#( truly no thoughts; head empt[ied] )

[mielmoto]

not to be too candid on main but i can attest that not all weak-in-the-knees swoony-moony-ness is just silly romantic literary fluff/conjecture because my ex + witness friends can confirm that about 75% of the times i have ever received a smooch while standing i have genuinely started to lose/lost my balance.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Musician Age Gap AU Pt 15

Kara sleeps hard and deep next to Lena that night, when they finally run out of energy and tension and need. She wakes hours later flat on her back, a starfish-shaped pillow for Lena to wrap herself around.

Realizing the younger woman is indeed tucked against her side, Kara curls her arm around Lena's shoulders, earning a moan of malcontent. "Five more minutes..."

Kara is more than willing to give Lena more than that, but a knock at the door pre-empts that idea. Lena groans, this time loud enough to be petulant.

"No can do," Jess calls from the other side of the door. "You don't pay me enough to tell your mother no!"

It must be a long standing joke between them, because Lena snorts, even as she reluctantly rolls onto her back.

"I have coffee!" Jess adds to lessen the blow.

Lena perks up a little, but still takes her time stretching against the sheets. "Fine," she calls. "Tell her we'll be in the kitchen in five. She can join us."

"Thank you!"

Kara listens to the exchange with her eyes closed, mentally preparing herself to peel away from Lena. Lena seems equally disinclined. Finally, Kara cracks a smile. "You should pay Jess more, if it'll get us more than five extra minutes."

"There is no amount of money on Earth that could convince Jess to cross my mother." Lena sighs. "Honestly I don't blame her. If she wasn't *my* mother I'd be running too."

Kara wisely keeps any thoughts she has on the matter of Lillian to herself. The woman has yet to look on her with any other than complete and utter disdain, and Kara is more than happy to let that be as far as it goes. She suspects that if she and Lillian were ever truly at odds, well.... she doubts recent-girlfriend would win in a contest against mother-manager.

Eventually, they manage to crawl out of bed and throw on some pajamas for decency before making their way to the kitchen. Lena's cooking an omelette for herself when Lillian joins them, with Kara hunched over a bowl of cereal.

"Charming," Lillian comments, to Kara's consternation. It's just cereal. But Lillian has already turned to Lena, so Kara settles for sticking her tongue out while the woman's back is turned.

"You have a meeting with Morgan Edge this morning at 10:30am," Lillian announces.

Lena stiffens at the stove. Kara catches the stillness immediately, but keeps quiet.

"You mean *we* have a meeting--"

"No, I have a meeting with Maxwell Lord. If I'd meant we, I would have said we."

Lena turns to her mother. "We agreed--"

"You are an adult, Lena, and capable of conducting a meeting without me," Lillian chides. "The label simply wants to check in on the tour and your recent... escapades. Meanwhile I be sorting the details of releasing your newest single."

Lena's cheeks splotch with color, though she does her best to hide her distress. "But--"

"Morgan's schedule is already strained Lena. If you cancel this meeting, you risk losing the faith of the label, as would rescheduling my meeting with Lord. You're fully capable of handling this on your own."

"But--"

Lena's protest dies in her throat under Lillian's withering glare. She swallows thickly, ducking her head. Satisfied, Lillian nods. "It's settled then. You have a photo shoot at 2pm, and we're due at the hangar at 7."

Lena nods, but her gaze is distant. Her features are neutral, but Kara knows its a mask. Even so, if Lillian sees as much as well, it doesn't bother her.

"And try to dress presentably, dear. If you intend to convince him you have... this," Lillian waves vaguely in Kara's direction, "under control, you'll need to look the part."

Lena nods, prompting her mother to nod approvingly. "Good. Don't be late."

With that, she turns and leaves them alone in the kitchen. Kara watches Lena, who doesn't move, not even when the smell of just-burning egg begins to fill the room.

"Lena?"

Blinking back to awareness, Lena hurriedly turns off the stove. Her fingers fumble on the knob, and Kara sees that they're trembling.

"Lena?"

"I'm not that hungry after all," Lena says distantly. Before Kara can press further, she continues. "Do you mind staying here today? Well, not *here*, just--"

Just not with her.

Kara nods quietly. "Yeah. I've got some work I can do."

It's not a lie, but it's definitely an acquiescence. Lena clearly doesn't want company for the impending meeting, and Kara has no reason to insist she go with her save concern.

"Thank you," Lena returns, distracted. "I should go get ready."

She makes a swift exit. Kara retreats to her own suite soon after, her own appetite quashed by the sudden change in mood. By the time she re-emerges, Lena is nowhere in sight, and there's no answer to Kara's knock on her door.

Doing her best to ignore the ball of worry churning in her belly, Kara sets up shop at the kitchen island. She's all but taken a leave of absence, but Eve sends her enough to keep busy for the morning. Lena texts that she's on the way to her photo shoot, confirming she won't be returning to the hotel. Jess would pack her things and arrange their delivery to the airport.

Sure enough, Jess arrives barely half an hour later, cheerful and busy as ever. She offers to take care of Kara's things as well, but shrugs amiably when Kara declines. As she works, Kara takes her laptop and retreats to her bedroom.

After a quick check of the time difference, Kara facetimes the only person who could give her comfort.

"Hey," Alex greets cheerfully from the screen. "How's Paris?"

"Fine," Kara allows, but lacking enthusiasm.

Alex frowns. "What's wrong?"

Kara hesitates. She knows Alex will keep her confidence, but sharing what she saw this morning feels... intimate. Perhaps too intimate for the fact Lena has only met Alex via phone call a week ago.

"I've got a bad feeling," she allows carefully. "And I don't know what to do about it."

"About Lena?"

"More like... for Lena? Lena's been-- amazing. But this morning... I don't know."

Alex considers Kara's words, taking a moment to determine her path of approach. "Sounds personal," she allows. "But it doesn't sound like it has anything to do with you, or your relationship?"

Kara nods. "It's not about us."

"Then I think... I think you should consider whether it's something you should get invovled with."

Resistance flares in Kara. "But I care about her--"

"I know," Alex confirms quickly. "And I'm sure she does too. So if she hasn't shared with you about what's making her uncomfortable, maybe she just doesn't want to."

On the screen, Alex sits on her bed. The room is still around her. Kelly's probably already at work.

"You care a lot, Kara. You always have. And I know Lena is even more special."

Kara can't deny it. She's loved before, but not like this. Her commitment to Lena has been swift and complete-- but from Alex's tone now, it's something she should be wary of.

"Hey," her sister says softly. "Why don't you come home for a visit? Esme would love to see you."

Resistance twists Kara's stomach into a knot. But this time, Kara stops to examine it. She came to support Lena, but... she's also made Lena her world, even if just for a few weeks. Does her resistance to leaving mean she thinks the distance would lessen the feelings she has for Lena?

Or does she trust that they'll remain, even with an ocean between?

After a moment, Kara makes her decision.

"Yeah. I can catch a flight tonight."

At the very least, at the end of this visit she'll know whether her feelings are more than a proximity-fueled addiction. And when she comes back... she'll have her head on straight, and hopefully feel more grounded than she does right now.

On the screen, Alex smiles broadly. "We'll make sure to have the guest room ready for you. Esme is going to be so stoked. Prepare yourself for the inquisition."

Kara grins.

"I look forward to it."

[breadvidence]

yay prompt time! love your writing. So: javert/grantaire hookup (perhaps stoned dammit versions?), dammit characters watch Les Mis 2012 and begin to come to an uncomfortable realization about their lives (have not been able to get this out of my head), and maybe musical javert fantasizing about getting choked out during the confrontation again (or post-seine, him explaining this fantasy to a bemused jvj)? wow this got really long. I hope one of these is exciting!

Pretend this is less than 1k (it is not). Dammit Javert/Grantaire, explicit, set during chapter 16.

⁂

He walks into Hal’s where the lager comes with a free shot of Jägermeister on Wednesdays and lets his feet take him back to the worst idea in the place without the kind of preparatory thought that he’s really truly trying to foster in himself on the principle that not knowing where you start makes it harder to find where you’re supposed to end but all the same with an intent he thinks that stems out of the decision to stand up—didn’t Combeferre go out of his way to extend the helping hand to this guy? Who he expects to find at Club Changes or one of the places that don’t hang Pride flags at all but attract the kind of man who calls you cocksucker, not right here in Oak Lawn in one of those mayfly bars that’ll come and go in a couple years max but in the meanwhile sucks on the queer nightlife energy that radiates off of Cedar Springs. Grantaire tosses himself down into the chair next to Mr. Fucked-Up Ex-cop’s, props an elbow on the table, and asks, “Did you move?”

Without a single motion of those stiff-held shoulders, he pivots his head around and stares, cold and intent. There’s two shot glasses in front of him and a sweated-out beer not even one-quarter down, something piss-thin and probably domestic. He’d been contemplating the scrim of foam on the side of the glass pretty intent for a man who didn’t want to be drinking, and he wasn’t watching the crowd like a guy who wants find a person to fuck, which seems uncharacteristic. 

“There’s no discretion in the pig,” he says, and watches Javert twitch, “who drops his load at the trough where he eats, and you strike me as a very discreet kind of hog. Never on the Dallas side of the metroplex, never with the car parked right out front, near the back exit like your might wanna make a hasty retreat should your coworkers come to check everyone’s at least three pieces in dress code, all told trotters ready to hit the bricks as soon as you rooted up the morel you were after. So: did you get a new job on the opposite side of town and have to swap around to the bars far enough from home to feel safe?” He remembers, having been clever, that he was here to be helpful. “Er. Are—also, uh, are you alright?” When this raises no response, he adds his first name in an inquiring tone, to remind him they’re familiar with each other.

They stare at each other some more, ’til he says, his tone flatter than sweet home Florida, “No. Also, I go by Javert.” 

“Ah, pre-empting the history book’s preference of calling a man by his sur—” Grantaire breaks off, with a great act of willpower, and frowns. “Wait. No to which part?”

“To you.” 

“I might not be trying to get into your pants,” Grantaire protests.

Javert raises an eyebrow.

“—this time. Right off. Unless it would help.”

“I’m not leaving until I finish this beer,” he says, tapping the side of the glass. “I’m sure you’ll have lost interest by then.”

How terrible, to be known! He goes to get his free shot and lager, comes back, dumps one in the other, and does most of the talking for the next hour. It’s a waste of both their times, probably, and it might be wrong of him too—but nobody’s glanced Javert’s way, not the right crowd for him in tonight, so Grantaire’s pretty certain he’s at least not cock-blocking the guy, and each of the comments he throws in whenever Grantaire’s stopped for a drink come across as a prompt to keep talking—he’s not being enjoyed, but he’s being engaged with, and that’s irresistible. He remembers, when Javert has about half an inch of beer left, that he’s supposed to be engaging back, and asks, “Why are you still here?”

He gestures to the beer glass.

Grantaire observes, “Last time we had a palaver, you stood up and walked away—a retreat—a neat military maneuver—and I admit, I didn’t mind seeing your backside, after having—”

“You,” Javert says, “are an adequate distraction.” He tilts a look at him. “And you sure as fuck look like you need one, too.” 

That quiets him, for a moment. “What, you’re being friendly?” 

“Evidently,” he says, chewing over the word, and finally finishes his drink. Grantaire has been through—several. “Go close out your tab. Yours or mine?” 

It throws him. “Is yours a seedy motel?”

He pulls a wry expression. “Is yours? I didn’t get the impression you were quite that pathetic.” 

“Pardon me, should I imagine you will sweep me away in a limousine to the Joule so that we can contemplate a Warhol or two on our way to cock-sucking? Because—”

“I did mean my apartment, you jackass, though I’m inclined to retract the offer. Jesus.” He glances away, unsettled, maybe with himself.

“I, ah, stay in walking distance,” Grantaire says, a little thrown, then rallies enough to lean forward and mock-whisper, “If there were theoretically illicit substances in open view, would you narc me out? Or can you be convinced to cut out the difficulty of stealing it from lock-up later and smoke it where you find it?”

“I would never have—” Then he stops, and shrugs. “You know what, fuck it. I’ve been told it would be good for me. Yeah.” 

Grantaire has no trouble backing out of a deal, and near does, but the intrigue is greater, his fuck its as ample as Javert’s evidently are. Outside the door, he says, “Do you want to stroll holding hands? A mile of pretending at some beautiful romance, one over which Nicholas Sparks would weep were he brave enough to depict a couple of fags as dear sweethearts struggling through the unkind world to come to some saccharine tragic finish.” 

It gets him a flick of a look, surprise. “I can walk a mile, yes.”

He’d been a little worried he would have to ask the question outright, rather than more comfortable implication. He shrugs, bundles his hands into his pockets against the cold—he can’t feel it, through the Jägerbomb he capped his drinking with, but he doesn’t want his fingers clumsier than they already are with booze, when they get where they’re going—and leads the way. Courf came by yesterday to help tidy up the place, pretending he was trying to find a copy of The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions that Grantaire borrowed years ago while he helped get trash bagged and sorted out the laundry-floor situation. It’s still not super clean, he sees, through a stranger’s eyes. Javert wrinkles his nose, a little, with a glance around, maybe like he’s got that middle class Boomer standard for everything looking like a stay-at-home wife keeps it neat. Half of Grantaire’s surprise to be invited to Javert’s place was an idle bet with himself about whether he kept up appearances by maintaining a heterosexual relationship, and he’s only just sober and smart enough not to say that aloud as he locks the door and goes to get the weed and rolling paper and lighter, which he’s not actually foolish enough to have sitting out, waving Javert to the couch—and he doesn’t even know what he’s talking about, idle chatter. His mind keeps wanting to go back to how he’s a lot fucking worse off since the protest, with Enjolras detained moreso than he even was before by the light of progress—does that shine still inside a cell?—and a lot fucking better, too, trying to find that light himself, rather than relying on seeing it in the aureole of pretty blond hair.

He turns, shit in hand, and—pauses, a moment, at the predatory interest leveled at him, and he’s netted so many men before by being generous with his drugs that his first thought is that it’s for the weed, but they didn’t talk about that until after Javert agreed to fuck around with him. His second thought is that his friends are gonna have to bail him out again, that this is some kind of weird honeypot sting, and Javert’s expression is for the satisfaction of catching someone with a felonious amount of marijuana on hand. Except—Javert’s thighs are sprawled out, one of his arms is thrown over the back of the couch, relaxed, his color’s high in a way that’s almost charming, a pale blondie’s inability to hide the blush of arousal, of one kind or another—he’s just a guy anticipating getting his dick sucked, probably. Grantaire never clarified what he’s actually into, but that one is always a fair bet.

Gesturing broadly, unsettled to be the object of desire, Grantaire says, “Have you ever reflected on the satisfaction of getting what you don’t want? I feel we might have our books open to the same page. You might say I’ve heard rumors to the effect.”

“You haven’t even lit up yet,” he replies, tone dry. “Can we keep the philosophical questions for when I care less? Besides, whoever’s on your mind, I’m here for cock, which I assume you can provide—unless there’s a terrible accident you’d like to tell me about.” 

Cosette’s poor papa. “I could tell you about a hundred thousand terrible accidents. I read them all in the news. I turn on the television—Ukraine, Palestine, our own New York City—death, murder, suffering, war, racism, you, sir, I’m sure you have your opinions, I certainly have mine, they diverge, but as to the thing you apparently are most invested in—” He tosses the lighter onto the living room table so that he can reach down and seize his own crotch, waggling his eyebrows. “—that is intact and can stand at the ready more or less on command, which is better than can be said for our social unity and all our international boundaries.”

“I wouldn’t call New York ours,” he says, idly. “You want to own the Yanks? But then, South Florida never does feel properly like the South. —Come here.” He gestures to the seat beside him.

“Spoken like a true Texan. I bet you want to secede. Beating your meat to dreams of Stephen Austin.” He’s not actually sure Javert is, now that he reflects on his comment and from the way he snorts, but he doesn’t have his grandma’s ability to pick out a person’s birth county hearing two words out of their mouth. One hand still full, he’s willing enough to sit down, anyway, and goes with it when Javert hooks a hand around his upper arm and pulls him closer. The kiss surprises him some—you get discreet guys skittish about the least hint of romance, though this ain’t really got a lick of romance in it, for all there’s lick aplenty, filthy, devouring. When he’s let go his breath whooshes back into him, and he gives an appreciative little, “Damn.” Before, “The mouth’s for consumption, and you—”

Javert curls a lip. “Christ, what was that last drink you had? I can taste cough syrup through the Jäger.”

“Then don’t stick your tongue so far down my throat,” he says wryly, then, “No, never mind, I can be self-defeating—it’s my little corner of righteousness, to own my faults—but I’m not gonna discourage that. Let me roll a blunt and we’ll have something better on our breath than Red Bull, anyway.” 

“Better,” Javert mutters, doubtful, and lets him go, thumbing spit off the corner of his mouth before he lounges back again. It’s surprisingly effective, the invitation in his posture.

Grantaire has the faint suspicion that this man has fucked often. He might even fuck well. It is a surprise, and peculiarly discouraging; thinks: one hates to have standards to live up to, in bed as elsewhere, and by one means himself. He focuses on rolling the blunt, for a minute—it takes a little attention, with his vision a little off and his hands wanting to wobble. When he takes the first hit, he waggles his eyebrow at Javert, hammy erotic gesture as he wraps his lips around the paper like it’s the worlds most delicate little cock. It gets him an unimpressed stare, which is unfair—he knows for a fact this man has a sense of humor. He breathes out smoke, tension easing out of his shoulders—he pretends it’s not there, and he’s real good at slouching despite it—before he hands it over. 

Javert breathes in smoke with the grace of a guy who’s had something in his mouth for most of his lifetime, that broad chest stills a moment as he holds it, but he grimaces some when he breathes out, squinting at the blunt before he hands it back over.

Grantaire says, lightly, “That expression! A virgin might so peek at what she’s presented with for the first time in person, having spent some time investigating the territory on video. I know mine’s not as shabby as that; I buy good bud. Do you buy better?”

“I haven’t bought at all,” Javert says. “Been around it plenty. Not in a long while, granted.”

Which—“Oh.” It’s been a while since he felt like a corrupting influence, and it’s not the context he expected in. He has a brief raised-evangelical twinge before he rallies and says, “A cherry could be an achene, in another world! Popped, my good man, I’m honored to do the honors.” And takes a hit.

Javert goes loose and glassy-eyed pretty quick, quieter, which is a better result than the vague concern over a bad trip that struck Grantaire—paranoia seems like a natural feature, given past profession. But it looks like he won’t have to summon help, given he’s not the man to manage someone in distress, though maybe he could take Courfeyrac’s direction on how to handle Javert and fetch the ropes, in that instance. It gets him giggling, imagining that, and he asks, “Do you, ah, you into being tied up?”

“Not by you,” Javert says. “No. Well. Never thought about it, actually. Never tried it. Maybe.” Which is a hell of a speedrun of personal development.

Grantaire makes a moue of disappointment, exaggerated, and puts the blunt in the ash tray—just for a minute; he’s realized he should, as the experienced party with a newbie, probably slow down and keep an eye out. Took him a minute, but look: he’s not gone for abandonment. “You’re a cherry tree in June, my friend, heavy with fruit. How unexpected.” 

“I ain’t. That fruit’s mostly harvested.” Javert pivots towards him—winces, maybe that broken-up back and hips of his, and gets hands on Grantaire instead, pulling him almost into his lap, which is novel sensation for a big man; not as big as this guy, as it happens. The kiss this time goes a little slower, a little easier, a precise nip, a flick of the tongue, parted lips, and it takes Grantaire a moment to understand the invitation there, to take him up on it, which earns him an approving rumbling groan, he feels it in the chest he’s braced his hands on to keep from falling too far forward. Which illuminates some questions of preference. He feels his own thoughtless clumsiness, a moment later, in how Javert draws back a little, guides the kiss without taking control of it, and he’d be embarrassed by that—he does, whatever his friends think, know how a blush feels—except that the other man doesn’t comment on it, just gets them on track, and Grantaire tries—he does know, he’s got experience, he’s just not often messing around with someone who cares enough to be good at this, he doesn’t normally care enough to be good at this. This isn’t where he was looking for care—or maybe it’s simply investment, like a retail employee who shouldn’t give a fuck but gives their all anyhow.

The fingers that pop the button of his jeans, undo his zip, the big hand that slides into his boxers and palms over his dick, the lightly-stroking thumb over the head of his cock—getting the feel of him, not at all polite, but measured—that distracts him, he loses track of what he’s doing other than chasing the sensation, restless uncoordinated hips bucking up because he doesn’t want it light at all. Javert gives up on him, a little, trails his mouth down to his ear, an obscenity committed against his earlobe, teeth scraping down his jugular in a way that only won’t leave marks because his skin’s a little too dark to bruise easy. Pauses long enough to spit into his palm, casual, to make it easier. Grantaire is faintly aware of commentating on all of this, but he’s never had to mind his own mouth for it to run. In one of the moments when he’s got his feet braced and his hips lifted Javert uses his free hand to shove his pants down properly, and Grantaire helps, uncoordinated, ass-out on the couch, feeling his legs bound up and unable to spread as much as he wants to and harder for it. He’s still talking.

Javert uses that hand to reach up and slide two fingers into his mouth, jacks his cock like he’s got serious intent to end this here. Which is Grantaire thinks faintly, a curious choice, maybe a sign he’s bored or wants to get out early, though he’s more fucked-up than Grantaire thinks he should let a person leave and drive. He sucks those fingers with a sloppy enthusiastic attempt to demonstrate he can reciprocate all this attention, catches up at last to the fact that he ought to be reciprocating—there’s so many things he should do in life, and he’s so belated all the time—he reaches out, gets his hand on an appealingly thick thigh, becomes disoriented and ends up at a knee, tilts his head back and laughs at himself, manages to reorient and squeezes over—well. That package is impressive, but it ain’t impressed with him, feels like. “Ah.”

Javert lets up, doesn’t take his hand away but merely cradles rather than strokes. Sighs, then drawls, “I hope you weren’t real committed to me topping tonight,” and gestures towards the joint. “Worse than whiskey, apparently.”

“I have so many dildos,” Grantaire says, amiable. “You still can. Hard is a mindset, my friend. Hard is a latent potential. Do you really think, before they went their separate ways, while Abelard still had the wound between his thighs, he didn’t consummate his love with Héloïse? She wouldn’t have sent all those letters, friend, if he didn’t offer some kind of hardness to her. When God turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt, it was a suggestion to us all for what the people of Gomorrah and Sodom got up to, when the flesh got tired, she saw those artificial columns and she could not resist mimicking them. Samuel L. Jackson himself says there’s no shame in a limp snake, and he would know. Yeah. So, you wanna, like, pick one out from my collection and do me?”

He leans his head back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, and sighs. “Sure.” 

“That’s not enthusiastic consent,” Grantaire replies, scolding.

His brows bunch together, glassy eyes opened then narrowed, agonizingly he removes his hand from Grantaire’s dick, he says, “Wait, wait, wait. You know, I have been to a training session about consent and substance use. Is this okay, or—”

“I have fucked while high so many times. Shh. We agreed beforehand. It’s not a big deal. C’mere. Unless you don’t want to, now, I guess.” He tries to get his boxers and pants back on, but his coordination’s worse than he thought, and he reverses track and kicks them off instead, aware he’s being idly watched. He’ll try to remember to get them into the laundry basket later, so Courfeyrac doesn’t have so much to do, next time he visits. He reaches down and helps haul Javert up to his feet, both of them stumbling a little, and they mutually forget about the cane; he’s strong enough to keep them both on their feet when his left leg wants to give, surprised when Javert gives an appreciative moan and gropes over his arms and chest, where the muscles have tensed, hard enough touch to get through the fat and really feel what strength’s there. Kisses him, this time with as much enthusiasm as skill.

The things you learn about a guy, when you’re fucking him. Remarkable. He gets Javert’s cane for him, feeling uncomfortable touching someone’s mobility aid without having asked first too belated not to do it, and they get to the bedroom with a few stops to grope each other along the way. Javert mutters, at one point, “You don’t have to—”, with a shrug, and Grantaire takes it as a don’t, lets up on his prick. He’s got a standard white boy’s underwhelming ass, but it’s still nice to get hands on, when it makes him growl and grind up on him.

In the bedroom, Javert strips off his shirt, then pauses, tilting a look at Grantaire. “Am I staying long enough to bother undressing?” There’s nothing uncertain or sad or insecure in it—it’s just a straightforward question.

Grantaire makes a show of leaning close, an inspection, says, “You’re staying long enough to sober up, right?”

“Sure,” Javert says, and starts in on his pants. “I don’t actually care which dildo you take up the ass.” 

“Yes, yes, let the house sommelier determine which vintage to choose, wise man—”

“Got pretty strong opinions about wine, actually, though you shouldn’t discount a somm’s advice,” Javert mutters, then shakes his head. “Fucking Christ, no, please, I’m not taking any of your metaphors serious, don’t bother to clarify or expand.”  

Grantaire laughs, at that, weirdly pleased to be put down—none of his friends bother, anymore. He gets the twisty purple number out, and the warming lube, ’cause he does know how to be nice to himself sometimes. “Do you ‘got’ pretty strong opinions on how you want me positioned?”

“Yeah, actually.” He pushes himself up to the headboard, and, damn, Grantaire’s gay enough and honest enough to admit he’s pretty sad that he’s not gonna see what that cock looks like hard; it rests against his thigh, flushed though soft, and there’s a kind of optical illusion going on—it looks average enough, ’til you consider how big the hand is that Javert reaches down with to idly readjust himself. Looking at him nude, Grantaire’s acutely aware of their age difference: twenty years, a little more? He’s got a wolf’s pelt worth of hair on that chest, heavier than he’d expect of someone so fair, gone to mostly gray and silver, and his pecs have begun to sag a little over his belly, the skin of his lean stomach wrinkles over the cut of his hips, his feet are neatly-kept but thickly knobbed, maybe even arthritic. There’s a sadness in that Grantaire can’t quite grasp, that it’s them fucking, and it’s not his side of the equation that’s got him edging up on the cliff fall into maudlin, though average wisdom would say that it’s the old guy getting to bang a young thing who should celebrate. Neither of them, Grantaire thinks, are in bed with the person he wants. If he keeps on that trail he’s not gonna want to have sex at all, though, and if he’s done that plenty before—cut guys off and annoyed them right back into their pants—well, he doesn’t want that, tonight. 

He says, because he’s maybe gotten a little caught in the lingering weed-haze, “I’ll have to write you an apology note. Don’t forget to write down your address for me so I can send it. I didn’t catch a damn thing you just said.” 

Javert laughs, teeth and a heave of breath. “I noticed and stopped halfway through my explanation.” He stretches out his legs, cups his hands in front of himself. “Ass here, you self-described fag. Not the hottest position but I can’t kneel, so you’ll have to settle.” 

