prescriptions?”

“Shut up, Heather,” H. Chandler’s reprehension came quickly.

“Sorry, Heather,” H. Duke ducked, almost embarrassed.

The three Heathers exchanged a look, planning something. You shivered — your destiny was in their hands, but, unfortunately, that rarely meant a promising one.

Chandler stepped forward, looking you up and down.

“For a greasy little nobody, you do have good bone structure.”

“And you have a symmetrical face,” added Heather McNamara, holding your face with one hand. “If I took a meat cleaver down the center of your skull, I’d have matching halves. That’s very important.”

Heather Duke frowned her brow.

“Of course, you could stand to lose a few pounds,” she was one to talk — always vomiting what she ate.

Heather Chandler pulled the other Heathers away, pulling you by the hand. “And ya know? This could be beautiful,” she seemed to investigate what was lacking on your face. “Mascara, maybe some lip gloss and we’re on our way. Get this girl some blush; and Heather, I need your brush. Let’s make her beautiful.”

McNamara agreed with a smile, but Duke was pretending not to care. She never liked it when Chandler played the helper.

“Okay?” the Gryffindor asked before using the brush on you.

“Okay!” you agreed, a bit too loud.

Heather Chandler took you by the hand out of the bathroom and towards the Gryffindor Tower, with McNamara and Duke following behind. Your heart was beating so fast that you thought it would stop. It was one of your biggest dreams to be with the Heathers, and there you were, walking into Chandler’s room, unable to stop smiling.

She took a long time with your hair — which you didn’t even know needed a makeover. McNamara had the job of applying makeup, and she did it happily.

Heather Duke, however, wasn’t so thrilled to have to get you new uniforms.

“Oh, come on, Heather, just ask the boys — they’ll steal it for you,” said Chandler, rolling her eyes at her best friend.

“Fine,” she sighed before leaving.

According to them, there were more than just the traditional style of uniform, and they’d have lent theirs to you, but since you were a Ravenclaw, they had nothing in your house colour.

Heather Duke appeared half an hour later with the new uniform — all in blue, but so much more fashionable than the one you always used.

You didn’t bother asking from who she stole because that wasn’t the first wrong thing you were doing that day. The first thing was skipping the rest of the classes just to get the proper look.

***

“I reckon we’re ready,” said Heather Chandler, but she didn’t let you look yourself in the mirror. She said it would jinks it. “Now, let’s go. People need to know the new you.”

The new you. They didn’t even know the old you.

As soon as you stepped in the corridors, the whispered started, and this time, they weren’t making fun of you.

“Who’s that with Heather?” you heard someone ask.

The feeling of leaving everyone speechless was something you had never felt before and yet, so good. You and the Heathers stopped at the Courtyard — part of Chandler’s plan of introducing you.

“Y/N?!” you heard from behind and turned only to see Myrtle, holding her book with both hands and her mouth wide open.

She didn’t dare come closer to the Heathers so you could only wave at your friend. She didn’t look bothered, however. She knew once at the dorms, you’d tell her everything.

“You know, we should have found a Ravenclaw before,” said Heather Chandler. “It was the house missing from our group.”

“We were waiting for a girl named Heather though,” remembered the Slytherin Heather.

“Well, yes, but now we’re in our last year. Nobody new is ever coming, Heather,” said Chandler, practically ending the discussion so Duke could say nothing else.

You had never been so close to the Heathers before, so you had no way of knowing, but even though the three of them were at the top of the pyramid, it was H. Chandler who stood at the very top. You’d have to be careful if you wanted to be amongst them more often.

After all, you were a Heather now.

November 14th, 1943:

Dear diary, you know, life can be beautiful. You hope, you dream, you pray, and you get your way! Ask me how it feels lookin’ like hell on wheels... My God, it’s beautiful! I might be beautiful...

Oh, diary... It’s a beautiful frickin’ day!

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle fanfic #rom riddle imagine #hogwarts #voldemort #voldemort x reader #harry potter #wizarding world #hp

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thenakedgingerwrites · 3 years

Text

Cock in a Box (part 1)

How they convinced me I’ll never know. Well, that’s not true. The allure of free alcohol after dropping nearly $17k on my upcoming wedding certainly helped fuel my willingness to participate in this embarrassing contest.

Without going too far into a back story that I’m sure you guys don’t care about, this past weekend was my bachelor party. I was taken to Atlanta by a group of my good buddies and the 7 of us in total were living it up for a long, 3-day weekend in and out of bars, hotels, and strip clubs. It was our first night there when Kevin heard about a bar with an unusual game: Cock in a Box.

The gist: there’s basically a line of glory holes that you stick your junk through for the audience to vote on which they like best. All participants get 2 free drinks (well, of course; no top shelf stuff) BUT the chosen winner gets free drinks all night, whatever they want.

The downside is that if you’re chosen to be the winner, you have to accept the award so everyone would know it was YOUR dick. Apparently pictures are allowed at this bar.

With enough liquid courage in us we all reluctantly agreed to give it a go, some of us probably more excited or terrified than the others. I thought to myself, I’ll get two free drinks and some people will have a picture of my dick but no way to link it back to me. I mean, my cock was fine, Sarah didn’t seem to have any complaints, but I knew I was average at best. I assume the crowd will go for the biggest one and I wager one of my buds is packing something bigger. I’d hate to be them. Or would I? I guess I wouldn’t mind a couple extra inches.

Anyway, we got to the bar and it became clear pretty quickly that this wasn’t a bar catering to female clientele.

“It’s a fucking gay bar, guys!” Brad exclaimed when we got there.

“Well,” Rodger said, “I guess that makes sense. I’ve never really seen a lot of women vying to see a bunch of dicks.”

“That’s not the impression I got from your wife,” Dan joked.

“Oh ha ha ha.”

I spoke the first words of hesitation, “do we still want to go through with this?” It was one thing to be showing my dick to a bunch of female strangers, it was another thing for them to be gay men.

Kevin doubled down, “It’s still free booze. Who knows, someone might even buy me some drinks in an effort to get lucky!”

The group razzed him on that and how not even a troll would find him hot, but I did have to admit he had a point. Our group was, generally, good looking. We’d all taken care of ourselves in the years following college sports and while some of us packed on a few pounds since the glory days we were all still big. I knew gay guys liked that at least.

“It’s Ben’s big weekend, let him make the choice,” said Mike.

Sean, my little brother, was the last of our group to speak, “I’m not a big fan of this idea either, but if Ben’s in… brother solidarity.”

I leaned into the crap Sarah was always spouting out about ‘live in the moment’ or ‘enjoy the ride of life’ and said, “fuck it. Let’s get some free drinks.”

At the front part of the club, Kevin expressed our interest to participate in the game. It quickly surfaced that we were a bachelor party of straight guys and that seemed to tantalize the person taking covers. He let us in for free!

Once we were inside one of the staff ushered us over near the back of the club and explained what we were to do. Apparently we had arrived just on time as the game starts around midnight on Fridays only.

There were 10 boxes near the back part of a stage where I assumed drag shows or beauty contests or something went on. You could get into them from behind the stage so no one could see which one you got into. They were basically just telephone booths made out of plywood. Not super appealing but I guess did the job.

The staff member said once we were in there the MC would start the show and more or less we’d be told what to do from there. They would narrow down contestants by number, which was painted on the outside of the boxes as well as the inside so we knew what number we were.

The guy checked us all out, salivating, and recommended we play with ourselves a bit when we get into the booth to ‘fluff up a bit.’ That idea sort of grossed me out and I knew I wasn’t going to be winning anyway so I already decided this crowd would be getting a soft, limp anonymous dick in exchange for free booze.

It’s probably worth noting that all my buddies and myself included are white(ish). I’m not racist, I swear, but at the small Tennessee college I went to there weren’t many people of color. I say this only to demonstrate that I felt like I had a good level of anonymity since it would be my dick against 9 other dicks that probably looked like mine.

The staff guy said to choose a booth when Sean asked where the other 3 guys were. There were 10 booths and we only made 7. “Oh,” he said, “when management heard you seven were together and straight, he decided to make it just you guys.”

We looked at each other and silently decided if we were still okay with this but I guess what does 3 other dudes matter. I guess now we knew one of us would be getting free drinks. That is, if they accepted their win.

We all walked up and into our respective booths. Kevin was beside me to the left and Dan was to my right. The other guys filed in. When I got in and drew the curtain behind me for privacy, I realized that I was NOT in box “3” like I thought I would be but “5.”

I heard Kevin yell, “I guess they randomize the box order too.”

Then Sean called out, “That’s good, I was worried you’d be sad when they talked about how small #2’s dick was and we’d all know it was you!”

Laughter among the guys, including myself, rang out.

In the box, there wasn’t much and not a lot of room. There was the infamous hole on the front side about three and a half feet up. I wondered what shorter dudes would do but then I also saw the wooden blocks stacked up on the side. I guess that’s for them to stand on if they don’t reach the hole.

The hole.

I looked at it timidly. My nerves were starting to climb as I realized what I had signed up for. What we had all signed up for. The plywood had been sanded smooth around the lip of the hole so my fear of splinters was gone but not my fear of the unknown number of gay dudes on the other side eagerly awaiting to look at our dicks. MY dick!

