#and even more I want to see her suffer through the mortifying ordeal of being known and embrace it!!!
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greaseonmymouth · 8 months ago
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you know, now that all three featherington girls are happily married and have babies and they’ve even bettered their relationships with each other, I’m kind of here for portia getting a chance at romance. let HER have a second marriage and this time for love
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starry-bite · 3 years ago
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and even beyond having similar backgrounds, consider:
raffi is from the romulan affairs division of starfleet intelligence. that's what got her the rescue mission gig (in una mccormack's novel the last best hope, she's the one who gives the initial briefing to starfleet command about the supernova). she has spent her life getting to know and, more importantly, understand romulan culture. we even see from elnor's medallion that she reads (and, ostensibly, speaks) rihan.
consider the impact laris and zhaban must have on her, as one of the handful of non-tal shiar, non-romulan people in the universe who could begin to understand what it is for them to leave the organization, to leave and lose their people. though i imagine the tal shiar component breeds distrust at first (how could it not?), imagine how laris (and zhaban, but mostly laris--they cope in opposite directions) might reciprocate that distrust, being so engrained with romulan supremacist ideology and hatred for the federation as the empire's cultural and military enemy. but she also truly understands the power and skill of intelligence work. and especially under the assumption they'll have to work together closely without margin for error or pettiness, how do people with massive trust issues overcome them?
absolute candor, baby.
also, think about: laris' sleuthing in dahj's apartment. now think about raffi's detective work (throughout s1 really, but specifically) with the holos in broken pieces. now tell me these women would not run the tightest, most exacting intelligence operations together. you can't.
okay, now imagine raffi's impact on laris. a human who carries paranoia with the same weight she does, who knows the depth of laris' sacrifice, who--figuratively and literally--speaks her language. they are very much a romulan who's a little too human for romulus and a human who's a little too romulan for earth. imagine what seamless understanding could occur between them, these two women who sacrifice home for the greater good. imagine what a comfort raffi could be to laris as all she has ever known collapses around her and she is sent to a world that doesn't want her, a post-scarcity utopia no one understands the suffering she's seen, a world where most didn't even want to save the romulan people.
and what perspective does that bring to raffi being someone who chose to do the right thing simply because it was right and, even when picard's resolve and power crumbled, could not cope with the loss any better than laris could? raffi, who carried the loss of laris' planet and people like it was her own grief. raffi, who might understand through her seemingly insurmountable alienation from her family and her work what laris feels knowing her world is destroyed and even the remains of her people are forbidden to her.
laris and raffi, who both find their transgressions unforgiveable yet struggle to imagine what they could have done differently.
and god, how do they get this stupid, beautiful man they adore to show up for them in the ways that matter? i would like them to exchange notes and jokes and glances over all their mutual experiences but those exchanges over picard in that sharp-tongued, deeply loving way they share is *chef's kiss*. and then how do their different reactions to his abandonment of the evacuation affect their relationship?
all this to say: imagine laris and raffi, before and after everything, looking into each other's eyes and seeing a version of themselves they can love.
well, it's the mortifying ordeal of being known, innit?
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baku-bowl · 3 years ago
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broke 1,000 followers (the fuck? I don't even make content people), so decided to write up a list of some (but not all, I'll make other lists later) of my favorite Bakugou-centric fic recs. my tastes run towards hurt/comfort, as you'll probably figure from the list. if there are some Baku-centric fics that you've enjoyed that aren't on here, please add them - this is definitely not a complete list of the ones I've read and love, but I'm always up for some recs. <3
fair warning, most of these are wips.
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Social Media 101 by WindsChild8178
Part 1: Survival Guide to Fucking Up
[Solely Bakugou’s point of view]
Katsuki Bakugou doesn’t have a gentle bone in his body. He’s aggressive in everything he does and does everything with 100% of his heart in it. After the Sport’s Festival, Katsuki starts to get harassed by strangers for his unheroic demeanor. It starts with letters but it doesn’t end there. The moment Katsuki realizes the harassment has entered dangerous territory and he needs to tell someone, it’s already too late.
Part 2: Post Traumatic Life Disorder
[Point of View opens up to Bakugou, teachers and classmates]
When the Dorms are finally built, everyone is settling in well, but things become tense as people begin to realize something isn’t right with the recently rescued Bakugou.
[Cannon compliant right up to after the License Exam]
hands down my favorite fic in the fandom right now. it’s the one that converted me into a Bakugou lover. if you have any fondness for Bakugou as a character then it’s likely you’ve read this one already, but if not, I can’t recommend it enough. incredibly depressing, but with the hope that comfort is coming soon in the next few chapters.
The Kids Will Be Alright, Eventually by NotWithThatAttitude
Bakugou is spiraling in the aftermath of Kamino and his friends are starting to notice. He's stubborn, aggressively independent, and less than willing to dig into his past, but after a breakdown that ends with a painful secret revealed, he starts to get help.
Whether he likes it or not.
Meanwhile, a new kind of villain threatens an uneasy peace following the loss of Allmight. Whispers build as a new narrative slowly takes shape:
Hero society needs to change.
Feat. Therapy, Dadzawa, best boy Kirishima, dysfunctional families, healing, growing up, and the mortifying ordeal of being known
guys.. the medical accuracy of this fic is just... *chef’s kiss*
I rarely see mental health genuinely handled well in fics, but this one goes above and beyond. kudos to the author for doing such excellent research into psychology, and making the application of it in here not-boring. also, while this one does have abusive!Mitsuki, it’s done in a way that feels realistic, and how I usually will see it occur in real life, rather than just for the hurt/comfort feels.
fair warning, the fic can be incredibly triggering (themes of severe depression, PTSD, panic attacks, rape survival, abuse survival, suicidal ideation/attempted suicide, among other things), so be safe and heed the tw’s if you decide to read. legitimately one of my Top Favorite fics in this fandom.
Lock and Key by autochorystalize
Bakugou made a choked, gravelly noise before croaking out a low, “You can’t be serious.” His fingers ached to blow up everything in the room.
“I’m sorry, young man, but you can’t change reality! This sometimes happens.” Recovery Girl clicked through his file, adding a new symbol in a previously empty slot.
- - -
A pair of eyes discreetly locked on to an explosive blond plowing his way forward, parting people in his path. He recognized the kid, of course. Anyone in the underbelly of society would recognize him, after the publicity of both UA’s Sports Festival and the events leading up to All Might’s fall. The uniform he was wearing cast away any doubts about the young man’s identity.
It was a bit of a surprise that the little firecracker presented as an omega.
- - - - - - - - -
Or: there are certain types of evil that seemed too distant, archaic violations and perversions that would never actually threaten bright-eyed heroes-in-training in the clean, modern world...but sometimes those evils aren't as distant as one might think.
remember when I said that I love a/b/o fics that are full of plot and world-building and gender-induced tension? that’s this one. the OC’s are fabulous and you love to hate ‘em. also, it’s the fic that made me fall head-over-heels for the TodoBaku dynamic, so it’s got a special place in my cold, dead heart. 
be warned, there are rather explicit non-con scenes between an adult (OC) and a minor (Bakugou) in this one, but the author warns for them in advance, and you could likely skip those parts without missing too much if you need to.
Never and Always, Eventually by Wawa_Boonliang
"Katsuki can remember the exact moment that he and Deku…that he and Midoriya Izuku became friends. He can also remember the moment he and Izuku became fierce rivals, a time when they were almost enemies.
However, what he remembers most clearly about their relationship is the moment that they moved passed rivals and became something more close than mere friends. Something more like brotherhood, something forged in fire and secured in the middle of a battlefield or in the midst of natural disaster where the number of the dead was climbing ever higher. And then it was torn from him."
Katsuki is given a second chance. A chance to save everyone. A chance to change everything.
But should he?
y’all. I’m a slutty, slutty whore for time travel fics. a time travel fic with autistic!coded Bakugou? it was love at first read.
Lessons Learned by Sif (Rosae)
Rather than the police station, Katsuki's friends bring him to a hospital after rescuing him from the villains. His wounds were minor, but it didn't make having them treated any less important. As it would so happen, Best Jeanist was also brought to this hospital after the attack.
Sometimes, small choices have a big impact on how a story plays out.
classic Bakugou hurt/comfort. this fic opened me up to the potential that could be a genuinely good Best Jeanist & Katsuki mentor-mentee relationship, and I kind of dig it and search ravenously for it in other fics now. I’m also a huge fan of the behind-the-scences Pro Hero Chat group.
Slope by sunfleurmoon
“I’m not a hero. Or a good person,” Katsuki says, giving Aizawa a pointed look, “So leave me alone. I don’t care about the League or UA, or you—” The two years he’s been away have been fine, more than fine, fucking fantastic actually if you ignore the bi-monthly near-death experiences. He doesn’t need this place. He doesn’t miss this place.
And yet, longing, a childish desire to tear up, or maybe blow something to bits, they all twist in his chest like a band of traitors regardless. “—I just want to go home.”
Or: the one where Katsuki and Izuku fail the first term exam, Aizawa discovers their pasts, and Katsuki is booted from UA. Featuring questionable descriptions of villain organizations, a slightly illegal moving shop, and your favorite emotionally constipated badass in distress with a newly discovered penchant for collecting strays.
paaaaaaiiiiiiiin. the hurt is ALIVE in this one. lots of tortured, angsty exploding child goodness. the OC’s are excellently crafted, and the Bakugou & Eri relationship? beautiful. definitely deserves a read.
Ground Zero by WindsChild8178
In the wake of Kamino, Katsuki is tested more than anyone could imagine. Bound by a villain’s quirk to keep his silence or die, he lives each day knowing it might very well be his last. He continues to work towards becoming a hero, keeping his secret from his classmates and teachers, focusing on making it through each day and trying not to allow the panic or depression to get the best of him. When the villain finally corners him with demands in exchange for his life, there is really only one answer Katsuki Bakugou can give.
honestly don't know which I want updated more - social media 101 or ground zero. this author's fics are amazing, and I really wasn't expecting the twist in this one. can't wait for windschild to come back to this fic some day.
The Defect by LadyGreenFrisbee
"Why do you want to win the Sports Festival so badly?" 
Because I want to see if the defect could usurp the masterpiece.
(In which Endeavor holds a terrible secret and Bakugo has to suffer since childhood for it.)
a great concept, and I adore the shouto and Katsuki sibling interaction here. hoping the author will come back to this one some day.
A Name That You'll Remember by Heronfem
Kirishima Eijirou is a Hero. Bakugou Katsuki... is not. Trapped in his toxic workplace and increasingly desperate to get out, Red Riot's days are only brightened by a new villain known as Caution, who's not exactly villainous and keeps accidentally doing good deeds. But when a real villain appears, a threat from the past that demands that Red Riot make the ultimate sacrifice to keep the public safe, Bakugou is forced into saving the day... and eventually, Red Riot himself.
sob story good guy villains are my weakness, this fic is a gem, and I'd kill for the sequel.
Our Hero by AnonymousTwit
He felt everything jerk to the side and throw his balance off before he saw anything, dust clouding his vision and irritating his lungs as the earth itself opened up to swallow them whole. For a single moment, in a millisecond's time, his wild eyes locked with Raccoon Eyes', hers alight with fear and adrenaline-fueled desperation. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that it was the first time she'd looked at him with something other than long-deserved hatred in days.
And then he was free falling.
Or
After a particularly nasty encounter between childhood friends, the class learns about Bakugou and Midoriya's dark history and practically ostracizes Bakugou while trying to defend Midoriya. An earthquake during an outing has all sides regretting their decisions.
just fucking tear apart my self-sacrificing faves in every way imaginable while their loved ones watch on in terror. 💖🥰💖 this one is heavy on the Bakusquad and Class-1A feels, and VERY heavy on the Mina & Bakugou relationship (platonic).
Running back the tape, watching it replay by Faralyne
For someone ripped from their time, ripped from the few but strong relationships built by time and personal development, by self-reflection and swallowed pride, ripped from the one thing that made him feel worthwhile and needed and put-together, and forced to forge everything over again—Katsuki thinks he is handling it pretty fucking well.