“It doesn’t feel like settling,” he assures him. “Y’know, we’re anti-ableism now. We fuck our disabled comrades how they want it, when they want it, in the position they want it.”

“I’m not—” He pulls an odd expression. “Come here.” 

“I intend to!” he says, brightly, and strips off his shirt, palming down the heft of his stomach for the sensation of coarse hair on his hand—he’s not too shy for all forms of self-gratification—to work at his own cock for a moment, making his expression appreciative as he looks Javert over. He’s done a lot of looking with desire, and he thinks he manages an echo of his usual, and it’s not his most sincere—sincerity he’s not always good at, outside certain company—it is with genuine intent, and yeah, it makes Javert’s cock twitch. Most people get off on it, being looked at with want, and if he’s at peace with the fact that it’s not the case for everyone—oh, he needs to not think about that. He gets up on the bed, brackets Javert’s calves with his knees, and before he can kneel up he’s pulled back by a long arm around his chest, face turned back with fingers on his chin, and this time there’s no invitation: the tongue pressed into his mouth makes promises. When he leans back, Grantaire plants himself, turns forward, and surprises himself saying, “This is going to sound stupid as hell, but don’t, um, I don’t like it real rough, actually.”

“Ain’t stupid,” Javert mutters, and gives his ass a little pat, surprising him with the niceness. It sounds a bit strained, but he’ll take it. “Bet I can still make all your words come to pieces, doing it easy. Gonna get you so worked up you can’t remember any of those obscure political figures. Yeah, you’re gonna lose the Bible, with my fingers fucking your ass.” There’s the sound of the lube cap; he takes the time to warm it up in his palm before he reaches around to give his cock an idle tug; a first slick finger teases around his hole. As Javert pushes in, he says, “And don’t touch my feet, please.”

That last bit is was said real quiet, during a distraction, but Grantaire pays mind. He tries to keep minding as his cock is wrung casual easy, as another finger slides into him, they press against his prostate, and for long minutes Javert’s taken that not rough as maddening soft, rocking against him so slow it’s just a tease, Grantaire glances down and there’s precome slick on the head of his own dick. He pushes up on his knees to get off those fingers, shoves Javert’s arm out of the way, and drops down into his lap—and it really is strange, to be the smaller partner—grinds down on him in an attempt to start something different. Gets rejected, totally and utterly, an annoyed grunt, Javert’s hands on his hips pushing him forward—back up onto his knees, a hand between his shoulder blades urging him to drop forward onto his elbows, a suggestion short of a shove—but only just. He feels the difference, there, very stark, between a good fuck and a considerate partner. He goes along with it, moans into the bedsheets, clutches at them, at the touch of the narrow head of the dildo against his hole.

Javert’s less practiced with one of those, he can tell, but he’s attentive—not so high anymore—and he gets an angle and rhythm steady and sure, there’s always an edge of control when a guy’s not using his own cock that does it for Grantaire, and he sees clear in that moment how much that’s because that’s as close as he thinks he’d ever get to the dick he wants, were he in bed with—yeah, he’s not gonna do Javert wrong, thinking about someone else while he’s thrusting down into the circle of his meaty thumb and forefinger and babbling at him about enemies who’ve fucked, did Simon Peter take Judas’ cock?, did Hector and Patroclus ever cross spears?, until with a huff of amusement Javert discards the dildo—Grantaire cries out into the sheets, broken off—shifts a little clumsily onto his knees, gets his hand between them and fucks three fingers in, slow push, his hips rocking forward, his weight on Grantaire’s back, and that does it, it’s all that hot sweated-up skin, it’s panting breath against his shoulder, the connection, the sense of being desired in that moment, this man hot for him, fired up, whatever body part’s not cooperative. Grantaire comes, bucks hard into air because Javert’s free hand is off his cock on his side leaned heavily there for steadiness, shudders and clenches and drops his head down between his shoulders. 

Javert pulls out, falls back onto his haunches. Grantaire glances over his shoulder, too unfocused to register much other than how relaxed Javert is, lounged back against the headboard, with his hand loose on his knee—’til he glances down at it, and gives a twitch. His cock’s chubbed up some between his thighs, fading fast as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, reaches over for his cane, and gets up to limp towards the bathroom to wash up. 

Grantaire shuffles around, drops onto his back, then groans at his own stupid decision—he’s almost sure they didn’t get too much lube on the sheets right until this moment, and now he’s planted his fucked-out ass onto them. Ah, well. He’ll smoke the rest of the blunt after Javert is gone, and then he won’t mind sleeping in the mess. 

Javert comes back as far as the edge of the bed, looks down at him with his eyebrows bunched.

“Leaving dissatisfied,” Grantaire says lazily. “Does it come as a surprise to you?”

“Dissatisfied with myself. You were talking right through your orgasm. Impressive, in a terrible way.”

“No, don’t judge yourself,” Grantaire advises. “Some promises aren’t meant to be kept.”

[glossyybabie]

confidence and obedience

Summary: You refuse to take no for an answer.

Warnings: Implications of starvation, i.e. the Dark Days™. Reader is a little morally grey. Gaul is intimidating in her own fun and festive way. Gender neutral reader. SFW.

Word count: 2186

Notes: I’m gay and it’s my birthday. I have absolutely no shame. I’ve also seen TBOSAS twice now thanks to my sister’s love of Tom Blyth. I love scary women.

If there was ever a word that fully described you, assertive would not be it. You shied away from confrontation at every chance you got. You always had. You’d survived on a small stock of grains and syrup for the duration of the Dark Days, purely because you didn’t want to argue with the other students in your household about who would be allocated how much of the measly amount of food they’d bring back from the market.

And it was pathetic. You knew that. You hated it about yourself.

But as you stared at what you’d hoped to be your breakthrough out of poverty — an application for the Gamemaker Scholarship Scheme — and the text at the bottom, something changed immediately.

Because this had been it. Your chance to turn your life around, to move out of that stuffy, decrepit house you shared with 15 others, to make something out of yourself like you’d always dreamed of. You were booksmart. You were quiet and calculating when you needed to be. You had this job in the bag.

And they’d flat-out rejected you.

You looked down at your handheld device’s cracked screen, and then back up towards the Citadel. A shining beacon of the Capitol — oh, that building was glorious. You knew you had to be here. This was it. This would be everything.

And you were done with taking no for an answer, you were through with smiling and taking the hits. You’d get this. You wanted this, more than anything before. This was what truly mattered now. This was . . .

Your throat seized up.

You’d been so caught up amongst your own thoughts, so preoccupied with your ideas of taking back control and standing up for yourself and your desires — but you were here now. And as you stood stupidly past the doors of Dr Gaul’s laboratory, the gravity of the situation came spiralling back to you.

No wonder the Peacekeepers had waved you straight through — with that silly look of faux confidence on your face, they can’t have possibly taken you seriously. You weren’t a security threat; you were a petulant child with a driving licence.

An extra detail you’d added onto your application. You could drive, too. Not that it mattered now, apparently.

“Step up here.”

It was Dr Gaul. Of course it was. This was the Head Gamemaker’s lab. And you’d just stormed in during the midst of your internal rampage. Because apparently placing a well-worded complaint on the front desk wasn’t enough. No, you’d-

“Well?”

Gaul’s cold voice broke you out of your thoughts immediately. She stood on a metal grate platform just a few feet off the ground, peering down into a glass cylinder reminiscent of an oversized fish tank. She didn’t turn to regard you with any sort of look. She was virtually motionless, leaning back against the metal railing with her gaze lowered.

You hesitated replying. “Me?”

“You are the only other person in this room,” Gaul responded plainly.

She gestured a shiny red gloved hand towards the empty space next to her. You could turn around and leave. You could, you really could. But turning around and leaving would be accepting your position, and wasn’t that exactly what you’d decided not to do?

Your feet were carrying you forward before you could give them the order to do so. You weren’t sure what you’d expected from a biology lab; possibly a nasal-burning stench of chemicals, combined with strange biological experiments, like the kind you’d only ever catch a glimpse of at the end of the games. Despite the lack of the former, there were plenty of the latter. You ogled at the glass display cases, and the shelves upon shelves of jars and tanks in various sizes, none of them empty.

You became aware of yourself and hurried forward towards the stairs. Each rattling step you took reverberated across the room gratingly. Your heart pounded against your chest. And as you reached the top of the platform, your feeling of self-loathing and idiocy only increased.

Maybe Gaul could see that on your face. Far be her response from reassurance, of course. Because she would be right to look at you with such disdain, like a speck of dirt from her shoe.

This was a really bad idea. The reasons to regret this were starting to stack up. Not to mention the fact that you weren’t even sure if Gaul had anything to do with those applications. That probably went through some other department. You were probably bothering a woman who had absolutely nothing to do with your current dilemma.

You stared at the item in her hands. She opened up a little plastic handheld container and used a small pair of tweezers to extract a single vibrant teal larva. It wriggled and squirmed uselessly.

“I have an almost infinite supply of these,” Gaul mused aloud. She twisted her hand around, inspecting the slimy creature under the lights. “Unremarkable. Simple. Existing only as a crucial piece of the food chain.”

She loosened the tweezers, and the larva dropped into the body of water in front of them. You watched it sink, and then it was gone. The tank was empty again within a second — not so much as a speck to indicate anything had been dropped inside in the first place. The water bubbled, though; not visibly, but a soft vibration that hummed against the soles of your feet.

“If you wanted to stare at wildlife, the zoo was probably your best bet,” she suggested, pinching another larva from her stash.

You shuffled away from the ominous tank. “No, I . . .” You swallowed. Chin up. Shoulders back. If other people could do it, then so could you. “You rejected me. From the Gamemaker Scholarship.”

“I reject many people. Many unremarkable people.” As if to prove her point, she dropped the next larva into the water and watched it vanish. “You must have not left a lasting impression.”

“But one of my–”

“Childish complaints are received by the front desk,” Gaul interjected sharply. The container in her hand closed with a click, and for the first time, she cast you a glance. You felt dizzy under her intense gaze, like she was pinning you down through her eyes. “And then the paper shredder.”

“This isn’t a childish complaint,” you protested, the corners of your lips curling up in frustration. “I meet the entry criteria perfectly, I scored 96% on the aptitude test–”

“Over 2,000 applicants scored higher than you,” she remarked. It was as if she took some kind of sadistic enjoyment in making you feel so small. “So why you? What makes you so special?”

You didn’t know what to say. You tongue was caught in your mouth. You were as useless and silly as a squirming larva. They probably had more use than you.

“Because I’m here,” you tried. You couldn’t muster up the confidence to back up your argument with any conviction. “Unlike anyone else you rejected, I’m here to ask you to reconsider.”

You inhaled deeply, watching her unmoving face in the faint hope that an expression would flit across her cruel, haunting features. The lines on her face creased with the movement of a faint sneer, and if you paid close enough attention, you could see her gaze narrowing. Her left eye caught the light, making the twinkling blue of her irises appear almost translucent.

“Good,” she praised you, her response soft. Your heart fluttered, and then collapsed in on itself once she uttered her next word. “Why?”

“Because . . . I want this position,” you said. You weren’t so much responding, more so thinking out loud. “Because I worked for it. Harder than anyone else. I deserve it.”

“If you deserved it, you wouldn’t be here,” Gaul countered dryly, “grovelling and whining about how unfair the system is.”

“But I do,” you pressed. “I deserve it. I spent months looking through research papers on the games. I put myself through 3 years of Genetic Engineering classes at the University, which I had to fund by working from 4 until 12 every night, and that was just for a chance to have my application read.”

“This isn’t Panem’s Got Talent,” she drawled, accompanied by an active display of disinterest. Well, this was mortifying. “I am not moved by tales of human suffering. Or did you believe otherwise?”

“I didn’t come here to tell you my life story,” you continued stubbornly. You felt like you were digging your own grave now. But then again, what was the worst she could do? . . . You looked into the tank and gulped. “I came here to tell you . . . you made a mistake in rejecting me.”

Gaul wasn’t listening. She inclined her head towards the tank, casting her gaze towards you with a cold smile. “Put your hand inside.”

It wasn’t a request; it was an order. A blunt, callous command. One she clearly expected you to obey.

You looked down at your own hand, and then at the tank, and then back at your own palm. You weren’t sure what to feel more astonished by — the fact that Gaul had made that request, or that you were genuinely considering doing so.

“And if I do,” you began, “you’ll give me the position?”

“All I asked was that you put your hand inside this tank,” Gaul repeated herself coolly. “Go on.”

You sank to your knees. It brought your eyes closer to the clear pool of water. You didn’t know what lurked inside. You didn’t feel safe enough to ask. But whatever it was, it was clearly predatory.

You started to lower your hand inside on your own volition. The tips of your fingers brushed against the icy surface first. You tested the sensation out against your skin, uncertain. Gaul’s icy glare pierced holes in the back of your head.

She’d moved behind you. She was dangerously close. So close, you could feel her brush against you. So close, you could feel her light breaths against the side of your neck. So close, she could easily grab you and push you in.

“To the wrist.”

You dunked your entire hand into the water without a second thought and squeezed your eyes closed in anticipation. You prepared yourself for the worst, even the smallest suggestion of pain.

But your nerves didn’t experience so much as a light tickle. The water was still. It didn’t hum the way it had. You wiggled your fingers experimentally. There was nothing to suggest you should recoil. Not yet.

“Why did you do that?” Gaul asked calmly.

You slowly lifted your hand out. Water dripped down your fingers and back into the tank. Your skin was unbroken and unharmed. Cold though, maybe.

You swallowed, somewhat afraid to turn around. “You asked me to.”

“I know I did,” she responded. You could still sense her presence, towering over you as your knees pressed into the uncomfortable platform. “But why did you obey without knowing the consequences?”

“Because . . .” You fumbled over your words again. “Because I really do want the position. I want to study under you.”

She hummed shortly. You briefly wondered if that was a dismissal, but some kind of curiosity kept you rooted to the spot. You weren’t finished yet. Not until you’d gotten an answer you had come here for.

You listened to her footsteps as she drifted away from you again. She’d been a lot closer than you’d thought. You shivered.

“I can offer you this,” she started. You stared up at her dumbly. She paid you no mind. “A simple lab technician role. Menial tasks for small pay. You say you want this position? You’ll have a year to convince me.”

A year to convince her? You weren’t sure how to even begin processing that, nor the dark undertones her suggestion carried. You weren’t sure for how long you would be able to handle her close attention and piercing scrutiny for until you cracked, nor what the consequences of that could be. Gaul was as forgiving and merciful as you were confident.

But that aside, this wasn’t what you came here for. This wasn’t the result you’d fantasised about. Not initially, anyway.

But then again, you supposed that employment was the next task on your realistic list at the back of your mind, so . . .

You stood up again, using the railing behind you for support. “500k a year.”

“We pay 425k,” Gaul told you.

“I know,” you said. “500.”

“425 with 27 days holiday.”

“36 hours.”

“40.”

“38.”

“And a confidentiality agreement,” she added. “We can’t have the other failures thinking that complaining will get them somewhere.”

“Isn’t that what I did?” you asked, confused.

She hummed a laugh that lacked any kind of joviality or warmth. It was blisteringly cold, mocking. Something was amusing to her, something that had gone directly over your head. A mystery that would unnerve you. 

“You’ll start next week,” Gaul said dismissively. She batted a careless hand for you to leave. “Make me believe you want this.”

You shuddered and nodded obediently.

An easy task, you lied to yourself. 

[retroactivebakeries]

1. Consider: there is no such thing as a catgirl.

2. Your stance must be wide. You must not be spare with the fluidity of your wrists or shoulders. You must have a grip on the the mouse that is loose and unstrained. I heard it said you must be tender with your blog, as though with a lover. This is patently false. A blog is not your lover. It is a hideous tool for posting about types of girls.

3. Going onwards, you must adjust hands as needed, do not keep the screen close to your eyes, keep your breathing steady. This is the girlblogging cut. You must watch your footwork. Your feet must be controlled whether planted on fire, air, water, or earth in equal measure.

4. Breathing is very important! Is the violent breath of life in you not hot? Exhale! Exult!

5. You must strive for attachment-non-attachment when posting about types of girl. Your girlpost must be sticky and resolute. A weak, listless girlpost is a despicable thing. But you must also not cling to your post, or its result. Clinging is the great error of blogger. A girlposter who blogs without thought of his action can cut God.

6. To post about types of girl properly, you must continually self-annihilate when blogging. Your hand must become a hand that is blogging, your body a body that is blogging, your mind, a mind that is blogging. You must instantaneously destroy your fake pre-present self. It is a useless hanger on.

7. A brain is useful only up until the point when you are faced with a blank page. Then it is useless. The only truly useful thing in this cursed world is will. You must suffuse your worthless body with its terrible heat. You must be so hot that even if your enemy should strike your head off, you shall continue to post about ten more types of girl. Your boiling blood must spring forth from your neck and mutilate the survivors!

8. You must never make 'multiple' posts. Each must be singular in its beauty, no matter how many precede it. You must make your enemies weep with admiration, and likewise should your head be shorn off by such a post of beauty, you must do your best to shed tears of respect.

9. When decapitating an enemy, it is severe impoliteness to use more than one blow.

10. A man who finds pleasure in the result of posting about types of girl is the most hateful, crawling creature there is. A man who finds pleasure in the act of posting about types of girl is an artisan.

11. Man always strives to make up types of girl. Therefore he who girlposts the fastest is the survivor. To pre-empt this, you must live, eat, and shit as a person who is blogging about types of girls. It doesn't matter whether your post, in actuality, is posted to your blog, though you will look like an idiot if it is.

12. Consider: The undefeated girlblogger must be exceptionally poor.

13. The weak girlblogger reserves his posts. He clings excessively to his blogging. His footwork is unsteady. His grip is too hard and he is afraid to crack the earth with his step. He has a shallow and wandering gaze, his tongue is sluggish and pale. He refuses to exhale the hot breath of the Flame Immortal.

14. The weak girlblogger clings to victory. He thinks of his life, his obligations, the outcome of the post, his hatred for his opponent, his training, his pride in his blogging. By doing so, he is an imperfect vessel for the terrible fires of Will. He will surely crack. He will not laugh uproariously if he is cleft in two by his opponent’s girlblogging. When his post gets no notes, his hands will be too reserved to tear his enemies’ flesh.

15. The weak girlblogger posts a type of girl and thinks his task done. He relishes in victory. He casts away his blog and returns to his lover. Little does he know his single post will encircle the world five times and strike him down fifty-fold.

16. The weak girlblogger clings to his instrument. It is better you have a blog, but girlposting must lie under your fingernails, if need be. Learn girlposting with your elbows, girlposting with your knees, and girlposting with your thumbs and fingertips. It is said girlposting with the tongue is useful, but I find words too soft an instrument to smash a man’s skull.

17. In manners of terrain, you must learn to cut yourself from it. You must cut even your footprints from it, if need be. Have complete awareness of each crawling thing and each precious flower, each blade of sweet grass and each clod of bitter earth, each beating heart and each being that thrums with love, hope, and admiration. Only then are you qualified to make up types of girls about them.

18. Excess heat and excess coldness are undesirable. Learn to read the weather.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Night like this

Okay @sorisooyaa, it's your turn.

Special thanks to @medusas-hairband for the reading and the support ❤️ This would not be out there, for better or for worse, without your love.

Here goes my big leap; this is a love letter to the authors having seen my name pop up in their notifs in the last few weeks, a love letter to their imagination and to the beauty of their words.

It's also a humble offering to the people who have been kind and gentle to me in the SWG and the TRSB server. Thank you for your patience and for building a poor wretch like me up...

Words: 2 230

Warnings: It's a slightly incestuous pairing! There will be innuendo (and not just a little) but no explicit stuff...It's also a wild blend of tropes and HCs I've fallen in love with as a reader

Pairing: Maedhros/Fingon, Maglor/Finrod (?) (all of them? Read it as you want)

Summary: A dance in full sight of the assembled high society of Tirion and a lot of unanswered questions

“I need you! Now!”

Maitimo tried to shake off his brother’s insistent hand – long fingers closing like vices around his shoulder – as he gave his uncle an apologetic shrug.

“I mean it, come on!” 

“Good evening to you too Kanafinwë,” Ñolofinwë greeted, eyebrow cocked in indulgent interrogation, “whatever is so urgent? Is one of my nephews on fire?”

“Not this time!” His half-brother’s son smirked mischievously before brandishing a harp as if it was a sword, and suddenly, he understood what ailed the young artist so.

With a mellow wave of his elegant hand, he dismissed Fëanáro’s eldest son and – as soon as they had left – a much put-upon Maitimo being all but dragged across the room by his insistent younger brother, his own slid up next to him.

“Dear Fëanáro has overindulged those boys,” Arafinwë whispered, but his voice was gentle and devoid of the acid that – at times – simmered in his mouth like poison.

“Do you truly believe ours to be exempt? If Maitimo has been abducted, I will bet my best robe on Findekáno already having stormed out to pre-empt them.” Ñolofinwë chuckled under his breath at the thought; their progeny was hardy and brave, but discretion was yet amongst the skills they would had to hone, in long hours, at court meetings.

“I cannot see my son,” Arafinwë grunted after a second of intent scanning the room and its occupants, “and that is a bad sign when Kanafinwë is in one of his moods.”

“Did I hear my son’s name?” Fëanáro popped out of nowhere like the snake in the grass he was, “What has he done now?”

“He’s abducted everyone,” Arafinwë replied, clenching his jaw when he heard how pathetic that sounded, an impression only reinforced by the sidelong glance his brothers shot at him.

“Ah!” Fëanáro looked startled and that – in and of itself – was a pleasant surprise, and lightly unamused, which, on the contrary, was nothing new.

“Well,” Ñolofinwë sighed, “then the good people of Tirion will have to content themselves with Finwë’s own scandalous sons, robbed of their first-borns by whatever fancy has taken them tonight. Cheer up, brother, and give them one of those smiles they once have all been so enamoured with.”

“That was a long time ago,” the other replied glumly, “and we’ve long been overshadowed by the shockingly disloyal rogues we’ve sired.”

“Brother mine, this better be good,” Maitimo hissed as he threw himself against Makalaurë at the last moment to avoid the swinging doors, leading out onto a secluded terrace, that would otherwise have hit him in the head rather forcefully.

“Dance for me, oh well-shaped one,” Makalaurë grinned provocatively, “I have a new composition and I need to see someone move to it to feel it.”

“And you could not have found a better dancer?” 

“No, it had to be you.” The grin softened into something deep and seductive; since their earliest childhood, he had practised and perfected the expression of pleading innocence that now washed over his handsome face like a patina of pure light, putting even the trees’ glory to shame.

“That’s what he told me,” Findekáno laughed good-humouredly as he stepped out from behind a column, throwing a pensive glance at the huge windows that separated them from the rest of the party. 

He was not entirely sure that it was appropriate to have their own private gathering – out of earshot but well within view of their parents and relatives – when they were expected to make the rounds and dole out pleasantries and sweet smiles. 

“Oh, I am to make a fool of myself with my cousin to amuse the gallery? Are you so eager to usurp my place?” Maitimo stared down his insolent sibling and the wicked gleam in those storm-coloured eyes told him that something devious was afoot indeed.

“I am not going to indulge you if your goal is to embarrass or humiliate him,” their cousin agreed, his voice ringing like a bell of righteous indignation; he was loyal to a fault and fearless in his determination to stand up for what he believed to be right. Would that unselfish bravery make him dance?

Shaking his head, Makalaurë pretended to be mortally wounded by their lack of faith in him, effectively getting them to move closer to one another in devoted resignation.

Those two, he knew, he could always count upon to rise to the occasion, and he was almost sorry that – at least tonight – his plan was not to make them monkey around.

“Take Finno’s hand and get ready,” he instructed his brother – tall and straight as the trees Yavanna had coaxed from seed to blossom – and bit down on his smile as he saw the deepening of colour on his cousin’s cheeks and the dusting of pink creep up Maitimo’s throat.

They were so predictable; they were so precious.

“Good evening, cousin Findekáno,” Maitimo whispered, struggling not to inadvertently crush the other’s hand in his eagerness to feel that warm, smooth palm melt into his own.

“Good evening to you too, most adored of kinsmen!” The reply was barely above a breath infused with meaning, but it fell like hail – battering and bruising – onto their skin and sunk into their veins to whip their blood into a frenzy.

If they had expected a jig or even a bawdy, lewd tavern song, they were sorely disappointed though for the melody conjured up by Makalaurë’s incomparable skill and borne into the still night sky on the wings of his enchanting voice was slow and sweet at first.

Maitimo’s head jerked around, his pupils blown wide with shock and longing.

This was a love song, twisting and wringing the torturous yearning of forbidden affection into something hard and enduring enough to build a ladder from it.

Every note was a rung, every word a step.

Sensual and writhing now, it wound invisible bonds around their limbs to pull them ever closer into an embrace that would have been shocking even without them being in full view of the high and mighty elite of the city.

Suddenly, Maitimo realised how foolish they must have looked, standing there – chest to chest, hand in hand – completely motionless while the heart-breaking melody was drowned out by the raucous brouhaha of the festivities for whoever might happen to look out from inside the ballroom. 

“I was promised this dance,” Findekáno reminded him in that melting, warm voice that drove shivers down Maitimo’s spine every time he used it.

Despite their better knowledge and painful awareness of the potential consequences, they started moving, rotating slowly – much too slowly – in the silver light turning them into a painting too full of unspoken emotion to be static.

Makalaurë smiled to himself, his words dripping with honey and venom now, as he watched them forget about the world.

His brother’s hand had dropped indecently low on his cousin’s back and was still slipping until it rested – up to the middle finger – on the curve of Findekáno’s ass and it seemed that the space between them grew ever smaller, but he could not say if it was their whole bodies or only parts of them that strained to espouse the other.

Time stood still and accelerated simultaneously, contracting and expanding with every shivering breath shared between those two he loved so deeply that it tore at his skin from the inside.

From where he sat, he could appreciate the shadows chasing their own tails over Maitimo’s noble face as he inclined his head just a fraction while his half-cousin’s hand disappeared under his flaming hair, no doubt caressing the soft skin nobody ever got to see let alone touch; he seemed frozen mid-movement, a single breath away from pressing that stern, often forbidding mouth to the silken skin – perfumed by the ghost of the flowers Findekáno had been standing under – just outside of his reach. 

They had always been like this, too close for comfort or decency, yet eternally a hand apart, and – in the name of familial affection and morbid curiosity – Makalaurë had decided to make them breach that seal of well-meant restraint to drink deep from the well of fulfilment. 

If his mouth had not been as dry as the sun-warmed cliffs, Findaráto might have produced a flute or joined his cousin in song, but, as it was, he stayed where he was.