I was starting to second guess this whole thing and chicken out. The guys may not let me live that down. Well, I’m not going first at least.

The music faded out after the end of the song and someone cleared their throat into a mic.

“Gooooood evening, queers, steers, and bears. Oh my! Welcome to this week’s Cock in a Box competition. I’m your host, Anita Gudphuck, and we have a super special treat for you men tonight.”

My palms were getting sweaty.

“For you see, tonight we only have 7 contestants…”

Boos erupted from the crowd along with vocal pleads that they wanted to see more dick. I swear, gay people.

“But the seven we have are… straight guys on a bachelor party weekend!!!”

The original distaste for the limited offering turned into an uproar of cheers and whistles. What’s the deal with gay guys liking straight guys so much anyway?

“But, we’re all in for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity if we all agree to play by some secret, sexy rules. Will you all play along?”

More cheers from the audience. What did he mean by ‘secret’ rules?

“Okay, now, no one shout out the secret rules as we don’t want our mystery men to know. Up on screen there, you’ll see what to do.”

There was a few moments of silence and then some laughs, some ‘oh my goods,’ and a ton of applause and cheering.

“Do you think you can all follow those rules?”

“YESSSS!” the crowd yelled.

“Okay, well then let’s play Cock in a Box! Straight boys back there, are you ready?”

I didn’t want to shout out but I guess none of my buddies did either. Maybe that would reveal us when we had to go out and get our drinks.

“I’ll take silence as a ‘yes, ma’am!’ Now, get your cocks in hand and ready to be judged! I recommend a few pumps and shakes to liven the guy up.”

I can’t believe I’m doing this. How did I let Kevin convince me to do this? How did he convince all of us to do this? I undid my jeans and shucked them down my thighs. Looking at the bulge in my boxer briefs I took a deep breath. There’s no way I can do this right? No way any of us could do this, right?

“Okay boys, Let’s! See! Those! Cocks!”

I stood there for a moment, unwilling to be the first in case this was some sort of prank. The seconds felt like eternity.

“Are all you straight boys shy? Or are you just embarrassed by your tiny dicks?”

The audience laughed and started to call out things along the lines of ‘show us what you’re working with.”

I was sure we had all gotten cold feet when the crowd started applauding.

“There’s our first contestant! Ooo and what a nice dick!” Whistles in the audience agreed with her statement.

“Oh and another! And another! That’s three straight boy dongs right there.”

They’re actually doing it. Fucking hell. Well, tipping my metaphorical hat to Sarah’s dumb slogans, ‘when in Rome…’ I reached into my briefs, pulled my dick out and stepped forward, guiding it through the hole.

Even more cheers through the audience, louder than the others it seemed like.

“Four, Five! That’s some nice looking -- oo Six!”

“Come’on last guy, don’t be shy. Your friends all took the plunge.”

I wonder who was getting cold feet. I noticed now that there was a mild warmth on my dick which I now wagered was spotlights making sure people got good looks.

A final round of applause, “and there he is. Nothing to be ashamed of there, number 8.”

And just like that, we all had our dicks out to a crowd of gay guys on my bachelor party weekend. I didn’t necessarily want to be on the other side, but imagining the site was ridiculous. A long plywood wall with seven cocks sticking out of it with numbers crudely painted above them.

Dicks of straight men in a gay club, selling out the exposure of our junk for a couple free drinks. This would make a weird story to tell in the future I guess, at least among ourselves. I wasn’t planning on sharing this with anyone else.

Little did I know how weird, embarrassing, and hot the night was going to go.

#enm #aware #public #cmnm

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queen-of-deans-booty · 4 years

Text

Say You Won’t Let Go

Characters: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1,830

Warnings: dean’s point of view, first person pov, fluff

Request by anon: Can you write a Dean x Reader based on the song Say you won't let go von James Arthur? I think it fits perfectly to Dean's third Reader POV but please do it however you want. Thank you so much.💕😊

Summary: Dean doesn’t believe he is fit for relationships until he saw you smile for the first time. Now, all he hopes is that you don’t end up letting him go.

Squares Filled: domestic au @spndeanbingo // rome wasn’t built in a day @as-the-saying-goes-bingo // pushed into them @spnfluffbingo // “Turn your greatest weakness into your greatest strength. Like Paris Hilton. RE: her sex tape.” @spnquotebingo // “dance with me” @goodthingshappenbingo // free space @spnsongchallengebingo // dreams, daydreams, and wishes for @trope-bingo // future fic @genprompt-bingo

Author’s Note: This is unbeta’d and all mistakes are mine. If you have any requests, please send them in!

Dean Winchester is a lot of things, but he’s not a relationship guy. Yes, I referred to myself in the third person, but it doesn’t change the fact that I am not fit to be in a relationship. My brother and I always moved around as kids, I never stayed in one place for too long, and I didn’t see a point to starting something new when I knew I wasn’t going to be there the next day or the next week.

I’ve done some bad shit in my days, talked back to virtually every grownup who stood in my way, and broke almost every rule. I’m not a good man, and I don’t expect some woman to see me and think they can change me.

It’s better off that I’m alone. Sammy is the one for relationships. He and Jessica are going on their third year into marriage with their first kid on the way. I’m happy for him, but that’s just not who I am…

… that is, until I met her.

I met you in the dark, you lit me up You made me feel as though I was enough We danced the night away, we drank too much I held your hair back when You were throwing up

I first met her in a bar. Jessica was out of town, so Sammy and I decided to go to a bar and have some brotherly bonding time or some shit like that. There was beer and pool, so that’s a good time for me. I could tell Sam wasn’t into it because all he was doing was checking his phone to see if his wife had texted.

“Man, go talk to your wife,” I told him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Go,” I nodded.

Sam wasted no time getting up and leaving the bar. And then there was one. It was getting kind of dead in the bar anyway, so I figured I could leave to my home and drink there. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about passing out in some strange place. I paid my bill and was about to leave when she walked in.

I stood frozen in my spot as soon as she smiled. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to resist going over to her, and I knew what I would say and do if she decided I was worth talking to. She looked like she deserved more which is why I hadn’t headed over just yet.

She headed straight to the bar, and I knew I had to stay. I would beat myself up if I miss the chance to actually talk to her. Her hair looked so smooth that I could run my fingers through it, her eyes stood out from everyone else’s, I knew I could stare into them forever if I could, and her smile made my brain short-circuit. It’s amazing I had the strength to walk over there.

Her friends were goofing off by the time I arrived, and they did something I’ll forever be grateful for. They “accidentally” pushed her into me, so she was forced to look up at me apologetically.

“I am so sorry. My friends just don’t know when to quit,” she giggled.

I think I died and went to Heaven.

“I’m Dean, what’s your name?”

“Y/N,” she winked and turned to the bartender. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

So that’s how our evening started. Her friends kind of faded into the background as we got to talking. I don’t think I ever met someone like her in my life. She kept drinking, but I wanted to remain kind of sober so I would remember this in the morning. I did things that night that I wouldn’t normally do like dance and drink and stay… for a woman I just met.

She looked like she was such a fun and outgoing spirited person. I don’t know if this is love at first sight, but I’m suddenly picturing what wedding we’re going to have. Wait, no, that’s weird. Just take it one step at a time, Dean. She ended up drinking too much that she was throwing up outside with me holding her hair back, and I smiled knowing I’d rather be doing this for her than going home alone.

Then you smiled over your shoulder For a minute, I was stone-cold sober I pulled you closer to my chest And you asked me to stay over I said, I already told ya I think that you should get some rest

“Stay with me. Or come home with me,” she giggled helplessly.

“I am getting you a cab. You need to go home. Your friends already left,” I told her as I took out my phone.

“No, Dean,” she whined and pulled me closer to her. My hands automatically fit to her hips, and her arms wrapped around my neck. “You look like you want to stay. Be weak this time and come over. Turn your greatest weakness into your greatest strength. Like Paris Hilton. RE: her sex tape.”

“I already told ya, sweetheart, I think you should get some rest,” I muttered and touched her cheek with the pads of my fingers.

“I’ll be bored without you,” she groaned.

The cab that I quickly ordered showed up, and I made sure to get her inside without hurting her.

“I put my number in your phone earlier. Call me and maybe we can do this when both of us are sober,” I laughed.

She turned to get something out of her purse as I told the driver her address. He understood and started to drive away, and that’s when Y/N looked at me over her shoulder. She smiled so widely that it sent me straight into a sober state.

If her smile can do this to me now, I wonder what it’ll do to me when we’re older.

I'll wake you up with some breakfast in bed I'll bring you coffee with a kiss on your head And I'll take the kids to school Wave them goodbye And I'll thank my lucky stars for that night

I remember our first encounter like it was yesterday. Even if five years passed with a marriage and three children, I still remember what it was like to hold Y/N’s hair back as she threw up, or that goddamn smile she gave me when the cab left the bar. I knew I was going to marry her the moment I saw her I just never knew I could have this kind of life with her.