Or
A villain’s quirk sends a 29-year-old Bakugou back in time to his middle school days.
am I a sucker for time travel? yes. am I a sucker for vigilante!bakugou? also yes. am I a sucker for this fic? literally refreshing the page in wait for an update as we speak.
Liability by sandelf
After All-Might dies rescuing Bakugou from the League, Bakugou is determined to prove it wasn't for nothing.
But the world is against him, his grief is overwhelming, and his stability is splitting at the edges.
very self-indulgent bakugou angst. tw for harassment, severe depression, and suicidality.
Special Mentions:
How To Win The Sport Festival: A Step By Step Guide by mhwright
Short re-imagining of the Sports Festival Arc if Shinso had planned a little better and worked a little harder to win the Sports Festival and if the match-ups had been slightly different. Self-indulgent fic of watching him succeed.
this is completely Shinsou-centric, not Bakugou-centric, but I love and adore it and am dying for a sequel. Shinsou is Best Boy here and you'll be rooting for him the whole time.
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melatovnik · 4 years ago
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ok ur top faves wangxian fics go
hey yati! 🥰️
alright, so first things first, here’s a big wangxian fic rec list i made a while ago, if you wanna check that one out too! consider the list below part 2. these are all my faves so far since my last rec list (as you'll quickly see, i have a LOT of faves).
and just a fyi/psa/disclaimer for anyone reading this: some of these fics have disturbing themes and/or kinky/freaky sex! make sure to check the authors’ tags and notes before reading. also, much like my first rec list, there’s going to be a mix of mdzs and cql canon, characterizations, dynamics, etc., so bear that in mind.
....ok GO
live from new york by varnes | rated E | 87K words | THE snl au fic!!!! yes, by snl i mean saturday night live. this is perhaps the best and funniest story i've ever read, period. varnes is a fucking genius. read this fic.
Wei Ying lets out a long, ugly groan. “I am fine, Lan Zhan. Everybody is overreacting, it’s so embarrassing for all of you.”
“You had undiagnosed pneumonia, which you walked around with for weeks until you passed out during dress,” Lan Wangji corrects him. “It got a big laugh, until everyone thought you were dead.”
He keeps his voice even and does not tell Wei Ying that it had been Lan Wangji who caught him, who called the ambulance, and who rode with him to the hospital, where he was yelled at by nurses who wanted to know why he hadn’t noticed that Wei Ying couldn’t stop shivering or string proper sentences together.
“Rumors of my demise have been vastly overstated,” Wei Ying says. “Anyway, I’m already feeling much better. Basically fine. Really almost completely back to normal, so stop babying me and tell me why the fuck you let your stupid brother hire the worst man in the world to host our show.”
-
OR: the one where they all work at SNL, Yanli's ex-boyfriend is hosting, and that's just the beginning of everybody's problems.
swiss cheese theory by varnes | rated M | 19K words | sequel to snl au fic!!!!!! another must-read.
The Swiss Cheese model of accident causation likens human system defences to a series of slices of randomly-holed Swiss Cheese arranged vertically and parallel to each other with gaps in-between each slice. Defences against failure are modelled as a series of barriers, represented as slices of the cheese. The holes in the cheese slices represent individual weaknesses in individual parts of the system. The system as a whole produces failures when holes in all of the slices momentarily align, permitting "a trajectory of accident opportunity," so that a hazard passes through holes in all of the defences, leading to an accident.
OR: Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian go to the courthouse.
OR: “Sweethearts,” the city clerk had said, very gently, “you’re already married.”
best friends forever by varnes | rated T | 17K words | alright, so like, strictly speaking, wangxian isn't the focus of this fic, BUT. this fic is so good!! it is seriously so good, and it made me fall in love with jin ling/lan jingyi. also, it's varnes, so read it!
It happened like this: Jin Ling was a sect leader now, which was, and Jingyi really meant this, fucking hilarious. There were few things funnier, in his honest opinion.
Because he was young, and inexperienced, and also — it had to be said — a real shithead, there was apparently some belief amongst his advisors that the best way forward, to promote the picture of a stable, mature sect leader who absolutely did not cry at the drop of a hat, was for Jin Ling to get married.
-
OR: Jin Ling and Jingyi get engaged.
Things spiral from there.
For a Good Time, Call by ScarlettStorm | rated E | 171K words
The picture is of Wei Ying, that much is clear. It’s of a lot more of Wei Ying than Lan Zhan is used to seeing. He supposes that, technically, Wei Ying is dressed. It’s a bare technicality, since one of Wei Ying’s hands has rucked up his black tank top practically to his collarbone, showing a long expanse of abdomen and one nipple. Sweat beads on his sternum, catching the light like jewels. His other hand is--Lan Zhan feels his eyes widen, as though unable to look away from a train wreck--on his hip, one thumb tugging down the waistband of a pair of red briefs. Wei Ying is biting his lower lip and looking directly into the camera, sultry, his eyes dark and inviting. His erection is obvious, outlined against the red of the briefs and framed carefully with the hand on his hip. Lan Zhan’s brain goes wildly, screamingly blank.
Or: Lan Zhan accidentally finds his best friend's OnlyFans account and has an ongoing emotional crisis.
love, in fire and blood by cicer | rated E | 360K words | i actually haven't finished this one since i was reading it when it was a WIP, i need to reread it and catch up fjdskl;fjsd, but i love it very much!!!!!! oh my god he wanted to look nice for his husband..... 🙃 [screams with mouth closed]
"You want Wen Ruohan dead," the Patriarch continued idly. "You want his corpse puppets eliminated. You want his halls burned to the ground and his soldiers disemboweled and begging for mercy. Have I about covered it?"
He gave another knife-edged smile.
"But what will you give me in return?"
"We would be willing to offer quite a bit in return for Wen Ruohan's defeat," Lan Xichen admitted. "But I'm afraid we don't know what an immortal such as yourself desires. Please advise us."
The Patriarch waved at hand at the front of the tent. "I want Second Young Master Lan."
(In which the Sunshot Campaign ends through an arranged marriage to the Yiling Patriarch, and Lan Wangji suffers the mortifying ordeal of falling in love with his own husband.)
how to fall in love with a catfish: a guide by wei wuxian (disaster rat) by bwyn & Yuisaki | rated T | 55K words
A new plan hatches in Wei Wuxian’s head. If this nocturnal, bottom-feeding, slimy, invasive mudcat posing as a beautiful actor thinks he can sway Wei Wuxian with animal pictures and a sob story and an unbelievably stilted way of texting with still no dick pictures in the first five minutes of conversation, he has another thing coming. Wei Wuxian’s got it, alright, he has this in the fucking bag.
~
Wei Wuxian plots to expose a catfish using strategic memes and turtle pictures while wiggling his way out of family dinner. Lan Wangji just wants companions.
there’s no promised goodbye here by Yuisaki | rated T | 54K words
Jiang Cheng stares at him. “Didn’t you say you broke up five months ago?”
“Yeah.”
“So why do you have a picture of you two kissing taped to your fridge?”
“Because we’re too broke for magnets,” Wei Wuxian explains, then considers that statement. “Well, I’m too broke for magnets. Lan Zhan probably refuses to buy them because he’s trying to have lofty ideas about the moral failings of materialism.”
~
Wei Wuxian navigates the trials of living with his ex-boyfriend in apartment 1301.
paint smears on sunny days by SnowshadowAO3 | rated E | 54K words
To say that he runs to his car would be incorrect, as he is a Lan, and running is both undignified and unnecessary unless in immediate danger. Nor does he slam his key into the ignition, or aggressively swerve around the cars on the freeway, or have a mild panic attack at the fact he is picking A-Yuan up late from school for the first time ever.
He comes close, though.
By the time he arrives, it’s 4:35PM, and he has imagined about fifty different worse-case scenarios. The door is partly open when he gets to it, a messy label of 104B—Art Room scrawled with chalk on a placard next to the faded wood. As he opens it fully, he expects to see a wailing, terrified child, or perhaps a scene of utter misery and betrayal.
What he finds is his son, hands covered in paint, being sung to by a beautiful, dark-haired stranger.
“Ducks live in the pond, yellow ducks, happy ducks!”
Lan Wangji stops in his tracks.
(Or: Falling in love with your son’s art teacher, in five parts)
a paper friend by sunzu | rated G | 5K words
Lan Wangji finds a paperman far from its body and helps get it home.
-Or-
Lan Wangji unknowingly meets Wei Wuxian for the first time.
All Caught Up by brooklinegirl | rated E | 37K words
"Betrothed," Wei Ying says indignantly.
Lan Wangji can't stop his gaze from darting up to him. Wei Ying understands. Wei Ying is looking at him, wide-eyed and upset on his behalf.
"And you don't even like her," Wei Ying says.
"I don't even know her," Lan Wangji says quietly.
"But even if you did—" Wei Ying starts.
"I wouldn't want this," Lan Wangji finishes.
Lead Me On Through by mrsronweasley | rated E | 55K words | oh look another canon-era practice kissing fic fjdskfl;ds
"Who do you think your betrothed is?" Wei Wuxian asks, sprawling out in front of Lan Zhan and enjoying the prim thinning of his lips at the question. He shouldn't be sprawling—they're in the library, for one, and Lan Zhan is studying, for another—but he can't help himself. Wei Wuxian is a sprawler.
"I do not believe this to be of importance," Lan Zhan responds, without turning his gaze away from his book.
"What!" Wei Wuxian sits up. "How can you say that? Of course it's important! This is the person you'll be with for the rest of your life, Lan Zhan."
I Started From the Bottom/And Now I'm Rich by x_los | rated E | 58K words | ok so i know that in my spiel above i said to mind the tags, etc., but actually pay no mind to the first two relationship tags for this fic. i PROMISE that this isn't that sort of dead dove fic fjdksl;fjs;lifkj. i. it. it's wangxian. don't sweat it. don't even trip. just—this fic fucking rules. it's completely insane and it slaps. wei ying is a girlboss and a bitch and i like her So Much
“First, you get the money. Then you get the power, respect - hos come last.”
Wen Qing traps Wei Wuxian in the Demon Slaughtering Cave, but Wei Wuxian isn’t interested in being the beneficiary of the Wen Remnants’ noble sacrifice. His efforts to free himself accidentally send him back to the beginning of the Sunshot Campaign. Coreless but armed with demonic cultivation, knowledge of the future and his wits, Wei Wuxian takes advantage of this opportunity to come out on top of both the war and its aftermath—before either has a chance to happen—by marrying and swiftly burying the cultivation world’s worst men.
Lan Wangji is confused, hurt, and uncomfortably aroused by Wei Wuxian’s improbably elaborate series of Sect-themed bridal negligees.
rather cruelly used and rather reserved by x_los | rated M | 14K words
In the month between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian leaving Yi City and their attending the cultivation conference in Lanling, Wei Wuxian discovers a locked room in the Jingshi. It is a mystery that clever and curious Wei Wuxian is doing everything in his power to avoid solving.
But the rose was awake all night for your sake/Knowing your promise to me by x_los | rated E | 8K words | resentment tenties~
The resentful energy occupying Wei Wuxian's body like an enemy army is very interested in giving him Lan Wangji, tied up with a bow.
Wei Wuxian is hoping that Lan Wangji (who is far too noble and very keen to save Wei Wuxian's misguided soul) doesn't find out about any aspect of that.
Mo Money, Mo Problems by x_los | rated M | 3K words
After the Mo family perishes in distressing and mysterious circumstances, Wei Wuxian, still reeling from his reincarnation, tries to dip back into their manor for a little travelling money. (Forward planning! What a concept!) Lan Wangji catches him immediately, and is highly unimpressed (read: furious) with Wei Wuxian’s decision to run away from him in the first place.
Standing Engagement by x_los | rated M | 18K words
Lan Wangji believes he and Wei Wuxian are essentially engaged. While they search for his missing betrothed, he accidentally reveals as much to Jiang Wanyin. Now everyone in the cultivation world knows about the imminent marriage, except for Wei Wuxian himself.