Pressed against the corner of the wall, he watched that siren sing about illicit longing and a yearning so violent it tossed a soul around like a vessel lost at sea; he understood every word, not only because the thick panes muffled the insufferable noise droning from inside the stifling banquet, but also because he had felt like that before. If he had been forced to be honest – and nights like this one were made for the truth – he would have confessed that the exact sensations wrapped in such delicate beauty were sinking their voracious fangs into his tender flesh in this very moment as he gazed upon the powerful, enchantingly beautiful throat of his cousin as it stretched appealingly to give birth to spells unparalleled.

Kanafinwë – loved by his parents and spoiled by Maitimo – was a creature so dangerously deceiving in the charm he put into his every word and action; when it came down to it, his wrath was no less dangerous than any of his brothers’ and he’d stab you while granting you the most gracious and enthralling of smiles.

Findaráto had witnessed many a time how he could command an assembly by the pristine perfection of his voice, and he didn’t doubt the inherent, destructive power, whistling like an arrow in flight, of this musical talent for a single second.

This was different though, he concluded as the expected effect – soothing or adrenalizing – failed to hit his blood; instead of uttering pretty, flawless notes effortlessly, Makalaurë whipped his blood into a frothing tempest now with the breathy, slightly scratchy, and definitely throaty quality of his singing.

Neither a calming lullaby nor an invigorating battle-cry, this new opus of his seemed to be made up of sighs and moans that conjured up images of his delightfully skilled mouth agape in inarticulate extasy.

Disgusted by his own weakness, Findaráto averted his gaze to the dancers to regain some measure of composed self-control while his fingers trembled, thrumming too high on his own thighs against his quivering flesh to even pretend that he was unaffected by the wings this situation had given to his overzealous imagination.

This new focus did nothing to ease his suffering though for there was of course Maitimo himself, who surpassed everyone in beauty, strength, and discipline; he was as hard on the surface as cousin Finno was seemingly soft, but – spying on them now – it was impossible for the wretchedly miserable cousin of theirs to ignore the fire of bravery and love they shared. 

He himself was easy, easy to approach, easy to befriend, and easy to leave behind.

Where the others had been given hypnotising intensity, faith-inducing honesty, or captivating charm, he had been granted a pleasant smile and a truly frightening capacity for love. 

He admired them so, he had never been given a choice; Maitimo intimidated people into joining him by his calm and convincing confidence, Findekáno’s warm but cutting smile let you know that it was as safe to be on his side as it was lethal not to be, and Makalaurë had yet to meet a person inured to the overwhelming intensity of his charm. Each one of them had been granted gifts that cut through someone like him as a hot blade slid through butter, and he had stopped struggling against his need to belong – to them or anyone else – many a cycle of the trees ago.

The music broke off suddenly and then someone spoke his name.

“Join us, Ingo,” Makalaurë called, laughter weaving golden threads into his tone like the ones adorning righteous, valiant Findekáno’s hair. 

“The night is young yet,” he went on when Findaráto balked, cursing his hair for giving him away in the ambient gloom, “and our fathers look distraught; we may have to take this elsewhere.”

“Go and interrupt our sons,” Ñolofinwë griped, “this is indecent.”

He had been watching his oldest child cling to the broad shoulder and shapely hand of his half-brother’s son for what felt like ages, and he was both embarrassed and intrigued by the intensity shimmering so shamelessly in his upturned face.

“You go,” Fëanáro retorted; he had refused to spare the undignified scene so much as a single glance. As they could not hear the music – and knowing that this was Kanafinwë’s doing, there was no doubt about there being a secret melody – they could but look on helplessly as the two potential crown-princes swayed gently, holding each other’s gaze in what looked more like passion than challenge.

“I won’t go either,” Arafinwë interjected, “I don’t care for finding my own son crumpled up around whatever secrets he hides behind a smile.”

Huffing as they realised that they had manoeuvred themselves – once more – into one of the inevitable stalemates of stubborn intransigeance that had made their youth a living hell, the three fathers glared at each other, praying that their sons would realise soon how inappropriate their behaviour really was.

None of them were holding their breath though.

I am - humbly - begging you not to be cruel to me!

It was a try, it was born out of love and good intentions; I did not seek to offend or hurt anyone!

Lots of love from me...

@eunoiaastralwings you're the only person other than Shalini and Medusas-hairband I can think of who'd read this...maybe...🙈

Ah, @mismaeve maybe?

Song that inspired this ludicrous piece of writing:

[shingia]

Could I request Kuroo, Bokuto, Tsukishima, Sakusa, Miya twins, and Tendou with a reader who used to self harm but was sober for a while, only to relapse after they left bc of a huge argument then please and thanks? Sorry if that’s really intense tho. And thank u for being so nice🙂💞

[𝐓𝐖] 𝐒/𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅-𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌

ok i reaaally hope this is what you expected. i didn’t know what kind of ending you wanted but i decided that you, my friend, needed comfort, so i gave you comfort because you deserve it ❤️️

i hope reading this will make you feel better! kisses on your nose ❤️️

type : (strong) angst | word count : 4.4K

warnings : mentions of self-harm, depiction of depressive behavior (plz do not read if any of these might trigger something, i want you all to be safe <3)

⇀ 𝐤𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐨

« fuck you, kuroo. fuck. you. ». those were the last words you had told him. they had hurt, but they were nothing compared to the last words he had told you, the words that kept playing over and over in your head as you slowly felt yourself drift to your old habits again : « i’m done with you ».

was it your fault ? did you push him over the edge ? you had many questions to ask kuroo, but he wasn’t there to answer anymore. so these thoughts were left spiraling in your head as you started to lose balance between love and pain. because his love used to be the cure to your pain. so now what ? what were you supposed to do other than going back to your old habits ? you couldn’t think of any answer.

on monday morning, you woke up thirty minutes earlier because, first of all, you needed some time for the swelling of your eyes to go down, and second of all, you needed to mentally prepare yourself to see kuroo again. it had been two days since your fight, and he had not manifested himself once. it seemed to be well and truly over ; and that thought had been the main cause of the collapsing of your mental strength over the last two days.

during your first period, although you were avoiding his gaze, kuroo couldn’t help but cast glances in your direction. because he knew you better than anyone, and he could only imagine how hurt you were.

but he really started to get suspicious when he noticed you were not raising your hand to correct today’s homework. he had helped you with that last week, and you had told him that you felt confident enough to propose your correction to the class ; which rarely happened. so why weren’t you raising your hand ?

he had a bad feeling about the answer… he didn’t care about giving you quick glances anymore, he just stared at your arms until one of your movements would make your sleeve reveal just a few inches of your skin.

and he was horrified to have his fears confirmed. the cuts that he had so often kissed while holding you in his arms were back. and he knew it was all because of him. and although his first thought was that it was not his job to heal them anymore, he couldn’t bring himself to act unbothered.

he had loved you for long enough to know that you needed him right now. or maybe he still loved you ? it was not clear, but it didn’t matter right now. what mattered was that he needed you to listen to what he wanted to say, even if that was the last thing you accepted to hear from him.

« y/n, we need to talk » he told you once you got out of the classroom. you looked up at him ; his face was unusually austere. he carefully grabbed your shoulder and took you away from everyone else. 

« i can’t… i couldn’t walk out of there pretending like i didn’t see what your arms looked like » he started. « now listen, i know i fucked up, but i still care. and you still matter. whatever our relationship is doesn’t define you and most importantly, these don’t define you » he pointed at your wrists, his brows furrowed with concern. « so please, i’m begging you, keep in mind that i’m always here if you need to talk. always. and if you don’t want to talk to me that’s fine, but in that case, please find someone else. for the sake of everything we've been through together, don't let everything you’ve accomplished go to waste » and he wrapped his arms around you in the strongest hug he had ever given.

⇀ 𝐛𝐨𝐤𝐮𝐭𝐨

it had already been a week. and bokuto had absolutely no idea what to do. call you ? text you ? probably not. what would he even say ? « hi, sorry for slamming the door in your face after screaming at you for fifteen minutes. am i still your boyfriend ? » awful idea.

and while bokuto was pondering every option he had left to get in touch with you, you were left in the darkest place of your mind. and you hadn’t felt like that in a few months. because bokuto used to always be there, his number on speed dial whenever you feared you would relapse. and thanks to his unwavering support, you hadn’t. but was there anything in this world that was truly unwavering ? you really started to doubt it. and now that bokuto had left you, what could carry the pain away ? whatever the answer was, you were in no condition to think rationally about it.

you remembered how he used to celebrate every improvement in your mental health, how strong of a cornerstone he had been for you. and just the fact of not knowing where you guys were at after your fight was enough to make you feel like you were drowning again.

you were overflowing with emotions that you thought you couldn’t control, and apart from holding on tight to bokuto’s chest, you only knew one way to feel better.

you loved him, you really did. but after a week without hearing from him, you started to think that maybe his feelings were not as real as he pretended they were. and how could you not blame him for that ? for letting you down so fast ?

curled up in your bed, tears were streaming down your face ; because you felt weaker than you had promised yourself to be. you were exhausted, in every sense of the word, yet there was still a tiny bit of strength left in your body that made you grab your phone and open your conversation with bokuto. the last message was a bitter pill to swallow : « no problem babe, i’m always here for you ». it was just a week ago but it felt like an eternity had passed. your fingers started slowly typing on the screen and immediately hit sent, knowing that you would second guess your message if you re-read it. « can we talk? », just three words, it was the maximum you could get off of your chest right now.

but bokuto did not answer. for the simple reason that he was too busy catching his breath in front of your door. he frantically knocked, not stopping until you opened it.

« oh my god, are you okay ?! » he exclaimed, patting your entire body like he wanted to make sure you were well and truly there. and once he had made sure of that, he pulled you against his chest like he wasn’t planning on letting you go ever again. « did- did you… » he ventured to ask, not wanting to finish his sentence precisely because he was afraid of your answer. but when he heard you let out a muffled sob against his chest, his fears instantly got replaced by guilt. more than he had ever felt. « you’re alright, i got you. i got you now… » he murmured, his hands stroking your back tenderly. « we’ll get through this together, ok ? we’ll show the world how strong you are. because i know you are. »

⇀ 𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐬𝐚

yes, sakusa had run away. and he was glad he had. because he knew how hurtful he could be with his words, and he had enough respect not to inflict that to you. but as he made his way back home, doubt started installing in his head. what if he shouldn’t have left you after your fight ? he immediately shook the thought away. no, you were good now. you were better. nothing like who you were when he met you.

and sakusa could be very convincing when he needed to, including with himself. that’s why he didn’t get in touch with you for the next three days, because he thought you just needed some time for yourself.

but when he received a worried text from komori when he got out of the gym after practice, he changed his mind within seconds. « i just saw y/n, something felt off. maybe you should check on them ? ».

sakusa felt a wave of guilt descend upon of him. of course he should. it was his fucking job to offer you his help, even when he thought you didn’t need it. and especially when he knew what you had already been through. he cursed himself all the way to your house, where he could only imagine how lonely you felt. not wanting to waste any more time, he pulled out his phone to call you. and heaved a relieved sigh at the sound of your voice : « hey, are you ok ? like, right now are you doing ok ? » he asked hastily. 

you sat on your bed and rubbed your strained eyes, fiddling with the cloth of your t-shirt. « i- yeah, i’m good… » you lied. « i’m at your door, open up please, i gotta see you » he said before hanging up.

you knew sakusa was not going to take no for an answer. so, after wiping your tears and putting on a long-sleeved hoodie and sweatpants, you went to open the door. 

« hi… » you uttered quietly. sakusa didn’t dare to move. he had been so determined to get to your house, but now that you were standing in front of him, he wasn’t so sure of what he was supposed to do.

you decided to be the first to break the silence,  « i’m okay. and i’m sorr… » « sorry. about everything. » he pre-empted you. seeing you like this made him fear the worst. so he gently grabbed your wrists like he wanted to hold your hands, when in reality he just wanted to confirm his thoughts. and when he saw you stiffen at his touch, he knew he had guessed right. « come here » he whispered before going in for a hug. but you pulled away at the last second. « can we… go to my room ? i- i feel better there » you asked timidly.

he didn’t even answer and simply wrapped his arm around your shoulder before taking you to your bedroom where you immediately curled up on your bed. you didn’t want sakusa to see you like this, but you were in no position to fight back anymore. quietly, he laid beside you and pulled you in a warm embrace, just tight enough to let you know that he got you now. 

when he noticed you were trying to find something to say, to explain yourself, he shushed you with a kiss on your shoulder. « you don’t have to speak if you don’t want to. but i want you to listen to me very carefully : don’t ever think that you’re back to square one now. you’ve dealt with this before, you’ve grown and you can do it again as long as you promise yourself to get back up. and i won’t leave your side. you deserve so much more than what you give yourself, and i’m here to remind you »

⇀ 𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚

tsukishima’s pride was important to him, everyone knew it. the only thing he valued as much as his pride was probably you. but during your arguments, the scale always tipped in his pride’s favor, you simply could not compete.

but surprisingly enough, it was you who had told him to go away after getting in the most heated argument you had ever had. and he didn’t have to be told twice : you had shattered his beloved pride, and he was not going to stay here begging for your mercy.

he still loved you, but he also had no problem ignoring you at school. yet for some reason, this argument didn’t sit well with him. well, no arguments ever sat well with him, but today felt different. 

ignoring you was one of the most hurtful things tsukishima could ever do to you. he had helped you through so much, and suddenly becoming a stranger to him was slowly bringing you back down.

« it’s just one time, i won’t relapse » you thought the first time you tried to cope with the pain the way you used to. but you feared it wouldn’t be just one time. you were diving into what you had said goodbye to ; but now that tsukishima was ignoring you, there was no one to stop you from falling, right ? 

well, that would have been true if he hadn’t kept a discreet but attentive eye on you. which is why he knew very well that you had gone back to your old habits. and he needed to do something about it.

but he wasn’t good with words, and he feared that actions would not be enough this time. he needed something more permanent, something that you could keep with you all the time. so he decided to do something he had never done before, and gave it to you as soon as it was done…

receiving a letter from tsukishima was definitely not something you expected. but what was written in it was even less expected.

« i’m not the best at this kind of stuff, but… i really need you to stop being so hard on yourself. i know it’s not something i usually say, but i fell in love with you because i learned to love your imperfections. and you have to start doing the same about yourself. please. and if you need to be held, to be listened to, i’ll be there. but i wanted to write something because i want you to be able to read this as much as you need, as much as you want. i want you to get better, but even more than that, i want you to want to get better. you can do it, i believe in you more than you can think. please come to me if you need it. i love you ».

the tears that streamed down your face had a salty taste, but for the first time in a long time, they tasted like hope as well. and the next time you came face to face with yourself and your thoughts, your eyes found find their way back to the letter, and you knew that there were people that still believed in you, counted on you, loved you. tsukki was just the first one of a long list. (<3)

⇀ 𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮

he had been there through everything. more than you would have imagined. which is probably why you felt desperately empty ever since he got so angry at you that he left without looking back. but at the time, it simply had not crossed his mind that you would suffer so deeply from his words.

but you did. a lot. and that was the reason you found yourself crying on your bedroom floor, not even able to be mad at anyone but yourself.

still oblivious to the true damage, atsumu thought he could get back to you by pretending like nothing had happened. he often did that because, to him, what was in the past belonged in the past. except that today, and in your situation, it could not work.

« wanna grab something to eat ? » was the first text he sent you. and you didn’t feel like answering, so you didn’t. « are you still mad ? i’m not <3 » was the second one. but you still didn’t feel like answering. maybe it was your fault ? maybe you were overreacting while you were just supposed to play it cool like he did ? but you would have played it cool if you knew how to.

when atsumu decided to go to your house, it was initially to apologize in person. he had not planned on seeing you looking the way you did, which was a heart-wrenching reminder of the dark period of time you had gotten through together. but here he was, standing in front of you, feeling more helpless than ever. he knew too well the look into your eyes, one that he hadn’t seen in a long time. 

he dropped the pack of snacks he was holding in his hands before cupping your cheeks. « oh no, no, no. i fucked up, didn’t i ? i am… so so so sorry. c-can you forgive me ? » he stammered, absolute panic in his eyes as he took you in his arms. why would i have to forgive you ? you thought. i’m the only one to blame. 

but atsumu seemed to also hear the things you didn’t say, and he refused to let you feel guilty for anything. ever so gently, he took your hands in his before placing the softest kisses on your wrists that were still covered by the sleeves of your hoodie. « i probably won’t ever forgive myself for leaving you alone. but promise me you’ll always come to me if you need help, or any kind of support, hugs, kisses… you name it. i’ll be your coping mechanism, and i’ll be the best you’ve ever had »

and he kept holding you for a long time, at least until he felt your breath become steady again. and if you thought atsumu was doting before, prepare yourself to be even more amazed now.

⇀ 𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐮

fighting with osamu was not frequent, fortunately. but when fights occured, it was bad. really bad. he tended to think that you could endure as much as atsumu when it came to harsh words ; but you couldn’t.

kind of like his brother, samu had a tendency to leave the past behind and pretend like nothing happened when he got in touch with you after a fight. and that’s what he did a week ago, after one of the biggest arguments that you had ever had.

too happy that he seemed to still want to be your boyfriend, you didn’t have the courage to tell him how you had gone back to your old habits during the time you were on bad terms. but as they said, old habits died hard, and your destructive thoughts were still very present even when things seemed to have gotten back to normal.

yet samu was not blind, and he noticed that you were acting a bit more distant since last week, since your fight. but he still thought that your problems could be solved by just keeping on pretending like everything was ok. and eventually, things would turn out ok by themselves, right ?

you were laying on his bed, turned on your side as you scrolled on your phone. usually you would have had an arm swung around him, but you didn’t want to take any risk, so you kept your distances. 

« hey, come closer baby. we’ve barely cuddled today » he told you before lazily wrapping his arm around your waist.

feeling nervous, you swallowed the lump in your throat before putting your phone on the nightstand. « i’m going to sleep, samu », you said, stretching your arm to turn off the light.

but he was quicker than you and gently grabbed your arm, careful not to apply any pressure on it. his eyes widened, he had barely seen your wrist but it had been enough to notice that the scars were recent. he put two and two together and looked at you dead in the eyes ; you looked ashamed, and it broke his heart. « when did y- was it because of me ? » he asked, his voice faintly shaking. you pulled away from his hand and held your arm against you, sinking in the pillow. « no, of course not. it’s nothing » you breathed out, looking away to avoid his gaze. but he was quick to make you face him again, with a slight pressure of his fingertips on your red cheeks. « there’s only one thing that i hate more than seeing you in pain. it’s knowing that i caused this pain. let me help you, y/n. please. you deserve to feel better. i’m sorry i didn’t give you as much love as you gave me. and i’m sorry for behaving like an asshole when you needed me. just… fuck, i just love you ».

tears started prickling the corner of your eyes, but he saw you trying to hold them back. with the most gentle look in his eyes, he proposed to turn off the light if it made you feel better. and you nodded ; you knew that you’d eventually had to have a face-to-face conversation with him. it was the only way to get better. but right now you just wanted to be held without thinking about what he’d see. or wouldn’t see.

so he turned off the light and let yourself get comfortable in bed before wrapping you in his embrace once again. his soft breath against your neck was obviously not enough to make all your pain magically go away, but it let you know that he had your back. and it was all that mattered.

⇀ 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐮

« i don’t want to do this anymore, y/n ! » tendou had yelled, making this sentence the peak of your argument. six words, and they were on replay in your minds since four days. you couldn’t believe that almost two years of relationship had ended so abruptly. but you had to face the truth : tendou had enough of you. and obviously you linked that to the turbulent start of your relationship. you knew it hadn’t been easy for him to deal with your self harm when you had just started dating. yet he had managed to make you feel so much better that you had been sober for about a year, all thanks to him. but maybe you hadn’t been grateful enough ? maybe that was why he had decided to end things now ?

the only thing you knew for sure was that he was gone, and you felt like you had lost your anchor.

you had spent the weekend in your dorm, and it had been a painful weekend. so painful that you did not get out of bed on monday morning ; it was just too much to handle. deep down you knew that you were not handling your problems the right way… and escaping reality was not viable.

but little did you know that tendou wanted nothing more than to see you again in the hallways and finally have a heart-to-heart conversation with you. and when he didn’t see you in class, he started to freak out. he knew how it was to feel alone and rejected ; and he started to fear that he had caused you to feel exactly that. so he did not follow his friends to the cafeteria at lunch and headed to your dorm instead, hoping that you’d open the door.

and you did. thank god you did. but panic started bubbling in his chest when his eyes laid on your face.

« alright, come here » he told you with a forced smile before pulling you in his embrace. truthfully, he didn’t feel like smiling, but he knew that the last thing you needed was to think you made him feel bad. when he was with you, his main goal was to cheer you up, he’d deal with himself later. « angel… did you do it again ? » he asked, his tone being the furthest thing from judgmental. you muttered a quiet apology, your face buried in his white uniform jacket. but something lingered on your mind. angel ? it sounded right, but you knew it wasn’t. not anymore. « don’t apologize ! the only person you owe an apology to is yourself » he whispered against your ear. slowly, he put his hands on your waist before bringing you to your bed where he sat right next to you, still refusing to take his hands off of your body.

 « tendou, you don’t have to do this… » you muttered, knowing that you weren’t supposed to be this close anymore. « i’m your ex, you don’t owe me anything ».

he immediately looked down to meet your eyes, an eyebrow raised in confusion. « your ex ? wh- you think i broke up with you ? y/n, when i said that i didn’t want to do this anymore, i was talking about fighting with you ! i’m sorry, i should have texted you these last few days, but i thought you wouldn’t want to talk to me »

a tear rolled down your cheek. tendou’s words sounded like heaven right now. maybe you weren’t alone after all ?

« now, do you need me to get you something ? band-aids ? anything ? » he asked, caressing your hair with his right hand. you nodded your head no and kept your head buried in his neck, like you were waiting for his scent to go to your head. « i know you’ve been through a lot, and i’m proud of you no matter what. but, you know… even though i have enough love for the both of us, i’d really want you to have enough love for yourself » he said and placed a kiss on top of your head, waiting for you to say something. but he sensed that you were not ready yet. and he was ok with that, the last thing he wanted to do was to pressure you. it was going to be a long path, but you had already done it, and you were going to do it again. and he’d be there the whole time.

ok so if you’ve read until there it probably means that you needed comfort (i hope i have given you enough) : so if you are in this situation yourself, PLEASE don’t be afraid to ask for help, you can and you will get better. i’m rooting for you like saeko roots for karasuno ❤️️

@toworuu (didn’t forget about you ^^)

[imgoingtofreakoutnow]

An old friend - Part 2

Summary: You've been invited for tea at the Bridgerton's household. You'll meet some new faces and perhaps dig in the past with your host...

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!reader

Other characters: Benedict Bridgerton, Violet Bridgerton, Gregory Bridgerton, Hyacinth Bridgerton

Warnings: looooots of yearning, face touching (?) if this counts as warning

Words: 3.6k+

A/n: I wasn't planning on doing a second part but here we are! I know it's long, and the start can feel a bit slow, but stick until the end; things get interesting there😏😉

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

As you stepped down the carriage, your eyes were immediately drawn to the facade of the house: even though you weren't a child anymore it still looked majestic to your eyes. The lilac wisteria hanged from the red terracotta wall, swinging his blooming flowers just above the door, giving the compound that vibrant hint of colour that you remembered.

When you heard the wheels of your carriage move against the pebble, you decided it was time to enter the Bridgerton's household. However, you soon realized that your feet were seemingly planted in the ground just before the gates of the estate.

Nervously holding your shaking gloves near your lap, you tried to calm down that sudden wave of anxiety. You truly had nothing to be worried about: your hosts were some of the kindest human beings you had ever met and the house was no stranger to you either. Nonetheless, war drums started playing in your chest at the thought that Anthony was waiting for you inside...

"Can I help you, miss?"

You turned towards the voice that called you back to reality to be met with the tall figure of Benedict. "Mr. Bridgerton"

He bowed as you curtseyed. "Well, this is embarrassing" he muttered, taking off his hat with an apologetic smile. "You know my name, but I don't know yours... should I know you, miss?"

You smiled back, shaking slightly your head. "Probably not, sir. I'm Y/N Y/L/N. I believe I am awaited for tea this afternoon: Lady Bridgerton invited me at last night's ball"

"I recall Anthony mentioning something about a guest..." he started but shrugged afterwards, "however I wasn't listening". His green eyes moved on you, squeezing slightly as they took in your features. "I beg you forgiveness in advance if I'm mistaken, but do you appear to be that little girl that used to play with Anthony when he still possessed a sense of humour?"

You hardly stopped a laugh from escaping your lips. "I shall not know, did Lord Bridgerton used to entertain himself with many young ladies when he was young himself?"

Benedict shook his head, still smiling. "Not that I can remember"

"Then that's probably me" you confirmed, chuckling slightly as the weight on your stomach eased considerably.

"I shall not believe that! The world is much smaller than I thought it was". He rubbed his cheek, his face lit by shock and delight. Then, looking at the front door and then back at you: "Why then were you standing here like a statue?"

At his question you lowered your gaze to your hands, not as shaky as before but still partly trembling. When you opened your mouth to reply, no rational answer came out from your parted lips.

Thankfully, Benedict seemed to notice your distress and simply took your arm in his. "Admit it" he said, smiling cheekily and guiding you inside, "you were waiting for me just to escort you inside. Isn't that right?"

With a giggle you nodded. "You uncovered my plan, sir. I shall hope it remains a secret between the two of us"

Benedict opened the door for you. "I'll take it to the grave, miss Y/L/N"

You flashed him one last smile before your eyes wandered on the interior of the household, leaving you speechless: everything was exactly where your clouded memories placed it, with few errant exceptions, like the china vase in the vestibule or the tiny pottery work on the table next to the door of the drawing room.

It felt almost unreal, like walking in a dream made long time ago... nonetheless, the way your heart jumped in your throat when you saw Anthony slouching on a couch near the window felt very much real to you.

"Miss Y/L/N". When Violet's voice reached your ears she was already in front of you, taking your arm to drag you away from her second-born. "It is a delight to see you again so soon. I believe you haven't met my youngest children, Gregory and Hyacinth".

The two siblings looked at you, Hyacinth smiling fascinated while Gregory was subtly munching something.

You smiled at them. "It's a pleasure to meet you"

"Miss Y/L/N, could I ask you something?"

Your eyes fixed in Hyacinth's, wide with curiosity. "Of course"

She took some steps towards you and you bent down so that she could cup your ear. "Is it true that you and Anthony made all the nurses go mad when you were our age?"

"Who told you that?" you whispered back, grinning. "We made them go mad when we were much younger than you"

Hyacinth covered her mouth, giggling silently as she went back next to her brother. Gregory, still looking at you, finally gulped down his food and turned to his mother. “Can we go play outside now, mama?”

With a sigh and a gesture of her hand, Lady Bridgerton released her youngest from the strings of formality and you watched them running one after the other out of the drawing room.