There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her, and I tell her that every day. To show a fraction of my appreciation towards her, I make her breakfast almost every day. I bring it to her in bed because I know she loves to munch on food before she ever gets out of bed. The tray usually consists of some cut fruit, apple juice, pancakes, and bacon. The smile I get whenever I bring this to her warms my heart more than coffee could ever do.

“The kids need to go to school,” she mutters when I bring her the breakfast tray.

“I’ll take them to school and wave them goodbye and tell them how much we love them. You just rest here and eat up. I’ll be back shortly,” I whisper and kiss the top of her head.

“I love you,” she smiles brightly.

That smile is definitely going to be the death of me, but there’s no other way I’d rather go out than by the hands of her.

“I love you, sweetheart,” I mutter and give her a kiss on her lips.

“I have morning breath,” she giggles, but makes no move to get away from me.

“Y/N, if I’m getting a kiss from you, I don’t care what’s in or on your mouth.”

“I’ll remember that,” she smirks and sits up so she can eat.

“I’ll be back shortly,” I say and leave before she convinces me to stay in bed longer.

When you looked over your shoulder For a minute, I forget that I'm older I wanna dance with you right now Oh, and you look as beautiful as ever And I swear that everyday you'll get better You make me feel this way somehow

By the time I made it back to our house, she is out of bed and getting ready for the day. She’s sitting at her makeup table putting on the slightest bit of makeup. She can go full on some days, but I tell her repeatedly that I love her without it on. It makes her feel better, so I don’t say anything as she brushes on some blush or whatever she uses these days.

“You’re back,” she smiles at me from over her shoulder.

I’m immediately taken back to the very first time she did that to me, and I remember how much we’ve been through since then. I forget everything I think I know and just focus on her in that moment--our moment as the rest of the world fades into nothing. Suddenly, I’m back to being twenty-six with the knowledge I’ll never find love like my little brother has. I’m not older, but younger, and trapped in the moment she walked through those bar doors with a smile that could kill me.

“Dance with me,” I state and pull her to her feet.

“Dean Winchester, what’s gotten into you?” she giggles, but does so, nonetheless.

“You make me want to dance, and I don’t dance,” I joke.

“You’re a very good dancer,” she says.

“And you’ll be the only one who ever knows that.”

I'm gonna love you 'til My lungs give out I promise 'til death we part like in our vows So I wrote this song for you, now everybody knows That it's just you and me 'til we're grey and old Just say you won't let go Just say you won't let go

Sometimes I can’t sleep at night but knowing Y/N--the love of my life--is lying right next to me is enough to bring my dreams to life. When we wrote our vows to one another on that day, we wrote them with love. I never planned on letting her go, not until we’re grey and old and life forces us to be apart.

Much like our first encounter, I remember our wedding vows to the very last detail.

“I vow to always be by your side, to love and cherish you even if you can’t do so yourself. We could run into every obstacle life throws our way, but I’d rather go through them with you than be in peace with someone else. I never thought I’d find this before I met you, and now I realize I’ve just been waiting for you to come into my life. Just say you won’t let go because I never plan to.”

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purplesurveys · 3 years

Text

1185

survey by xflirtykaosx

Alphabetti Spaghetti (3/3)

Please believe. - P

How many pages did the last book you read have? I don’t even remember the last time I opened it; but if I have to guess, it’s probably anywhere between 600–800 pages.

What do you like on your pancakes? Soaked in butter, with peanut butter and maple syrup on the side. My dad will also sometimes mix bacon into the batter, and it always turns out delicious.

Do you like small parties or large parties more? I love going to any kind of party, but I like large ones just a little bit more just because it’s easier to blend in and go unnoticed for the most part. I usually feel pressured at smaller parties.

What was the last exam you passed in? I have no idea. Maybe a history exam? I remember taking a Rizal exam right before the pandemic started and I never got the results for that since classes were canceled shortly after. I’ll never know if I actually passed that test haha.

Do you think paw prints are cute? Yesssssss.

How much would you pay a neighbour to do your lawn? We have someone in the village who does that, and my mom usually gives him a tip of I would guess around ₱100.

Ordinary pens, scented pens, gel pens or felt tip pens? Ordinary. The other ones write horribly.

Are you a people person? I’ve grown to be one over the years. I do like my alone time, but I have the most fun with a person or two or ten around me.

Do you put pepper on your scrambled eggs? No. I never use pepper myself, actually.

Who, except yourself, has the nicest pet? Angela’s, at least one of her dogs are. Hailey is super nice and she doesn’t really care what you do with her hahahaha.

What's your favourite piece of clothing? Right now, probably my IVP sneakers since they’re my newest purchase. Other than that, my mom jeans are always super reliable.

What place have you gone to that you never would again? Police stations that I had to visit to cover stories for my journalism classes. Maybe it’s other people’s passion – and I thought it was mine at one point, too – but once I found myself in places like that I slowly realized that I didn’t have the fire for journalism I once thought I had.

What do others seem to have plenty of and you have little or none? Nice photos of themselves. I’m very camera shy.

Is pink a nice colour, an okay colour or icky? I personally love pink, so.

Give me a description of a great film plotline? ...I don’t feel like it :(( I also haven’t watched/rewatched any films in a while, so my memory is a bit rusty.

What do you have in your pockets? Nothing I’m wearing right now has pockets.

Do you listen to podcasts? Not really. I’m part of the minority that finds podcasts a little boring.

Have you ever played Poker? I’d guess I’ve tried playing it one or two times, but I’ve never understood the rules and I probably just did some random moves when I did try it.

Do you have a pond in your garden? No.

How about a swimming pool? We don’t.

Do you like Poptarts? I loooooove Pop Tarts and I wish we had more flavors here :( and that they weren’t so expensive.

Do you write notes on post-it notes? Sometimes; but lately I’ve mostly just been making to-do lists on my laptop. Writing takes too much time considering how hectic my job is.

Quiet darling, shh. - Q

Do you ever use the word quaint? Very rarely. I never really get into situations where that word would be most fitting to use.

Do you know what quantum physics is? I know of the term from watching The Big Bang Theory, but I don’t know what it refers to.

Are you a quiet or loud person? Depends on the people I’m with, my general mood, and my level of comfort.

Do you usually ask a lot of questions? I never do. I feel like that’s a weakness of mine, too. My mind never wanders too far, and I’m only able to recognize good questions when someone else raises them.

What's your favourite quote from a film? “Rome. By all means, Rome.”

Favourite quote from a song? “Now I’m told this is life, and pain is just a simple compromise so we can get what we want out of it.”

Are you quick witted? In what aspect? Not always; but yeah, I guess it comes out sometimes. I’m pretty good at witty or funny comebacks, especially with people I’m comfortable with.

Do you find the word queer offensive? Er, no?

Roses are Red and Romance is dead. - R

Do you listen to the radio often? I used to, since I once drove to school everyday and I liked having the radio on - especially in the morning, since there was a morning program I was hooked to. But now that I’m at home 24/7, I don’t really tune in anymore; I don’t even have the slightest clue what songs are trending rn.

Do you prefer rain or snow? We only get rain, so.

Have you ever ran into someone and injured you or them due to it? Fortunately no, for both circumstances.

Do you listen to rap music? K-Pop groups always have their own rap sub-unit, so yeah I’ve definitely been more exposed to rap these days.

Do you find pet rats gross or nice? Why? I guess it’s cute when they’re pets, since I’m sure they’re harmless. Not so much when they’re big black filthy rats that are house pests and probably carrying a lot of diseases.

Have you ever been to a rave? No. I’d love to experience it once.

Are you somewhat of a rebel? Nah.

How about reckless? Now this hits the spot more, especially when it comes to money lol

Do you prefer red, black or purple dresses? Black, then red, then purple. I don’t wear a lot of the latter to begin with.

Do you know how to reload a gun? I don’t; I’ve never even held a real gun before.

Do you remember your first best friends Mum's name? I don’t think I ever met her mom. Our friendship was super short-lived and didn’t go beyond preschool.

Do you have a good or a bad reputation? Idk, you’d have to ask other people for this I think.

What song do you request most often on the radio? I’ve never requested a song to radio stations.

Do you prefer rice or tofu? I need rice for literally every meal, otherwise it won’t feel filling. I like tofu too, but I only have it occasionally when it comes with some dishes.

Have you ever held a rifle? Nope.

Do you know a Robert? What's he like? I have an uncle-in-law named Robert. He’s very nice, and super intelligent; he’s from New Zealand but currently lives with my aunt and their family in Vietnam. Since he’s from a different country, he has lots of fun stories and different perspectives to share at family reunions, which makes me always want to sit at whichever table he’s at so that I can be part of interesting conversations.

Do you like rollercoasters? No.

Been to Rome, Italy? Nope.

Are Roses your favourite flower? They’re one of them.

So sweetheart, lets fan. - S

Do you feel safe in your neighbourhood? Yeah, I mean that’s kind of the whole point in living in a gated village. I’d be pretty alarmed if I ever hear of a crime happening here.

Whose the Patron Saint of your Country? St. Lorenzo Ruiz. I actually didn’t know that for a fact, so thanks for the Google search and impromptu lesson!

Do you put salt on your fries? Yessssssss, I need my fries to be very salty. Unless it was already seasoned with something else, I’d find it boring if it wasn’t salty enough.