Coming Back to Yourself by acernor | rated E | 22K words | genital swapping for fun and nonprofit!
Lan Wangji gets cursed with a ~woman's body~ and has to orgasm to go back. Since he's 1) a virgin 2) super repressed and 3) SUPER gay, he has no idea what to do.
If only he had a super nosy friend who's read lots of erotic novels who could help him figure out what to do... hm...
Save a Sword by etymologyplayground | rated E | 5K words | a fic inspired by the above fic!
Lan WangJi presses a kiss into his throat, which draws a shivering whine from him. "Like this," he agrees, his voice so low. Then he slides one warm elegant hand down Wei WuXian's chest to his belly, and then to his — to his —
--
fan ending for acernor's fabulous masterpiece "coming back to yourself" because i'm a huge goofball and that fic fucks
Our Eyes on the Road by etymologyplayground | rated E | 23K words | brought to you by lore (the author) and Orville Peck's hit song Drive Me, Crazy
Lan Zhan is silent for a long moment, and the van's speakers quietly pipe the second song on the album into the empty space between them. Then Lan Zhan shifts his hand a little on Wei Ying's leg, presses his fingers once into the meat of his thigh. "Alright," he says.
"Alright," Wei Ying echoes in a wheeze.
"Is that better?" Lan Zhan checks, because he is a good boy. Then he spreads his fingers out a little wider, because he is evil and must be stopped.
-
Lan Zhan is driving to Chicago. Wei Ying tags along.
Worship you till morning comes by feyburner | rated E | 7K words
A meet-cute, a first date, a sleepover.
Let's take a ride round the curves of desire by feyburner | rated E | 6K words | yeah........... uhh, yeah.
Wei Ying was sprawled on the floor in front of the oscillating fan when Lan Zhan got home from work.
The Roots Grow Riotous by hansbekhart | rated E | 105K words | a beautifully crafted, emotionally harrowing fic. i should warn you (since it's not quite tagged as such) that while wangxian is endgame, the overall story doesn't have the sort of happily-ever-after ending you might expect. i’ve seen it described as open-ended but hopeful and cathartic, which i find to be a pretty accurate assessment
Sometimes Lan Zhan doesn’t work through lunch. Sometimes he makes conversation with coworkers in the halls. Sometimes he goes home instead of spending the last hour trawling through Grindr. But mostly, that’s exactly what he does. The sameness is comforting. His life spools out in easily measured increments: capsule collections, yards of hand dyed textiles, ninety day lead times, sell through figures, cost of goods sold.
Every date in manufacturing can be calculated backwards and forward from a single horizon point: the date that the goods must arrive into the country where they'll be sold. Other than that, nothing else really matters.
总有一天; a place to hide (can’t find one near) by yiqie | rated E | 76K words | i can't recall a fic ever affecting me as much as this one did. one of the best stories i've ever read. so, so, so crushingly beautiful. it's viscerally distressing/upsetting at times, especially at the start, so please heed the tags and author's note (they provide a way to skip the beginning scene if needed)!
That’s just the thing, isn’t it? Wei Ying feels nothing. He doesn’t feel anything, and this emptiness should scare him. He knows he should be scared. He wants to be scared. He isn’t. Fear itself is never scary; fear is just a response. It means that your body wants you alive. It’s the absence of terror that scares him.
请兔子吃晚饭; treating a bunny to dinner by yiqie | rated T | 3K words | read this one to recover from the above fic
It’s not really about the food. Being able to share it in the same space is its own kind of magic.
爱不释手; never let me go by yiqie | rated E | 69K words | and then read this one to feel harrowed again, this time in canon-verse!
Wei Wuxian has certainly hoped so ardently in his two lifetimes, for so many different things, in so many different ways, that he could have summoned the demon to his front door with his bare hands. His eyes wander to Lan Zhan, settle on the back of his head, the blue-black curtain of his hair. Oh, how he has hoped.
在此恭迎夷陵老祖; to yiling laozu, the great and venerable by yiqie | rated M | 7K words | read this one to recover from the above fic (this time in canon-verse)
“You don’t know? In Yiling, there’s a tree at the edge of town, one that stands at the fringes of where the city ends and the Burial Mounds begin, called the Lover’s Tree. They say if you write a letter and nail it to its branches, Yiling Laozu will receive it, and he’ll reply.”
你的阳光下; wanna hide in your light by yiqie | rated T | 2K words | :')
Lan Zhan shuts off the water before it can start getting cold, because Wei Ying still needs to take one. Any other day, Wei Ying would have slunk in, pretending to be annoyed that Lan Zhan started without him, and neither of them would have want for hot water, but Wei Ying is still asleep.
From my heart's ground. by orange_crushed | rated E | 38K words | get (orange) CRUSHED!!!!!!!
After a while he can feel a palm against his face, gentle fingers soft and soothing. It’s not real, not exactly: he can tell the difference between a ghost’s touch and a living person’s, between a spirit-vision and an overactive imagination. His education has been thorough. But the beating has also been thorough, so for now he forgets what he knows and leans into it, into the hand cupping his cheek. It’s soft and dry as those forgotten petals, as the touch of a pillow. He can smell wildflowers, can taste blood and dirt. My baby, his mother says, and he closes his eyes. My treasure. He barely remembers the sound of her voice, but the feeling of it is just the same. Just the same as ever.
[In which Lan Wangji loses almost everything, plants a garden, and grows a second chance.]
Pentimento. by orange_crushed | rated E | 73K words | this fic briefly gave me a serious case of career envy :/ ......but seriously, this is an absolute must-read!!!
When Wangji was eighteen he’d walked into the first class of his fall semester painting module and there’d been a boy in a hilariously ugly floppy knit hat sitting cross-legged on the floor at the front of the room. He’d had a sheet of canvas paper taped to his board and his board clamped between his legs and a tackle box of brushes and tubes—a real fishing tackle box, with a fish-shaped logo on it that said BASS, not one of the nice art supply storage boxes they sold in the campus bookstore, like the one Wangji was carrying—open beside him. Everyone else had settled into the rows of stools and easels, but that boy had stayed on the floor for the whole two hour and thirty minute studio. Wangji had looked at him and thought, that idiot’s back is going to hurt.
[Former best friends Lan Wangji, paintings conservator, and Wei Wuxian, art handler, meet again and realize... neither of them were actually in unrequited love.]
Many happy returns. by orange_crushed | rated E | 25K words
His fingers are still clasped between Wangji's. In the mirror Wangji watches him tuck his coat between his thighs so that he can fuss with the tucked-in hem of his shirt, tousle up the side of his hair, all one-handed. "I hope what I'm wearing is okay."
"It's good," Wangji says. "You look good."
"I guess I must," Wei Ying says, and then he smiles and bites his teeth into his bottom lip for a second, devastatingly, and before Wangji can drop dead the doors to the elevator slide open, and the hostess station appears.
[In which lonely businessman Lan Wangji meets the right wrong person and changes the course of his life.]
The dreamers. by orange_crushed | rated E | 17K words
“Stop mothering me,” Wei Ying protests. “Why don’t you ever listen?” He scowls at Wangji, but then the lure of the clean water is too much; he sits grumbling and strips off his vambraces and loosens the collar of his robes and wipes himself down in the steam. Wangji sits on a stool and watches him, and after a while Wei Ying slaps the rag into the bowl and glares back. “Are you going to sit and stare the whole time?” he demands. “You want to see me strip naked and give my filthy evil self a good scrubbing, huh?”
Yes, Wangji thinks.
[This is a story about a horrible war and a beautiful dream; about grabbing happiness where you can find it, and not letting go.]
mercy, tear it down. by orange_crushed | rated E | 31K words
“You want me to call you good?” Wangji says. “To make you feel good?” Wei Ying makes a wretched, soft, surprised sound in the back of his throat. “Then will you be good?”
“Uh,” Wei Ying says. His lashes flick down again, nervously. “Good how?”
Wangji hasn’t quite thought that far ahead.
Kingfisher Feathers by Anonymous | rated E | 83K words | WIP (7/10 chapters, last updated 4/13/21) | omg omegaverse!!!! @/ this anon author... keep up the great work! also i have feelings for u
With an almost trance-like detachment, Wei Wuxian touched his own neck, his fingers skimming over the fresh mark. The bite wound had stopped bleeding, although he had no doubts it would open again if agitated.
Bonded.
He was bonded for life.
"Shit," he whispered. He looked over at the sleeping form of Lan Wangji—the Second Prince of Gusu and, until his brother was found, the sole heir to the throne. "Oh, shit. Lan Qiren is going to kill me."
----------
Lan Wangji goes into a fevered rut and accidentally bonds with Wei Wuxian. When they next meet, he remembers none of it, and Wei Wuxian is determined to keep the bond a secret—even when he's sent to the Cloud Recesses to be a consort in Lan Wangji's harem.
(tl;dr concubine!wwx is already married to emperor!lwj, who has no idea. drama ensues.)
Pull out game weak by 74243 | rated E | 23K words | featuring the hottest meanest dom top lesbian lwj of your wildest dreams. i hope ao3 user 74243 is having an amazing day
Wei Ying swipes right.
Extra Time by Anonymous | rated E | 28K words | fic inspired by the above fic! seriously good
How Wei Ying learned to stop worrying and love the strap (an AU of 74243's Pull out game weak)
Superfan by 74243 | rated E | 19K words | ao3 user 74243 writing banger after banger as per usual
“I’m not going to apologize for my job,” Wei Ying said, “so if you want to give me some kind of lecture--”
“No,” Lan Zhan said. “You misunderstood. I am...” she paused, as if considering the best way to put it. “I’m a fan.”
Spit in my mouth, look in my eyes by 74243 | rated E | 7K works | i'm just going to list all of ao3 user 74243's fics, ok? that's what's gonna happen here
Wei Wuxian was a little surprised herself, although she felt bad for being surprised. Of course it didn’t really mean anything about you, how you presented, Wei Wuxian knew that better than anyone, but all the same it was hard to reconcile Lan Zhan as an omega.
(wwx makes an error of judgment)
If the shoe fits by 74243 | rated E | 8K words
Wei Ying loses a bet.
the And they were roommates series by 74243 | rated E | 19K words total
That was the other thing, when Wei Ying had moved in. She’d scented Lan Zhan immediately, the sandalwood and smoke rising off her, almost before she’d taken in Lan Zhan’s straight posture, her narrowed eyes. She’d known that Lan Zhan could tell, too. At the end, when they’d talked about the rent and Lan Zhan’s nearly finished PhD and Wei Ying’s working hours, Wei Ying had said, casual and effortless, “And you don’t mind that I’m an omega.”
“No,” Lan Zhan said.
Chef's kiss by 74243 | rated E | 7K words
Wei Ying said, “You know, in some ways I’m kind of depressed. I took your biggest dick on my first try. Now I don’t have anything to build up to.”
“There are bigger ones available,” Lan Zhan said lazily. “I can pay for express shipping.”
(Lan Zhan works the late shift.)
Gold-palmed Warrior Quest! by 74243 | rated E | 13K words
When Lan Wangji suggested that they camp along the way to the Unclean Realm, rather than staying at inns, Wei Wuxian had been sceptical.
Dway! by 74243 | rated E | 6K words
“Hm,” Wei Ying said. “You like it rough, though, right? You seem like that kind of alpha.” When she saw Lan Zhan’s expression she raised an eyebrow. “What? Was I wrong? Are you tender and sweet? Do you cry?”
“You were not wrong,” Lan Zhan said. “I do not cry. Do you?”
tgif by 74243 | rated E | 17K words
Today Lan Zhan says that if Wei Ying cannot control her mouth then she will have to tape it shut.
On the ground by 74243 | rated E | 5K words
“I think you will like it,” Lan Zhan said.