“Pardon their impatience” sighed Violet, sitting on the sofa next to her. She seemed terribly tired and you couldn’t imagine otherwise: if the other Bridgertons were half the troublemakers you and Anthony were, you were surprised the household was still intact.

You took a seat next to her, your back straightened as a greek column. “There is no need to apologise, I do envy their freedom” you admitted as your gaze fell in your lap. “They should enjoy every moment they have left before they come of age”

“From your tone, miss Y/L/N, it transpires the belief that there is no freedom in our society whatsoever”

You turned to Anthony, now seated a little more properly on the couch. His eyes locked in yours terribly easily, as they already possessed the key to your soul.

"Not if one wants to be accepted by said society, Lord Bridgerton" you clarified. "And we know well enough that not many would risk their place in this - pardon my words - refined golden parade for a semblance of temporary freedom"

"A golden parade". Anthony tasted your words on his tongue. "Shall we ever be freed from the chains society imposed us then?"

"It is possible, yes. Nevertheless, it may not be as easy as one might expect"

Anthony was still looking at you and the fabric of your gloves started sticking to your sweaty hands under his stare. You lowered your gaze. "But of course, this is just my humble opinion"

"Quite pessimistic, if I may" Benedict's voice broke through your thoughts. Slouching like Anthony on the other couch, there was no doubt those two were brothers. "But my word, you and Eloise would get along perfectly well"

"My second daughter. She is quite a free spirit" explained Violet seeing your confusion. "Unfortunately, you won't meet her today: she went for a walk with her friend, miss Penelope Featherington"

“On another quest to find the writer who hides behind the name of Lady Whistledown” added Benedict, earning a glare from his mother.

"I'm sure there will be many other occasions to meet her. And your eldest daughter as well. I’ve heard she married the Duke of Hastings, is that right?"

Her eyes lit as soon as you mentioned her daughter, and before you knew it, your mind was filled with every single detail of the wedding and engagement party, and all the circumstances that preceded and followed it.

A light knock made everyone turn towards the door. The footmen placed swiftly and silently the trays with teapots and cups on the small tables around the room, together with many small plates full of different biscuits and what looked like delicious refreshments.

One of the footmen approached cautiosly Violet, who was now talking about the scandal in which Colin had been unknowingly drawn. "Lady Bridgerton". The woman turned towards him with a smile. "Miss Francesca denies her medicine..."

Violet sighed, putting her cup back on the tray. "Goodness gracious... She went to Bath on her own, she's almost of age and she keeps throwing tantrums for these little things...". She then turned to you: "I shall be back in a few minutes, my dear"

You nodded, watching her leave the room with the young footman. The exact moment she disappeared through the door, Benedict jumped from his seat, almost making you spill the tea on your dress.

"I'm terribly sorry, but I shall leave as well" he explained, putting his tailcoat back on in a hurry. He looked towards Anthony. "If mother asks, I'm in my room feeling unwell and I definitely won't attend dinner"

"Shall I know where you're going?" asked Anthony with a smirk on his face. "Perhaps getting a new suit?"

Benedict ignored him, which made Anthony grin even more. “It’s been a pleasure, miss Y/L/N. We shall talk more next time we meet" he said with a small bow and a smile, before walking out the drawing room as well.

You took a long sip from your small cup, trying to focus on the taste of the tea and not on the fact that you and Anthony were now completely alone. The hot drink had a fresh mint scent and... and then his touch on your skin was everything your mind could think of.

"Are you enjoying yourself, miss Y/L/N?"

"Absolutely!" you replied, your voice an octave higher than normal. Clearing your throat, you attempted to think of something to say that wasn't in any way related to Anthony's hands on you. "The tea is divine"

He chuckled, taking a biscuit from the tray. "I'm glad you like it". He took a bite before asking again: "Does the house do justice to your memories?"

"It does" you nodded. "I'm surprised how few things have changed over the years but I'm glad to be able to recognise every corner. It's like stepping in the past"

Anthony smiled without taking his eyes off you. Looking down on your empty cup you felt your skin itch under his deep stare. Before you could think of anything else to say, you heard the sound of fabric rustling: Anthony Bridgerton had stood up and was now moving closer with every step. He stretched his hand out to you, smiling like he did only around you.

"Would you like to step in the past again, miss Y/L/N?"

With his eyes locked in yours, your mouth was wholly dry. You had no idea what he had in mind but, strangely enough, you didn't care: you just took his hand.

The heat radiating through the thin fabric of your gloves set on fire every nerve of your body. You held tight onto his hand as he pulled you down a maze of corridors, running within those walls like when you were kids. The excitement, and the new feeling that was pushing against your corset, let a wide, joyful smile appear on your face, as you felt lighter than ever before.

Then, after a last turn, he pulled you in a room, closing the door behind him. It took a deep breath for you to realise Anthony had dragged you in the library: it was smaller than you recalled, and even so it held so much knowledge you always found overwhelming stepping inside, as if you weren’t worthy of it.

Still panting, Anthony collapsed on the settee near the window, his smile wider than ever. "Good Lord..." he sighed letting his head fall back, his shoulders shook by laughter. "I haven't felt this alive in quite some time..."

"As much as I enjoy seeing you smiling, did we truly have to run all the way here?" you whispered, trying to steady your breath. "If anyone saw us, they probably thought we were up to something, which is not true at all"

Placing his elbows on his knees, Anthony bended over, his eyes lit by the spark of mischief. "If we're not up to something... then why are you whispering?"

You shook your head, turning your back to him. You walked closer to the atlas, opened on book stand in one of the corner of the room. With your index you gently traced the lines of the continents shown on the page, searching names of places you knew. Then a realization hit you.

“We shouldn’t be here”. Taking a step back from the atlas, you turned to Anthony.

He looked at you with furrowed brows. “Why so?”

"I'm quite sure you're aware that, for a lady, being in the same room as a man without a chaperone is improper and disgraceful" you clarified, rubbing your hands nervously.

"Is it?". You shot Anthony a glare.

"Yes, my lord. Awfully disgraceful". You looked at the door, terrified someone might walk in.

Anthony sighed. “Very well. But before we go... would you please read something to me?”. The request wasn’t exactly what you were expecting and Anthony, as he had read in your mind, added: “There’s nothing improper in that”

You took a sharp breath but then nodded. “Very well”. You moved your eyes on the many books on the bookshelves, the titles and authors embossed on their spines in golden letters: Shakespeare, Edgeworth, Scott.

"Do you want me to read anything in particular, my lord?"

He closed his eyes, slouching again on the settee. "Anything as long as I can hear your voice"

Taken aback by his words, you were glad he couldn’t see your scarlet cheeks. You took a small poetry volume, opening it at a random page. The words written on the paper danced in your mind with the finesse of a butterfly.

You sat down on the other end of the settee as your lungs tried their best to fill with enough air to keep you from fainting. You took a last deep breath before starting to read out loud.

"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me."

As you kept reading, the book in one hand and the other resting in your lap, the verses rolled on your tongue like candid pearls on velvet; an ancient incantation created to charm minds.

You didn't realise that Anthony had been getting closer and closer by the second until the moment he took your empty hand in his. You stopped mid-verse as your eyes jolted to your joined hands.

"Go on" he gently asked, stroking his thumb on your hand.

Gulping down your beating heart you started reading again, but your attention was nowhere near the words printed on the paper. It was all on the way his fingers rested on yours and moved against your glove, as trying to find a path past the thin fabric.

That small and seemingly meaningless touch unleashed a thunderstorm within you: powerful, destructive and awfully seductive.

You finished the poem, the last word leaving you breathless. Closing the book, the closeness with Anthony felt way too much to handle.

"We should go now". You stood, breaking the contact with Anthony to put the book in its place. Your hand without his touch felt extremely empty.

You heard him sigh. "I believe we should". Anthony stood up, smoothing his blue tailcoat. After a moment of silence, he spoke again, his eyes set on fixing his sleeves: "I must apologise, miss Y/L/N"

You turned towards him with eyes wide in confusion before frowning. "For what, my lord?"

"I'm convinced that my puerile behaviour put you in an uncomfortable and improper position" - his voice and face were completely emotionless, not the face of the Anthony you knew - "and I beg your forgiveness for that. I had no rights to act this way towards a lady such as yourself and I would totally understand if you chose to..." he stopped a moment, searching for the strength to finish the phrase, “...interrupt our acquaintance”

"Lord Bridgert-"

"Of course” he continued, "I would never want for you to interrupt your visits to my mother and family. And, of course, I shall have prepared a carriage to take you home and then, hopefully, everything will soon seem just a-"

"Anthony"

You finally moved from the bookshelf, catching his hand in yours. His eyes moved from the doorknob, first resting on your joint hands and then raising to your face. It had felt like days since he last glanced at you.

"Please, let me speak”. He didn’t move, his face still unreadable but his eyes had your complete attention. You took a deep breath as you put your messy thoughts in the right order.

“You didn't offend me" you explained, even if your trembling voice could've told otherwise. "Your actions, your attentions weren't a discomfort to me whatsoever. They were just-", a shaky sigh escaped your lips, "What I feel in your presence is overwhelming, like standing on a cliff while the wind howls around you, trying to push you off the edge... you wish you could ignore it but it keeps luring you in and-"

His hand on your cheek cut you off. His thumb caressed your cheekbone and slid down, along your jaw, to stop on your chin. "So this pleases you?" he asked, his voice deep as his eyes were staring into yours. At a loss of words, you nodded as fireworks exploded in your stomach.

At his words you suddenly remembered: “Your mother! She’s probably still waiting in the drawing room!”. You took your hands to your face, covering your heated cheeks. “Oh no... she’ll never forgive me...”

Eventually he smiled, and seeing his eyes lighting up was just what you needed to feel relieved. "That's good to hear” he murmured, stroking your cheek again and again, “but now you should really go home: we don’t want your mother to get worried, don’t we?”"

He shook his head chuckling. “My mother doesn’t hold grudges for such ridiculous matters. However, if it could help you sleep better tonight, I shall talk to her. You must trust me: I already have mastered a talent in finding quite believable excuses”

You smirked. “Why am I not surprised?”. Anthony smiled before taking again your hand. A bolt ran through your arm.

"I know it may sound bold, but would you join me and my family at tomorrow’s picnic in Hyde Park? These social gatherings always bore me to death but I’m sure your company would be the perfect remedy"

"Two invitations in a row?”. You grinned. “The ton will talk about this for quite some time"

“Is that a yes, miss Y/L/N?”

You smiled. “Of course it is, my lord. I could never refuse you anything”

<-•☆•->

When the carriage left you in front of your house, there was still enough light for you to see the pathway leading to the front door. As you entered and closed it behind you, your mother appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Thank Goodness you’re back!”. She run down the stairs, immediately cupping your cheeks. “Are you alright? Did anything happen to you?”

“I’m good, mama” you confirmed, with a smile. "Lord Bridgerton invited me to attend the picnic in Hyde Park tomorrow". At your words, every inch of blood seemed to be drained from your mother's face. “Is everything quite alright?”

“I’ve heard some awful rumors at the market today...” she whispered, taking your hands in hers. “About the Bridgertons”

You smiled gently. “Is it about the scandal surrounding Colin Bridgerton? Because I can assure you he had no part in-”

“it isn’t, my dear”. She shook her head, some locks of hair escaping her tight hairdo. “It’s about Lord Bringerton”

Your smile fell in a second. “What about him?”

Your mother took a deep breath before going on: “I believe him to be a rake, my dear, and from what I’ve heard, he spent most of last season attending the private rooms of different opera singers...”

"What?". You shook your head in disbelief. "No, it can't be... I know him and he's nothing like this"

"It has been years, sweetheart" she said, kindly caressing your cheek. "Maybe he's changed, like you have..."

"But he's not a rake!". You took a step back from your mother. "Lord Bridgerton is a gentleman, he would never-"

You stopped mid-sentence as what happened that afternoon replayed in your mind: surely you didn't dislike his behaviour, as daring as it was, but it was improper. Terribly improper. Something a rake would do with light skirts. Or with young and willing ladies.

Your corset seemed to be tighter than ever, squeezing your lungs until no air was left behind.

"I do not want to push you, my dear..." continued your mother, "but perhaps you should rethink your choice for tomorrow. You could say you had forgotten a previous engagement or-"

"No". Your steady voice didn't reflect the turmoil in your chest at all. "I have already accepted, mother" you said, walking past her to the stairs. "It would be disrespectful to refuse the invitation of a Viscount"

Besides, you wanted answers, and the only people who could give you some was Anthony himself.

Taglist: @ba-cute @xceafh @latekate1807 (if you want to be added or removed, let me know)

[hoodedwing]

Soldier, Tell Me

Summary: Roy may have banished his demons but we know that demons, and bad habits die hard.

Characters: Jason, Roy, Cheshire and Lian

Warnings: Implied shipping? (not really actually), Drug abuse, depressive thoughts, major canon death. Vomiting and blood

Additional Notes: This was the 3k fic I spent months working on. I hope you like it as much as I did writing it :))

Word Count: 3,499 words 

***

Jason drums his fingers against the handles as he leans a little and presses himself into the seat. His earpieces played some old school song that he didn't bother changing as he took a left turn to a rather deserted road.

Up ahead, a huge building stood in relative isolation, save for a scatter of trees. Jason flips the indicator and takes another right towards the entrance of the car park before finding a small, vacant spot and parking his bike. Switching off the bike, he took a deep breath of the deep gasoline smell lingering.

It assaulted his senses in a good way, preparing him for what was going to happen incoming. He doesn’t know how to start everything with Roy. It’s not as if he could strike up a conversation about a mission like the yesteryears. He couldn’t slide up to him, smile and talk straight away to have expectations that Roy could catch up to speed.

He could try. Pretend everything was normal. Pretend everything was okay and that no one was sinking underneath the weight. Pretend they were still happy despite being scarred all the way through.

He had to accept the fact that Roy was probably in a cleaner slate than when he last saw him. Sometimes, he felt irrational hatred at himself for not seeing it earlier, for not stopping him, A part of him felt that he could’ve saved Roy from hell. He could be the barrier, the small glass shard that held the rest of the pieces up.

Hell, nothing could’ve almost prevented him from collapsing onto the floor when he found Roy out cold on the unforgiving tiles of the damp bathroom floor, a used needle on the floor and empty syringes. A discarded lighter and spoon told the shameful truth Jason wanted desperately to not be true, to not be real, to simply fade and become a figment of his imagination, a hallucination to be exact. An unresponsive Roy sent Jason towards a panicked call to the ER and a shot of Narcan he had in his military-grade belt. There was a splutter and then the vomiting out the offender and the slight feverish touch of the skin. Jason carded his hair and tore a piece of his shirt to keep his forehead cool and try to get his fever down.

Jason had waited outside the ER with trepidation, hoping he really caught him in time. Nurses came in and went. Oliver Queen was suddenly there and Jason doesn’t know what’s next but he sees Dinah Lance as well and all he could pray was that Queen hadn’t disowned Roy. All he registered was a faint squeeze of a shoulder and a soft voice of “He’ll be fine, they’re good at what they do.”

He doesn’t know what to do as he pushes himself off the bike and locks it twice to double-check. Tossing his bag over his shoulder which had a spare set of clothes, shoes and essentials for Roy, he shoves his keys in his jean pockets and his other gloved hand tightening around a Narcan jab.

-

He’s at the counter.

Jason lazily leans against one of those plastic colored chairs that's plain uncomfortable to sit on. His eyes draw slowly towards the anti-drug videos playing on the screen. Sometimes he wonders if it remotely worked, at all as he watched a video on psychedelics and withdrawal symptoms. He thinks about how the initial years would be hell, suddenly the high was taken away and the addict was suffering. He was shaking, chills and absolutely losing it. He briefly thought about heroin and opium. Then he hears the low whine of machines and the counter number calling for him.

He tiredly gets up and waits at the counter, an all too smiling nurse who kindly gave him a bunch of paperwork to sign. His grip on the pen was so loose the nurse had to gently remind him that his hands were shaking. Steeling himself, he signs the last few release papers.

“You don’t look old to be Mr Queen, don’t you?”

“I’m..I’m his friend. Here to take him home.”

He exhales, a hand in his frazzled bangs making everything a little more messy. The nurse takes it as her cue to take Roy and she leaves.

Jason tries to not imagine what Roy might look like after an entire year. In his dreams, it’s either he was a bag of bones or a hollowed face. Other days, he couldn’t see him, it was a blur of shadows and nothing much. All he remembers is the empty longing for his companion to make his trio complete. Sure, Artemis and Bizarro were lovely company but Roy was the one who truly understood him to the core. He knew so much about Jason it was almost as if he was psychoanalyzing him instead. Roy knew Jason’s preferences like straight black coffee, novels with petrichor or simply a rainy day. He knew too much to not be there and it ached Jason’s bones badly.

He wouldn’t admit it, he missed his best friend.

The nurse returns and the first thing Jason registers is the way Roy’s threadbare olive shirt was hanging off his shoulder blades. The constant micro adjustments he did to push the shirt back up to the collarbone to hide the rest of the boned wisp of a muscled and lean man he once was. The same went for his jeans, rolled up at his shins and looking half-dead yet terrified. He shuffled his feet and chewed rather loudly at a ridiculously pink bubblegum. Jason hasn’t had the chance to look into his eyes and see how much was lost.

Suffice to say, Jason needed time to get Roy back to himself completely. He quietly hoped that there was enough Roy to heal back.

Roy finally looks up and smiles imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth curving up as he held a hand out to Jason. The bones were jutting out and it hurt so much to just take his own hand and try to not shatter his fragile ones. Scarred ones with numerous arrows he’s shot in another life.

Another life, Jason reminds himself, something stinging behind his eyes.

Jason stands up and gently embraces Roy, almost afraid of breaking his body completely into nothing. Roy returns the embrace, his hand running down Jason’s back. The nurse was holding Roy’s bag which Jason quickly snags with his free hand and quietly nodded as a sign of gratitude to the lady who walked away to rejoin her colleagues.

“Jason, I’m gonna go home, right?”

Jason lets Roy lean into him, lets him take in the warmth of his leather jacket he’s never quite ditched and into the sleeve of his ash-colored shirt. It was almost light-weight as he half-drags Roy into the carpark and towards his bike.

“Yeah, I'm taking you home."

He pretends to ignore Roy's rather weak grip around his midsection as he revved up the bike and drove out of the centre hopefully for the last time. 

-

Jason made the last turn to his safe house he spent some months converting into a livable house to aid Roy's recovery. The few azaleas he's grown are starting to gain height as he takes the bags and a half-asleep Roy to his doorstep. With some difficulty, he hunts for his keys from his pocket as quickly as possible before anyone nearby starts questioning him.

The door opens with a lazy whine as Jason hurriedly dumps the bags on the couch and drags Roy to his own bedroom. He lowers him gently onto the bed softly before opening his closet and fetching out a pair of his own clothes. He leaves them at the foot of the bed, pre-empting Roy needing to take a shower when he wakes up.

He heads back to the kitchen and starts prepping for a simple soup. After adding the last few vegetables (Roy needed strength on a weak stomach) and closing the lid to let the soup simmer, he takes out the folder of discharge papers alongside a whole host of anti-drug pamphlets which he promptly threw away. 

No need for them. He thought.

Taking the remaining papers, he heads back to the bedroom where he settled down in a ratty armchair beside a worn out and asleep Roy. 

The first sentence already starts to hurt to the bone and his hands shake again. His eyes keep darting towards Roy and back at the paper.

He OD'd twice during his stay. One time, they had to almost restart his heart because he was unresponsive.

Like that day in the bathroom 

Jason mentally supplied, the free hand clutching at the arm of his chair. He doesn't want to read the rest of the letter anymore and carefully folds it, slipping it into his pocket. 

He gently holds Roy's hand, lets his fingers trace along the veins standing out against the thin, almost transparent skin. Anger floods through him, how everything had hurt Roy so much. Jason rubbed gentle circles with his thumb as he waited for Roy to stir up. 

-

Roy awoke to a cotton-like feeling in his head and a remnant of sickness in his stomach. He laid there, staring at the repainted ceiling to force himself to not throw up as he blindly reached for a glass of water left by his table. With the blanket pooling at his waist, he sat up and leant against the headboard and tried to get his head on straight because he hasn't exactly processed anything in the last few hours.

He hears the clinking of a metal ladle and then the creaky cabinet with the dishes. A soft breeze filtered through the slightly ajar day and started a fresh bout of chills for Roy. He feebly rubs his arms against his sides and tries to stay warm.  He threw a pillow on his head because his stupid, stupid weak body couldn't regulate body temperature right. 

He stumbles out of the bed with the blanket draped around his shoulders. He opens the closet and takes out one of Jason's hoodies. He slips it and is instantly comforted by the warmth of the other. It smelt faintly of stale cigarette smoke (He knew Jason had dropped the habit when he was gone, determined to change himself) and gasoline. 

Roy pressed his ear near the doorframe and heard other ambiguous noises as he quietly closed the remaining gap of the door. A sudden wave of nausea hits him and he dashes into the joint washroom in his room.

He barely got onto his abused knees before spitting out the little he had in him. Bile dripped down his pale face and he leant against the cool surface of the bathtub. His eyes trail across the almost spotless tiles except for the occasional blood smears. Those must've been Jason's bad days.

Roy briefly wonders what bad days were to him. Every day kept throwing him off balance and he was always unprepared. 

He tried swimming to shore before, but his ankles always caught the anchor and he couldn't get out in time always. 

When he does free himself, he's so far into the past, it's just their ghosts teasing him and he's bloody trying but he's so tired. He's given up fighting against the waters.

He just opens his arms and welcomes the gush of cold and then the freak warmth of it all. He's so used to breathing without air and inhales water into his lungs. He knows what being waterlogged is like; he's been waterboarded a few times before. Oxygen was so sweet, such a promising relief.

The darkness however still held its charm.

Roy's shaky hand pats against himself, making sure he's still whole and not in pieces. Sometimes he doubted he was still human, the cracks too sharp for his fingers trying to join himself together. His fingers snag between, cuts open and warm blood always follows with the sting.

The sting was so much like when Queen ditched him. God, he never felt so fucking lonely before when his mentor left him to the wolves hungry for his skin. He was weaponless, powerless and defenseless. It was so easy to follow the shadows to the dark alleyway when you're alone, cold and desperate.

Even if it meant you'd sell your soul for relief.

Roy slowly flexed his arms, finding the feeling return to his emancipated limbs. Shaking, he's on his knees in a prayer position before getting up. His busty knees give way and he's so angry he can't even get up.

He felt like a failure. Was he going to be one for the rest of his life? Was he going to forever be trapped and feel he's lost control and never regained it back in any form?

He manages to return to the bedroom without cracking his skull open at the bathroom area. It would be a real shame if Jason brought him home just for Roy to die because he couldn't walk right. He chuckled darkly before making his way to the bag he left the facility with.

He slowly unzipped the bag and felt his way through. The sudden touch of stale fabric signaled to him that Jason hadn't touched the bag yet only because the fabric softener scent Jason used hadn't assailed his nose yet. He always liked the flower ones. 

His fingers reached a faux compartment and he lifted the fabric covering the pocket compartment. He fumbled at the zip before untying the zip tie. His hand plunged in deep and a crinkle sound pricked his ears.

He fished it out and unwrapped the gift box. Taking apart the next few layers, his eyes hungry for the prize.

It was at this moment Jason opened the door, a tray of the food in his hands. His eyes took one look at Roy and the offending item in his hands.

He dropped everything, the soup splashing on the ground and spreading so fast he doesn't know where it ends. Glass fragments lay out on the ground, offending weaponry to the victim. Roy is frozen and his eyes are locked onto Jason's wildly open eyes.

In one swipe, the broader man grabs the prize and throws it so far across the room Roy doesn't know where it is anymore. 

He felt his shirt being pulled and then the familiar feeling of being slammed into the wall. Light headed, his eyes pinched close in pain as he felt the shift in his skull.

Roy doesn't register someone leaning so heavily into him. It suffocated him before he attempted to throw a punch towards the offender.

That punch was quickly blocked and he was maneuvered right into the bed. Roy didn't have time to process anything before he was reaching out for the prize, body almost primal. Jason blocked him-

"Dammit- Stop fighting me."

Jason grits out, wrestling Roy away from where he spotted the prize.  His heart is trembling as he pushes Roy with such force back onto the bed.

"ROY."

Jason yells out, anger flooding his veins with something hot and haunted searing through him.

His eyes threaten to cloud but he forcefully shakes the tears. Roy is spent, panting on the bed as he sweats again. Jason kicks the prize away and rips Roy's bag away from the side table. He slaps him with such ferociousness, Roy is left reeling.

The room is silent. Not even breathing could be heard.

Jason dumps the contents onto the floor. Pens fell out, some artwork he was tasked to do at the facility. A picture of Lian.

Lian.

Jason was livid at the world and it hurts him to the bone as his eyes look at the glossed picture staring back at him from the floor. Her sweet smile formed cracks in his heart as she rode on the rodeo, his leather jacket draping her small figure. Roy's old cowboy hat sat askew on her mop of jet black as she grinned at the camera.

The pain of burying such a smile six feet under sobers him as he watches Roy regain his breath and sit up, a wince gracing his features before he freezes at Lian's picture.

Jason doesn't want to know what kind of scars Roy has sewn shut beneath his clear face. Sometimes Jason thinks he's run out of skin and soul to scar when Roy's at battle. Other days, he couldn't get out of bed and that's where Jason sees Roy for who he is.

A friend.

A friend he cannot afford to lose ever again.

"I miss her."

Roy starts, curling himself in and Jason doesn't look at his expression, all pain and hurting as he closes himself up into a ball, face buried in between as loose strands cross his features. Jason wants to reach out to squeeze a hand on his shoulder but it was still tingling where he slapped Roy. 

Jason thinks about napalm skies and burning cities all crumbling when he presses the stinging palm against his cheek, still radiating residual heat and some of the headache. He merely wondered if this was the price they paid for all those nights.

Nights that don't end. Nights that see them running for their lives. 

Was this what Jason wanted? To be headhunted, to have a bounty on his head so high the numbers keep flowing. To keep repairing himself and sew up like a doll. To never be able to live completely conscience free when he wakes up one cold night and realise another kid had died and he could've prevented it.

With the photo in Roy's hands, he absentmindedly stroked his fingers against Lian's lit face, trying to remember what her skin felt like. Warm and soft on a summer morning and always decked in daisies or sunflowers depending on which fields she ran to. His lap feels so empty but his heart is gone. 

"At one point, I had the power to bring Lian back."

Roy starts, voice rather strained with tears as he rests the photo on the bedside table. Jason's ears prick in confusion as he looks from where he's been brooding. 

"I didn't, even told Cheshire no. I think.."

He bravely draws in a breath to calm the incoming gush of throat-tightened and raw emotions he's not ready for.

"I think I'm doing her a kindness. If I brought her back, it isn't fair for her because she's gonna spend the rest of her life wondering what happened to her and why she doesn't remember. She's always going to be angry at a world that refused to stop when she died. I don't want her to end up like us.