Do you think we are all born the same? In some ways, yes; in some ways, no. I know everyone is born as humans worthy of love and respect, but when it comes to factors like privilege then that’s when circumstances start to get all different.

When did you stop believing in Santa? I never bought it. I used to always get frustrated that I was never allowed to meet Santa (none of my relatives ever played as him), and that he apparently just likes to leave gifts at midnight. Not seeing a Santa made me doubt and eventually I just kinda stopped buying it by the time I was like 5.

Do you think the name Sarah is pretty? Erm, it’s fine but I find it a little common.

Is Saturday your favourite day of the week? Fridays are, but Saturdays are a very close second.

Have you ever watched Saved By The Bell? Opinions? Nope.

What about the Saw films? Opinion? I haven’t, but I know they’re my eldest cousin’s favorite so it must be a good series.

Are you easily scared? In certain ways. I hate jumpscares for one, and I easily get offended by them.

What's your secondary language, if any? English.

Name all the things you can see from where you're sitting? The entirety of my bedroom.

What's the last sentence you spoke out loud? “JAY KAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY”

Have you changed your default settings on your computer? Some of them just to change some aspects of the appearance, but I didn’t do a complete overhaul.

What year did you turn seven in? 2005.

How important is sex in a relationship how important is sex from 1-10? For me, probably like a 3 or 4.

What is your favourite shade of blue? Sky or royal.

Shade of Purple? BTS purple, I guess? Hahaha.

Favourite shape? I don’t have one.

Do you know a girl called Sharon? Nope.

How about Shari? Nope.

Do you shave your arms, legs, pubic hair and/or somewhere else? I shave, but not all of these areas.

When was the last time you were sick? May 2020 was the last time I felt like death.

What's the worst side effects you've had due to a medication? I’ve never gone through side effects from a medication.

What does your signature look like? A very lazy scribble of the first and last letters of my whole name.

Do you like silk? What do you own that is silk? It’s okay, but I never actively search for it. I have one set of silk pajamas but that’s it.

Do you sip or drink hot drinks fast? As much as possible I don’t like getting in contact with hot beverages. I wait for them to cool down considerably before I take my first sip.

How about with alcohol? Sure, I like to take them fast so that I don’t feel the nasty burn on my tongue.

Do you have sisters? How many, what ages and what're they called? Nina is turning 21 this year.

Is your grandmother older than sixty five? Both of them are, yeah.

Do you slam doors often? Nope.

Have you ever slapped someone in the face? For what reason? Yes. Because he had slapped me first. I was in so much shock that my first and only instinct was to hit back.

Do you snack a lot or just eat big meals? I like letting myself go hungry then reward myself with a very generous serving to eat in one go.

Do you smile more often, or frown? Smile.

Are you wearing socks? No, I haven’t worn any in a while.

Do you say sorry too often? Yes.

What's a sound that always soothes you? This. I always play it before turning in, or when I need to calm down.

Do you carry a lot of spare change? How much is on you now? Not so much anymore, since I’ve been increasingly going cashless.

Do you own a swimsuit of the Speedo brand? I don’t think so.

Do you like sunflowers? They have a personal meaning to me, so yes. It’s not my ultra favorite, though.

#survey #surveys #i just realized the author never wrapped this up :(#so i guess we're stopping this at S hahahaha

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couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name · 5 years

Note

Yo did u make that post about your 9th grade science class

oh my God I was talking about it with my friend last night and now I’m losing my mind about it all over again sdkjhdfskh

so the school I went to for 9th grade was a Catholic high school, and it was one with like a GREAT reputation. Like, all the Catholic high schools in my area were ‘good schools’ but this was the like the Big One. Always had the best grades, happiest students, best sports teams, best plays, always did the most outreach with the elementary schools, like it was a very popular school.

But then,

The summer before I started, the city shut down like...a fucking hundred Catholic schools, because no one wants to fund education I guess? And if your parents send you to Catholic school, they usually want you to stay there no matter what. So instead of all these students going to public school...a ton of them were forcibly transferred to this school (in the suburbs). Everyone was pissed- the city kids were mad because they had no attachment to this place and the commute was annoying. The teachers that transferred with them were pissed off about the whole affair. The teachers that previously worked in this school and didn’t lose their jobs to new teachers were stressed and had no way of controlling the overcrowded classrooms. Tuition went THROUGH THE ROOF. And their was a lot of tension between the city kids and the suburb kids for...literally no reason at all tbh, it was just There so all the classes were insane.

But my science class. Took insane to new levels.

So, I need to preface this with the type of student I was: I liked science, I thought it was interesting, but science did not like me, and thought I was a bitch. No matter what I tried I was always just scrapping by in the class- but. I always dedicated myself to being the nice, quiet girl who sits in the front, because then the teachers like you, and whether you’re actually a good student or not they’ll give you allowances. 12th Grade gov class, I literally handed in my requirement-for-graduation research paper in a week and a half late and still got a hundred on it, because when the teacher asked me where it was I told her ‘I handed it in on the due date?’ and she immediately was like ‘Oh my God, you did? I’m so sorry!’, then gave me a day to get a ‘’‘new’’’ copy to her, and she felt so bad she gave me extra credit. Like, genuinely, I was determined to play this part and it paid off lmao.

So for 9th grade I was obviously doing that, but compared to everyone else going crazy, I looked like a literal saint. The teachers in this school weren’t authorized to give detention- we had a school ‘Disciplinarian’, and basically you had to go to his office for him to tell you you have detention, it was weird, but if an entire class was acting up, each room had a call button so he could be summoned to the room to give the full class detention. But all 3 of my science teachers that year, instead of pressing the button, would send me down to his office to bring him back up to the classroom personally, so he would know that everyone EXCEPT me was getting detention. Like, every time one left they literally left in their notes for the new teacher ‘send Molly to get Mr. Chia if the class gets too bad’ it was so fucking funny.

We went through 3 teachers that year.

The first one was this old man with an impossible to pronounce last name, who walked with a cane and was considered one of the toughest teachers in the school. Before the end of October, he had mysteriously vanished. Like- they literally wouldn’t tell us where this man went. I feel like if he died or had a stroke, they would’ve had us pray for him during homeroom or something??? He left us no clues, he literally said to me ‘you did great on the worksheet today! Skip the homework, I’ll see you tomorrow’ and then for the next few weeks we had rotating substitutes until they found a new teacher kjshdgjkhd where did he GO

But anyway- he hated our class. He had the toughest teacher rep to live up to and he literally could not control a single student. Screamed his throat raw. Was constantly changing seating arraignments to try and keep certain kids apart. Was constantly getting bombarded with paper wasps and rubber bands and annoying kids asking invasive questions about his stroke. Kids were threating to fight him if he sent them to get detention. No one ever did the homework, everyone always yelling over him when he was trying to teach- in the later weeks before he disappeared, he literally just taught to me and like 3 other students in the front and tried to tune out the other kids. This poor dude omg.

So, we had various substitutes that just put on movies for a few weeks, and then they found our second teacher. He was a cute, young guy, eager to mold young minds, was active in the church and his sister actually went to the school, so they though they could count on him to get our class together and stick it out for the full school year.

This man was mistreated so badly by these 15 year olds that he RAN AWAY TO ITALY.

I’M NOT EVEN BEING DRAMATIC HE LEGITMATELY MOVED TO ROME TO GET AWAY FROM US.

He stood no chance. The SECOND he walked in all the kids could smell he was weak blood. The chaos went to new levels- people released real wasps into the room so everyone would run around in panic. Physical fights broke out *just* for the sake of disrupting class. No one would ever stop talking over him. A used tampon was once thrown at the chalkboard. I was shot in the arm with a homemade blow dart that a kid made during a test. People were always trying to hack into his laptop to get answers. A fire was started in the trashcan. Someone tried to climb out the window when he snapped and started screaming at everyone. He screamed so much his voice was almost perpetually hoarse in the days before he left. People would make inappropriate jokes about his fiancée and little sister. Someone tried to steal his camera a few times. The all had terrible nicknames for him.

I literally saw this man transform, before my very eyes, from someone happy and excited to live his passion, into a depressed and stressed out man who just wanted an out. I felt SO bad for him. I genuinely cannot imagine being pushed to my breaking point so hard that I decide my only option is to FLEE THE COUNTRY. But he literally came in one day like ‘guess what fuckers! I’ll be in Rome by the end of the week! Have fun in hell!’ ksdjfdskjfd

The third teacher- they had a hard time finding. Even people who were actively looking for teaching positions didn’t wanna take the job because word got around about us literally driving a man out of America. They ended up finding a teacher at another school who was good with ‘’’’’difficult students’’’’’ and offering him an obscene amount of money to switch. He...listen. He was nice.

He comes in the first day, says ‘So I don’t actually know what physical science is- I’m just gonna teach you guys chemistry’ and then proceeded to not actually teach chemistry.

He got mad at the kids every now and then, but he was a lot calmer than the other teachers. He let A LOT slide and put on a lot of science videos to get out of trying to get through to the class.