Does your mother know by 74243 | rated E | 5K words | editing this rec list on a monday morning to add this brand new fic fresh off the presses. thank u ao3 user 74243 for feeding us so well 🙏
“Lan Zhan is such a well-behaved girl,” Madam Yu said.
all that and more by Euphorion | rated E | 20K words
Wei Wuxian locks his phone and puts it down, blinks at his ceiling, and picks it up again. The pictures are still there.
His first thought is that Lan Zhan meant them for someone else. That he just woke up at—he checks the timestamp—6:30 am on a Sunday and decided to go absolute full nuclear seduction option on some poor boy he met on Grindr, who would now be missing out on the best thing to ever happen to him because Wei Wuxian had a bad habit of distracting—of—oh.
Pieces of last night start to resurface and paste themselves together in his head. He winces.
The Golden Cutsleeve by syrus_jones | rated E | 77K words | of my faves, this is one of my favorite... faves. top faves. incredibly fun and silly and hot. just... oh my GOD, wei YING!
“I know! Why don’t you try it? Let me go and I’ll lend it to you!” Wei Wuxian bribed hysterically, desperate to escape from this encounter by any means necessary. And then, his eyes blew wide, realizing what he just said. ‘Wait— just what am I offering Lan Zhan?!’ he thought. How was he so stupid, how did he just offer that without thinking—
“You want me...to use it… after you?” Lan Zhan asked, his voice unusually faint.
~*~
Wei Wuxian's test of mysterious, literally magical sex toy goes awry when Lan Wangji finds him in the woods 'experimenting' with it and it ends up in Lan Wangji's possession.
Unfortunately, neither of them is aware that the toy is anchored to Wei Wuxian's body. Too bad Wei Wuxian invited him to try it.
Boy Trouble, We've Got Double by saltyfeathers | rated E | 60K words | !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! this is a really good fic
Lan Zhan stands there in his immaculate, cloud-patterned Lan robes, watching him calmly, one fist tucked up against his back. “I am betrothed.”
Wei Wuxian blinks. “Are you…” He tries to laugh. Again, it sounds inhuman. “Is this about last night? Are you mad at me? I only remember some of it, Lan Zhan. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I’m sure whatever I did I was just—” He gestures uselessly. He remembers being warm in Lan Zhan’s lap. He remembers fitting snugly in Lan Zhan’s lap. Wrapping his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck. Nosing at his jaw. “…playing around.”
“This has nothing to do with you, Wei Wuxian.”
none in the forest so bright as these by saltyfeathers | rated E | 6K words
Wei Wuxian puts a hand to his head, brain lost in fog. “Lan Zhan,” he pants. “Why are we here? Are we on a hunt?”
As Lan Zhan tries to remember, his brow furrows. He shakes his head slightly. “I don’t know.”
“This is bad,” Wei Wuxian says. When Lan Zhan cups his cheek again, sparks burst behind Wei Wuxian’s eyes. “Or maybe it’s not,” he says unthinkingly. Sighs, almost. Lan Zhan looks at his own arm like it's betrayed him. Wei Wuxian closes his eyes and presses his face into Lan Zhan’s palm. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” he murmurs. “What’s happening to us?”
out in the garden, there’s things you hid away by saltyfeathers | rated E | 121K words | oww oww oww 😣😣😣💘
There is a man with empty eye sockets and tears of fire in Wei Wuxian’s dreams. Tendrils of smoke curl around him in sleep, pressing at his most vulnerable spots, seeking entrance, slipping between his ribs.
When he ignores Lan Zhan's offers of help, he declines rapidly. He will die. Or, he should. Anyone else would.
Instead, he flees. And transforms.
crawling through your door by saltyfeathers | rated E | 12K words
Lan Wangji kisses him. When he pulls away, he speaks into the silence between them, because when he is with Wei Ying, he so rarely considers. “Why don’t you touch me anymore?”
Lan Zhan Works for the Historical Society by saltyfeathers | rated E | 7K words | some real real good lesbian action up in here
Pretty Lan Zhan. Beautiful Lan Zhan. Ice queen Lan Zhan. So intimidating and femme and coldly polite in public, yet meaner than a man in the bedroom. Wei Ying has slept with men before and none of them were mean-nice to her like Lan Zhan.
threadfic by saltyfeathers | not rated (each chapter rated/tagged individually) | 34K+ words | WIP (11/? chapters, last updated 3/15/21), but it’s a collection of stand-alone oneshots
semi cleaned-up wangxian twitter threadfic.
【已經打動我的心】So Sing To Me All Night by aroceu | rated T | 10K words | arrow writes wei ying so exquisitely well. i was weepy the whole time read this fic. for the best experience, i recommend following along with the accompanying spotify playlist.
No one listens to the radio in this day and age, but somehow from a bunch of left clicking and right clicking, through Facebook and Twitter and Youtube, Wei Ying finds himself on the WQHS homepage—the UPenn student radio station, promising eclectic tastes from a variety of hosts. Wei Ying can't remember giving a shit about his old college's student radio before he dropped out, but it's eleven at night and he has nothing else better to do. He clicks on the button that says Listen Here! and waits to be impressed.
get wild by aroceu | rated E | 24K words | 🔥🏀🔥 BASKETBALL FIC 🔥🏀🔥
He was looking for a specific reaction—to get Lan Zhan to lash out. All hard edges and demanding, the same way during the first scrim, Lan Zhan's dark voice had made him loose and obedient, itching to both rebel and obey at the same time.
It's them, whatever it is, but it doesn't belong on the basketball court.
~
Wei Ying didn't expect to enter a weird... something-with-benefits-plus-power-play with the captain of the Gusu basketball team. He's not sure if it's worth it.
without a warning by aroceu | rated T | 10K words | 🥺️🥺️🥺️
“Blegh,” Wei Ying says. “I hate being sick, Lan Zhan… my throat is so sore… why do I talk so much?”
“Stop talking then,” Lan Zhan says.
“You don’t mean that,” Wei Ying says, in his half-asleep daze. “I know you’ll never admit it, Lan Zhan, but you like it when I talk.”
your honor i’m a freak bitch by aroceu | rated E | 6K words
Wei Ying gestures to his outfit. His hands are buried deep within the hoodie; he’s mostly gesturing with the sleeves. “Well, it works with the whole get up, you see?”
“The…” Lan Zhan looks down at where his fingers are toying with the top of Wei Ying’s thigh highs. Wei Ying pretends he is not shivering. “…skirt. And these stockings.”
“Thigh highs, Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, batting at him with the end of a sleeve.
Play It By Ear by aroceu | rated T | 7K words | MY HEART !!!
In the virtual airplane flying over the island, appropriately called Yiling, Lan Zhan watches as bits and pieces of the island load in. There are many Statues of David, a gothic teacup ride, and, from what Lan Zhan can see, an entire field of spoiled turnips.
hanguang-jun @/hanguangjun Do you need turnips to sell?
timmy and tommy in a trenchcoat @/yilinglaozu oh! no haha! 😅 those are from a while ago but my brother insists i keep them there
for the ~aesthetic~
the key that our souls were singing by aroceu | rated M | 5K words
“I haven’t seen you since—Gusu, was it?” Wei Ying says. “Oh my god, it’s been so long. I didn’t even know you were LGBT! Unless you’re here as an ally, which is also totally cool—”
“No, I.” Lan Zhan coughs. Her throat feels dry. “I am a lesbian.”
abort retry fail by aroceu | rated E | 21K words
Lan Wangji must miss his husband over this amnesiac of a man Wei Wuxian has turned into. Well, Wei Wuxian will show him! He'll be even better—or at least, try to be just as good of a husband as he would be, without his memory loss.
Blackout If You Were Mine by aroceu | rated E | 9K words
Wei Ying likes to wear chokers a lot. So Lan Zhan buys some for him. Then, testing their limits, collars.
Wei Ying wears those, too.
-
Or, the one where Wei Ying and Lan Zhan accidentally stumble into a BDSM relationship.
eleven thousand meters & airborne by aroceu | rated E | 5K words | 😎✈️😎
Lan Zhan and Wei Ying join the mile high club.
many fox given by defractum | rated E | 24K words | can't go wrong with foxxian and dragonji content 🦊🐉
Lan Zhan is glaring at him. That's probably fair.
The last time they'd seen each other, Wei Ying had been digging through Lan Zhan's garbage. They'd made eye contact over the shredded bags, the week's trash scattered around him like stinky, oversized Lego.
Lan Zhan's eyes had been wide with horror, and Wei Ying's had been equally wide with feigned innocence. He'd reached out slowly, maintaining the eye contact, and then flipped over the food waste bin full of onion peel and carrot skin as a distraction and slunk off into the night. Probably not his finest moment.
-
Modern AU dragon!LWJ meets fox!WWX.
the tamed by defractum | rated E | 12K words
If the Second Jade of Lan insists on bringing the Yiling Patriarch as his guest to the next Cultivation Conference, he must first demonstrate a control over the Yiling Patriarch and his unnatural abilities.
The letter lies on their desk for days.
-
Post-canon, Wei Ying is invited, sort of, to a Discussion Conference.
us in a king-size, keep it a secret (say i'm your queen, i don't wanna leave this) by matcha_ado | rated E | 3K words
People always said Wei Ying was a royal pain in the ass. They were absolutely right, of course, just not in the way they thought.
it is wednesday my dudes by jelenedra | rated M | 4K words
Wednesday nights at Cloud Recesses strip club are always a little weird, but usually they're not this horny. Whatever Wei Ying and Lan Zhan get up to, Mianmian is not going to be the one to clean it up.
i'm the one for your fire by occultings | rated E | 43K words | cherry magic au! love it
Wei Ying, virgin and noted heterosexual, gets hit with a curse of an unusual nature on his 30th birthday — through physical contact, he can read the minds of others around him.
Enter Lan Zhan, hot former rival and current coworker, whose true thoughts about Wei Ying are nothing like he expects. (A loose Cherry Magic AU)
a thousand teeth, yours among them by darkredloveknot | rated E | 11K words
A one night stand in the time of zombies.
hoe to housewife pipeline by lanzhancore | rated E | 5K words
“You type fast,” Wei Ying murmurs, making a futile attempt at conversation while he waits for him to be done with… whatever. “Not to be pushy, but do you plan on fucking my ass anytime soon?”
or: wei ying has been thirsting after lan zhan for three slutty slutty years
can you feel it by lanzhancore | rated E | an instant classic
“What’s wrong?” Wei Ying asks finally, eyebrows drawn together. “Is everything okay?”
Thumbs stroking circles into his skin as if to comfort him, Lan Zhan says, “Don’t panic.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, sitting up on his elbows. “What did you do to my ass?”
“Nothing,” Lan Zhan says, convincing nobody. “But we need to go to the hospital.”
or: wei ying really should have sprung for the model with the flared base. he learns this lesson the hard way.
because you're mine (i walk the line) by lanzhancore | rated E | 8K words
Wei Ying is freshly cream-pied and still trying to remember where his legs are when Lan Zhan outlaws masturbation.
or: wei ying fucks around and finds out
payload by lanzhancore | rated M | 3K words | babysitter wwx + dilfji, what more could you need
Wei Ying has a whole five hours and thirty-six minutes to calm down but when he hears Lan Zhan’s key turning in the front door lock later that evening he has to cling to the couch cushions to keep from marching into the laundry room to retrieve the briefs so he can wave them in Lan Zhan’s face and demand to know who owns them.
or: lan zhan's self-restraint is not limitless
the to the brim series by verseau | rated E | 14K words total
Wei Ying wants to rob him, but it wouldn’t even be satisfying, since this guy is just—giving away money. With his nice fingers. Maybe Wei Ying will just bite his fingers, and that will give the same endorphin rush as robbing him. / a day told across five parts.
get that message home by verseau | rated G | 2K words | ohhhhhhhhh myyyyy godddddd 😭
Sizhui's father cannot haggle. It is a shame on Sizhui’s honor to have such an honest father.