I wanted her happiness because she's my angel. Angels do not deserve pain."

Roy quietly ends it, eyes all darting as he buries himself to cry again. Jason is thumbing his fingers because he hates where he is right now and he doesn't want to go too deep.

He still wants to be able to float.

"I think you did the right thing. You let her be free."

Jason softly says, his own eyes shining with tears as he reaches Roy for a hug. Roy inches in and there's nothing in between them as Jason's slightly larger frame encircled Roy a little, protecting him.

At that moment, nothing could hurt them. Not anymore as they both stayed there till sunset dusted their room in the soft afterglow of yesterday.

"I'm sorry, Jay. Don't cry-"

Jason looks up from where tears have drenched Roy's shirt as he blinks a little. Jason false starts before swallowing back shared glass

"I'm not. You're gonna ruin my bad boy reputation."

Jason jokes lightly as he playfully shoves Roy where a small smile appears on his face. There was still so much to do, so much to see-

"You can't do this alone."

Roy cocks his head, his fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. Every color died outside the window as night came, a sense of serendipity crosses him and he turns back to Jason.

"I know, but you're here."

"Don't do this for me. Do it for yourself, okay? I..I don't want to see you suffer anymore."

No one deserves to suffer alone.

Jason smiles and bites at his reddened lips. Roy's eyes dart over Jason before he turns back to the bed and falls back, a sigh escaping him. He nods to an exhausted looking Jason to lie down beside him too. Instinctively, he reaches for Jason (he was such a big heater) and curls himself against Jason.

"We're gonna be okay."

Jason says, carding Roy's hair to the side who closes his eyes and leans into Jason's gentle touch. When his stressed breathing evened out into calmer ones and later sleep, Jason swore that nothing would ever hurt him again.

He'll make sure of that.

[thetorturerwrites]

Puer Deus: Proof

This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @faestae-writes​. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

***

Captured / Hurricane / Sustenance / Liar / Scars

Summary:  Of Gods and slaves

A/N:  18+ only.  Physical violence; sadism; references to abuse; smut

Word Count: 5.1k

Day Six

It was the sound of his voice that stirred you, nudging into your gray matter and beckoning you back from bleak emptiness.  Your brow creased, and you exhaled, uneven and apprehensive. You flexed aching fingers and toes, forcing the stiff joints to cooperate.

“Find them,” he ordered, his voice strong but low, “I don’t care how. Find them.”

Red-rimmed, puffy eyes broke open, and you squinted, the glare of the light cycle offensive and irritating. You grumbled at the very idea of bright light and struggled to sit up. As your brain kicked into gear, you took stock of your situation.

This was the same torture chamber, that was your blood staining the floor, and it was your filth in the sheets. Licking your chapped lower lip, you worked to put puzzle pieces together.  Your Knight guard had brought you to these chambers yesterday, Ren’s chambers.

You’d slept in Ren’s bed.

Had he? Your breath caught on the idea that he had stayed with you.  If he had stayed, what did it mean that he was still here? If he hadn’t, why had he let you sleep here?

Shaking off the unnecessary, relentless pondering of your brain, you rubbed at your eyes and hunched forward.  Every part of you ached as though you’d been ejected into space, compressed and redistributed in the wrong order.  You grimaced and shifted, slowly dragging your legs off the side of the bed, mentally preparing yourself to bear weight.

Drawing in a rough breath, you shifted your survey from surroundings to immediate.  The state of your body evenly matched the state of this room. You were caked in dried blood, painted with hand prints, droplets, and innumerable streaks and smudges.  Ren had cut open every one of your scars; he’d left nothing unclaimed.

Sometime in the night, though, your wounds had been tended, and you were now decorated in patches of surgical tape.

The memory of his hands, his scalpel, propelled you forward, scooted you to the edge of the bed.  If you kept moving, kept working to survive, maybe you’d be able to outrun the repeated, vibrant images of his relentless torment and your body’s exuberant rejoinder.  You couldn’t escape Ren; but perhaps, you could escape the memory of his effect upon you.

Pushing against the mattress, you bit firmly into your lip, thinking this endeavor was every bit as torturous as Ren’s blade.  Your legs burned and wobbled like it was your first time to stand. The soles of your feet throbbed, but you made little, shuffling steps. Tears tumbled down to wash tracks into the blood staining your cheeks, and you pinched your eyes tight together.

For a long moment, you just stood there, willing your body to be strong, begging your stupid eyes to dry.

The door slid shut, and you could hear him moving back into the room, but you were trying too hard not to fall to give him much attention.  It was taking all of your effort to stand and squeeze your fists together, too far away from the bed to sink back into its support but uncertain that your legs would hold you much longer. The idea of crumpling into a mess on the floor was less than appealing, but it was unavoidable, you decided.

You could feel him behind you, but you couldn’t look.  He was a looming dark planet, the center of your universe now, and you could feel how fast you were hurtling through the Galaxy. Heat danced along your skin, and you shook your head, trying to clear away the flashes of his eyes, twin comets burning a bright swath of destruction in their wake.

You’d been so willing to let him end your life, but he hadn’t, and you weren’t sure how you felt about that.

You'd given him your ultimate prayer, your whole body supplication, and he had decided it wasn't good enough. He hadn't granted you the absolution you'd sought.

Ren didn’t move; and as always, it unnerved you so much that you turned your head to look at him.  The pity you felt for yourself abated instantly. He was also still painted with your offering, ruddy constellations mingling with vast swatches and trails.  His dark tresses were clumped together, matted with congealed blood.  

The sight of it was jarring. 

Why would he spend the night in your blood? Why hadn’t he washed away your filth and gore? Was it a war prize, some malicious badge of honor to mark your breaking? Did that mean the war for your body was over?

You were filled with too many questions and only one answer. Your blood on his body looked magnificent. 

He was wild, feral, a savage, dogged creature they would tell stories about for millennia to come.  The great monster in the dark.

The varying shades of crimson and obsidian framed his face and his body as though he had been carved directly from the middle of a volcano, white hot in the center bleeding outwards to ruddy and then midnight black.

But it was his eyes that captivated you, as always.  His greedy gaze slid over you, roving around bruised curves and raised scratches.  He lingered on the bloody palm print on your breast, and it tightened for him obediently. His eyes raked down to your thighs, and you stopped breathing.

You were trapped by the promise of brutality and lust you saw there.

Ashamed of the way you'd reacted to him, the way you were still reacting to him, you shied away from his stare, dizzy and struggling to stay upright. Your insides were twisted, your equilibrium was thrown off as though you’d been pushed too far out of his gravitational field.  You were tumbling into anxious awareness, your brain firing off question after question.

What could you offer that hunger in return when what you'd already given hadn’t been enough?  What else were you expected to produce when the sum total of everything you were had been rejected, discarded?

Broken and battered, you were nothing short of empt--

"Beautiful," he cut off your thought.

It was soft, nearly under his breath. You snorted louder than you intended and shook your head, completely disbelieving. Beautiful? Riddled with bruises and scars? You looked down at yourself, tracked with dried blood and surgical tape.  Certainly not.

He was on you in a second, covering the distance in two long strides. His demanding hands took hold of your body, turning you and pulling you flush against him. His left hand slid around your throat, tightening and shifting your face to look up at him; his right hand dropped down to cup your backside, rubbing and squeezing the shapely mass.

"My bruises," he murmured, " my scars."

His voice was husky, ravenous, and he dropped his face down to nudge your jaw with his nose.  What could you say in response to that? They were his bruises and scars now. You'd never think of them in any other way.

You swallowed nervously, pressing against his chest where your hands were trapped, fingers splaying.  Your body, injured though it was, flooded with his nearness. Sweat dampened your brow, and a blush crept up your cheeks.  Your thighs quivered, and you pressed them together to staunch the familiar twinge. Wanting pooled low in your belly, and your lips parted on a stuttered breath.

Your clearing eyes focused on the expanse of skin under your fingers, and you realized that this was the first time you’d touched him.  He'd had his hands on you for days, but you’d never been granted the return opportunity. Stunned, you pressed the palms of your hands into his pecs, feeling his heartbeat.  The existence of his pulse awed you.

Your Child God truly was a man, but he was such a man as you had never seen.  He was marble, chiseled by the hand of war and kept sharp by a ceaselessly demanding master. There was no softness here, no gentleness, and there would never be mercy.

You grimaced, huffed out a breath, and let your gaze travel further to take in more of his alabaster skin and alluring, dark beauty marks.  How unnecessary to decorate an already magnificent work of art, you thought, but how utterly perfect they looked upon him.

But something was wrong.

Your eyebrows drew together, worry playing over your face.  Yesterday, he was pure and nearly flawless, his only injury being the wound traversing his face.  Yesterday, he had been wholly transcendent in his perfection.

Today, his body was marred, corrupted by lines and lesions that should not be there.  Beneath the russet stains, he was bearing the wounds of a different sort of battle, an impossible struggle.

Eyes blown wide with the memory of yesterday's accusation, you jerked backwards in his embrace, pushing his arms away so you could examine more of his body.  Your trembling fingers ran over arms, ribs, shoulders, lingering on all of the pink and red scratches that now danced with brown freckles.

No…

You recognized the pattern you saw on his flesh.  You’d been mapping that exact calligraphy for years.  You were too horrified to cry, to be ashamed or apologetic.  You reached up and swept anxious fingers at the hollow of his throat, tracing the too-familiar jagged lines.

And he let you.  Ren held you loosely, one hand splayed across your back while the other continued to stroke your ass and hip. He watched you, dark eyes trained to your face, keeping his silence as you discovered not just his body but the effect he wanted you to believe you'd had upon it.

You...

“No,” he tipped your chin up, “I told you yesterday.  You did this.”

You shook your head, pushed against him, and tried to step back, emphatically disagreeing with his crazy assertion.  Ducking down swiftly, Ren lifted you over his shoulder, affording you the view of his newly scratched-up back, and carted you into the bathroom.

You flinched from the automatic light, instinctively burying your face against his shoulder as the false blue flooded the room to hurt your eyes.  Ren outstretched his hand at the fixture, blew out half of the little halogen bulbs, and cast the bathroom in a less harsh glow. You breathed a heavy sigh of relief and pushed at his back, wiggling in his grip.

Ren set you on still hurting feet and turned you before a large, floor-to-ceiling mirror built against one of the walls.  You tried to step away, not wanting to see the results of his ravaging, but he pushed you back into place, turning your head and forcing you to face your reflection.

As before, you were shocked by the woman you saw there.  She was as feral as Ren, savage and shameless. There were dark circles under her eyes from overuse, and she was painted an astonishing array of colors that amplified every curve, accentuated every muscle.

That woman, you thought, was not surviving.  She was thriving.

You still didn’t know what it meant that she was you, and you were too exhausted for much more.

When Ren stepped behind you, you choked and gaped at him in the mirror.  He’d shucked his pants and pressed into your backside, wrapping a long arm around your middle, his forearm nestled beneath your breasts. He tipped your head to one side and cleared away your hair so that he could drop his face into that crook. 

Your brow knit at the familiarity of it, recalling the way he’d positioned you exactly like this in the shower. He’d tucked the length of his erection at the crest of your ass, and he’d kept you flush against the long column of his body.  Being fully inside his orbit produced an immediate, visceral reaction, and you shook inside his embrace.

You stared at the picture in the mirror.  His wide shoulders and strong arms caged you, hulking in the background. His dark halo was dipped down, his face buried into your neck.  The devil wrapped around you, come to claim his prize.

He drew in a deep, satisfied breath, and you couldn’t help but think you smelled like a barn.  Hardly a fit sacrifice for such a demanding, devoted demon. He smirked against your skin, and your eyes widened impossibly further. You were so wrapped up in concern, you hadn't noticed.

He’d done it.  He’d broken into the stronghold, and he could hear you.

Ignoring your shock, Ren stroked your stomach gently, slowly. His middle finger rubbed over your belly button, and it felt so incredibly good that you visibly shuddered. When he started speaking, you felt the vibration of it at your throat, understanding why he liked it so much. It was a subtle gesture, but it was powerfully seductive.

“There are as many ways to use the Force,” he said, “as there are species in the Galaxy.”

He raked thick fingers down your arm and encircled your wrist.  Turning the inside of your arm upwards, he tracked the bruise he’d left there with his thumb before turning his arm up to show you his matching bruise in the same spot, and you stopped breathing.

“It is everywhere” he continued, “even when you don’t know it.”

He curled your arm up against your chest, and you took the opportunity to hug yourself, eyes watering as he kept on.   Nuzzling into your hair, he pressed his lips at the very back of your neck while nimble fingers danced down the lengthy scar at your thigh, pinching at the surgical tape.

"And it is accessible to everyone, anyone if they can feel it." 

Pulling you closer by one large hand at your hip, he snuggled his growing erection between your buttocks on a satisfied hum.  His arm slithered up your torso, sliding against your sternum and between your breasts until long fingers wrapped around your neck to squeeze.  You couldn’t look away as he shifted so that his leg slid against yours, the discordant but matching line peeking through his dark leg hair.

"Like you." 

You were stunned into utter stillness; you couldn’t even breathe.  The things he was saying couldn’t possibly be true. You were nobody from nowhere. You’d been sold into slavery as a child, and you’d spent your life just trying to survive.  There was no Force sensitivity here.

“My grandfather was a slave,” he murmured against your temple, “and he was the most powerful Force-user in the Galaxy.”

I’m not your grandfather…

“Do you need more proof, puppet? There's plenty."

His hand dropped to palm at the tape stretching across your abdomen, squeezing the swell of your belly in his broad hand. He was goading you into turning around to see if he had a matching one, but you knew he did.  

Ren hadn’t ever lied.  If he said that you did this, you were going to have to believe that you did.  Unlike the day before, he’d been with you in this room the entire time, and you’d woken to a flushing lattice covering his body.

You shook your head to his question, hoping instead he would explain how you’d been able to accomplish this miraculous feat when you were just a weaponer from the desert.

How...

“You used to scream into the desert,” he offered, settling his chin on top of your head and talking to you in the mirror.

“The only time you would let your guard down was then, and you would unleash all of your rage, your pain.  You taught yourself to unburden all of that anger and hurt by pushing it out into the stars.”

You closed your eyes, focusing on the sound of his voice rather than his words because they were nauseating; this could not be real.  Everything he said was true, though; and worse, him knowing those things meant that he’d truly been in your head, diving into your thoughts, memories, history.  

"When that wall comes down," he murmured, fingers stroking the supple side of your breast, "you communicate the only way you can. They took your voice, but your body found a way. You found a way."

At some point during his instruction, you'd latched your fingers onto his thick arm and were holding it as though he would save you from this. The tears he had been building spilled over, clamoring down your trembling chin.

"You can make whomever might be around you feel what you're feeling."

The weight of what he was telling you settled; his words rang in your ears.  You thought about the last two days and how your wall had been fractured on the first day, resulting in the bruises on his arms.  And then, you replayed yesterday when it was all but obliterated and you had pushed out all of your outrage and suffering as you readied yourself to die.

Ren was telling you that you were Force-sensitive, and he was offering his body as proof to that fact. 

For a second, you wondered why he was telling you this, why he was being nice.  Wouldn’t it be better to keep someone who could literally wound you with their feelings in the dark about something like this? Ignorance made for better prisoners, you knew that for a fact.

Opening your eyes, you met his stare in the mirror. It surprised you that he was being so open, and you had so many questions.

Ren...

“Kylo,” he said simply, and you blinked, bewildered.

“My name is Kylo.  Ren was…,” he paused, seeming to search for a proper description, “...a different man.”

Curiosity having been forgotten with this kernel of information, you let your gaze wander your reflection. You studied each line of black tape, each scratch you assumed was closed with a cautery pen. You lingered over bloody fingerprints, long tracks running down your legs, the pool of crimson at the juncture of your thighs.

He held you like that for a long time, quiet and still, fingers barely grazing different bits of your skin, giving you time to assimilate the information. Often, your eyes would stray to him, this package of tightrope composure and bombast.

This man was a monster.  He delighted in torturing you, making you suffer and cry. You’d never seen a person so fully alive as he was covered in your blood and carving up your flesh. He lived up to every inch of his reputation.

And you had survived his wrath, the explosion of his violence.

Twice.

An appreciative hum vibrated against your back, and his face dipped down against your ear.  He stroked the soft skin where thigh met groin, keeping you tucked against him with an arm around your stomach. He rocked his hips into you, pushing his swollen dick between your buttocks. Your lips parted on an eager gasp, and you couldn’t help yourself from leaning your head back against him, pressing your ass into his thrusts.

“You did,” his tone was low, “And you will.”

The absolute certainty in his voice chilled you, and nervousness trickled in.  He still meant to keep you, the war for your body was not over, and this was not a tender moment.  

You thought back to the floor he’d pinned you to when he learned you’d stopped eating.  This reprieve, this cease-fire of suffering, was not a result of kindness. He was simply ensuring you wouldn’t be broken beyond repair so that the misery could continue tomorrow.

“Smart girl,” he whispered in your ear before standing upright and unwinding from around you.

A frown flitted across your face because him being able to hear your thoughts was disabling, intimidating, but you swallowed it down because you were simply too flabbergasted, too weak, and too starved to fortify yourself against it. Maybe you’d be able to work on it tomorrow; but tonight, you just needed to recover.

Ren ushered you through a hot shower, washing away the remnants of last night’s bloody agony.  The hot water and steam lulled you into a spacey relaxation, and you put up absolutely no resistance when his fingers stopped washing and began to play your body like an instrument. You told yourself it certainly wasn't because you craved his touch.

He let the lie slide.

He plucked and tugged at your nipples until they throbbed to attention. He dipped his fingers between your ass cheeks and rubbed at the tender opening until you arched and gasped, breathless.  He slid his fingers between your labia and rubbed soapy circles into your clit until you danced up onto your toes, and he pumped two deft fingers into your cunt just long enough to have you shuddering before lifting his hand to the water, washing away the bits of blood he’d fucked up into you yesterday.

And then he sat you on the shower floor, dissatisfied and scooted out of the way like furniture, while he bathed himself. You bristled for a moment, but it dissolved as you watched. You marveled at him, watching his impressive hands move quickly over thick arms and legs, coloring the water pink with every pass.

Ren towered over you, and he was nothing short of spectacular. Every inch of him was immense, battle-forged, and the scars that now decorated his body, your scars, only amplified the cords of muscle working beneath the skin. You found yourself wondering if he trained for all of those muscles or if he’d just killed enough people that they were natural now.

He tipped his head back into the water, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob.  You let your gaze travel over him without reservation, and you followed each of his ribs and the dark line of fuzz that led down from his belly button to the thick patch at his pelvis. You were watching the way his cock was lengthening when you caught yourself, flushed at what you’d been doing, and looked away.

Your eyes caught on his thigh, though, and you blinked.  He’d gone to great lengths to prove to you that he was wearing all of your bruises, but the memory of those at your thighs had escaped you entirely.  Recalling the way his mouth had claimed your skin, you grazed at your thigh, poking your fingernail into the flourishing purple.

Before you could stop yourself, you reached out and brushed your fingertips against the discoloration on his skin, thinking it was so out of place.

Ren had stopped washing, hands folded behind his neck, and was staring down at you. His abdomen was clenched tight, his skin was flushing a lovely shade of pink, and his nose was red from the hot water. Something you couldn’t name punched up through your lungs leaving you breathless.  

You weren’t sorry. How could you be sorry when you hadn’t known it was you?

But seeing something of you, this intimate mark of yours, on this man’s body stirred something primal and moved you to act. The rational part of you screamed that you should stop, but the part of you hungering for this beast propelled you onto your knees before him, wanting some part of the bruise to actually be yours.

Your eyes weren’t drawn to his cock, swollen with arousal and standing proud inches from your face. Instead, your stare fixed upon his thigh, fingers tracing it again lightly.

You looked up at him, the question unnecessary because he certainly already knew what was in your mind.  He nodded once, barely perceptible, giving you the permission you sought. Licking your lips, you readied and focused upon your target.

He hissed when your quivering lips connected with his leg, your nose rubbing into the softer, upper thigh hair. You trembled, thinking surely you had gone insane, but you licked at the soapy skin anyways, roaming the circumference of his bite mark with your tongue tip. You glanced up at him to find him watching you intently, his stare delicious and wanting.

Ren nudged your knees apart with his foot, spreading your thighs further so he could look down at the bites he’d left you with, evidence of his viciousness.  He was pleased with himself, with his handiwork, and it rumbled up through his chest.

When you followed his eyes, faltering in your task, he wrapped his fingers around the back of your neck and pulled your mouth back to his thigh. In your periphery, you could see him wrap his big hand around his fat, neglected cock and stroke slowly. You burned at the idea that he was fucking himself millimetres away from your hot mouth and sucked at his bruise.

He hummed when your teeth nipped at the skin, and you reveled in the sound. It amazed you that you could make that happen.

With a lusty growl, his pace picked up, and you could hear his fist insistently working his cock, the slaps echoing off the tile. He anchored you to his thigh, fingers tight at your neck, and you purred against the skin. His breath was coming shorter now, and you lifted your eyes up to look at his face, salivating at the sight.

He was breathtaking, flushed with desire, dark hair shining onyx from the water, eyes heavy-lidded as he pleasured himself.  

Emboldened, you inched nearer, slid your arm beneath his leg, and lifted him onto your shoulder, mirroring the very way he’d held you the night before.  The same heat that flooded you beneath his lightsaber returned, and you wrapped your suddenly brave hands around his hips, tilting them towards your mouth.

Opening wide, you sunk your teeth into the meat of his thigh, drawing the falsely-bruised skin deep into your mouth.

“Fuck!”

He barked it out and tangled fingers in your hair, holding you exactly there while you sucked and bathed his skin with your tongue.  His tempo was hurried now, skipping, and you growled against him, knowing he liked to feel your chest, your mouth vibrate. 

Remembering all of the ways he’d tormented you, you opened your jaw wider to draw more of him in, bit down again, and turned your head from side to side, yanking and tearing at the, now appropriately, discolored flesh.

On a snarl, he yanked your head back from his thigh and slid his leg from your shoulder. You licked your puffy lips but didn’t dare look at him fisting his cock; you couldn't be certain you wouldn't beg for it. Rather you looked up at his face the way he’d forced you to look up at him that first day, suppliant and worshipful.

You were the hungry beast now, eyes wild and wanting, skin flushed and tight. He affected you in ways no person ever had, but he couldn't pretend you didn't affect him, too. It was a heady, heady thing.

“Open.”

His harsh grip tipped your head back, and you sunk your weight into your knees. You knew it was an inviting picture, your thighs spread wide, breasts pushed together between your arms, swollen lips parted and ready. You knew he loved seeing himself all over your body, and you wallowed in it, groveling for the way he looked at you.

Like property.

But you knew you were unlike any he'd had before or would in the future.

The sounds he made were sinful, incredible, and you yearned for them, desire dribbling hot onto the tiles beneath your cunt. His breath was choppy, and he was staring down at you so fiercely you thought you might burst into flames. 

Ren’s hulking shoulders hunched forward, his torso curving in as he neared orgasm, and you moaned at the sight, the raspy sound swallowed by the rush of the shower and the pained groans spilling from above. Lost to the carnality, you reached out to wrap your hand around his calf, needing the contact.

That was all it took, the last bit of what he needed.

You saw the moment his body loosened, the flash of it across his face, and his shoulders eased back, hips pushing forward.  For a second, he was trapped between anxious build-up and explosive relief, and he held his breath. His grip on his cock tightened, his strokes changing from fast and loose to slow and tight.

He erupted into a breathy groan as the first salty drops hit your tongue, and you squirmed on an impatient whimper, the taste of him overpowering your senses. He was salty, spicy, tart, and it flooded your tongue, sliding down into your throat.

Ren held his cock right above your face as he came, the inflamed, red-purple head barely resting on your lower lip. He squeezed and milked all of his release into your waiting mouth, chasing the last bits of release with low, gravelly moans.  

When he finally released his grip on his dick, readying to pull away, your pearly tongue shot up to curl against the very end, lips closing around the sensitive tip and kissing away that last drop before swallowing down his taste.

It was bold, stupid, reckless, and so fucking worth it.

His eyes darkened impossibly further, and he snatched your face between harsh fingers, bent forward, and kissed you before you could clear his cum fully away. His tongue pushed past your teeth and invaded the cavern of your mouth, sliding through the salty mix on a satisfied sigh.

You'd tasted him twice in as many minutes, and you were sure you'd never be the same. It was magnetic, delirious, obscene, and you were scorched in the wake of it.

Gathering you into his arms, Ren reached back to turn off the shower and herded you back into the bathroom proper.  In minutes, he had you dried and back in the bed, a tray of food at your side. You watched him pull on clothes, uncertain of why you felt the way you did, empty and confused, satisfied and pleased, defeated and victorious.

When he was fully dressed, he stepped back around to the side of the bed, wrapped his fingers around your throat, and squeezed until you looked up at him, as though you could look anywhere else when he was so near.

The gesture felt almost intimate now, his way of centering you always back to him. 

“Eat. Sleep. There’s a guard outside.  I trust you understand the consequences if you try to escape again."

You’re going to beat me no matter what; so, does it matter? 

Your eyebrow perched up high, daring him to argue or prove you wrong.  

Ren's luscious lips turned up at the corners, his amusement obvious, and he slid his indecently-long index finger into your mouth.  Pushing past your hard palette, he hooked that finger and caught the ridge separating the roof of your mouth from the soft of your throat, sending you into a sputter. He pulled you closer by this crude latch and looked into your watering eyes.

“Indeed, I am.”

[mallorytaylorblog]

My journey to self acceptance starts now. Officially.

17th February, 2021.

I’m realising now, more and more as I get older, the only thing holding me back from anything in my life is my ability to accept myself. I understand the concept of self acceptance but putting it into practice is another thing. And that’s exactly what it is - a practice. It’s the small daily habits, positive self talk, emotional vulnerability and communication... Things I am still working on. Not to mention the conditioning I have that tells me to put others feelings and comfort above my own. I have spent years sheltering others from my “burdensome” emotions that acceptance of them as anything other than “wrong” is a hurdle I’m still trying to jump.

I feel so much expectation. From myself, from society, from my conditioning. I am only useful, wanted, needed if I am productive and achieving something. This idea that my worth is predicated by my output and my ability to remain calm and partial cripples my self-esteem - who am I if I’m not doing, being, achieving? Who am I if I’m not able to do things with a logical, rational, calm head screwed onto my shoulders? My ability to accept myself, good and bad, high and low, exactly as I am, determines how successful I am - regardless of what success looks and feels like to others.

I must lean in to self acceptance. Like, lean in so far I may as well be lying down.