He was...not the most attentive. I distinctly remember being in the lab, and we were doing that thing where you make flames change colors, and while he had his back turned a guy at my table lit his worksheet on fire, laughed, wasn’t paying attention and let the flame get to his sleeve, had his sleeve catch fire, panicked and beat it out, all in a few moments, all before Mr. Sliffy managed to turn around to catch him. It was an almost completely silent affair, but I feel like the teacher should’ve noticed the residual smoke coming off a kids arm??? He didn’t say anything though khdfsfhkds

So we really skated through for the last trimester that year- apart from a few labs he’d just put on like, ocean life documentaries and if he saw you paying attention he’d give you full class credit. He gave out candy to ‘anyone who’s not being an asshole’, so while some kids were still wild and unruly, everyone calmed down enough so the constant screaming turned into more. Bearable chatter. Tests were few and far between and not that difficult.

But I still cannot believe I had to live through this class like....I think I developed tinnitus just from sitting in it everyday. I was like constantly on guard for a fist or a dart to hit me for months afterward. It was too much like...can we please do something about schools oh my God. I don’t even know how to officially end this post. Please be nice to teachers oh my God.

#molly's memories #freshman year #science #asks #molly mumbles

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alwaysanotherrainbow · 4 years

Text

The Stranger

Roman feels a bit out of place these days.

Ship: Remroyality (remrom is in effect)

Notes: as promised long ago, remroyality fic! might crosspost to my ao3 later. angst with a happy ending, loads of sadness with Roman (please be careful), remus morbid imagery, hurt/comfort, alienation, food mention

taglist: @remromfantasies @sassy-postal-shipper (edit: fixed tagging error. if you want this removed please let me know!)

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Roman loved them together. He was a part of the fabric of ‘them together’, technically, but he appreciated seeing the two of them, with all their love to share and all these days to call their own.

Remus looked so happy these days. Not just entertained at thinking about some strange turn of phrase, not just distracted by whatever thought crossed his mind. Lucid, bright, and happy.

Patton looked the same way. That wasn’t just cheerfulness or a facade; the way that he giggled when Remus kissed his cheek was impossible to mistake for anything else. He was happy, too.

Here was the problem.

Roman wasn’t like them. They were bright and good together, and somehow, Roman was out of place among them, and it wasn’t even their faults.

It wasn’t their responsibility, either. He had to fight his own battles. He did it before, he could do it again.

Even so, there was no denying that these days, he felt like…

“What’s wrong?” asked Patton, who was safely nuzzled into his arms, except it didn’t feel safe for Roman. This was out of place, he loved Patton so so much but couldn’t he see that Roman was out of place?

“Nothing, love.”

“Hm… You promise?”

“I mean, nothing to worry about, shooting star.”

He couldn’t see Patton’s expression in the darkness, but he felt him tense up for a bit before relaxing.

“If you’re certain,” he whispered. “But if it is bothering you, you’ll tell us, right? Or at least find someone who can help you?”

Help me.

“Yeah. Yeah, I promise.”

Patton curled up closer to him, and Roman felt like a Midas of misery, like everything he touched turned into discontentment (even his darlings, even the people he loved the most—)

Patton curled up closer to him, and Roman felt like a stranger.

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“Hi, loves!” Remus asked as he walked into the kitchen the next morning. “Guess who fought an octopus? That’s right, this son-of-a-gun!”

Patton smiled as Roman helped him flip a pancake. “Really? Why’d you fight it?”

“It had my keys.”

“Keys to what?”

“I accidentally handcuffed myself to the Earl of Teal while I was imagining up my duchy.”

“Quack,” said Patton, gazing sadly at the pancake that fell to the floor. Roman disappeared it quickly before patting Patton on the shoulder and giving him the batter so he could pour a new one.

“No, not ducky. Like, a king has a kingdom, a marquis has a…. What does a marquis have?”

“A marquessate,” offered Roman.

“Thank you! A marquis has a marquessate, a duke has a duchy. Why so sad, Patton?”

“Nothing! I’m not unhappy. I’m your darling daisy datemate, I’m not sad at the moment—”

Remus tilted his head. “Why so contemplative, then?”

“You really hit the nail on the head,” said Patton sadly— er, contemplatively— as he handed the plates for breakfast to Roman. “Someone I care about isn’t doing too great, that’s all.”

Oh.

“Sorry to hear that,” said Remus sincerely. “Think that we could cheer them up? Ooh! I have a packet full of a probably-hazardous chemical that, when thrown into a bonfire, makes the fire pastel and colorful!”

“That sounds helpful,” said Roman with a smile. He put the plates on the table, kissed Remus on the forehead, and caught the scent of fresh air and benzene.

“Who’s feeling sad, though?”

“He asked me not to talk about it.”

Thanks, Patton.

Patton settled down, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. “I think he’ll tell you himself when he’s ready.”

Why, Patton?

“Ah, okay.” Remus settled down too, drinking a suspicious red liquid. “Want some Catastrophe-Cola, Roman?”

“I’m fine with coffee.”

Remus nodded.

A lively conversation followed, though Roman wasn’t really there. He heard some words fall from so-and-so’s lips, felt his heart ache and his mind cry out to say something, say something…

He wanted their eyes on him. Greedy of him, wasn’t it?

Yes, horribly so.

Still a stranger.

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Remus told him something. It was something small, just some flirting, but something about the kindness in his voice made Roman feel so incredibly unworthy of it.

He opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a small whimper, and suddenly his cheeks felt very warm and wet, and he realized that he was sobbing.

“Hey!” Remus moved over closer to him on the couch, gently putting his hands on Roman’s. “Hey. I’m sorry, I didn’t know— Patton, could you come here? Quickly.”

“What’s wrong?” called Patton from upstairs before Roman’s crying got louder. “Oh, no. Roman, Remus, I’m coming, it’ll be okay—”

Curse the Fates! He tried to keep himself quiet, but instead he was just crying harder, and the men he loved turned to indistinct blurs of cyan and emerald through his tears.

“Nothing’s wrong—”

Remus sighed. “Roman, something is clearly wrong.”

“Shouldn’t… don’t wanna make you sad, don’t want you to see me sad—”

“Sweetie, you’re all right,” cooed Patton, with that warmth and kindness that Roman wished he had. He settled next to him on the couch. “If we’re too close, say so, okay?”

Despite himself, Roman leaned in closer. Reassurance and warmth filled him, and air entered easily into his lungs. He gripped onto Remus’ hands tighter.

“You’re all right,” whispered Remus, holding on as Patton placed a kiss onto Roman’s forehead.

They stayed there for a few moments, Roman sniffling as Patton eventually cleared his throat and asked “Can you tell us what’s bothering you?”

He nodded before managing to say “I don’t want to bring you down. You two are so happy and perfect, and… I’m not like that. I don’t understand why you love me, you know?”

Weak. So very weak. So very not at home here, so different and—

Remus wrapped him in a hug.

This was… unexpected.

Roman realized with a jolt that Remus was crying, too.

“Dear one,” Remus managed to say, “I love you. Since the moment I saw you, I’ve fucking adored you. You’re not bringing us down. You make us better just by being you.”

“We’ll be there for you.” Patton reached out to grab Roman’s hand which Remus had let go of; the prince nodded again. “I know I can’t help with everything, but we’ll find someone who can, okay? I promise to be there with you all along.”

“...you promise?”

Patton showed Roman the ring around his finger, the one on his right hand. “Yep. I promised. And I’ll promise again and again if it’ll help.”

“Same here.” Remus kissed Roman’s cheek. “If it’ll help, I’ll… I’ll shout it to the world! I’ll embroider it onto my soul, I’ll do anything.”

The morbid imagery made Roman smile.

“You really do promise?” he asked.

“Yep!” Patton smiled. “You can talk to Dr. Picani if you need to, too!”

Roman nodded. “For now, can we just spend some time together? I don’t want to impose or anything, but…”

“Nope, you should absolutely choose what you wanna do, sweet pea,” said Remus. “Today’s about you.”

“I’ve been imagining up a wonderful play. Maybe we can see it? Make a night of it?”

“Of course, honeybunches-of-Rome-an!” Patton smiled.

“Ooh! Is there crime?” asked Remus with a grin.

“Yeah! Intrigue, lots and lots of fake crimes, and a love story!”

When they got up and headed for the theatre in the Imagination, Remus squeezed Roman’s hand a little, the way they used to when they were younger. Three squeezes. I love you.

He squeezed back.

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When the sun rose the next morning, it found Roman smiling, Remus pressing kisses onto his neck and Patton comfortable in his embrace.

He wasn’t a stranger after all. Quite the opposite, actually.

With them at his side, he was home.

#remroyality #first time with this ship #remrom #my fics #my writing #okay i know it's similar to the ending of Peonies please forgive that

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xhxhxhx · 4 years

Text

Saw something in the further reading section of Michael Kulikowski’s Imperial Tragedy (Profile, 2019) today:

There are countless books on the fall of the western Roman empire, and more appear annually, with variable scholarly trappings but nearly all quite conventional. Still, ripping yarns and neo-Victorian analyses can be found in any bookshop. So, for those so inclined, can thinly disguised nativist tracts on how immigration (and ‘immigrant violence’) brought down the empire. To name names would be invidious.