Author's note [i'm including it here because it's golden]:
there is a scene in arrested development where lucille, who is on the opposite spectrum of humanity as lan zhan, asks, "it's a banana, michael. how much could one cost? ten dollars?" there are no bananas in this story.
dreaming and getting a glimmer by verseau | rated E | 27K words | a particular favorite of mine 🔥🍆💦🕳🔥
Wei Ying discovers himself.
trust your fingertips by plonk | not rated (but really rated E) | 15K word | 🥵️🥵️🥵️🥵️🥵️ plonk you’ve done it again!
Lan Wangji must suppress a shiver at every brush and press of Wei Wuxian’s fingers.
Under different circumstances - less public ones - he would welcome touch, given that his body is in such an aroused state.
Alas, his circumstances are these: sitting quietly while Wei Wuxian, the famous (infamous) Doctor of Yunmeng, digs his fingertips into Lan Wangji’s shoulders and chest and sides and hums thoughtfully.
Doctor, Doctor by YunmengLotus | rated E | 4K words | mmmmhmm!
Wei Ying needs to get a prostate exam. How ever will he deal when the world's hottest doctor walks through the exam room door and tells him to bend over?
TAKOYAKI by ariskamalt | rated E | 3K words | lan zhan gets jealous of his own damn appendages. meanwhile, wei ying is just having a good time.
Lan Zhan…cannot always feel or tell what his tentacles will do.
His free hand curls into a fist. Underneath his skin, the tentacles give a little squirm, as if aware of the challenge he has just issued them. No touching Wei Ying unless he says so, because he wants to touch Wei Ying first. They squirm again, as if to say, Tentacles: 1, Lan Zhan: 0.
That will just have to be remedied.
Or, as phnelt first described: Tentacle-ji with the semi autonomous tentacles getting jealous of his tenties for touching Wei Ying in places he hasn't yet
Outage by SugarMilkTea | rated E | 3K words | [cough] 😳😳😳
The power goes out in Lan Zhan and Wei Ying's rural home in the countryside. Lan Zhan takes advantage of the darkness to give in to one of his baser urges, and Wei Ying's first rural power outage experience is about to get a lot more interesting.
big hands (i know you’re the one) by martyrsdaughter | rated E | 8K words | NICE. 🔥🔥🔥
“Not a big talker, hm?” Wei Ying tilts his head to one side. “That’s okay, I’ve been told I’m a good enough conversationalist for three. My tongue is multi-talented and—”
He has just enough time to feel her palm on the back of his neck and think, oh, her hands are so big, before his words are being stolen into her mouth.
darling, am i a chore? by martyrsdaughter | rated E | 7K words
“Are you done playing around?”
Knowing that’s not what either of them actually wants, Wei Wuxian reaches up to tickle under Lan Wangji’s chin. Soft little scritches, coaxing motions—Lan Wangji is weak to all of them.
“You know what I want,” Wei Wuxian purrs, reaching up on his tiptoes to throw his arms over Lan Wangji’s shoulders. “Call me gege, won’t you? Call me and I’ll stop.”
(or: five times Lan Wangji paid special attention to Wei Wuxian’s interest in being his gege.)
put him on his knees, give him something to believe in by dustyloves | rated E | 2K words | if the title is quoting WAP, then you should know by now it’s gonna be some of that good filth
The next time Wei Ying kisses him, Lan Zhan is careful again. Wei Ying seems determined to make it very difficult.
the hard way by dustyloves | rated E | 9K words
"Anyway, you make it sound like something lewd is going on," Wei Ying complains. "It's all totally above board. She's just being a nice person. It's just one kind alpha grad student offering one room of her huge house to one beta undergrad in need, what could be more appropriate than that?"
// Wei Ying makes a mistake and finds out the hard way.
Exhibition by sevenless | rated E | 5K words
“Oh?” Wei Wuxian raises an eyebrow. “The forbidden section, Lan Zhan?”
“Mn.”
“You’re not afraid of being heard?” Wei Wuxian thinks aloud. A smirk creeps onto his face, eyes glinting. “Or could it be that Lan-er-gongzi actually wants to be heard? Seen? Caught?” He skips in front of him, blocking his way. "Disciplined?”
Lan Wangji’s ears, as always, betray him.
a history of the body by northofallmusic | rated E | 14K words
Wei Ying's body hurts sometimes; she lets Lan Zhan help her.
A fic about the complicated nature of having a body, and also the versatility of sex toys.
(our friendship) up against the ropes by daltoneering | rated E | 36K words
The reboot completes, and Wei Ying’s brain smashes this information together into two mind-shattering thoughts. Number one, he knew very well already, and is now further seared by defined muscles and a mouth-watering tattoo into his every waking moment: Lan Zhan is the hottest fucking person on the planet.
Number two: that guy wasn’t visiting Lan Zhan’s neighbour, he was visiting Lan Zhan, which means:
Lan Zhan fucks. Lan Zhan fucks. Lan Zhan fucks.
;
Lan Zhan has been Wei Ying's best friend for years. Literally, years. How did he not already know? How has he missed this most important of facts? And more importantly, how is he ever going to get over it?
watching my heart go round by typefortydeductions | rated E | 38K+ words | WIP (2/4 chapters, last updated 5/2/21) | lan zhan i love you baby 💞
Lan Zhan falls apart. As it turns out, that's not the end.
~
oh man this list is so long sd;jfkdsjfhhh
yati, i hope you find some stuff in this pile here that you’ll enjoy! it's not an exhaustive list, so check out the authors’ other works and bookmarks for more goods, if you feel so inclined 😙💕
39 notes · View notes
wullu · 4 years ago
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First few episodes in, I had a feeling that Flower of Evil could become a part of my 'fave dramas of all time' list but I didnt want to raise my hopes cause you can never fucking tell when a drama decides to turn on you and let you down.   
Anyway, no worries here cause Ep 16 just cemented FOE’s place on that list. 
I will be honest, I came for the thriller and deception aspects of this drama. But I ended up staying for the romance. As the drama went on, some of the logical aspects of the plot confused me but the emotional satisfaction I got from the romance made up for everything. I swear to god, it really did.
Some thinky thoughts under the cut for why it pinged all the right buttons for me. Strap yourselves in. It’s a long and passionate and somewhat confused essay about why I loved Flower of Evil and why I rated it 10/10
Ep 16 was polarising for a lot of people and I understand why. In some ways, it upended all the previous episodes.
The amnesiac reset was not easy to watch, especially since it put Ji Won in even more agony than before. How much did she need to suffer before the fruits of her love were realized? Howevuh, the way I saw it, the amnesia reset established a few things that I believed the drama has stayed true to, all the way from the start to the finish.
Here is the thing, names carry so much baggage. When children are named after a much beloved and deceased relative, it can be one of two things. One, it is a way to honour an important part of your life but also allow the child to be a fully realized person. The second,  the name becomes a prison when it is given to you without any choice in the matter and where you are not allowed to be you.           
For Hyun Soo, the name Baek Hee Seong has all these memories and emotions attached to it and while his feelings were not any less real, they are tainted by the foundation they began on. The foundation being a deception.
For Ji Won, his name really doesn't matter. Because at the end, she doesnt view him as Baek Hee Seong or Do Hyun Soo. For Ji Won, he is her chagiya, her person, her husband. And for Eun Ha also, it doesn't matter if her father is Baek Hee Seong or Do Hyun Soo. He’s her father first and foremost and her most favourite person in the whole world. 
Both Ji Won and Eun Ha accept him for the person he is and the role he plays in their lives. 
But for Hyun Soo, Baek Hee Seong will always be the constant reminder of the very thing that ripped apart the fabric of his family life. That’s not the kind of baggage you want to bring to your relationship. Ji Won remembers so many of the good times they had together .But for Hyun Soo, those moments didn’t feel like his because they weren’t attached to his name. It is Hyun Soo more than anyone else that needs the distinction between the two names. Baek Hee Seong was his life for 15 years and it is also the most horrible reminder of how he hurt Ji Won (a person he loves more than anything else in the world) and Eun Ha by having them become a part of his deception. And he also knows first hand what it means to live with an axe over your head, always ready to drop.
15 years ago, Baek Hee Seong was a chance at a better life, a way to escape the shackles of his father. But over time, the thing he thought would set him free dragged not just him down, but also Ji Won and Eun Ha. More than a physical thing, I consider the amnesia plot point to be a thematic reset. Do Hyun Soo links him to his father, but at the same time, it also links him to his sister (one of the good things in his life). 
In ep 13/14, he asks Ji Won why must he suffer all of this? Why must he experience all this pain? 
And if you further follow this line of thought, you can see why he’s so angry.    
Why must he adopt another persona to adapt to the world? Why wont the world adapt to him being Do Hyun Soo instead? These are very valid questions. Our society is very big on ‘being yourself’, but at the same time, society contradicts itself by also saying you can only be you and acceptable by conforming to a very limited sphere of uniqueness. Hyun Soo knows the fallout of this firsthand.
Ji Won has given him all of her from the start. But he has only given her Baek Hee Seong. By going back to being Do Hyun Soo, he reclaims all the emotions he felt in the preceding 15 years and attaches them to his real self. People said that he was just like his father and a psychopath. But he gets to prove everyone wrong. 
He’s capable of love, he’s capable of empathy and emotion and he’s also capable of being loved. He achieves all these things in spite of the legacy of his father’s name and his own name. He is loved just as he is. 
Just as Ji Won submitted to the mortifying ordeal of being known, so is Hyun Soo now. He wants to show Ji Won all the original parts of him and love her as Do Hyun Soo   And isn’t that the realest indication of a loving relationship? Someone knowing you for being you and still loving you. 
And as for Ji Won, time and time again she has made it clear that her happiness lies in Hyun Soo’s happiness. If he isn't happy, she cannot be happy. Does it make her seem sacrificial? Yes. Did she have a choice in it? Also yes. And she made her choice. No one else made it for her. She’s given so much of herself to this relationship, but I don't think there is any other way she would have it. In that way, Ji Won has a very singular sense of perspective. It’s the exact kind of tunnel vision, which when you encounter it in real life, feels extremely annoying and unhealthy, and while in a drama, it is also unhealthy, on the flip side, it’s also grand and tragic and heartfelt. 
Because she loved him so deeply and truly, in return Hyun Soo tried to do for her all the things that made her happy. And in many ways, it is the same reaction a child has to unstable parental figure. They do the things that they think will make the person happy. Except here, Ji Won has been one of the most stable presences in his life. Ji Won loved him when he did all the little things for her. 
But she also continued to love him even when the exterior began to chip away and the relationship started to destruct. And that is Hyun Soo’s lesson for learning that he doesn't have to be anything other than himself to be loved by Ji Won. She may trip up on his name and call him Hee Seong from time to time, but she loves him for being her chagiya. 
Strip away all the extraneous details of this drama and you will see that at the heart of it, this was always going to be a love story that was much larger than the two individuals in it. 
Ji Won begins pulling away only in the end because while she wants him to be happy, it finally becomes too much to bear. It’s not that she cannot stand seeing him happy. And it is not that she does not love him or is angry with him. It’s the sickening knowledge that perhaps, all her love wasn’t enough and that the damage that others have wrought was too lasting and could not be fixed.
The amnesia reset was a chance for a do-over, and it is not often that you  get one. The first time, Hyun Soo came to her as Baek Hee Seong and that too by sheer coincidence and lettuce be clear, Ji Won’s enduring perseverance as well. The second time, he came to her through intention and intuition, and as Do Hyun Soo. And this is the one that counts. He does not remember creating a life with her but he remembers the way she made him feel. The amnesia reset made him go back but it didn’t change the core of who he was. 
So what do we see in the final scene? That in fact, more than anything else, it is Ji Won’s love and the prospect of losing it that sent Hyun Soo off the rails and at the same time, it's her love and the the safety and comfort of her presence that brought him back. And it was the same for Ji Won as well. His potential loss of his love sent her crashing but at the same time, his love also grounded her and raised her up if you will. 
The evidence of her love was in all the emotions his body remembered. And the evidence of his love was in the way he came back to her and in the way despite all his statements to the contrary, the most emotion he showed was when they both broke down together in the car.  