The reason being is that I’m 31 years old, and today I spent the day watching Netflix, playing video games, and crying on the couch about the choices I’ve made that have landed me here. A loser, a victim of her life and circumstance, paralysed by fear. I mean, that’s a bit dramatic but that’s where my thoughts go sometimes. Today I just struggled to envision my future because I’m lacking clarity on the direction of my life. I don’t know where my sense of purpose comes from without working a full time job; without having a socially acceptable identity to cling to, a label for people to tell me how much they should respect me. For that, I point to my workaholic father and the capitalism we are subjected to.

And all my low moments - that is, all the moments where I’m not calm and happy - are the times I feel most vulnerable. I’ve never been shy about sharing my perspective on the childhood events and happenings that shaped me, and it’s no secret that emotional expression didn’t feel safe for me. I learned very early on that others needs were more important than my own. Anger especially is an emotion I’m focused on regulating right now, so that’s a huge one. I’m learning how to express myself concisely and authentically, a dance I’m still kind of fumbling over. For that, I point to my mother for not being more emotionally literate herself (although I cannot blame her, she didn’t choose her childhood).

With that being said, it’s my responsibility to get myself out of this state. This privileged, hardly surviving but not really thriving, state. And therein lies the expectation that weighs on me. Conditioning aside most of this is my own doing. I have to take responsibility for the choices I’ve made, regardless of how my experiences were framed. However I can’t shake this feeling that by now I should have achieved something. It’s not marriage or a relationship, because I’m happily in relationship with my best friend and marriage isn’t something that interests me. But my purpose, my work... what does that look like for me? What do I want? Why can’t I figure it out?

At the core of it I know self acceptance is the fuel that will get this engine running. To be able to accept myself and know that I am worthy of happiness, love, respect and success, even during my most emotional moments, will change the game. I’ve noticed when I’m feeling depressy and need that extra bit of connection I push others away. I prioritise their comfort over my own. I do anything and everything I can to pre-empt my being a burden to them with my feelings and tell them to go back to whatever they were doing, or I minimise my upset. What a pattern to get into - imagine asking for help then doing everything you can to prevent yourself from receiving it.

The irony with self acceptance is that it must comes from the self. Everyone knows self esteem doesn’t increase via input from outside sources. Recently I’ve become painfully aware of my desire for acceptance from someone who doesn’t even like me. The fear of rejection has kept me in the same small spot for years and it’s honestly exhausting. I’ve truly had enough. Letting go of this relationship is the precursor to more self acceptance for me, so this is the current challenge. I’ve had enough of talking about it, of feeling about it. Whatever I’ve made this relationship mean needs an overhaul, because it’s clearly not serving me and it keeps me stuck in a childlike emotional state. That’s what conditioning does, it’s keeps you stuck. Well, time to move on. I’m not a tree, I’m not stuck.

I don’t know how to reach this place of self acceptance but I know I’ll get there slowly. My emotions don’t make me burdensome, they enrich my experience of life. It’s up to me to choose to see it that way.

[ohtheseboysilove]

The sunflower always finds its sunlight VII [Roger Taylor x F!Reader]

Words : 4, 100 K +

Warnings : language, mention of deppression, angst, eating disorders, 

Summary :  Roger likes Reader since forever but the timing seems to just never be right for them. Reader is still haunted by her past relationship and kept rejecting Roger who know nothing about the abuses she had been victim of. After being rejected for the sixth time,  Roger thinks it’s time for him to move on…

Note : sorry it took me forever to post this chapter, this one is pretty hard but it’s important, hope you like it anyway my love !

☀ Masterlist ☀

You fell on your knees as soon as you passed the door of your bathroom, emptying the inside of your stomach, your cheeks soaking wet and your throat burning.

Donovan. You couldn’t forget the last time you saw him before he leaves for America, how mad he was when you refused to follow him. You could still feel the throbbing pain in your wrist when he twisted violently, trying to make you cave and come with him. The way he knocked out the air from your lungs when he threw you on the ground and kicked you in the ribs, shouting how much a pathetic person you were. Every of this touches, his punches, his slaps, his words which hurt as hard as he could hit...everything. Seeing him tonight just brought you six years in the past when things went down with Donovan, when you were feeling awful and vulnerable, completely lost and hopeless to get away from him.

All these efforts, sleepless nights, trying to get over him and these traumatises, everything to be swiped away in a glance in his direction. You hated the hold he still had on you.

**

It had been two months and half, seventy-five awful days of basically hiding. You were avoiding everyone, again. This was your very mature plan until Donovan go back to New York. He was here for a little over three month for meetings and stuffs for work, well that was Freddie told you over the phone. Roger called too, several times. You answered two times, telling him you were okay but needed some time alone, he was hurt, of course he was, but he didn’t push you, just accepting the fact that you and him would probably never end together. Everything in the universe was against your couple apparently.

You had spend most of your days in bed, alternating between crying and staring at the celling. Your psychologist gave you multiple sick leaves for depression. You were supposed to take medication to help you and you did it. But every time you ate something, you would go to the toilet to vomit in the same half and hour, forcing yourself to empting your stomach and all the calories your just put in you. Including these pills too. It was a vicious circle, you were feeling horrible after eating, fat and awful so you go in the toilet then regretted it deeply, knowing how bad it was for yourself and how Roger, Fred and Mary would be disappointing to see you doing that. You were suppose to be stronger than that but the presence of Donovan was making nothing but weak. The other day, you had to go to do some groceries shopping and you saw him, walking out of his hotel, just few blocks away from your place. He saw you too and smirked at you, making his way too you but you jumped in the first bus you saw, completely paranoiac about him following you to your flat. After that you didn’t put a foot out. His sick smile haunting your thoughts.

“(Y/N)!” You jumped at the sound of a yelling. You dragged yourself in the living-room, blanket around your body, even if it was the middle of summer. The noise of ferocious knocks on your front door made you shivered. Did Donovan found your place ? Was he here to pass his nerves on you like he had the habit to do before? “Please, love, open the door !”

Roger. It was just Roger. But Roger couldn’t see you right now, not in your state. You were so thin it was pretty terrifying. You looked so pale and sick, he would know right away what was going on. You had avoid him as he went in tour with the boys for two months and literally came back the week before but you always had find an excuse for not seeing him.

“Rog, I...I’m not feeling great today” You replied weakly, standing in front the door, hearing him sighing impatiently.

“The girls told me they didn’t see you for weeks, please open the door. I’m worried about you. I don’t care if you still in love with Donovan, okay ? I just want to make sure my best friend is okay” Tears gathered in your eyes at his words and you truly didn’t know what you did to deserved this man in your life.

“Please, just go” You couldn’t stand the thought of Roger seeing you so...weak. That wasn’t the person he had fallen in love with. It wasn’t you anymore.

“I’m not leaving without seeing you, (Y/N)” You stayed silent and he sighed again. “Well, you don’t leave me any choice, move away from the door” He instructed you and you furrowed your brows, lost.

“What are you going to do ?” You heard him walked away. “Rog ?”

Then suddenly a loud collision echoed across the hall of your building, making your door shake. Then followed by a yelp of pain and a stream of cursing.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! This shit hurt!” You didn’t think twice and opened the door, finding Rog with a grimace, a hand resting on his shoulder.

“Did you just try to break the door ?” You asked incredulously. “Are you okay ?”

“I’m fine” He grunted and immediately made his way inside your flat, making you swear loudly. “It always work in the movies” The drummer complained as he looked as his shoulder which was red and a bit swollen. “Idiot”

You picked up ice in the freezer and wrapped it in a dish towel before pressing it to Roger’s arm.

“It should be okay, Rocky Balboa” You teased with a soft smile, forgetting for a second your messy life. Roger tended to have this effect on you, making you forget your problems with his silliness and endless happiness, totally contagious.

The drummer chuckled slightly at your terrible joke and glanced at you, his eyes detailing every inch of your face and appearance. His smile fell at the sight of your hollow cheeks, the way your collarbones was popping out from your thin frame. You gaze fell on the floor. Weak. You felt so weak. Once again you caved to your demons, after promising your friends and yourself you wouldn’t do it again. Roger’s hands slowly pushed the blanket from your shoulders to the ground, you didn’t move in protest, letting him discover your fragile frame. You were wearing a top and a short, an old pyjama, and you felt so exposed at this moment. The blond’s gaze wasn’t invading, neither was disgusted by what he saw. It was Roger, after all, he wouldn’t make you feel like this. His large palm grabbed one of your hand, his fingers caressing your wrist, thin and looking ridiculously small in his grip. The bracelet you had on since you were a teenager was hanging too loosely on your wrist, falling until the middle of your hand. The drummer saw you in these short a good thousand of time, they would normally hugged your thighs but right now you were floating in them, they were falling on your waist and you were pulling them up in absent-mindedly gesture. They looked like they were two size bigger than what you usually wear. It broke Roger’s heart to see you like this. Again. You looked back at him, shame and guilt shinning in your eyes and Roger’s heart squeezed at your distress gaze. Like you were almost afraid of his reaction.

“Oh love...” He breathed out before wrapping you in a careful but loving embrace as you melted against him, finding yourself incredibly relieved by his reaction. You couldn’t bare any more negative emotion in your life.

“Don’t be mad, please” You whispered against his shoulder, feeling even smaller between his arms. “I know I promised you it wouldn’t happen again but I don’t know, I’m just feeling so bad these past weeks, I don’t know what is wrong with me–“

“Hey, hey, look at me” His digits gently cupped your chin, your gaze falling in his as he softly shook his head. “I’m not mad at you, never. And nothing is wrong with you. I know it’s not your fault, love but you need help, okay ? I won’t stay there and look at you destroying yourself like the other time. I never want to see you in a hospital bed again, it killed me” His voice was firm but still sweet. “Never again, (Y/N)”

“I’m so sorry” You sobbed, guilt eating you alive. You felt like you betrayed Roger, you were making him sad and worry about you again. And you were selfishly relieved to have him with you, years after years, still by your side. “I’m gonna do better, I swear”

The drummer gently walked you to the sofa, immediately pushing you back in arms when you both sat.

“I care so much about you my love, so much. I just want to be healthy and happy, that all I always wanted for you” He murmured against your head, arms wrapped back around you and you never felt so intimate with Roger than right now.

He had and could see everything in you. Every little flaws. He saw you at your best and worst like no one ever did. He was the closest person to you. Ever. He knew everything thing about you. Stupid thing like your menu at McDonald. The way you took your tea, never without honey and a drop of milk. Other stuffs only people very close to you knew. How hard the divorce of your parents affected you. How heartbroken you had been when you lost your cat after more than a decade of love. He saw you in every drunk state possible and shared most of the moment when it had happened. He held your hairs when you puked. More time than the other way. You were always the first to hear about new rhythm or songs for album. Or you had been for a while. Roger was the person who knew you the best. Except the darkest and most traumatic part of your life. He would go crazy if he knew what you hid from him for years. You felt guilty to keep that for you when you knew he practically told you everything about himself.

Roger held you for what it felt like hours. You were hanged on him like a koala to a tree, he was your safe place. His lips softly pressed a kiss on the top of your hairs, his fingers absent-mindedly brushing your upper arm. You couldn’t stop yourself to think about how everything could have been different if you would have go out with Roger rather Donovan. You wouldn’t have been so destroyed but Roger would have probably broke your heart and he would be out of your life for sure. It wouldn’t have been a good idea. The thing you regretted instead was to had run away during your and Roger’s first date. Almost three months ago. And Roger still thought you were in love with Donovan. And even with that, he was here with you, caring about you. Sometime you really hated yourself for the way you treated him.

“About last time Rog, when we saw hum Donovan, I’m sorry I ran away, I’m a horrible person–“

“No love, don’t apologise okay ? You can’t control feelings” He gave you a little smile. Sad but not bitter. He made peace with himself about your feelings. He loved you. You loved Donovan. That wasn’t the ideal for him, at all, but the only thing that matter right now for him was for you to be in his life. Even if it was just as a friend. He loved you too much to lost you over stupid feelings. And seeing you in this distress state today, it only motivated him more. You needed a supportive friend, someone to help you go through, you didn’t need drama or distraction. You needed to focus on yourself.

“Of course I need to apologise Roger, I keep breaking your heart again and again and I hate myself for that–“

“Don’t say things like that. You’re the most wonderful person I ever met, you just make mistake like everyone but please, don’t hate yourself. Not because of me or nothing else” You opened your mouth to replied but Roger gently shushed you. “I love you, more than everything. You’re my whole world and even if you don’t love me back, not like I want too, our friendship is enough to me. Whatever you give me, I’m taking it” A large lump was obstructing your throat as emotions were overwhelming you, his eyes were screaming all the love he had for you, it was almost too much. Why you ? He could do so much better. “Please, don’t cry” He joked when your eyes became teary. “No need to okay ? I don’t care if you still love Donovan, I’m still gonna be around for you, as long as you want me too. The most important thing now it your health, don’t torture yourself about feelings. Just think about you, for once”

You nodded, knowing he was true.

“Roger, I just need you to know that I don’t have any more feelings for Donovan” You weakly replied. You needed to tell him at least that. “But I really have feelings for you, I’m still confused about them...but, Donovan and I, it’s over. For good” You added with a shaky breath, curling your fingers around Roger’s. A huge weight left your shoulders after your confession. It was probably the best you could do for now.

The drummer scratched his chin, keeping a straight face. He shifted a bit in his seat but his fingers pressed back your hand. A light squeeze, meaning I understand.

“Remember what I just say ?” He chuckled. “The next months will going to be only about you and your health, nothing else. I’m not doing this because I except something from you in return, I just want you to be better. We could...talk about whatever this is between us later, okay ? Not now. Not in your state” His lips curled into a light smile, matching yours. “I just need you to get better”

“I can do that” You answered with relief. “I will get better”

“And I will help you”

**

Two months later,

Roger closed his eyes, the sound coming from the bathroom making him winced. You did it again. For the third time in two weeks he walked in your flat, finding you make yourself puke in the toilet. He tried his best to help you during the past two months but it was harder than he thought. He wasn’t qualified to help you. He couldn’t have an eye on you at every minute of every day. You weren’t doing better. In fact you were doing worse. The guilt of betraying Roger every time you caved making the whole process harder than anything else. You felt pressured to do better. And you weren’t good at it.

The blond sighed, a strong feeling of desperation drowning him. What could he do to help ? You were seeing your psychologist more than usual and you said it was really helping but it wasn’t enough. Roger told Freddie about the situation and convinced all of your and Roger’s friends to pretend everything was okay, the last thing you needed was judgmental glances. You weren’t going out a lot anyway. Barely leaving your house and never without Roger either. Freddie was furious. He wanted to help you but the drummer was afraid it would make the situation even worse, more people to please would only scare you off.

But Roger could see the situation slipping from between his fingers. You frame seemed to be thinner every time he saw you. He felt helpless. Maybe because of his feelings he was too tender with you. Maybe it could be even worse. But he tried so hard to be comprehensive, reassuring you every time you weren’t doing good. You needed support but he was perhaps not firm enough. The situation was becoming threatening for your own safety. The sound of the flush made him raise his head to see you walked out, your hands stabilising yourself on the wall because of weak was your body. Head spinning all the time. Dizziness when you stood up. You were so drained of your energy, looking less alive every day. You had troubles to sleep but your pills for the depression was making you sleepy most of the time. The exhaustion was killing you.

“We need to talk” Your heart jumped at the sudden voice breaking the quietness of your flat. Your stomach churning at the sight of Roger, shoulders down and features covered in worries. “Come here” He helped you sat on the sofa, your body shaking a bit.

“I’m sorry” You murmured. “I did it again, I’m so sorry”

“I know you are, love” Roger took a deep breath. “But we can’t continue like that. It’s not working. You’re digging your own grave and I’m fucking useless” You shook your head, refusing to accept the truth.

“I’m going to do better, I promise Roger. I just need more time” You sniffled, hating to make him feel not helpful. It wasn’t true.

“You need help. Real help my love.” The drummer murmured softly, he sounded sorry and it scared you. “I did some research and I found some places where they helped people who have trouble like yours” The blond avoided your gaze and the fear in it as you processed his words. He took off from his jacket’s pocket three different flyers and put them on the coffee table. “All of these establishment have available rooms, individual one if you don’t want to share it with someone. They’re all in London, I could come seeing you every day, they have gardens and the third one have even medical dogs ! They’re here to help you feeling better and I know you love–“

“No, I don’t want to go Roger, please don’t make me” You breathed loudly. “I’m not sick, I don’t need to go there, I want to stay at my home” You pushed away Roger’s hand when he tried to put it on your forearm, this wasn’t an option.

“I can’t force you to go there (Y/N) but I really think you should. Freddie agree with me” He pinched his lips and forced himself to stay unaffected by your teary eyes, knowing it was the last solution for you.

“No” You shook your head. “I won’t go there or any of these places, never” Roger’s answer didn’t reach your ears, you were completely ignoring him, anxiety raising thought your chest at the thought of being placed in one of these health center with strangers. “I’m fine, I’m going to do better, I know I will”

“But you’re not (Y/N) ! You’re killing yourself ! Slowly but you’re fucking are ! You’re not doing better, you need help ! ” You blinked a bit at Roger’ sudden outburst. His jaw clenching hard, he was nervous and worried for you, thinking about it every second of each day and it was affecting his sleeping schedule. He couldn’t focus on the new album because you’re the only thing in his mind. Doing his best to find a way to help you. And that was his last shot. Well, almost. But he was certain that was the best option. “Please, (Y/N), do it for me. I can’t see the woman I love starving herself to death, don’t ask me to do that” His tone was soft again, his hands wrapping yours, eyes begging you.

Your bottom lip was quivering, tears threatening to spill from your eyes and Roger felt his determination weakening, he hated when you cried. Especially when he was the one to make you cry.

“Roger, please no. Let me another chance, I’m gonna stop, I will do whatever you want but please don’t send me in one of these place, please !” Panic was flowing through your veins, if Roger gave up on you, how could you believe in yourself to heal ? This wasn’t a good solution for it. “I can’t go there, please don’t make me ! Please Roger !”

You begged and cried and pleaded your cause for a solid five minutes before the drummer caved in. You were going hysterical, completely panicked about Roger forcing you to go. He couldn’t witness you torturing yourself about it. This was suppose to be your decision in the end.

“Shush, love, that’s alright. If you don’t want to go, you won’t. I would never force you into anything you don’t want” You breathed a little better when he said that. He made you put his head on his lap, fingers brushing gently your hairs. He hummed softly, waiting patiently for you to calm down. “You’re feeling better ?”

“I’m okay” You replied, your cheeks soaked with salty tears but your breathed was slower.

“Listen, love...I was serious when I say we need to do something about your health” You sat up next him, nodding in agreement. “I thought about something...if you don’t want to go in one of these health center then I want you to come and live with me” Your eyes went round like Roger expected. “I need to have an eye on you most of the time, love, that the only way for now. I can’t trust yourself all alone, I know you understand it”

“I know” It was true, you dove right back every time Roger left you all by yourself, didn’t matter how hard you tried. You were weak and needed a constant support. “But Roger...living at your place, it’s a lot. I don’t want to invade your space, I’m going to be a burden all the time” You explained, the idea was good but what if he get bored of you ? Having you all the time around was going to annoying him.

“Jesus (Y/N), I want you to invade my space ! I fucking love you !” He closed his eyes for a second, cursing under his breath. He promised himself to stop talking his feelings for you, that wasn’t important at the moment. “It’s not negotiable (Y/N)” He added, brushing away his past words. “You move in with me and I’m gonna take care of you, at my conditions” You could read on his face how bloody serious he was. “Your way didn’t work so now, we’re gonna try under my conditions. I’m gonna make sure you’re eat, take your pills and sleep properly. You’re gonna hate me at the end but if it the price for you to go better, I’m okay with it. What about you ?”

You observed him for a minute. Dark rings under his eyes, paler skin than usual, nails bitten until blood. You knew he was worrying too much about you and it was affecting his own health. As well as his personal and professional life. You owned him a lot and if he wanted to watch you twenty-four hours, you would let him.

“I...I can do that. If you’re sure, I will move in with you and do whatever you think could help me” The blond relaxed a bit at yours words.

“Good. One more thing (Y/N)” He swallowed as you looked at him, encouraging him to continue. “If my way not work, if in few weeks nothing changed...you need to promise me you will go in one of these health center. If I can’t help you more, you need to let professional help you” He added in breath, his baby blue eyes looking firmly at you.

You chewed your lips nervously. Your fingers rubbing slowly your shoulders, thinking about every reasonable answer to this. The shape of your collarbone was too prominent under your shaky fingers, you hated it. You didn’t like either the little black dot which was dancing in your vision most of the day. Or how every movements required much more energy you had. You wanted to go better, you needed to.

“If I’m not doing better at your place...I will go to the health center with the dogs” Roger smiled softly at your involuntary grin at the word dogs.

“Pinky promise ?” The drummer hanged his smaller finger in the air, wiggling it in front of your gaze.

You giggled quietly at the childish gesture.

“Pinky promise” You repeated, your own little pinky wrapping around Roger’s, sealing the promise.

**

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[markwhitwellheartofyoga]

Is Yoga a Hoax?

Something’s not right.

‘Yoga’ is now practiced by tens of millions of people worldwide. We could reasonably expect this ancient practice of uniting with the peace and power of existence to yield some tangible results in human society. This is the practice, after all, defined in its place of origin as “The direct means to perceive reality” (sūtra, qtd. in Shankarāchārya Brahamasūtrabhaṣya 2.1.3), and “the oneness of one entity with another” (Mālinīvijayottara Tantra 4.4) and, “skill in action” (Bhagavad Gītā 2.5).

Yet we cannot ignore the blatant evidence that we live in an unjust and hideously organized world, where racism, inequality, abuse of women, and speciecidal exploitation in all directions are the norm. More people are now seeing that to deny this is to live in a delusion, and that to have been able to deny it at all means they have been insulated. Indeed, only when the facts are clearly faced of unjust arrangements in human societies will we be able to improve them.

So, is Yoga helping? Certainly not in the way we could expect, given the numbers practicing. The dissociative, commercialised excesses of the wellness industry suggest that some core essence has been lost, the key features that make yoga Yoga. We are just not seeing the flow-on effects en masse that come naturally and immediately from authentic practice.

In classes around the world, what is obvious is that people are often developing high levels of physical skill, without any breath development. Without the breath, the river that takes us into the autonomy of the body, then the mind remains firmly in control, doing what it always does. (Where ‘breathwork’ is included, it is usually subdivided from asana and utilised to attain high states or give oneself exaggerated experiences.) Therefore, the yoga that is being practiced remains bound by the same logics of attainment, struggle, competition, individualism, self-improvement and separation that characterise most of our societies.

Stretching; attaining a shape; looking more like an ideal; experiencing an endorphin rush; sweating; belonging to a sub-culture; relaxing: all of these can give a temporary release from the build-up of social trauma in our mind and body. Without judging these feelings, they are grossly insufficient to address the problem at hand—the sense of separation from ourselves and others that we learned from ‘dominator culture’.

The promise of Yoga remains: intimacy with all ordinary conditions, body/breath and real human others; freedom from socialized thought-patterns; participation in the power of the cosmos that is arising as you and me. Intelligent, compassionate, spontaneous action in the world based on love.

We are humans just like those ancient people writing about these things. They had their troubles and traumas, their invasions and disasters, and we have the same capability as them to discover sublimity amidst the mess. They were writing about human biology and functionality, not about a special club that only one in 10,000 could join, and everybody else grind away towards. This logic of linear progress has always been based on a denial of what is already here—the body and all its intrinsic harmonies and connections within the web of life.

When people discover their breath and truly marry it with their movement, in the mood of whole-body prayer, the untapped revolutionary potential of Yoga becomes obvious.

YOGA’S RADICAL POTENTIAL

We might learn it in a class or with a teacher, but our practice begins in our own home, under our own steam. What actually happens? We learn how to make the breath the gauge and purpose of the asana. We learn how to move and breathe in the bhav of ‘I am’ rather than ‘I am not’ or ‘I am not yet.’ The breath becomes full and smooth and flows through the body, softening tense areas that had numbed themselves from feeling as a protective strategy and releasing old patterns and karmas. We are humbled, realising how we had inadvertently duplicated the cultures we were born into, with their varying degress of life-denying hardness. We recover our human capabilities of compassion (actual and natural) and non-transactional love, as a tangible flower blooming in the chest and as the whole body. We find ourselves recognising in ‘others’ the aliveness we feel in ourselves and honouring it.

Only through discovering our natural capacity for intimate life embedded in embodied relational existence does it become obvious just how numb and aggressive most of our poor bodies have become. There is no point theorising this, we must experience it for ourselves. When we do, we can’t help it but want to serve others in this way. It becomes obvious that tangible embodied intimate connection, participation in the invisible web connecting us all, is the solution to authoritarianism and hate in this world.

Frustrated intimacy with life, with self and real others, is the precondition for falling under the spell of authoritarianism and pseudo-communities of all kinds. The human need for intimacy with self and other is so strong that it must find expression, and when it is obstructed, it is channeled into pre-prepared substitutes. These substitutes, such as nationalist xenophobic groups or misogynist online chatrooms, compensate for our lack of intimacy with real human others by providing an imaginary sense of belonging and togetherness, where we can ‘share’ without actually having to (or being able to) relate with anyone at all. Our capacity for actual relationship continues to be obstructed.

In his article, ‘The Bioenergetics of Authoritarianism,’ author, activist and psychologist Peter Gabel describes the “invisible but palpable radiance linking the poles of our being as we come into connection and experience one another” and how this experience is “inherently egalitarian… on the same solid ground of Being… a real and felt “we”. Dr Gabel writes on how when we are deprived of authentic relationship, the “force of blocked connection channels itself… toward a common leader.” In other words, the energetic basis of all groups based on a false sense of hierarchy is blocked energy between people channeled upwards to authoritarian leaders. The actual fear of other people is then displaced outwards onto some kind of “Other” or maligned group seen as a threat to the artificial sense of belonging. Nowhere is this more obvious than in the US, where Trump’s constant demonisation of an imaginary and ever-changing ‘other,’ frames them as a threat to a pseudo-unity that doesn’t exist.

So, despite the millions practicing yoga, this type of separatism and delusion is the norm, and we see its dreadful effects all around us. It even structures the majority of yoga brands in the world, within which there is a cultish allegiance to patriarchal teachers (male or female)—evidence again that something is missing.

Unity does exist. Real relationship is possible. Authentic human connection is available. Real unity is a robust tangible feeling of relatedness between people, erotically alive even when not literally sexual, the collaboration of equals who meet each other in the fullness of their shared humanity. We hold all human groups and communities whose sense of ‘unity’ is not based on actual relationship between real humans, but rather on allegiance to an idea, an identity, or a charismatic leader, in deep suspicion, whatever their politics.