I thought this was a dig at Peter Heather, Professor of Medieval History at King’s College London and author of The Fall of the Roman Empire (Oxford, 2005) and Empires and Barbarians (Oxford, 2009), so I looked it up and discovered that not only was I right, but Kulikowski has serious beef with the guy:

Peter Heather has been fiercely criticized by members of the so-called Toronto School of History. Michael Kulikowski, who belongs to this group, has accused Heather of neo-romanticism and of wishing "to revive a biological approach to ethnicity". Kulikowski claims that Heather "manifests a clear methodological affinity" to the 19th-century writer of the Goths Henry Bradley.

But Kulikowki’s beef is nothing next to the righteous fury of Guy Halsall, Professor of History at the University of York:

Guy Halsall has identified Peter Heather as the leader of a "counter-revisionist offensive against more subtle ways of thinking" about the Migration Period. Halsall accuses this group, which is strongly associated with University of Oxford, of "bizarre reasoning" and of purveying a "deeply irresponsible history". Halsall writes that Heather and the Oxford historians have been responsible for "an academic counter-revolution" of wide importance, and accuses them of deliberately contributing to the rise of "far-right extremists".

Halsall got so mad at Heather, first at the 2011 Leeds International Medieval Conference and then online, at his blog, that he threatened to leave academia entirely:

Well, it's more or less a year since I started doing this blogging lark 'seriously' (the inverted commas are obviously necessary). And, as they say, what a roller-coaster of a year it's been. I've shut down the blog twice, brought it back twice, come to the verge of formal complaints being sent to my university twice (once justifiably, once most certainly not), lost at least one friend, lost 99% of the respect I had for someone I had hitherto held in high esteem, quite possibly lost the chance of a job I wanted because of this blog, taken some pretty visceral abuse, and so on. All good fun!

On the other hand I have learnt some lessons. One is that even bastards have feelings. Another is that if you have twenty-odd followers and maybe 100 hits a day, that (allowing for hits from people looking for something else, like Elizabeth Kostova's novel The Historian or ever-popular balding guitarist The Edge) does not mean that only twenty or thirty people in the whole wide world read your blog. Thus you need to be a bit more careful about what you say and how you say it. I've also learnt that eminent historians don't always read what you write very carefully, and just how deeply-ingrained the elitist culture of the British historical profession is, as well as just how few principles are actually held by the overwhelming majority of the practitioners of said profession. And this in response to something that I actually thought long and hard about how I wrote.

And as a result of all this I have realised that no good is going to come of me continuing to smack my head against the glass ceiling that those of us not from 'a particular socio-educational background' (you know the one) eventually run up against. I have instead come to the decision, essentially, to give up on it and 'seek my fortune' elsewhere than in the confines of the academic career-path, as it is now constructed in the UK at any rate.* I'm actually quite excited about this as I think it offers a lot of possibilities, creatively and ethically. It's been a liberating decision. Those of you who know that I set most store by the writings of those co-opted into the canon of the existentialists (almost none of whom ever called themselves by that name) will appreciate exactly why I am proud of this decision.

To some extent it makes up for the bad faith I showed in backing down and removing my post on why it matters to get angry about the lazy and irresponsible (indeed, yes, just downright knuckle-headed) way in which some historians in and/or produced by our most prestigious Thames Valley-based university write about politically and socially sensitive topics like migrations.

Halsall ultimately sanitized the 2011 IMC paper that started the war with Heather -- the neutered version is still up on his blog -- but the original was apparently quite something:

Perhaps unsurprisingly for those who’ve heard him speak or read him on the Internet, this was the one that really started the war. [Edit: and, indeed, some changes have been made to these paragraphs by request of one of those involved.] The consequences, if not of this actual speech, at least of its subsequent display on the Internet, have been various, unpleasant and generally regrettable, and I don’t want any of them myself.

Thankfully, the purged parts of the original were reproduced by some noble soul on the Civilization Fanatics forums before they were lost to the ages:

Thus we can have Ward-Perkins’ sneering parody of late antiquity studies and Peter Heather’s distortions of counter-arguments. In many people’s minds the choices before us are evidently, either, that nothing happened, or, that there was a huge catastrophe caused entirely by invading barbarians. Obviously this is not the case. Plenty of people other than me -- most famously, Walter Pohl -- have written about serious, dramatic change happening in the fifth century without blaming it on the barbarians and without denying that there were migrations in the fifth century. Yet this -- if I dare call it such -- third way seems nevertheless to be very much a minority position.

But I am not convinced that a simple lack of exposure to sensible alternatives really explains the continuing, fanatical devotion to the idea of the barbarian migrations, especially outside the academy.

I have recently said that:

“When a British historian places an argument that the Roman Empire fell because of the immigration of large numbers of barbarians next to arguments that the end of Rome was the end of civilisation and that we need to take care to preserve our own civilisation, when another British historian writes sentences saying “the connection between immigrant violence and the collapse of the western Empire could not be more direct” [a direct quote from Peter Heather’s Empires and Barbarians (Oxford, 2009)], and especially when the arguments of both involve considerable distortions of the evidence to fit their theories, one cannot help but wonder whether these authors are wicked, irresponsible or merely stupid.”

Obviously, these are not mutually exclusive alternatives.

Are these writers setting themselves up as ideologues of the xenophobic Right or have they simply not realised the uses to which such careless thinking and phrasing can be put? You can draw your own conclusions, although it is worth noting that Ward-Perkins has been happy enough to write on this subject for the neo-liberal magazine Standpoint, which regularly publishes pieces attacking multiculturalism. There comes a point when one has to admit that actually the most charitable explanation for all this really is that these writers are simply a bit dim.

Outside academic circles, it is certainly the case that the adhesion to the idea of barbarian invasion has a heavily right-wing political dimension. Apart from the barbarians’ role as metaphor, already discussed, it is worth, very briefly, thinking about the other reasons why people are so ready to pin the blame on the barbarians. Slavoj Zizek’s Lacanian analysis of antisemitism provides some valuable ways forward. Essentially, the barbarian, like the figure of the Jew, acts as a screen between the subject and a confrontation with the Real, which Zizek sees, slightly differently from Lacan, as the pre-symbolised; things that haven’t been or can’t or won’t be encompassed in a world view. Zizek showed that arguments that “the Jews aren’t like that” are almost never effective against anti-Semites because what real Jews (or actual immigrants, one might say) are like is not the point. Similarly, arguments about the empirical reality of the fifth-century cut little weight with those wedded to the idea of Barbarian Invasion. Just as the anti-Semite takes factual evidence as more proof of the existence of the international Zionist conspiracy, the right-wing devotee of the Barbarian Invasions sees factual counter-arguments as manifestations of the liberal, left-wing academy peddling its dangerous multicultural political correctness. I have read a great deal of this on internet discussion lists -- including a review of my own book, and one of James O’Donnell’s! Michael Kulikowski received a similarly-phrased review from a right-wing academic ancient historian.

The barbarian is the classic “subject presumed to”. The barbarian can change the world; he can bring down empires; he can create kingdoms. The barbarian dominates history. “He” is not like “us”, enmeshed in our laws, our little lives and petty responsibilities. The barbarians -- and you only need to read Peter Heather to see this -- are peoples with “coherent aims” (a quote), which they set out single-mindedly to achieve. No people in the whole of recorded human history have ever had single coherent sets of aims. Well -- none other than the barbarians anyway.

Halsall has never resiled from his belief that Heather was essentially a fascist, nor backed away from his commitment to resign from his post in righteous indignation -- maybe not in 2011, or 2019, but certainly by 2023 at the very latest:

My anger about all this is justly infamous but has been badly misrepresented. I do think that some things are worth getting angry about, and the misuse of the Barbarian Migrations and the End of the Roman Empire to fuel xenophobia and racism, and the way some modern authors pander to this, is one such. However, to look at the origins of this ire and animus, I invite you to compare my engagement with Peter Heather’s work in Barbarian Migrations, and its tone, with Heather’s engagement – if you can call it that – with my work, and its tone, in Empires and Barbarians. I never expect to be agreed with; I do expect basic academic courtesy to be reciprocated. If people see fit to treat me intellectually as a second-class citizen, the gloves will come off. That may stem from my own biography as (unlike so many) a first-generation academic not educated at the 'right' schools and universities, but there we are. I will be leaving the profession within the next four years (well done, guys) so I have nothing to lose by not apologising for that.

Kulikowski might have gotten in a good dig, but Halsall will always be a true master of the art of Being Mad Online.

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adamgeorgiou · 3 years

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Arthur, My Cousin and Me

I don’t know how to detangle Arthur from myself enough to write dispassionately or accurately. Instead, what follows is something like half him, half me. It’s more journal entry than elegy. To a general audience, that might make this less interesting than it otherwise could be, but it’s what I’ve got. Remember this if and when you get to the end.

Anyway…

I feel like I knew Arthur. Then I heard what others had to say and saw what others had to feel. Following his death, I still feel like I know him. In certain ways better than most or all. But there’s a part of me that’s often strained to believe that I was in more of his inner circle than I actually was, and his death exposed the truth of my position.