So, Ji Won needed to see that her love was always enough and Hyun Soo had to realize that he was worthy of it and that he deserved it and that he loved her as well. That the past 15 years weren't some ridiculous fluke. 
He didn't have to be Baek Hee Seong to be loved or love Ji Won. He just had to be who he always was, Do Hyun Soo. 
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jamestaylorswift · 5 years ago
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The Archer - Analysis
I was nudged to write out my thoughts about “The Archer” and I’m honestly glad for the push. This song is so beautiful yet haunting. I don’t see people appreciating it as much as I think it should be appreciated.
Standard disclaimer that this is my own personal reading of the song. You are free to disagree with any or all of what I say. There are many good interpretations of this song out there. It helps that it’s a very evocative track 5!
This analysis is not short. Sorry.
——
Combat, I’m ready for combat
I say I don’t want that, but what if I do?
‘Cause cruelty wins in the movies
I’ve got a hundred thrown-out speeches I almost said to you
——
Unlike other tracks on Lover, there’s no concrete imagery such as a garden gate or prom dress in this song. Taylor is sharing what only exists in her mind. This is a story told purely with metaphors. It’s important to lean into them.
The purpose of the first verse is to contextualize the rest of the song. She introduces the idea of being torn about wanting a fight. She would only want to fight someone if she has a really good reason to do so. Her driving force is “cruelty winning in the movies.” Her thrown-out speeches are the thing that would start the fight. Tossing the speeches implies that she is unsure not of the content of the speeches but of entering the fray of battle that would ensue after delivering them.
It’s very hard for me to see these speeches as anything but coming out speeches. Coming out (even as a non-celebrity) is often stressful. Cruelty winning in the movies is a nod to the fact that mainstream media depicts LGBTQ characters meeting tragic ends. Taylor, as a wildly famous celebrity, has cultural influence. Her coming out would impact the culture; it could change the endings of those movies. But her impact would only be measurable years in the future. 
This verse is also where she first addresses the “you” in the song. I think the “you” is essentially a random observer/everyday Joe Schmoe. It’s nobody in particular because it could be anybody. The only thing remarkable about “you” is that she’s directly addressing them. That makes this story personal.
——
Easy they come, easy they go
I jump from the train, I ride off alone
I never grew up, it’s getting so old
Help me hold onto you
——
If the “you” in this song is a random person who has some benign preexisting opinion (whatever that may be, including a non-opinion) about Taylor Swift, then the “they” refers to arbitrary people who are on the fan/hate train. “They” come and go easily and represent flux in interest in her. I read the metaphor about a train with momentum as the implication that general interest in Taylor waxes and wanes but is inherently self-sustaining because of her celebrity. In this song, “they” aren’t necessarily the enemy like the public was, for example, in reputation. She just doesn’t concern herself with “them” anymore. It’s the “you” who has her full attention and who is sticking around to hear the story.
Finally, we get the first of many “help me hold onto you��s. This one is her articulating why she’s telling this story in the first place. It’s “I want you listen to this story and try to understand.” It’s “help me,” but in a chill way.
——
I’ve been the archer
I’ve been the prey
Who could ever leave me, darling?
But who could stay?
——
The archer is the zodiac symbol for Sagittarius, the centaur, Taylor’s astrological sign. Taylor exists in parts, just like a centaur: she is part her celebrity persona and part her real self, an amalgamation who is a Taylor different than either of the constituent halves. To the “you” it’s Taylor in her purest form. It’s impossible to completely separate her celebrity from her person at this point.
The chorus is about the duality of Taylor’s being, her actions, and others’ investment in any part of her. As the archer (hunter) she has aggressively exercised control over her public persona. As the prey (hunted) she has been a passive victim chewed up and spit out by the public/industry/etc. for things outside of her control. Sometimes it is her own actions that drive people away or attract people to her. Sometimes it is by individual choice that people board or leave the train.
The archer, Sagittarius, is also symbolic of a prophet who can predict fate. The prey is a victim of a terrible fate that, by nature, cannot be changed. I prefer to think of the archer/prey metaphor as commentary about the duality of fate rather than intense combat (for which a bow and arrow would probably be insufficient). This song is Taylor trying to reconcile the certainty of her future with distress about the unknown consequences of present-time decisions.
(Note that this first chorus is where the bass drum beat starts. It represents anxiety about the future. The first part of the song is exposition. The drum only comes in when she starts worrying about the “what ifs.”)
——
Dark side, I search for your dark side
But what if I’m alright, right, right, right here?
And I cut off my nose just to spite my face
Then I hate my reflection for years and years
——
Nobody Joe Schmoe has no obvious reason to hate Taylor for anything that she just said. But Taylor knows what comes next in the story. She’s anxious about Joe Schmoe’s reaction to what she’s about to say.
Taylor admits to doing self-destructive things. Because of the context she provided at the beginning of the song, I believe this is a reference to staying closeted. The “reflection” could be the literal reflection of her now-noseless face. Hating it is pure personal regret for self-destructive actions. The “reflection” could also be the mirror which her fans/the public hold up to her. Her self-destructive choices manifest in others’ toxicity. Hating what they’ve become starts with hating the ways she enables that behavior. (It’s really both “reflections.” The duality of man, yadda, yadda, yadda…)
More important than blaming herself for any (*cough*) past decisions, she articulates the pain of being in the closet in two simple lines. Burying a significant part of yourself by hiding behind a carefully constructed lie is exhausting. It’s sad. It also provides protection and safety and it’s unfortunately all too common. Cruelty wins in the movies, thus people are cruel to themselves.
——
I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost
The room is on fire, invisible smoke
And all of my heroes die all alone
Help me hold onto you
——
I think people consistently underestimate just how morbid “The Archer” is. Taylor reveals that her prophetic future is death—specifically, becoming a ghost, thus leaving an imperceptible trace of herself. She already feels suffocated by that possibility. Her suffering is invisible. She might just be left to die a slow, agonizing death via asphyxiation. Worse yet, what happens afterwards? Asphyxiation from invisible smoke would make it seem like she just dropped dead of her own accord. Or if the smoke somehow became visible….well, if you could see a ghost in the first place, a smoke-filled room would make that impossible. The implications are staggering and they’re all sad.
Few, if any, of Taylor’s heroes have literally died alone. I’m going to go out on a short limb here and say that Taylor probably sees parts of herself in her heroes. Therefore, the “heroes” in a song supposedly about the dilemma of coming out are other famous people who were/still are closeted. Taylor identifies herself as a potential role model for the younger generation like her heroes are for her. Her heroes’ lonely metaphorical deaths are exactly what she fears. Dying alone is being in the closet indefinitely. It’s being misunderstood and not having any way to rectify that situation. Perhaps this song is about the mortifying ordeal of remaining unknown.
As evidenced by the invisible smoke in the room, she thinks her metaphorical death is certain and imminent. The “help me hold onto you” is now “help me,” but in a very unchill way.
——
‘Cause they see right through me
Can you see right through me
I see right through me
——
As a reminder, “they” = random people in the public and “you” = nice, ordinary Joe Schmoe whom she wishes could understand her predicament. Being see-through is being seen without substance. Therefore, what the bridge is not saying is “don’t you see how obvious it is, isn’t it wild that people don’t pick up on me and/or my lover being loud in public?” It is saying “I am literally a ghost to ‘them’ because ‘they’ look at me and don’t see any of this pain, I’m basically dead to myself too because I feel like I’m already doomed, you’re my last hope so please say you see me.” Who cares about reaping the benefits (love, adoration) from the mortifying ordeal of being known? At this point she’s pleading simply to be seen as herself. “I see right through me” is her worst fear. This is why this line breaks out of the bridge and bleeds into the surrounding choruses.
(The bridge, to me, is where it becomes clear that treating the “you” as her lover with whom she could come out does a serious disservice to the rest of the song. Her lover as “you” inverts the meaning of the bridge. This makes the story inconsistent. I appreciate the gravity of the “help me hold onto you” line if it were spoken to a secret lover. However, being seen/understood is more intimately tethered to being out as an individual than being out with another person. In my mind, it makes more sense for this attitude to be an invariant of the song.)
——
All the king’s horses, all the king’s men
Couldn’t put me together again
‘Cause all of my enemies started out friends
Help me hold onto you
——
The Humpty Dumpty rhyme is basically “anthropomorphized egg sits on top of a high wall, anthropomorphized egg falls off the wall and shatters irreparably.” Taylor as Humpty Dumpty makes the wall she’s on top of the pedestal of fame/success. She’s saying that coming out would topple her from her pedestal. Her image as a woman who became famous for writing heterosexual love songs is as fragile as an eggshell. When it breaks, what is left behind?
“All the king’s horses, all the king’s men” might be a reference to her fans whom she once considered as friends but whom can also be incredibly toxic. I read it as a catch-all for anyone who isn’t Taylor. The key of this verse is her musing on why an eggshell can’t be repaired. It’s not for lack of manpower. It’s that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men—everyone, literally—are enemies and don’t want to reconstruct Humpty Dumpty. They simply don’t believe Humpty’s death is so tragic that they would spend effort to change his fate.
Taylor fears that darling Joe Schmoe, a friend to whom she is addressing this story, could become an enemy by conscious choice. She can give Joe Schmoe the truth and plead to be seen, but Joe Schmoe can still choose to see right through her anyways. It’s terribly frightening to be honest yet have that vulnerability go unacknowledged. Taylor coming out is her facing the prospect of instant confirmation that good people do not care. She could die a ghost despite efforts to be visible.
——
Who could stay?
You could stay
Combat, I’m ready for combat
——
Coming out is a choice but being gay is not—it is fate. She has no control over how others react to that. Taylor slowly acknowledges throughout the song that her future isn’t in her hands. She ultimately shifts away from the prophet/victim binary by reiterating that she’s sure of herself and that whatever happens, she’s not going down without a fight.
Lover the album isn’t just about romantic love. This song is not construing an inherently unequal and sometimes toxic relationship with fans/the public as love. “The Archer” romanticizes the possibility of someone reacting to honesty with kindness and understanding. Love is being seen.
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pellicano-sanguino · 5 years ago
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Personal post about job hunting troubles and a difficult decision.
For three summers in a row I have been living in the upstairs of my parents’ house. This is because despite all my efforts I couldn’t get a job in my home city. Here, in my parents’ home city however, I had connections (well, my mother had connections) and I easily found work. It’s been an acceptable temporary solution, I get along with my parents just fine and there’s enough room in the house to not feel crammed with the three of us. But now my current job is coming to an end and I have to make a difficult decision.
I have been offered a permanent job here. It hurts so much to decline the offer because a permanent job would be a dream come true. With a reliable income all my money worries would be over. I could get a mortgage. I could buy a house. A real home, not just a rent apartment. A real house with a real yard, so all my gardening dreams could come true. I dream of apple trees and red currant bushes, flowerbeds filled with white lilies. Without a steady income (or a wife), I won’t ever get a mortgage. Without a steady income, I must always be financially and mentally prepared to fall back into unemployment hell.
The threat of unemployment hell looms over me like a fucking guillotine blade all the time. I’m so sick and tired of stressing over it. But it’s a part of reality I can’t escape. I have suffered long term unemployment before, it can happen again. I have sent countless job applications to companies in my home city, but haven’t got as far as job interview yet. It’s depressing when your email just fills with messages of “Thankyou for showing interest in out company! Unfortunately this time we didn’t choose you! Have a great autumn!” 
So it sounds like the reasonable thing to do would be to accept the offer for permanent job in my parents’ home city, right? Sure, if I didn’t give a damn about where I live, that would be so. But I am very fond of my own home city and I don’t want to move out of it just to get employed. A short, temporary solution like these summer jobs are ok, but moving here permanently is something I very much don’t want to do.
My parents’ city doesn’t have a sword school and it’s too far from the cities that have one that I would have to hang my sword on a wall and give up that hobby. And more importantly, my home city is where two of my good friends live. For the sake of anonymity, let’s call them Rabbit and Tigel (all friends and family members will be assigned a bestiary animal as a pseudonym. And yes, there’s a reason why Tigel’s name is spelled with an L.). 