Yoga is the simple practice that reveals that ‘ground of Being’ Dr Gabel references, where no-one is second to anyone else. This is not a conceptual frame – the ‘yoga frame’ – it is actual reality. Our Yoga brings us in touch with this and motivates us to reform social systems to reflect what we feel. We are not just attempting to create equality: we are feeling its obvious truth and then letting that be the grounds for our work in the world. We dissolve the fear of other people and illusions of inferiority and superiority driving cults of all kinds.

Therefore your practice and your teaching are completely radical and completely useful in this world. We are forming human connections on a different basis, practicing and sharing the tools that release the obstructions to real connection and enable palpable intimacy, egalitarian mutuality of all kinds.

Throughout Indian and western history, Yoga and yogis have been subject to absorption by hierarchical structures, much as Rome absorbed the genuine radicalism of Christ for profit and control. Over time, these beautiful practices of reality-embrace have been turned on their heads and come to mean the opposite – the denial of life. Culture is contested space. It is up to us to wrest the tradition of yoga back from dominance culture and restore it to the ordinary human life. We pre-empt authoritarianism of all kinds through our mass sharing of the technology of actual intimacy.

So is Yoga a hoax? Well… it depends.

https://www.heartofyoga.com/blog

https://www.facebook.com/yogaofheart

https://twitter.com/markwhitwell

https://www.youtube.com/user/yogaofheart

https://www.instagram.com/markwhitwell/

https://www.linkedin.com/in/mark-whitwell-0057322/

[artificialqueens]

Échappé / Chapter 9 (Branjie) - DenDenMonMon

A/N: So we only have this and another chapter left before the story is over. This was supposed to be some sort of joke. My friend of like ten years, better known as svpermodel, kept going on and on about this “Branjie movie” she wanted to see, I pieced her tweets together and offered to make it a fanfic instead. I knew very little about the pairing and secretly plotted to slowly turned it into a Trixya fic (which I kinda did lol), but never thought I would fall in love with these characters so hard. Needless to say, I had a total of four hundred and twenty seven breakdowns trying to figure out how to wrap things up, even when we had the outline done right from the start. It was so difficult for me to reach the end because… I didn’t want it to end. But enough of my rambling, thank you so, so much for reading and for taking the time to comment. It means the world to me.

As always you can find me as DenDenMonMon on here, twitter and ao3. -Monkey

AO3 Link

Chapter 9

It hardly ever rained in LA, except when something shitty needed to happen, then the sky seemed to be falling down in pieces. It was like a movie. When the climax was approaching, when the guy was dumped, when the girl lost her job, rain was always used to set a depressing mood. The drops carried instrumental music with them, intensifying notes that would lead the viewer to a tragic ending.

Vanessa liked the rain, she liked it a lot. She had come to enjoy it, to long for it.

Although, when it did rain, people didn’t know what to do. The city itself didn’t know how to react. The permanent state of sunshine made Angelinos forget that, every once in a while, the water cycle would make the clouds release countless gallons of rain. Yet, nobody was prepared for that one day of the year when the streets flooded and the canals overflowed, street posts fell down and the power went out. Nobody knew what to do with themselves when the TV signal became erratic, and billboards were ripped from their frames. There were car accidents, because one forgot how to drive when water fell from the sky, and currents dragged all the garbage left on the sidewalks.

Thankfully, it hardly ever rained in LA.

Goosebumps appeared on her arms as Vanessa exited the church. Every piece of uncovered skin complained at the sudden change of temperature. The cold wind, charged with tiny ice molecules, played with the skirt of her black dress. It was probably too short for the occasion, but nobody would have expected her to wear anything else. The heat of her body, as it encountered the cool air, made her cheeks blush; the cold wind bit the delicate skin of her face. She pressed the girl closer to her side as they walked down the stairs. Vanessa did have half a mind to put something with a little more coverage on Elena that morning.

The sound of her high heels, mixing with the droplets hitting the ground, made everything feel even more dramatic for Vanessa. The only thing missing was a thunder slapping across the sky right that instant, to complete the horrific cinematic scene. Thing that didn’t happen.

People rushed by them, waving with one hand as the other held umbrellas, or any piece of available paper, over their heads. Promises were shouted at them, to meet in a few minutes. Neither Vanessa or Elena felt like rushing their steps. Their faces were more or less covered by the big hats and the thin veils, which shielded them from the rain – and the social responsibility to be polite. They strolled across the long parking lot, allowing their bodies to get wet and clothes to stick to their skin. After all, it hardly ever rained around there.

There was a bench at the back of the church. Its color had faded; the hard California sun had slowly but surely eaten the deep brown that covered the contraption, leaving rusty tubes of metal in full display. Even though old and colorless, the bench still served its purpose. They sat on it, water that had gathered on the seat trespassed the fabric of their dresses and reached their legs. Vanessa gladly took the reminder that she could still feel something, even if it was just the rain.

She took a moment to evaluate her life, because it was the only logical thing to do as she sat in the rain at the back of a church.

Vanessa had always thought her life was the hardest. There were some problems placed in front of her that surely nobody else could take. She was a champ for making it through so much heartache and hardship. On some days she felt invincible, she yelled at life, or God, or destiny, to bring on the next challenge. She could take it. On other days, she felt like she deserved a break. Knowing that she could overcome whatever obstacle was placed in front of her, didn’t mean that she wanted to keep on doing so.

Life had been testing her for a bit too long, it was time for her to have some rest. She thought she had found that pocket of time and space where the universe had secluded her from all harm. That was when Brooke had been thrown into the mix. Of course, Vanessa couldn’t possibly break down the most important moments of her life without thinking about Brooke. It didn’t matter if their paths had crossed only a few weeks ago, Vanessa was sure that they had been meant to find each other since the beginning of times. The girl walked into Vanessa’s life and flipped it upside down. She had never lost the ground like that. Regardless of the many emotional hurricanes she had faced, Vanessa had never felt so lost, and confused, and twisted in her entire life. It had been beautiful; nerve wracking, but beautiful. Just when she was ready to open up her heart, to let someone else in and help her carry the weight, everything came crashing down. Bad things just kept coming, one after the other.

With each battle, Vanessa knew she had the option to either let the pain make her bitter or stronger. The line separating those two was sometimes hard to see, with a tendency to change positions with every situation. The line was wiggly, drawn with chalk that threatened to disappear with the rain currents; it was volatile. She prided herself in always choosing to be grateful. At least her life wasn’t as hard as the girl’s who clung to her arm right that instant. The same girl that had to look away as the casket of her mom was placed inside the hearse.

Ben parked right behind it, and Vanessa pulled Elena by the arm to get up. The driver rushed to them with an umbrella, ready to shelter them from the merciless drops, but Vanessa shook her hand in front of herself. It was pointless, they were soaked already. Silently, Ben nodded his head, walked the short distance he had moved from the car and opened the door to help Elena in. Vanessa, jumped in the passenger seat, as it had become her tradition. Ben didn’t stop her, he never did. He settled behind the wheel and turned the car back on.

They followed the procession in silence.

Elena looked out the window with a heavy heart, her eyes were red and puffy from all the crying. Vanessa bit the loose skin of her cuticles; she tried to count the times the windshield wipers passed in front of her eyes. Anything that could distract her from the intense pain hovering above them.

“Thank you,” she whispered after a few minutes. “You really didn’t have to do this. You know I can’t pay you, right?”

With a soft smile, Ben’s stare found hers for the first time. The cars in front of them moved extremely slow. “You don’t have to, dear. I’m happy to do this, to help a friend.”

A huff escaped Vanessa involuntarily. “Don’t even mention that hoe.”

It was easier to stay angry, to be mad at the person who supposedly didn’t help; because anger was a lot easier to deal with than sadness. Vanessa couldn’t admit, not even to herself, that she had left a part of her in that condo, that every step she took away from that metal door felt heavier than the last. If she told herself how much she didn’t want to see a certain person, it prevented her from missing them.

Ben chuckled softly. “I mean you, you silly head. I’m doing this for you, and for her.” He craned his neck to look through the rearview mirror, spotting the girl drawing hearts on the tarnished window. “How is she doing?”

“Not well. It’s not like her mother was very present, but at least she had her mom, you know?”

Even when he didn’t know, even when he had never gone through an experience like that, Ben nodded. “I can’t imagine what she must be feeling; but, hey, at least she’s got you, huh?”

“Damn right!” With a heavy sigh she tried, unsuccessfully, to spot the girl through the side mirror. “She will always have me.”

Vanessa was set to keep her promise, she didn’t leave Elena’s side that day. They held each other as the casket descended, and together threw the first handful of dirt. They didn’t let go as they greeted people into Elena’s home. In a very Hispanic tradition, the whole neighborhood got together to say their final goodbye to a woman they didn’t like, showed up at the place of someone they constantly talked about behind her back. With a forced smile on her face, Elena accepted hugs, directed pots and pans wrapped with aluminum foil to the kitchen and jackets to her bedroom.

Soon, the small apartment was crowded with chatty ladies and running kids. Vanessa talked to some of the older women, discussing recipes she had never tried to cook, not even pretending she knew what they were talking about. She kept an eye on Elena, talking to her dance friends, putting a front, appearing much stronger than what she was truly feeling. Soon, Vanessa had enough and asked the ladies to excuse her so she could check on the girl.

“How you feeling, baby?”

Elena pressed her lips into a thin line, and shrugged her shoulders, not really wanting to give an answer. Silence enveloped them for a minute, until the other girls understood they needed privacy. Between whispers and made up excuses, they got up and left them alone.

Vanessa took one of the now empty seats next to the girl. “Aight. I get it. I’m done talking with those clucking hens over there, too.” She pushed her chin in the direction of the women she had been talking to. Her comment didn’t get the laughter she was expecting in response. Honestly, she didn’t even know what she was expecting, she had no idea how to act in that situation. But she did know Elena, and she knew that she needed to figure out things on her own. Vanessa wanted to be there, but, at the same time, give her enough space to breath. It was complicated, to say the least. “Fine. We don’t have to talk.” Her stare travelled around, her fingers tapped her own knee, unsure of what to do with herself. They both sat in silence, watching people eat, and talk, and laugh, because that was the norm in Hispanic households.

Suddenly, there was a tap on Vanessa’s shoulder. “Vanjie, can I talk to you?” Michelle’s steady voice saved her from the awkward moment.

“Bitch, yes!” Vanessa replied a little too quick, thankful for the distraction. Catching herself, she sat straight, placing a hand on Elena’s shoulder. “Will you be okay for a minute?” The girl simply nodded her head, still in her absentminded state. Vanessa leaned towards her and kissed her temple, before getting up and following Michelle to a different room.

Michelle pushed the many coats out of the way and sat on Elena’s bed. The floral print, in soft pinks and purples, was a big contrast against the all-black outfit that Michelle was wearing. An aura of solemnity surrounded her as she looked across the small space but, truthfully, Vanessa couldn’t think of a time when Michelle looked anything but regal. Vanessa admired her, in every sense of her being. Michelle always knew what to say, what to do; her mind always worked out the perfect plan for whatever situation she encountered. The way she carried herself through life, with such confidence and certainty, was something Vanessa always wished she could do herself.

This time around, Michelle looked, if possible, even more majestic than ever. She straightened her back, her large breasts in clear view thanks to the deep cleavage. “I have good and bad news,” she spoke in the same ceremonious way that she had been acting all day. “Which one do you want first?”

The question startled Vanessa, she didn’t expect having to make any decisions during the conversation. “The bad, always the bad. Then we cover the wound with the good.” She nodded her head approvingly, agreeing with her own words.

For a split second, Michelle casted her eyes down. She tangled her fingers in her lap and sighed. The facade fell for a single beat of silence before she lifted her head and looked straight into Vanessa’s eyes. “We lost the center.” The words came out in a single exhale, in a monotonous whisper that barely registered in Vanessa’s head.

She heard it. Every single syllable of that message entered Vanessa’s ears. It was her brain the one that couldn’t comprehend the meaning behind the words. She could feel them bouncing inside her skull, crashing with every wall and resounding with each hit. The sentence had been simple, one would think four words, strung in such a logical order, would be easy to understand, even for her bilingual brain. Yet, each hop and jump the letters performed through the wiring of her head, made it impossible for Vanessa to let them land in a spot of comprehension.

“Vanjie,” Michelle snapped her fingers in front of her, landing her back into reality, forcing the cogs inside her mind to kick back into gear.

“Wha-what you mean we lost the center? That can’t be true. It ain’t happening. We got the money, we did. Exactly what they asked for. They just needed to finish off the paperwork. That skinny bitch told me the lawyers would take care of everything, she told me that…” Words spilled out without her permission, she didn’t even know what she was saying anymore. She went on and on and on, until she lost track of her own thoughts and simply let her mouth run, hoping Michelle would stop her. She didn’t. Michelle didn’t scream at her to shut up, to get a grip and get it together. Michelle allow her to let it all out. Vanessa only stopped once tears ran down so rapidly that words could no longer catch up. “What-what are gonna do? What can we do to save it?”

“Nothing.” It was clear, there was nothing complicated about Michelle’s statement. They had lost, and there was absolutely nothing they could do about it.

“What happened? Did they at least give you a reason?” Vanessa asked once she recovered a grip of the situation.

Michelle shrugged slightly. “Someone offered them more money.”

“Nah, child, they can’t do that. Can they do that? She said it was ours, the lawyers just needed to finish the paperwork.” She was repeating herself, Vanessa knew it, but maybe if she said it a lot, it would become a reality.

There was no response from Michelle. She sat there, watching Vanessa pace back and forth inside the small room, giving her the time to absorb all the information she had received.

“Can we, like, sue them?” A head shake answered her question. “Is there a way we can get more money? We still have, like, two more weeks, right? We can have another ball.”

Michelle lifted her hand, figuratively stopping Vanessa from continuing. “There’s nothing we can do. Trust me, I have tried every possibility, exhausted every chance from every angle. It’s gone. Actually, that’s where the good news comes from.”

Vanessa’s mouth fell open in surprise. “What you mean good news?! What kind of fucked up news could come out of this mess?”

“Vanjie, I need you to really listen to me. Before you say anything, I need you to pay attention to what I have to say.” There was a moment of silence. The two women simply looked at each other, connecting in a paralinguistic level that was so unequivocally theirs. “I spoke to the girls,” Michelle continued. “We want you to keep the money–”

“Bitch, you wildin’! What makes you–”

“I asked you to listen to me, Vanessa.” The name was what got her. Michelle rarely called her that, unless things turned serious. Vanessa sat down next to Michelle, opening her mind, heart, and ears, for what Michelle had to say. “Elena is going to need someone to look after her, help her with her homework, love her like she deserves. Fight for that girl, take her out of the abusive environment she’s fallen into and give her a home.”

Vanessa shook her head. She had thought about that. Now that Elena’s mom was gone, the most obvious option was the grandmother. It didn’t matter how big of an asshole she was, that cranky old lady was still Elena’s only family. Any judge with half a mind would allow the girl to go with her. Nobody really knew how she was constantly putting Elena down, minimizing her abilities, reducing her to nothing more than the daughter of a drug addict, destined to follow the same footsteps. Nothing the girl did was enough to her eyes. As far as Vanessa knew, the abuela never attacked Elena physically, she wouldn’t have the strength to; but her acid tongue knew how to cut right where it hurt, causing a lot more damage that any tangible wound. Vanessa had thought about getting a lawyer and trying to get custody of the girl. Her chances were slim to none. Not to mention she didn’t have a dime under her name, she wouldn’t be able to support the two of them. Hell, she wouldn’t have been able to afford the lawyer to start with.

“Do you really think the court would let her live with a stripper?” There was a huff coming from Vanessa’s lips, highlighting the absurdity of it all. “Who, on top of that, lives in a shoe box apartment with two other hoes?”

“No.” Michelle was not playing around, she was not entertaining Vanessa’s sarcasm. “That’s why you need to do some changes first. Use the money to get a good lawyer,” Michelle suggested, practically reading Vanessa’s mind. “Get out of that small place and find something better. I talked to some people at this complex, they have amazing student discounts.”

“But I’m not a student,” Vanessa reminded her.

“You are going to. There’s no way you will get a job unless you get your act together. That starts with finishing high school. I can help you look for night schools, or maybe online courses.”

All of that sounded like too much work, Vanessa’s mind was already rejecting the idea as a whole. She didn’t want to get her act together, she was doing perfectly fine as she was. Instead of spitting back all the reasons why she didn’t want to follow Michelle’s plan, she allowed herself to really think about it. Among all those excuses, there was one thing, bigger than any pointless pretext, that would make it all worth it. Just then, the only motivation that she needed to be better, walked into the room.

“Can I hide with you guys for a minute?”

Michelle smiled widely, patting the space between her and Vanessa. “Of course, kiddo. Come chat with us.”

Elena obeyed. She sat down on the bed and rested her head on Vanessa’s shoulder. Vanessa knew there was absolutely nothing she needed to think about. The decision had made itself right then and there. If it meant having that beautiful angel permanently by her side, she was going to change, she was going to be better. She was going to do it for Elena.

And she did.

The following two weeks came and went in the blink of an eye. Vanessa contacted a lawyer that Michelle recommended and, just like she had suggested, Vanessa found a much bigger apartment in a nicer area. The next step was finding a job that the family judge would find decent. She started waiting tables at a Mexican restaurant that paid shit, but had good tips. Her personality helped her a great deal in that area. She knew when to smile, when to flirt, and when to make the customer believe the side of tortillas was on her. Stripping was left behind, and she was surprisingly okay with that. It gave her a certain sense of peace to think that the last time she did it had been for Brooke.

During the whole process of rearranging her life, Brooke had always been a latent thought. Not exactly there, but never leaving her mind completely. Brooke had been right, Vanessa was meant to do so much better, to achieve greater things. Vanessa didn’t know why she had been so closed to the idea, why she had felt attacked instead of empowered. Her stubbornness, mixed with her unwavering pride, was a dangerous combination that forced her to push such an amazing person away.

She had tried, Vanessa had messaged Brooke. One simple text was sent with a waving hand emoji. In her mind, Vanessa planned a whole conversation as soon as Brooke texted back. She never did; and double texting was never part of Vanessa’s brand. That was when she put Brooke on the back burner and concentrated on Elena, and Elena alone, becoming almost oblivious to the passing of time.

Before she knew it, she was standing behind a yellow ribbon, waiting next to the most important people in her life, for their dreams to be shattered. The hot California sun shone above their heads, Vanessa placed a hand to shield her eyes from the brightness as she tried to look up. The large wrecking ball hung from the tall crane. It looked… powerful, she decided after a moment. It looked heavy, and extremely capable of destruction as it swung dangerously close to her beloved building. Workers walked around the area, shouting instructions to each other, and writing things down on clipboards. Vanessa watched them, with their big boots and yellow helmets, as they pronounce the time of death of the community center.

Trixie, stood next to her, chewing a piece of gum rather loudly. “Why don’t you say something? A few, like, encouraging words?”

Vanessa looked down at her feet. “There’s really nothing I can say.” Even when her statement had been negative, her eyes travelled among the people she loved the most. “There really are not enough words, in English or Spanish, to explain how devastating this is. It is something that you just… feel. We are all feeling the same thing, I think, and it fucking hurts.” Her voice broke a little; hot tears gathering at the corner of her eye. “I just… I really don’t know what to say.”

“Can I give it a try?”

All eyes were directed to the shadow walking their way. Vanessa turned around and that was when she saw her. The long blonde waves had been chopped, now straight hair framed her face, curling slightly around her chin. She looked different, but it was her. She wore a white button down shirt, a black pencil skirt, and the usual high heels. Same that resounded against the payment, just like they did all those weeks ago, when Vanessa met her for the first time.

Brooke waved at them from the other side of the yellow line. A small smile played on her lips, but she bit her lower lip to prevent it. She was happy to see them all again, she was happy thinking about all the good things that were about to come, but the emotion in the moment represented a complete contrast to her happiness.

“What is your ass doing here?” Vanessa asked defensively.

Brooke had expected nothing else. She sighed deeply before she looked straight into Vanessa’s eyes. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t contact you in the last couple of weeks. I couldn’t trust myself to keep my mouth shut. There was so much work that needed to be done before I could talk to you. There’s something that I need to tell you.” She lifted her head to address everybody that gathered in the park that afternoon. “Two months ago I was stuck in traffic and saw a group of girls dancing. It was like nothing I had seen before. They looked so happy, so genuinely happy just moving to the rhythm, with steps dictated by their hearts. I saw myself in them, the old me, the one that danced freely without a care. I just needed to talk to them. I wanted them to restore my love for dance. So I ran down from the car and approached them… then I met you,” she spoke directly to Vanessa. “You asked me if I was here to kidnap your kids and sell them in the black market.” There was a round of tearful laughter to her words. Brooke chuckled herself and took a risk, she extended her arms and held Vanessa’s hands in hers. “You love this place. You love it so much that you made me fall in love with it in an instant. I know how hard you have fought for it, how hard you worked to keep it from being demolished.”

“Yeah, well, here we are.” Vanessa tried to look away, to fixate her eyes on anything that wasn’t Brooke’s perfectly applied makeup.

“Yes,” Brooke agreed. “Here we are. About to start a new era. This building is going to be brought down just so it can be reborn as something bigger and better.”

Confused faces stared back at her, unable to follow her train of thought. Brooke chuckled once again and, still holding Vanessa’s hands, she directed her words to the crowd in front of her.

“This is your community center, the one you filled with love, and laughter, and music. You will still have the chance to do all of that, only that I have now decided to call it: The Dream Girls Youth Center.”

“You-you bought it?” Vanessa asked shocked.

Brooke simply nodded. “Yes, I did, but it’s not mine. It’s yours, it’s for the community. The only thing is that I have no idea how this works, I’m going to need someone to help me run it.”

In a quick move, Vanessa made her let go of her hands. “Bitch, the fuck you are talking about?”

Exasperated, Yvie slapped Vanessa’s arm. “She’s talking about you, you dumbass. She bought the center, is going to rebuild it, and wants you to run it. Am I right?”

Piece by piece the information was suddenly making sense in Vanessa’s head. The more she understood, the more she freaked out. “Is that true?”

A nod from Brooke answered her question.

“We get to keep the center?”

One more nod.

“And you want me to run it?”

Brooke finally allowed the smile to take over her whole face. “I could never do this without you, Vanessa. I’m going to need you by my side as we bring it back to life.”

Vanessa was physically taken aback by those words, she literally took a step away from Brooke as she digested the new information. They looked into each other’s eyes, feeling how their souls reconnected, making up for all the lost time. In that moment everybody but them disappeared, there was nothing around them but light. Emptiness surrounded them as their hearts synchronized yet again to beat at the same rhythm.

“By your side? Does this mean you are staying?”

Once again, a nod functioned as response. “If you want me to, that is.” Brooke moved as close to her as the yellow ribbon allowed her. She extended her arms, literally, figuratively, and even spiritually, baring herself to Vanessa. “What do you say?”

It took maybe a second for Vanessa’s brain to connect with her mouth, but it felt like an eternity before she could pronounce the words dying to leave her lips.

“Yes, bitch! Yes! A million times yes!”

She jumped straight into Brooke’s open arms. She wrapped her legs around Brooke’s hips and her arms around her neck. The caution band forgotten, crumpling between their stomachs. It became the least important thing once their lips met. They kissed with the passion they had built up, not only since the last time they saw each other, but with a yearning that came from a lifetime of being apart. They kissed slowly and deeply, letting go of all restraints and inhibitions. They kissed with full abandon, as two people in love that had finally found the person that complemented them.