It’s a practical observation, not a dramatic one. I’m not saying he had a dominating and hidden alter ego or that he pitied me. It’s simpler: his death revealed my confidence in our bond as an illusion innocuously leftover from being kids together, from back when we actually spent serious time together. I want him back now like I’ve continuously wanted back what we lost long ago, but now it’s double-permanent and legible. Before it was remediable and blissfully hidden — embarrassing in hindsight, like most nostalgia.

But he also had that same nostalgia and held onto it, too, which makes me feel better. That mutual thread to our shared past was strong for both of us. It gave us a lot to lean on, but we leaned on it a little too heavily. Without that crutch, our adult lives were mostly opaque to one another, but also we were getting close again, involving each other again. Building anew. The left hook following the right. It’s a shame we weren’t closer than we were, when he died. It’s a shame our getting closer was cut short.

I guess it makes sense, generally: as adults, we’re all doing niche things, and niches are small and excluding, so everything else trends towards becomes small talk. (And that’s fine and right, because focus is necessary for growth. Just try and stay loyal, which Arthur did and my cousins do.)

Maybe it wasn’t so much that I was uniquely outside of Arthur’s confidence, but more that we had both (or all) grown a bit into our own isolation. In any case, I mourn the loss and its new finality.

So that’s him and I as adults, apart. Who was he, though? What can I tell you?

Well, I’ll briefly start with me, for context. Who I am is still him, the result of his influence, for sure. Of growing with, then adjacent to him, then apart, then converging again (more on the converging, later). If you distilled me down and got rid of all the litter and trivia, the rare and potent stuff remaining would be similar to what I knew of Arthur. We had the same essence, as I saw it. So I can show you that reflection, and you can tell me if it’s accurate (See: first paragraph’s disclaimer). (Also, note my calling out our similarity is carefully placed right before I go on to flatter him best I can — tactics, baby — but don’t read my ego into this. What follows is all my cousin.)

Arthur and confidence. Old saying: the pro fails more often than the amateur tries.

The subtleties of his personality were sophisticated and complicated. He could spar at an exceptional level from an early age. But he started out lazy and overthrowing a lot of his punches, gassing out quickly.

As a kid, he was autistically independent, preoccupied and hyper focused, but without any of the social hangups. He could talk to anyone and impressed everyone. He was adored, and rightfully so, but he also marched to the beat of his own nunchucks, exclusively. You couldn’t bullshit him, and you couldn’t placate him unless he was genuinely fascinated with what you offered. This is how kids should be, insatiably curious and wild. It was my favorite era of his, and where we spent the most time together. I was such an asshole to him, and he still always hung out with me. And we followed each other into a lot of similar interests.

Then he got his first hit of testosterone, and followed a phase where he literally held a fist up in every photo taken of him. Ha. Puberty’s a bitch. That didn’t last long. Reality checked and he stabilized. The important thing is that he knew he wasn’t going to watch, he was going to play. I loved him here, jealously and from a further distance. I couldn’t hang.

Then maturity: The firm handshake, the direct eye contact, the bright teeth, the smiling cheeks. Approachable, but not daffy. If anything his charisma was a prank and shrewd tactic; a car salesman during the first act, a playful subversion before the intellect and wit made their debut; or, worse for you, they didn’t. You’d start talking to Arthur and think you were walking in on a frat-boy breakfast table, then he’d go on to tell you why your problem was really because of what Robert Moses did back in ‘56, or he’d ask if you thought the The States were in a similar stage of decadence as Rome before its fall.

To him, your reason was more important than your choice, which is an axiom of all good conversation, one that most people are afraid to admit because doing so requires the ability to tread water. It’s easier to talk about the weather or watch sports. But Arthur wasn’t afraid of going deeper, and he had the tact to know when it was the right thing to do.

He was a man of appetite. A true traveling gourmand. He could scoff at you from within a seersucker, but he never compared oysters. If a menu offered Seattle’s or Rhode Island’s, he’d reply, “keep ‘em coming” and demand littlenecks or (and) crawfish to follow. He was less interested in varieties of wine, more in varieties of tomato and whether you had a good coarse salt.

He was spoiled rotten — as we all were, and mostly by the same sources — but he lacked pretension, except for that deliberately wielded for ironic effect. Underneath all his developed and developing taste was a lot of comical stoicism — laughing at gross injustice and absurdity, but also doing something about it, literally. His principles were conjured up from experience with the trappings of pleasure, with readings of history, with a variety of surprisingly worldly stories. I always wondered where and how he got it all. The guy had seen things, but not that many things. How was he always so versed? I don’t know, but if you’ve ever watched him eat a box of clementines straight up, wide-eyed in a wrinkled rugby shirt, then you would also know he was more pensive than pleasure seeking.

Entertainment was a defense, one he was growing out of as he realized it interfered with his goals and their requirements. A defense against what? I don’t know for sure, but I suspect the typical. On one hand, a lack of patience and a petulant refusal to be bored. On the other, the existential and solipsistic. A defense against the subconscious shame and pain of cynicism. Was love real? Was wealth worth anything? Was the world bogus? Was anyone authentic? Ethical? Himself? Others?

Look, I’m not saying he was overwhelmed with this gooey crap. He was a thinker, not a navel gazer. I don’t know if he even said any of this stuff out loud, but anyone with a brain is going to ask some questions about the life they’re living and the society they’re in, and most of us don’t like the first obvious answers we come up with. Then we do something about not liking those answers. We put fingers in our ears some of the time, we do what’s easy some of the time, and we do what’s difficult some of the time. And also, anyone with any talent is going to find themselves bored among the average, and falling short of their own standards. These were Arthur’s struggles, I think. At least, they’re kind of my struggles, and Arthur seemed to harmonize with me when we’d commiserate. Or maybe we were both pompous assholes, wannabe aristocrats from the suburbs. Or maybe that was just me. Ha.

To some, it might seem appropriate to haunt him here in this postscript, as if to justify his death as the terminal approach of a depression into cessation. Let me be clear: this was totally not the case, from my vantage. Instead, the above attitudes are more like the required cost-of-entry to a great show. If the unexamined life isn’t worth living, it does not mean the examined one is easy to live. The alternative is Judge Judy and a monogrammed armchair. Not for Arthur. Caulfield eventually quits his bitching, but he has to eat a lot of shit first. Siddhartha finally leaves the brothel, but he had to walk in that door in order to walk out of it later. Hard times are the prerequisite to epiphany. Painful and confusing; but hopeful, not despairing.

And you could tell Arthur was among this company because the personas he employed became increasingly sophisticated, useful, attractive, and comfortable. From the brawling, pack-leading, indulgent, jokester/show-off into the relaxed, independent, luxurious, conversationalist who wasn’t as afraid to let his guard down, who was increasingly responsible. He was cultivated. He had a tamed self-consciousness (as we all aspire). It was impressive to watch him pull his own strings, to compare that with your own attempts and be humbled.

And thus, as I see it, the irony, hard to swallow, is that Arthur was finding answers to life’s hard questions in fistfuls. Love was possible. Work was worth it. Viktor Frankl was right. And he was learning patience and conviction, already better at their practice than most (e.g. me). As Dan put it, he was just taking off. He jumped and then a hand reached up from the almost escaped gravity and cut him by the heel.

A complete, but simple tragedy.

Complete, because the good guy lost.

Simple, because Arthur’s life was not some melodramatic airport novel. His death was a lightning strike, a deus ex machina in reverse. A two sentence accident, not an assassination. Not much more to be read from it. Mortality is hard, right? (See: Genesis).

And for all my elaboration, I don’t even think Arthur was all that noxiously introspective or exceptionally self destructive either. The guy knew how to love and be loved. How to let his hair down, appropriately. How to shift gears and drive forward. How to resist temptation. How to find and be good company. How to stare at a fish tank. How to sit and read. How to eat fruit in the sun. He was typically bright, with a lot of flair and personality. I know he was grateful.

Or I’m wrong. Maybe I’m inventing a story to make sense of something more concealed or of pure chaos. I don’t know. I don’t think so.

In any case, it’s a tragedy. And regardless of what is true, I’m still glad I got to hear his story and be part of some of it. He was and remains a good influence to me, a fellow bright eyed boy attempting to sustain himself in the body of a straight-backed man. He’ll live on for a long, long time. And I keep talking to him.

That’s some of what I knew of him. And given this is my catharsis, forgive me further, but more about me:

Sadness, gratitude, and disappointment.

I’m sad. Still? Yes. Always? Probably not. The inevitability of death hits a certain emotional bedrock after enough love is lost. I’m probably not there yet, still more distance to fall, but things are tapering off, in the aggregate. Maybe I’m just cold.

Sadness is the least interesting. I am separated from someone I love, and that sucks. We all have people we’ve loved, and we are all damned to lose them. But yes, I get those black bile clutches to the chest as I’m reminded that Arthur (et al.) is gone. And I wanna hold your hand, if you’re feeling it too.