Now, I have other friends too, and I don’t want to downplay the importance of my other friends, but Rabbit and Tigel are special. If it wasn’t for Rabbit, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. When I was younger, I was an awkward introvert that only had one friend. Because I was bullied heavily, I had trust issues and generally avoided people. One day my only friend took me to a place where a bunch of larpers gathered to play RPGs, fight with boffers and dance renaissance dances. It’s the latter that pulled me forward, despite dreading - to use a Tumblr phrase here - the mortifying ordeal of being known. Dancing has always been a great passion of mine, but I was too afraid to approach the dancers. I stood alone by the wall, watching with admiring eyes the ring of dancers at the stage. There was Rabbit, she noticed me and asked me to come dance with her. The first renaissance dance I learned was a simple thing, Branle Burgundy, but it felt magical then, my feet stomping the floor at the same beat as the other dancers’ and Rabbit’s kind, encouraging words when I messed up. It was the beginning of my larping hobby, through which I made most of my current friends.
When my only friend of the time found a boyfriend, she stopped answering to my letters and calls, slowly cutting our friendship off because she didn’t need me anymore now that she had a boy. This would have been devastating if I had not made new friends among the larpers. If Rabbit hadn’t asked me to dance with her that day, I would be very lonely. They have been the most loyal and kind friends I have ever had. Once, I was stuck in unemployment hell and fucked up filling some form and got a punishment of three months of no unemployment benefit. I had enough savings to pay the rent but food money looked dire. I made a “Well, guess I got to tighten the belt.”-type of post in social media. Soon after that Rabbit and Tigel collected funds from all of my friends and appeared at my apartment with a bag full of tiny ziplock-bags with two 2€ coins in each, labeled after the days all the way until the day my ban would be lifted. They collected food money for me, when I was in trouble. I will never forget this act of kindness.
Now times are tough for Rabbit and Tigel in turn. They run a farm together, it’s been their dream the same way a big garden is my dream. But Rabbit is very sick. While their farm is doing pretty decently (all the meat they can produce is sold and the customers would buy even more) running a small organic farm by two people still isn’t enough to keep them financially stable, so Tigel’s had to take another job in the city. She tries to help Rabbit with the farm work, but doing basically two jobs is very taxing. They could downshift the workload by having less animals to take care of, but that would chip at their income. 
Do to others what you’d wish to be done to yourself. Now it’s my turn to help. Rabbit and Tigel are too kind to accept my help unpaid, so they pay me in meat (I happily take the low quality meats that they can’t offer to restaurants) and occasionally with vegetables, berries and apples. I can’t be there every day to help them, but I like to come when there’s some big workload that needs to be done and give a hand. It’s tough, hard work, but very rewarding, because you see the results of your labor more clearly than in jobs like customer service. I also very much like spending time on their farm, it’s such a nice place.
If I permanently moved to another city, I wouldn’t be able to help Rabbit and Tigel. Sure I could travel there on a day off work, but the drive is so long that I wouldn’t be in a good fit to start doing hard labor after that. It just wouldn’t work out. If I move away, I will have to give up seeing Rabbit and Tigel for more than like twice a year. And this is why I have decided to decline the offer for the permanent job.
It doesn’t help that I’ve been under pressure from my family members to accept the job offer. I know that to them my decision seems wrong and stupid and missing a golden opportunity. But this is my life, my future. Not theirs. So I wish they would respect my decision and understand that it wasn’t an easy choice to make. But I have made up my mind. Even if it means a fall back to unemployment hell, I am not abandoning Rabbit and Tigel, not leaving my beloved home city.
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glassbangtan · 6 years ago
Text
Noise of the Jungle {Park Jimin}
Words: 9k
  Summary: You joined I'm a Celebrity purely to experience something new, to give yourself a new challenge. But what you don't expect is to be sharing the jungle with Park Jimin himself.
  Genre: fluff – I'mACelebrity!au
  Warning: nothing
  Notes: masterlist – I was sanding slats of wood whenever I got this idea so here you go :):):)
   ---
    There was a spider crawling across her face.
   A spider. A genuine, full-grown arachnid was just casually making its way across her face, and she was forced to sit back and let it do its thing.
   Every single camp mate was curled in on themselves as they watched the spectacle take place; Hyuna was laying down on her back, trapped in a glass box with an unbelievable amount of insects crawling around her body. The insects ranged from beetles, to centipedes, to spiders – and eventually, as the big finale, rats.
   Hyuna screamed. Instinctively, you jerked your legs up from the floor, pressed your knees into your chest and hugged them tightly, trying to block out the sound of her mortified cries for help. The rest of the campers were cheering her on, reminding her of the meals she would be winning the camp whenever the siren finally went on to signal the end of the Bushtucker trial – you were fairly certain that Hyuna couldn't even hear them over the sound of her own shrieks.
    Dony and Cony are standing on the sidelines, as they always did. Dony had one of his flashcards up to cover his horrified expression, gazing into the box as if it wasn't his idea to toss Hyuna inside of it and make her suffer for the sake of her own food.
   You knew what you were going in to whenever you had agreed to take part in this show; it was something different. Your music career had been doing exceptionally well, but you were in need of something else, something that would challenge you more than sitting in the studio and producing music often did – but this was something else entirely. This was beyond what you had ever thought you would have to see, and it was horrifying you.
   The siren went off whenever the twelve minutes was finally up.
   “Let me out of here!” Hyuna screeched, slapping her hands against the glass lid. The rangers emerged from behind the cameras, busying themselves with undoing the screws and helping the girl out. Hyuna groaned and cried, standing up and shaking the remaining insects off her before she hopped out of the glass box, whirled on Dony and Cony and pointed an accusing, trembling finger in their direction.
   “You could have killed me!” she exclaimed. “Surely it's a safety hazard to let rats into an enclosed space with a human being!”
   Dony and Cony merely grinned at one another, ushering for Hyuna to step closer to them. Despite the anger radiating off of the singer, she made her way to the side of them, still shaking centipedes off the front of her bright red shirt.
   Your knees were still bunched up to your chest, arms still wrapped around them as you continued to glare at the box in which Hyuna had just emerged from; the insects were still squirming around inside of it. The rangers had long since replaced the lid, but you could still see the rats scarping up and down the length of it, the mere sight of them enough to make you forget about your hunger – your appetite was suddenly completely banished.
    “You did incredibly well there, Hyuna,” Dony said, placing an arm on the trembling girls waist. “And you also managed to get twelve meals for all twelve members of camp. How do you feel?”
   Hyuna spoke through jittering teeth, the shock of the ordeal she had just went through finally masking over her anger. “G-Good. I'm hoping we'll eat well tonight.”
 “You will. You most definitely will,” Cony assured, before turning his head oh-so-dramatically to the camera. “But apart from the meals you have just won for the camp, we also have another surprise in store for you all. That's why the entire camp was called out for this Bushtucker trial.”
   You blanked, letting your feet clatter back to the ground. “Please no.”
   You weren't entirely sure how many more of these surprises you would be able to take – you had only been in the jungle for a few days, and already your hands were shaking with hunger, and you hadn't had a proper nights sleep since the first day you arrived. You were still young, meaning you were always at the bottom of the list when it came to deciding who got the hammocks back in camp – it was always the elders, who insisted on their backs hurting, despite them being no older than 40 years of age.
    Cony chuckled at your words, winking in your direction. You rolled your eyes and folded your arms over your chest, preparing yourself for the worst.
   “If you have seen the show before,” Dony explained, “you will know that we always get a camper who comes in late – it's tradition. This year, nothing has changed. There will be a thirteenth camper joining you all – but this person will only get to eat if one of you endures another minute in the box.”
   Hyuna froze. You, along with the eleven celebrities surrounding you, all fell silent as Dony's words settled upon them. Your heart pounded in your chest. You glanced over at Hyuna – the poor girl was already traumatised enough. She had her arms wrapped around her middle, her fingers clenching at the material of her shirt as if she would fall apart if she let go.
   You swallowed the golf ball sized lump that had been lodged in your dry throat for days.
    “Who's the new camper?” Jackson asked from beside you.
   “You'll find out whenever the Bushtucker trial is complete,” said Cony. “Hyuna can go back into the box, or another camper can take her place.”
   “Why should we put ourselves through that for the sake of a person we don't even know the identity of yet?” Krystal spoke up.
   “That's a cynical way of looking at things,” Hyekyo said. “Everyone deserves to eat.”
  Hyuna was still trembling. “I can go back into the box if none of you guys want to do it – it would make sense for me to-”
  But you cut her off before she could finish her heroic statement.
   You stood up, waving a dismissive hand in her direction, silently telling her not to worry. She looked at you with wide eyes. You approached her, gently placed your hand on her shoulder and pushed her towards the seat you had once occupied.
   She stumbled a little from the tremble in her legs. Jackson, with his eyes still placed on you, quickly stood up and led her the rest of the way to the seat.
   You stood beside Dony and Cony as if it were the most casual thing in the world, as if your heart wasn't beating out of your chest at one million miles per hour. You hadn't even entered the box, and already your knees were beginning to feel like jelly. You wanted to curl up and hide away, but there were cameras trained directly on you; you needed to make an impression, and what better way to do such a thing than to take on the task that everybody else was dreading?
   “Is this an offer?” Dony asked, nudging you.
   You swallowed. “Let's just get it over with.”
  Dony and Cony went on to read the rules as you were led over to the glass box by the rangers. They handed you everything they thought you would need – goggles. That was all. They were about to toss you into a box full of rats and insects, and the only piece of apparatus they thought to give you was a pair of lousy, one pound goggles that didn't even fit your face that well; they continually slid down your sweat drenched nose, the summer heat doing little to help.
   You could still hear Dony and Cony talking as you lowered yourself into the box. Your lips were clamped together so tightly that they started to fuzz with numbness. The centipedes and the beetles were crushed beneath your body, and you had to physically restrain yourself from screaming at the top of your lungs whenever you felt a rat trail it's long, ridged tail over your foot.
    You were so tempted to say I'm a celebrity, get me out of here, but you refused to let the words cross your lips. You kept them clamped, gently laying back in the box with your hands crossed over your chest – one minute wasn't so bad. You could do it.
    “Go on, Y/N!” your fellow campers yelled, but their voices were muffled by the glass.
    You heard the siren blare, signalling the start of the minute you had to endure.
   You kept your breathing steady – well, tried to. Every now and then, your lips would come apart and you would let out a little whimper of fear, before quickly snapping your mouth closed whenever you saw a cockroach skitter across your chest. They smelled awful. They felt even worse, crawling up your arms and nibbling on the skin, showing you absolutely no mercy whatsoever.
    God, whoever this camper was better savour their god damn food tonight.
    The minute did not feel like a minute. Far from it. You were counting the seconds in your head, though you were fairly certain you had been stuck on the number fifteen for quite some time now – an hour must have passed before the second siren finally went off and the rangers were rushing to get the lid off the top of the box.
   As soon as the lid was pulled off, you gasped, lurched forward and all but tumbled straight from the glass confines; there was still insects on you. They were still there, trampling up your arms. They were going to embed themselves in your skin. You would have to get surgery to get them out of your bloodstream, but what if they diseased you before then? What if you didn't even get a chance to eat the meals you had been granted, because you had suddenly dropped dead from some-
   “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N,” Dony and Cony called. You looked up, panting. Everyone was smiling at you. All eleven of your fellow camp mates were stood on their feet, giving you a standing ovation in the same way they had done for Hyuna, but you felt very far from accomplished.
   You stood up on trembling legs. Hyuna was immediately by your side, grabbing your arms and helping you steady yourself – it was like a kind of sisterhood, the two of you bonding over the fact that you had both endured the same hell.
   “Our new camp mate is going to love you,” Cony exclaimed. “Are we all ready to meet him?”
   Him?
   The only person who replied was Jackson,  giving a tiny little “Yeah.” Dony and Cony seemed to think the lack of enthusiasm was good enough, as they immediately both span on their heels in a synchronised twist; the palm leaves were pulled to the side, and no other than Park Jimin from Bangtan Sonyeondan walked out from behind them.