[shanlulu-writing]

Levi X reader  - I am all yours - Part 1

Please be aware there is swearing from the outset and suggestive themes. I hope you like, this is only the second fanfic I have put up on here, so please bare with me. Please let me know what you think, Im happy for critique and anything that will help the story and my writing. If you like give me a fav or a comment. I do love hearing back from you! Part 1 It was cold, for some reason, it was always cold here, even when the sun was shining. Maybe it was just you, maybe you felt the cold more than anyone else, still, it would feel good to feel warm once in a while. You sigh, feeling like you had been here forever, but that wasn't reality, in fact, you had only been here a matter of months. You had only been with the survey corps with the new influx of trainees, not like you really wanted to be here. Mostly everyone paid no attention to you, let alone be nice, but that was how you liked it. You shiver and break away from your thoughts. It was your turn to muck out and groom the horses, a job that you particularly hated. As much as it was nice to ride them, cleaning them was another matter. You continue to groom one of the horses, you believed it to be Captain Ackerman's. Well, that was someone, up his own ass, good in a fight but hell was he a stuck up prick. He had already shown you how much he disliked you. From day one he was full of venom towards you. You knew that he was like with that with everyone, but it seemed like it was particularly vicious in your direction. A couple of the others had mentioned it, in fact, that was how the few people who did talk to you, introduced themselves. Your only collective conclusion was that he didn't like your face. Well, you didn't like his either, even if it was very defined and had the illusion that his skin was the perfection of porcelain. Mr bloody perfect. “You, (last name).” You look up. “Please tell me why a brat like you is touching my horse?” You move away from the horse catching the Captain's icy glare. From up close he was actually pretty short for a guy. You snigger internally. “Answer me!” He moves a few steps closer, arms folded and looks at you as if you are the muck you have been shovelling. “I was asked to clean the horses. That's what I am doing” You answer frostily. “...Sir” You frown, not knowing what he meant. “You address me as Sir, idiot.” You notice that even though his words are infuriated, his face remains deadpan, almost unaffected by the conversation. “Sir.”  You didn't want to respond, but then you didn't want the aggro either. You should have learnt from the last time you spoke back to him and had to sleep in the shed for two nights with only one blanket. You knew full well that he was always prepared to punish your back chat, but he riled you up so much, you couldn't help but lash back out at him. You sigh again. “So do you want me to groom your horse or not..... Sir?” You questioned him, voice dripping with sarcasm . As soon as the words left your mouth, he was next to you and grabbed your chin roughly. “Answer me like that again brat, and you will fucking live to regret it.” You stagger backwards escaping from his grasp, his voice was like acid, and you truly believed that he would do as he said. You relented your attitude, and bow your head with a nod. “Tsk.” He turned on his heel and walked out of the stables. You breathe a sigh of relief and get back to work. You hear another set of footsteps approach you, you groan as you think that it is the Captain coming back to have another rant at you. “I'm NOT interested!” You thought to pre-empt him. “Huh?” That voice wasn't the Captains. You move out from behind the horse to see another cadet. “Hey (first name), what was up with Levi? What did you do now? He looked super pissed when he walked out of here.” It was Eren, he seemed nice, apparently, he could shift into a titan. Well, he looked normal enough, you couldn't tell he was hiding a monster inside of him. He had been one of the only ones that made the effort to talk to you, and for that, you were somewhat grateful. “Oh hi, Eren. He was just bitching something or other about me touching his horse. No biggy.” Eren looked shocked. You smile at him warmly. “What? He as a major stick up his ass, he needs bringing down a peg or two.” “You have a death wish” He laughs, you like it, his face is pretty cute when he smiles. “It was nice knowing you.” You cock your head to look at him. “He can't be that bad, I'm sure his bark is worse than his bite.” Eren raises his eyebrows at you but says nothing. It's like he knows something but won't tell you. “Anyway, we have training in a minute, Hanji asked me to come and get you.” You had forgotten about that after your altercation with Captain Ackerman. You set down your brushes and follow him out. “What is his problem?” You ask as you fasten your pace to catch up with him. Eren shrugs and doesn't offer you an answer. “Fine, whatever.” You weren't going to waste any more breath on him today. Funnily enough, you were quite happy that the training grounds meant you wouldn't have to see him again today. You walked out onto the training field and saw everyone else already set up ready to go. “Jaeger! (Last name)! You are Late!” Hanji yells from the other side of the field. You scurry to where your teammates were standing, and stood in line. She watched you as you fell in place and continued. “Today, we are going to be doing some mixed combat training. Also, I thought that it might be instrumental in your learning to get a few tips from the seasoned members of the Corps” You follow your friend's eyes to the group standing not far from you. Whispers start all around you, about them being the members of the special ops team, when from the corner of your eye you see Captain Ackerman. You roll your eyes and groan, why couldn't luck just be on your side for once?! You look at the other members who seem quite annoyed at being there, obviously, Hanji had wrangled them into doing it when you see that Captain Ackerman glaring straight at you. You double take. Why is he still staring at you? That's quite a glare he's got going on there. For fuck sake... What could you have done now? You look away to try and pay attention to Hanji giving instructions as to what was to happen next, but you could still feel the frosty gaze, sending shivers up your neck. You rub it instinctively and feel very uncomfortable. “What's the matter?” Eren leant in sideways whispering. “He keeps looking at me!” You mutter under your breath. “What song did you want to be played at your funeral, again? I don't know what you said to him, but you are in serious crap.” You hear him laugh quietly. “What are you two talking about?” Jean and Sasha bundle up behind you. You groan, as you really didn't want the whole squad knowing. Not that it was really something to be embarrassed about, but he was still looking at you and it was extremely unnerving. Eren explains to them and on queue, they both look over at him. “Don't look at him” You hiss. “Wow, did you give him attitude again?” Sasha asks mouth full of potato, you wonder how she has managed to get it. You can only guess that she has bribed one of the cooks again, it was the only explanation. “You're a glutton for punishment and an idiot. You know he doesn't like you, so why bait him all the time? Last time you pissed him off he had you scrubbing the floors in your nightclothes.” Jean adds. “Shut up. I didn't do anything that time either, all I did was have a play fight with Eren! Not my fault that his weakness is being tickled!” You retort in hushed tones and punch Jean in the arm. “(Last name) Are you listening?” Hanji shouts scolding you. You wince as you seem to be drawing more attention to yourself every minute. “Yes Ma'am” You listen to the last of her instructions and wait to get paired off. To your relief, you get paired up with Jean. From your interactions with him, you knew he was hot-headed and had a sharp tongue, not so unlike yourself. At least this meant you could blow off some steam, and forget about the pigmy abominable snow man's stare. “I'll go easy on you newbie,” Jean grunted at you. He didn't seem impressed to be paired up with a new recruit or the fact that you were by appearances, a weak girl. You scowl at him and take a deep breath. “This will be easy then. Don't flatter yourself, I'm not a precious sodding flower.” You spat in disgust. You were going to show him, you were a fighter, you always had been, and remarks like that were only going to make you more determined. He came at you, his main attacks were balanced in brute strength rather than speed. How apt. You move deftly around and away from his attacks, landing a fist on his back, in between his shoulder blades. Jean stops, and drops to one knee, he looked like he was getting his breath back. Standing back up to his full height, he readied himself again. The next attack landed on your shoulder, you yelp in pain and fall to the floor. You glare up at him as he offers a hand to you, you take it begrudgingly to stand up yourself. You shake the pain off and begin again. You fight for a good ten more minutes, and you manage to best him a fair few times when you are interrupted. “Kirstein. Your strength will win eventually, but that is if she doesn't wear you out before you can even hit a punch.” You both stop, and look to see that unimpressed face looking back at you. Did he have to interrupt? “Yes, Captain.” “Here. Let me show you a few tactics.”  Jean nods, he looks annoyed at the halt in fighting yet you notice a flicker of a smirk directed at you. You narrow your eyes at him in response, he can bugger off as well. Shit! You were going to have to fight the Captain. Jean moves out of the way, and Captain Ackerman stands in his place. You wonder whether his face was actually a mask, as you were sure that it was just made of stone. You feel nervous, you had heard about how good he was in battle, and you could only imagine that it translated well into hand to hand combat. You wished that the ground would swallow you up whole, yet in that moment you decide that you were not going to let him affect you. He was just some idiot who thought insulting people was a good idea, and he could get away with it because of his rank. People like that made you feel sick. You felt like you were close to hating him, he was just like all the others, who used their power to get what they wanted. “Brat, I hope you pay attention to what I am to teach you.” “I am all yours, Sir!” You glower at him. You hated his stupid perfect face, his stupid comments, and his stupid fucking attitude. You launch your attack, which he counters every single time, it just seems so easy for him, which he always follows with a smack on the back of your head. Pompous twat! He gives you the run around for what appears to be forever. You manage to hit him but none of them really manage to stop his attacks. You move again, feign a hit to the chest and spin around to kick him in the side. You manage to catch him off balance and quickly you go for the backs of his knees, causing him to fall to the ground. Seconds later with your knees pinning his kneeling legs, you hold your training knife to his throat. Breathing heavily, you feel triumphant. You managed to slay the beast, Hah! “Thank you for the lesson, Sir! I hope you learnt something.” You hear a quiet laugh escape from the man in front of you. Within a flash, he grabs your arm and pushes down on the inside of your elbow with three fingers and with the other hand, the bones in your thumb joint (pressure points). You scream, as it feels like he has broken your arm, you yank your arm back away from him and in that split second of pain, you are pushed to the ground. Legs straddled either side of your hips and his forearm pressing down on your neck, he leans in closer to you. You struggle to take in more air as the pressure of his body weight crushes down on your throat. You feel his breath on your neck, and amongst trying to breathe, you try desperately to get away from him, the fear becoming real that he may strangle you. “This is your first lesson, never let your guard down.” He utters under his breath. “Secondly, I will not have female cadets flaunting themselves with other male recruits. I've told you before and if I see it again I will have you reprimanded.” You could feel your consciousness slipping from you and make one last move for your freedom. With all your might you headbutt your captor, he rolls off you in pain and managing to get away from him, stagger back up, barely able to stand. “FUCK YOU!” Your voice was hoarse and strained. You realise that everyone else had stopped fighting and some of them had obviously been watching the fight for a while. You didn't need this shit. Taking one last look at the Captain on the floor, who was now sitting, with his hand on his head, you speed off. You manage to make it to the stables, and your legs fall out from underneath you. You clutch your throat, it feels like it is on fire, and just swallowing hurts. He actually planned to kill you, he actually meant to do it. Maybe Eren was right, maybe you should plan your funeral.  You realise that you are crying, you rub the tears out of your eyes, you weren't going to cry over this, not him. “(First name)!” You hear a call not far from you. You try to turn your neck, but hiss as the pain is so bad you think he must have broken something. Eren crouches down to look at you, his focus trailing from your teary (e/c) eyes to your throat and his eyes widen. “What the fuck did he do to you?” He grabs you and carries you gently with your head against his chest. “We are going straight to the infirmary. What the hell does he think that he is playing at?” It doesn't take you long to get there, usually, you wouldn't have gone, but you feel too weak to protest. The medics take a look at you, and they are surprised to hear what happened. You didn't want to say anything or make a fuss, but Eren was insistent on knowing everything. You see Eren getting angrier as they take a look at your neck. It's red raw and bruising is already starting to form, your voice was still croaky even after an excruciating drink of water. “You are saying Captain Ackerman did this?” The medic asks in a worried tone. You nod gingerly and bow your head. You had never felt so pathetic, you were here to fight the titans, but instead you were almost killed by someone in your own regiment. The medic grumbles and moves to place some ointment on your skin, you jerk back instinctively and shake your head furiously. “Its okay (first name). Here, let me do it. If it hurts you can punch my leg.” You think that its probably for the best, at least you wouldn't be accused of punching a medic, another thing Mr Captain Levi Asshole could punish you for.  He sits down on the bed next to you and holds one of your hands as he takes an ointment slicked finger to your skin. “Fuck... That hurts” You grunt in pain. “Squeeze my hand then.” He does it again, this time you clench his hand and realise how rough his skin is, and on closer inspection, there are minor scars all over his hands. His hands make you feel safe, his hands were much larger than yours with strong fingers, but they were extremely warm. You smile as you bask your hand in his warm one. He notices your expression change and stops. “Why are you smiling?” “Your hands are really warm.” You croak. He returns your smile as the medic comes in with a tray with a singular cup and saucer. “I've been told tea is good for a sore throat, and it might help your voice a little.” You nod and gesture a thank you, the medic makes their exit leaving you alone. Eren takes the cup off of the tray and passes it to you. Sadly this meant that his warm hands were no longer in your possession, however, it was replaced by steaming tea which was deliciously hot for your throat and your freezing cold hands. You take a sip and wince in pain, but endeavour to keep drinking and soon the pain subsides to just a tingle at the back of your throat. “Thank you, Eren.” You startle him as it had been quiet up until then. “I haven't done anything.” He shrugs. “You always seem to be there when I need you, and I just want to let you know I appreciate it.” He takes you aback when you see a flash of red on his cheeks. He looks away from you quickly. “Oh it's nothing really, that's what friends do!” He turns back to you, with a slightly darker look. “But if he touches you like that again, he's got another thing coming.” “Eren, please. Don't make a fuss, I can handle it, I'm not broken down that easy.” You try to say as convincingly as possible, but it couldn't be any further from the truth. After today he scared the shit out of you. ~ You had fitful sleep that night and woke up feeling exhausted. Eren had left not long after you finished your tea, and it was the first night in a very long while that you had slept in a room on your own. The silence was unsettling, and even when waking the silence seemed to hang over you like a shadow. You stretch your legs and pull yourself out of bed. You hold the bed for support, your legs were still weak. Strange considering that it was your throat that had been wounded, not your legs. You take a few paces, even at a shuffle it was good to get up and walk about. You hear noises from down the hall, cadets were laughing and shouting, they sounded like they were having so much fun, and you feel like you wished to be with them. There's a first time for everything. Usually, you distanced yourself from people, but Eren had shown you that you could make friends and maybe you might be able to make some real friends here. Your thoughts wander to the events of yesterday. What the hell was all that about? I've told you before and if I see you doing it again you will be reprimanded. Reprimanded for what? Talking to people? For having a laugh with Eren? Training with Jean? Grooming his horse? Even so, even if what you were doing was wrong, did it really warrant almost being strangled to death? “Ah, I see you're up” You look up to see Hanji walking in, sprightly as ever. She was carrying a clean set of clothes, which she set on your bed. “How are you feeling?” “Er... Okay, I guess. Alive if only just” You didn't mean to come off as brash, but you were still wound up. “We have orders from Erwin that you are to have a few days rest. The medics have advised so, due to the wound. Ah, he also wanted you to report to Captain Ackerman as soon as you can.” You gasp. They were sending you straight back into the lion's den. She smiles, seeming to completely miss your horror. “Nothing to worry about,  I am sure he just wants to apologise.” Apologise. Fucking Apologise? That's the least he could do! He will probably finish the job. This was bullshit, but orders were orders. You nod, knowing there was no way to get out of it.  She waves goodbye and runs off to find her team, leaving you alone again. You gave into getting changed, it was actually more difficult than you initially anticipate due to your neck still being extremely stiff and sore. Eventually, you manage and make the bed, as the medics weren't about you went over to their desk and grabbed a pen and paper to scrawl a thank you for their help. Slowly you make your way to your dorm to grab your scarf to hide the marks on your neck. You hope it will be quiet and the rest of the girls would already be out. As you open the door you hear your name called from all different directions, you look to see most of them had been waiting for you. You groan internally, wishing you had waited before coming back. They all rushed over, asking you loads of questions. Did it hurt? What did he do? What did you do to piss him off? How heavy was he? How did he smell? Did you pass out? Did he try and kill you on purpose? “Did he kiss you? Are you going out?” You heard from someone. How the hell did they get from trying to kill you to dating? Most of the girls needed their heads checked out. You may have been injured but at least you still had your head screwed on. You were about to reply when someone beat you to it. “Do you think that pestering her is going to get you a response?” The voice was cold. There was only one person that it could be. You muse whether you could make a break for it out the open window, yet with everyone crowded around you, you realise that it would be impossible. “I expect to see you in my office in two minutes” He commanded. When his back was turned you glare at him instinctively, hoping that his head might explode. You grab your (fav/c) scarf and wrap it around your neck. You make your move to go when you turn and speak to Mikasa. “Can you tell Eren: Erik Satie, Gymnopédie No.3” She looks at you confused. “I want that played at my funeral.” You hear a couple of them giggle as you leave the room. You make your way to his office, every footstep becoming harder and harder as you prepare for your doom. Your stomach was in knots and your arms were shaking as you reach the door. Timidly you knock on the door, hoping that he had been called away on an errand. “Enter.” You hear from the other side of the door. So much for that then. You curse under your breath and walk into the room. He was sitting at his desk writing, he didn't bother to look up at you. He paused and motioned to the chair the opposite side of the desk to him. You moved cautiously and sat down, remaining quiet. You twiddle your thumbs for a while, waiting for a titan to appear from nowhere and step on you or something to get you away from the situation. “Now, (last name). I understand that the medical team have given you leave for two days while you recover. I suggest in that time that you help Commander Erwin and myself with any menial tasks that we require of you. It will save you from being completely useless.” “What?” You could barely believe the words coming out of his mouth. “You're the reason I am like this in the first place!” You weren't originally going to rise to his bait, but useless you were not. “If you didn't have some kind of vendetta against me none of this would ever have happened! Maybe if you got off your high horse once in a while, then maybe I wouldn't talk to you like this!” His hand shot across the desk and grabbed your chin, he ran a thumb across your bottom lip. “Such a smart mouth” He sounded strange. His voice was drenched with mockery, yet deep and sultry, you try not to think of such things, you confirm to yourself, staring back at his emotionless face. “I have a mind to shut it up.” You freeze completely stunned. He releases your chin and you touch where he had grabbed you. You can feel the skin ache where his fingers had been. This guy was dangerous, you weren't going to stay here or be treated like this. You get up to get away. “I don't think so. You aren't going to run away, are you? Like a frightened little girl.” He raises his eyes to you, and you are sure you can see the trace of a smirk on his face, but it's gone again in an instant. You feel very trapped and slowly edge backwards. You didn't want to prove him right, but you didn't want to be in the same room with him anymore. “Do you treat everyone like this?” You feel your anger rising. He had no right to treat people like this. How many before you had gone through this? You watch him cross the room, seeming oblivious at your delicate attempt to escape, to file some papers in a desk on the opposite side of the room. “Treat like what? I am only responding in kind to you. Ever since you arrived you have been taking cheap shots at me, back chatting and having inappropriate interactions with Eren Jaeger.” You stop, what had Eren got to do with this? Granted he found you and Eren on the floor desperately trying to tickle each other, but it it was only a bit of fun between friends. “We were having a laugh. For your information, Eren is the first friend I have had since the attack on wall Maria. I think I'm entitled to at least be his friend! Also, while we are at it, it has absolutely nothing to do with you.” He paced towards you, you back away from him until you hit the desk. Fuck, he had cornered you. “Nothing to do with me?” He was toe to toe with you looking directly in your eyes. They were steely blue, piercingly gorgeous, and could probably see into your soul if you had the time to pause and think. Usually, eyes had different flecks of colour, but his were monotone, muted and  devoid, much like the person they belong to. He raises his hand, you close your eyes, waiting for him to strike you. It doesn't come, instead, your scarf is removed, and you feel a gentle touch your tender skin “I think it has everything to do with me.”

[fume-knight-of-shovelry]

Lights

Angela has doubts about her heritage and beliefs. A Hanukkah with Genji helps her address some of them.

This isn’t related to Gency week, but I’ve wanted to do something about this for a long time. A lot of my own experiences and concerns with my Judaism informed this.

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Angela Ziegler took another look out the window, watching the snowfall flutter and dampen on the glass. Early December could be a tumultuous time in Switzerland when it came to cold weather patterns, but thankfully her residence was as warm and cozy as could be. To heat up her home, Angela eschewed dirty and dangerous fireplaces in lieu of well-caulked windows, hermetically-sealed doorways and judicious use of solar-powered heating systems. She was nothing if not conscious of her carbon footprint, and made use of heavy clothing even when indoors to minimize energy usage. A fluffy woolen sweater crisscrossed with blue and white kept her arms and chest warm, thick, cotton-lined pants trapped the heat in her legs and waist and she’d even deigned to wrap a yellow scarf around her neck.

Her living space was as comfortable as she could make it. The box was heavy in her pants pocket. It was time to begin.

“Genji? Mein lieber? It’s time.” She called out without turning from the view outside. Her face reflected onto the glass, pale and transparent, a ghost looking back at her. She reached a hand out towards the phantom imitation, and watched the see-through Angela meet her fingers on the glass.

The room suddenly seemed a lot less warm and welcoming.

“I’m here, Angela.” Genji Shimada loomed up behind her in the glass, similarly pellucid in the frost-touched panes, though the gleam of his visor left a distinct emerald line crossing the white of the snow in front of them. He too was wearing a woolen sweater, thick pants, and a scarf, though his were in shades of green, brown, and black. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly, removing his mask with his other hand. “Are you well? You’re shivering. Would you like some more cocoa? Perhaps another sweater?"

Angela smiled at Genji and turned to snuggle against his shoulder. “Just a cold spell. I’m ready if you are.”

“Of course. Lead the way.”

She pecked him on the cheek and stepped away, towards the coffee table she’d set up in the living room, in front of the couch. A nine-branched candelabrum sat in the middle of the flat wooden surface, empty of any actual candles, with a matchbox set underneath one of the branches. Removing the container from her pants pocket, she slit it open with a finger and pulled out a single blue candle, slotting it into the rightmost socket of the  menorah . Grasping a second candle, this one white, she closed the box and passed it to Genji.

“Next, the shamash . Very important. Hold the box please, Genji.”

Genji stood to her side and took it with a nod, silently supportive. Angela had been more than a little nervous about tonight, but he had reassured her that he would help her however he could. Angela slotted the  shamash into the center branch, then snatched up the matches, stepped away from the table and couch, and struck one against the side of the box, watching the flame flare up and burn with a tiny, determined glow. The heat was already starting to irritate her fingers, but she persisted and lit the central candle, quickly dunking the flame in a shallow bowl of water she’d prepared beforehand once it was clear that the candle would stay lit. Removing the candle from the socket, she began her prayer as she lit the one candle in the menorah , her voice a soft chant that rose in confidence as she progressed.

“Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tsivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah.”

She’d long been finished lighting the only candle by the time she was done singing, but she’d kept the shamash in her hand until she was done with her first verse, even when a drop of burning wax began to roll down the melting cylinder.

“Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha’olam, she-asah nisim la’avoteinu bayamim hahem bazman hazeh.“

Genji closed his eyes and let the sound of Angela’s voice roll over him, flowing with the smell of burning candles and the light heat fluttering against his face. She was a good singer, even for short demonstrations such as this. He was glad her stressful career, which often required frequent yelling during life-saving procedures, hadn’t damaged her voice.

“Baruch atah Adonai, Elohenu Melech ha’olam, shehecheyanu, v’kiyimanu, v’higiyanu la’zman hazeh.”

Angela reached out and enclosed her right hand around Genji’s, and he opened his eyes to smile reassuringly at her and return the gesture with a squeeze. “How do you feel?”

His girlfriend sighed and looked between him, the candles, and the empty branches of the menorah. “Better. Thank you, Genji. I should have known that I had no cause to be nervous.”

“You don't need to apologize for worrying, Angela. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Of course. Join me?” She patted a couch cushion with her free hand and the two sat down, facing the two flames of the  menorah . Genji put up his right foot onto his left knee, resting the crook of his left elbow on the back of Angela’s neck. “Truth be told, Genji, this was...well, perhaps the first full prayer set that I can remember doing. And in front of someone else, too.”

“What do you mean?” Genji twirled a curl of Angela’s hair in his finger, bringing her to rest her head against his shoulder.

“Well, Genji, I...my family died when I was very young. I assume that they performed the full prayers when I was in my infancy, but after I was orphaned, I wasn’t able to carry on the tradition.” Angela had long since come to terms with the death of her parents and spoke of the event without faltering in her speech, but Genji knew from experience that that sort of pain never truly left you. “You know, I never had a  bat mitzvah . It’s not unheard of. I simply...did not have the stability or the environment to go through that ceremony. And then when I did achieve both, time became the missing factor.”

She nuzzled deeper into his shoulder, sliding a bit into Genji’s armpit, and wrapped her arms around herself. Genji released her hair to bring his arm to a standstill against her shoulder, hugging her close. “I understand. There’s always more that we wish we could have done, regrets that never truly ease even if there are people to be forgiven.” He clenched his jaw. He hadn’t meant to insert his own experience into the moment: this was Angela’s moment of clarity, of development.

Angela seemed to sense his anxiety, probably because her head was directly underneath his jaw. A peck on her boyfriend’s chest brought his attention back to her. “It’s all right, Genji. This is good for both of us.” He couldn’t see her eyes from here, but he could tell that Angela was looking up at him as best she could from her snuggling position. “But yes, I do regret that. I kept up the prayers, certainly: I attended temple, and celebrated Passover and Rosh Hashanah, and fasted for Yom Kippur. I wasn’t going to leave that part of me, that part of  them  behind.” She trailed off, bringing her knees closer to her and stretching her jacket over them, wrapping herself in a double layer of warmth to maximize the heat retention of her legs. Genji being near her certainly helped.

“But I cannot deny it. I was not, am not, a fully practicing Jew, Genji. I cannot speak or read Hebrew beyond what few prayers I have committed to memory. I do not eat according to the rules of kashrut. And I did not undergo a bat mitzvah.” Angela watched the flames eat away at the wax tops of the candles, the wicks burning strong despite their isolation and the comparatively cold air of the room. She should probably invest in more heating. “I participate in the important celebrations. I am ethnically Jewish. But tonight was the first night that I recited anything more than the first prayer on Hanukkah.”

Another pause. Genji waited, and when it didn’t seem like she would continue, he spoke up. “I’m here. It’s okay, Angela.”

“I don’t feel the need to compare myself against others who practice this faith, Genji. But I cannot help but sense, faintly, as if I am not a good Jew. I know that’s a ridiculous statement: there is no ‘council of Judaism’ traveling the world and assigning every Jew a grade on some point system. But I still am unable to divest myself from that statement.” She released her grip on her own body to wrap her arms around Genji. “Have you ever felt similarly?”

Genji was silent for a long moment, tracing the line of her elbow on his stomach with his right hand, resting his chin in her hair. “I don’t have the same experience with religion, no. My active practice of Shinto has slipped during my more difficult times, but it was entrenched enough in my youth that I forgave myself for the years that I was inconsistent. I am not, of course, suggesting that I believe that you have anything that you need to forgive yourself for, but the truth is more complicated.” He hurriedly added, pre-empting an interjection that Angela was about to voice. “I have returned to the diligent practice of its rituals. Zenyatta’s monastery is very open-minded when it comes to tolerating a variety of beliefs. But I suspect that is not what you are asking about, Angela.”

She didn’t respond. Genji planted a kiss on the top of her head and continued. “I do not enjoy the person I once was, Angela. Not just the violence that you saw during my time with Blackwatch. Before that, even, I was an intemperate youth. I loved my family and kept up my studies and strengths, but I my hedonism interfered with the development of my character. And after Hanzo and I went our...separate ways, the rage nearly choked me.” His wrist tensed, but he didn’t tighten his grip on Angela’s arms or body. “I will not repeat what I thought I would do to my brother when we next met. Nor will I force you to hear in detail the despair that I foresaw would overtake me afterwards, or even before, and the actions that would result. I was hopeless, but I took that anguish out against others. Some who deserved it, and many more who did not.”

He was on a roll now, and Angela didn’t dare interrupt. She had an idea where this might be going, but she knew that it would help Genji to talk it out himself. So she stayed quiet and looked up to kiss Genji on the chin, a reminder that she was here for him, whatever he needed.

“My pain...I couldn’t decide what hurt more. The violence and betrayal inflicted upon me by my brother, the half-life I found myself in with my new body, the seemingly never-ending list of troubles and grievances that were arrayed against me. I could have ended up in a very dark place, Angela, darker that I would dare dream of. And then, I forgave myself.”

“It wasn’t that simple, Genji.”

“No, it wasn’t. I wouldn’t have done it at all, if not for Zenyatta’s guidance. He showed me how to find value in my current life, and helped me decide on my own to let go and forgive.”

“Yourself, Hanzo, or both?” Angela murmured, drumming her fingers on her arms in a slow beat.

“Both. Zenyatta gave me the tools, the foundation, but left it up to me to decide how to accept and move on. And I think the same is true of your situation here, Angela.”

“How so?”

“You are the only one convincing yourself that you have something that you need forgiven. Therefore, you’re the only one who can grant that forgiveness.” Genji pulled her closer, taking a long, warm sniff of her golden-white hair. The scents of her day, trapped in her locks, came to him in waves: the sharp cinnamon shampoo, the light sourness of sweat on her scalp, and the slightly acrid smell of latex gloves and hospital hallways. All elements of her, the woman he loved, forming together to give him a picture of who she was. A doctor, a caretaker, a significant other. “Angela, the regret you’re talking about...holding onto it won’t grant you absolution. Instead, it will imprison you, keep you from growing beyond its limits, trap you in cycles of negativity. You’ve already done so well at escaping its boundaries the way you have. All you have left to do is let yourself know that it has no hold over you, and release your guilt.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t even react. Genji was worried that he’d pushed her a bit too far for one conversation, when Angela turned up to him again and brushed her lips against his, breathing into his mouth before pulling him into a kiss. Tears dotted the corners of her eyes, but she smiled around the kiss and moved her hand to the back of his head to deepen it.

“Thnk ye, Genji.” Angela tried to speak around his lips, but even with her muffled words he made out her meaning. Taking one more long, slow breath through his nostrils as they kissed, Genji separated from her and nuzzled his forehead against hers, cradling her cheeks in his hands.

“My pleasure, Angela.” She giggled into the bridge of his nose and poked him in the chest, falling backwards onto the couch. The flickering candles made shadows dance across the two of them as Angela felt her boyfriend drape himself across her and take her lips in his own a second time. There would be more times to worry, more times for self-doubt. But right now, they didn’t have to worry about any of that.

Tonight, it could just be the two of them, helping each other together.