It’s a curse that requires gratitude. Time keeps on slipping, and the portion of time that one spends with good people is shorter still. I’m thankful for Arthur’s good company. From childhood to peerdom. This is what I’ll try and focus on. It’s the mantra I’ll repeat. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Then there’s the sulking disappointment. My head slowly shaking, my eyes unfocused contemplating the loss of the unpredictable conversations, the refreshingly interesting trivia, the uniqueness, the independence, the honed never impersonated taste, the great breadth of knowledge, the artful ball busting, the avoidance of cliches, the shared recommendations, the belly laughs. Obnoxious mutual indulgence — food and talk — during Thanksgiving at Stacy’s table, the shared past at Everit Ave, the just started planning. The feeling of a just missed answer to the question of how to get it back, continuously nagging.

More on that: I’m dealing with a huge mess of unanswerable questions and impotence. There’s so much broken by his leaving, least of all in me, and I can’t fix any of it. No way to organize it. I can’t even help others fix it. Acknowledging the impossibility of the situation seems better than ignoring it, so I will (…acknowledge that death breaks the world and makes inconsistent a lot taken as granted). Arthur’s death is an oily surreal void in the middle of the road. A portal to nowhere. And sure, life will go on. We will preserve. Time heals all wounds. That’s all true. But any schmuck can offer a platitude. I want to be responsible for what he’s left behind, in precise detail. I want to pick up the slack, fill in the blank. But what was his remains his, locked up behind whatever door his soul is now shut. It’s maddening.

I went so far as to tell Olivia that I was her brother, too, and that I would be there for her. Idiot. I love her, she knows I love her, I know she loves me. Yada, yada. I need no pity for my vomiting on the rug. My point is: I can’t be Arthur. I can’t even be close to Arthur. Adam — while still pretty good — isn’t a substitute for Arthur. I apologized for being so naive and sloppy, but the moment taught me what I was trying to say above: that I am ignorant of so much of Arthur’s life, and in ways that can’t be remedied by interviewing his friends or reading his book or wearing his shoes, sort of speak. A lot of it isn’t just unknown, it’s unknowable.

This requires more thought. Surely something can be done. Entropy can’t be rewound, but duct tape can keep a plane in the air. So here’s something I’m going to try: I’m going to be more vulnerable. I’m going to expose myself the way a brother or a son might, and see what happens. It won’t transform me into a replacement, and I’ll probably make a clown of myself. But it’s worth a shot. To build different connections, instead of replicas. I can already see that the cousins have been hammered stronger by this. Now it’s time to be deliberate, and keep that train going, if possible. And yea, I’ll do the practical stuff. You can’t call Barb, enough. And I’ll call Liv, too, but with finesse, without overdoing it. And the rest of our family, as well, because we all lost something. For some a spleen; for others, more vital organs.

Moving on.

It’s further maddening to have Arthur’s death aligned and intertwined with so much of my pleasure. I’m a week into marriage. I’m ecstatic and overwhelmed by the potential of my future. I’m also newly terrified of losing a child not yet even conceived. That’s a fun one. Probably a lot more neurosis to come. But, yea… it’s a violent set of waves to endure and ride. It’s exhilarating and crushing, and guiltily I’ll admit, more of the former. I’m pronoid.

The guilt compounds as I realize that I’m only comparing the conflict between my pleasure and pain, when the actual accounting includes my pleasure, my pain, and all the pain of all the others he left behind, those we both loved. What about Alexandra? Barb? Liv? Dan? A dominating, trailing factor; ego-hidden and selfishly deprioritized. What would Jesus do? Not have a wedding during shiva, although I appreciate all the encouragement and insistence from the also mourning invitees.

Back to Arthur and I having grown apart and then, more recently, back together:

There exists a line separating most relationships. On one side of the line you have people who have a reasonably complete model of you in their head. (See: Theory of Mind.) On the other side of the line are people who have a functional model; they know what they need to know to get the job done, but they don’t know, perhaps have never seen, the whole thing. For ex., a spouse vs a colleague (most of the time).

The line is called intimacy, and relationships on both sides of the line can be valuable, but the intimate ones have more potential in both directions, fat tails; the intimate ones can yield fortunes and bankruptcies. Acquaintances are tepid.

I described it above, how Arthur’s and my relationship moved from the intimate to the distant. I’ll skip further detailing that transition, and just get to the thing that hurts now: we were getting markedly closer, again. I could see the trajectory of our friendship and would bet on our returning to intimacy and confidence.

If the isolation of vocation and growth drives most bourgeois adults apart and into impersonal silos, then eventual mastery and plateau allows room for a focus on humanity, again. And humanity is universal and objective. People can stand on it, together, and get to know each other (again). That’s where I felt Arthur and I were.

I felt like Arthur and I had taken two separate tracks at a fork 15 years ago, and just recently those two roads started to merge back into the same path. We had stories to tell each other, of our time in the wild. It was the basis for a new bond, perhaps stronger than the old one.

Unsolicited phone calls. Talks of marriage, health, wealth. Suggestions of books and podcasts that were actually followed through with, instead of disappearing into the void like most cocktail party prescriptions. We’d follow back. Not rushing each other past awkward silence. Being patiently invested in one another. Showing up. Talking about vulnerable topics, like fears and aspirations for careers, and relationships, and family. And then, right during the peak of this rekindling, this jubilee, he died. And I doubt that I was the only one whose newfound growth and compatibility were cut short. You’re not alone.

So I hurt for the spent love, yes, like that of most grief. But I hurt more for the lost potential. I had so many fresh dreams that included him. It’s disappointing and sad.

To be clear, I’m disappointed in what’s lost, not disappointment in him. I blame him for nothing, even if maybe I should or others do. But any of his mistakes could have easily been mine, and so I sympathize. I’m not angry. Ambition implies risk. Vice is vice is inevitable. Growth means growth from something. Different contexts, need not apply.

Anyway, what else? The thing I linger on now is a weird faith. I have little faith or rather I have difficulty finding faith. I scrutinize faith until it’s demoralized. And yet, the discontinuity introduced by Arthur’s absence gives me faith, illogically but compellingly. I don’t strive for it, it’s simply there, point blank. I can’t explain it, but I can describe it.

Arthur is gone forever, and Arthur is part of my future. Both irrevocably true, yet incompatible. What to do about it? Apparently, not much. My mind absolutely and happily refuses to budge. The feeling that Arthur is part of my future supersedes the knowledge that he’s not. Knowing he’s gone does nothing to my belief that my future includes him. So it continues to. Sue me, I can’t help it.

See you in the funnies, Arthur. (More trivia: I never called him Artie or Art or Archo. He was always Arthur to me.)

Lastly, some good, more recent memories (skipping some that have already been shared):

The last thing I spoke to Arthur about was extensive advice, over the phone, on how to structure a prenup. “Don’t put anything about kids in there, because the courts won’t accept that you understood what you were agreeing to, prior to actually having the kids.” Smart. “Everyone should get one! The courts encourage it! Helps ungunk the works.” Ha. Kelly and I never got a prenup, but the candid advice on such a touchy subject makes me laugh.

Eating a whole pig at a communal table, biergarten style, at Saxon and Parole, in New York. Arthur talking the whole table’s ear off about everything, and then after discussing eating brains, we asked the chef to bring the pig’s over, and he did. Afterwards, walking to our trains, jolly, drunk.

Visiting Arthur in Scotland. Going out to some Uni warehouse party, and me getting lost with some bird. I didn’t have a working European phone, and so when I got home at dawn, seeing him and his big bravado looking like a worried mother goose made me laugh and proud, like a big brother again. Him cooking the two of us mussels and linguine with three whole heads of garlic. Delicious. Steak in Edinburgh, and him showing me the castles like he was himself a duke, personal friends of Hume and Smith.

I wished we went on more walks together.

Us planning on going to Joe Beef, in Montreal, with Alexandra and Kelly.

Him calling me to tell me Anthony Bourdain had died, and subsequently talking about it. “If he can’t make it, who can?” There’s that cynicism again. But it was a candid moment. And we ended that talk, more or less, believing we could make it, even if Bourdain couldn’t.

Discussing whether we were fated to end up like our parents.

Him shooting the .38 up in Gilboa.

Legos, spanky, ice box bedroom, V8-turbo toilet, the pool, the trampoline, the screen porch and its green furniture, endless chicken rolls followed by cold pizza, karate in the basement (no shoes on the mats), rolling on the carpet (i.e. roll mosh), forts, the Barbie game on the gateway computer in Izzy’s room, Snood, army men in the mud ripping up sod by the square foot unit, jealousy listening to Timberlake camp stories, the suburban with 100 blankets in the third row and Don McLean on the radio, toxic farts, the Pokemon store, the Pokemon cards I’d steal from him after going to the Pokemon store, a million cups of Lipton at Barb’s table, Rage Against the Machine in Dan’s car, lanyards, fishing in the Hewlett Bay, Harry Potter, him never sleeping over my house and getting rides home at 2am after attempting to (me pissed), hiding in that lone pine tree in the front yard, making window art out glitter glue, salamanders, watching him attempt to ride a bike in the driveway.

A menial history, but ours. Anyway…

Arthur, you were great. It’s not for me to say that you’re now resting in peace, because I think you were pretty zen while you were alive, in your own pastel-colored kimono kind of way. So instead, I hope you’re as satisfied there as you were interested here. I’ll see you soon, and until then, I’ll try and hold the line for you. Love ya’.

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