    If your knees weren't weak beforehand, they most certainly were now.
   A gasp sounded from the crowd. Jackson started cheering, yelling out the word “Bro!” in his usual, overexcited fashion. He threw himself towards the new camper, but you could barely move. Suddenly, the bugs that had been nipping at your skin were no longer present as you stared at the black haired man who had just emerged from seemingly nowhere.
    Everyone else rushed over to greet him, grinning from ear to ear – of course they all recognised him. Everybody in Korea knew who the boys of Bangtan Sonyeondan were at this point, and you would be a fool to say otherwise – sure, you were popular. You had won award after award for the music you had put out over the last few years, had a good few records to your name, but the level of fame that Jimin and his friends had shot to in the past five years was nothing you would ever be able to comprehend.
    You stood as far back as you could, trying to stay out of the frame of the cameras; you didn't want them catching your shock right now. You didn't want the footage to go out tonight, and for everybody on the outside to think you had some grudge against Park Jimin purely because you refused to go over and greet him in the same enthusiastic way everyone else was.
   But you were much too nervous to go over and shake his hand right now.
   Because you were young – as everybody in camp so desperately enjoyed to point out – and you were a fan, and seeing one of your idols in front of your face right now was beyond what your young, immature brain could manage.
   But then his eyes were meeting yours, cracking through the swarm of fellow celebrities who had swarmed him.
   Your breath hitched. You tried to look away, ducking your head down to the floor, pretending to busy yourself with the insects crawling up the front of your shirt, but it was much too late for that now. Curse Park Jimin for his quick reflexes, for not even giving you a moments notice before he decided to look up at you.
   He was standing in front of you, holding out a respectful hand.
   You shyly glanced at it, took it in your own and shook it carefully.
   “You must be the girl who's just gotten me my meal for the night,” he said. He was smiling. In the copious amount of fancams you had watched of him over the years, you had not once noticed the slight overlap of his two front teeth – until now.
   “Yep!” you said, a little too chirpily. “I'm Y/N.”
   “I know,” he said. “I heard your new single a few days back – you're really good.”
   You didn't know quite how to respond to that, which was stupid saying as you had been receiving comments like these for nearly five years now. You always bowed, smiled, blushed, got all flustered to show your gratitude, but when it came to Jimin – who was still slowly shaking your hand – you found yourself merely staring at him.
   Please say sike.
   Jimin grinned at your silence. His eyes rose into crescents, his slightly puffy cheeks reddening.
   “Aw, cute,” he chuckled. “Well, I'm Jimin. Thank you again for – uh – going through that for me.” He grimaced then, looking down at your shirt. Ever so gently, he dropped your hand and plucked at the material, brushing a single cockroach off of your stomach. “I think you'll be using the shower first tonight, eh?”
   You smiled shyly as a response. Jimin smiled once again, turned to the other campers and threw himself back into the praise that your awkwardness stopped you from giving to him.
  ---
   Gingerly, you tapped the spare shirt against the ends of your soaked hair, trying desperately to dry it after the quick and, quite honestly, uncomfortable shower you had just sped through.
   A string of curse words left your mouth, mixing with the sound of the croaking beetles and the buzzing of the flies around you. You and the other celebrities had only gotten back to camp a few hours ago, and already the sun was starting to set. You could hear the anticipated murmurs in camp, people talking to Jimin, about Jimin, and more importantly, about the food you had won today.
   But you had somehow managed to weasel your way out of their company to get a shower. Hyuna had done the wise thing and got in the shower as soon as you had arrived back at camp, but you had forced yourself to wait a little while – and now you were regretting it.
   There was no way in hell that your hair was going to be dry and presentable before dinner arrived, meaning you would have to walk back into camp looking like a busted mattress.
   You groaned and threw the shirt back against the rock you were sitting on – there was no point. Who in the hell were you trying to impress? Everybody at home was well aware that the jungle was hardly a place for a woman to be looking her best; nobody would be surprised if you suddenly decided to show up looking like you had just risen from the grave.
   With that thought in mind, you stood up, brushed your hair over your shoulder and-
   “Jesus, Mary, Joseph!” you cried out whenever you spotted the shock of black hair appearing from behind a palm leaf.
   Jimin smiled sheepishly, wincing at the volume of your voice. “Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”
 You clasped a hand to your chest, well aware of just how much of a state you must have looked right now. “No, it's okay. I was just being jumpy.”
   “Well, I'd expect so. You did just lock yourself in a box with a bunch of insects.” Jimin stood up on the rock alongside you, gazed out at the showers you had just emerged from. You flushed, took a single step back in your attempts to put some distance between the both of you.
    He sighed breathily before his eyes clipped back onto your own, as if he was only just realising you were still standing there. “Dinner's arriving soon. The others were telling me you were here, and I didn't think it was right to start without you.”
   “I was just showering,” you said. “You don't have to worry about me.”
   “Yes, I do.” He laughed again. It was a sound he made often, though you weren't complaining. “I basically owe you my life at this point. I'm only eating tonight because of you.”
   You raised a brow, folding your arms over your chest. “I'm sure somebody would have given you something to eat if I'd have failed.”
   “Ah, but you see, that's where the complication comes in,” he said. “You didn't fail, which means I have a life debt to you. I'm hoping I can build on it – starting by warning you about dinner.”
   You chuckled, flushing as Jimin smiled down at you. It was a common joke amongst Jimin's fans to call him short, and yet he still managed to look much taller than you. You two couldn't have had much height difference, but with you instinctively cowering away from him and him standing with his usual confident demeanour, it was difficult not to look tiny in comparison.
    “You know,” Jimin continued when the two of you finally jumped down from the rock and started back towards camp, “I'm still not all that used to this whole thing – having cameras around me twenty four seven.”
  You raised a brow. “Why do I find that slightly hard to believe?”
   “It's true!” he exclaimed. “Sure, I have cameras on me sometimes, but I always have some time to myself.” He glanced up at the weather barrier above, which held a number of cameras that were currently documenting your every move. “Now it just feels like I'm being watched constantly.”
   You followed his gaze up to the dangling cameras, frowning. “You have a point. It is a bit creepy, isn't it?”
  He chuckled. “Creepy is a pretty good word to describe it, I think.”
  “You get used to it,” you said. “Until you'd pointed them out, I'd kind of forgotten they were there at all.”
    “Makes you kind of nervous to say what's on your mind, doesn't it?” he asked.
   You nodded slowly. It definitely did.
    Being a celebrity, you were used to having the cameras pointed in your face. With the paparazzi and the fan-content you were expected to put out there on a constant loop, it was very rare that you had time to just sit back and relax on your own. You had people to entertain, a reputation to keep up, a job to withhold that demanded non-stop content from you.
  You were aware that your music alone would never be enough. You could come out with four albums in the space of a year, and still people would expect to see behind the scenes clips of the music videos, people would still expect you to be tweeting selfies constantly, people still said you were neglecting your fans whenever you took more than a week away for yourself.
    But Jimin was right, of course. The cameras here, you were unable to escape them. You had to be on your constant A-game.
    You and Jimin arrived back in camp not two minutes later. Jimin moved out of the way, allowing you to clamber through the leaves first; he laughed whenever you fumbled within the plants, getting trapped in their vines before you freed yourself and stumbled into the main camp area.
   “There you are. I thought you'd drowned in the water,” Jackson said. He approached you, flicked a leaf out of your hair before his eyes travelled behind you to where Jimin had just appeared. “Ooh, he join you in the showers, did he?”
   You very nearly choked on your tongue. You heard Jimin let out a nervous laugh, a squeaky sound that was much too cute for the current situation; you had the sudden urge to turn around and swat him, tell him to stop being so unnecessarily adorable.
   Jackson didn't even let you deny the accusation before he was nudging your arm playfully and sauntering off over to the hammock he had stolen off of Leeteuk.
    “You've met Jackson before, I'm assuming.” Jimin's voice sounded from over your shoulder, startling you.
   “Yep,” you replied. “I see him at ISAC every single year, and he never fails to piss me off.”
Jimin chuckled. “Same here. Come on, let's go sit down next to the fire. Maybe your hair will dry quicker.”
  ---
   You weren't sure where the night went, or where your nerves had went, but by the time you were curling up in your uncomfortable sleeping bag, they were basically non-existent.
   Dinner had consisted of beef, rice and an assortment of vegetables that had filled your stomach very well. By the time you had reached the bottom of your bowl, you were groaning and leaning back against Jimin's shoulders, wincing every time his body shook with the familiar laughter.
    All throughout dinner, the camp was jumping around and joking. It was one of the best nights the lot of you had been able to have since you had all arrived – the first full set of meals, the first time it had been cooked with barely any hassle, and it was all a meal you were familiar with – everybody was happy. Everything was good.
    You weren't even bothered to be sleeping on the ground again. You curled your knees into your chest, burying your face in the quilt of your sleeping bag, inhaling the scent of pine and grass that was surrounding you. Jimin was a few feet away – you could see his bare feet poking out the bottom of his sleeping bag, him grunting and hissing as he tried to get comfortable.
   You giggled, and he fell silent.
  “Y/N?” he whispered. “Are you still awake?”
   You perked yourself up on your elbow, glanced over at him to get a good look at just how bad he  was struggling. His black hair was a dishevelled mess, his eyes like beams in the darkness. You couldn't help but smile at the sight of him – the sleeping bag he had been provided was bunched up around him a little too tightly, his thick thighs and broad shoulders doing very little to help him get comfortable.
   “Of course I'm still awake,” you whispered back. “You won't be quiet.”
   “That hardly seems fair,” he scoffed. “How do you sleep in these things?”
  “It's easy.” You clambered out of your own sleeping bag and crawled towards him. He reached a hand out, gently touched your own to signal that you had reached him.
  Ever so gently, you pushed his shoulders and forced him back against the ground. With the lanterns glowing around you both, you could just barely see him raise a dark eyebrow, could just barely make out the small curve of his lips as he glanced up at you in amusement.
   “We only met this morning, Y/N. You need to take me on a date first.”
   You swatted his forehead. “Sh, or else I'll leave you to toss and turn all night.”
  “It'll only keep you awake.”
   “Sh!”
   Jimin giggled, tucking the quilt over his mouth in his attempts to stifle it. You could barely hold back the 'aw' that emerged from your throat, which caused Jimin to abruptly stop laughing and glare at you. You smiled at him nonchalantly, tugged the quilt out of his hands and started to push the bedding underneath him.
   “This is how I usually do it,” you said.
   “This is so embarrassing,” Jimin grunted. “You're literally tucking me in.”
  “You were the one complaining!”
   “Yeah, just for the sake of it! I didn't think you'd show up and start reading me a bed time story!”
  “Oh, fuck your fragile masculinity,” you grumbled. “I'm stopping you from getting back pains. You can thank me later.”
 With that, you continued to tuck the quilt underneath him. “Anyway, this is what I do. Tucking the quilt underneath gives you more padding from the floor – it's a really good way of doing things.”
  “Not like you're tooting your own horn or anything.”
  You rolled your eyes and scrambled away from him, suddenly noticing the chilly night air nipping at your bare arms. You jumped under the covers of your own sleeping bag, pulled the quilt up to your chin and engulfed yourself in the warmth of it, humming in content.
   Jimin rolled over so the two of you were facing one another. There was a smile still plastered upon his face, his eyes not once leaving your own. You were both chasing sleep, the exhaustion from the day dawning on you, but you didn't quite want to close your eyes right now.
    “You need to go to sleep,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You might get drenched in insects tomorrow, and you need all your energy for that.”
   “Not again, Park Jimin,” you replied. “Today was the first and the last time I lay in a pile of insects and get eaten alive by rats.”
   “They weren't biting you.”
  “You weren't even there.”
   “Yeah, I was behind the leaves. I saw what happened. You're being dramatic.”
   You glared at him. “It felt like they were biting me – the insects definitely were.”
   Jimin chuckled, surprised you by reaching out and gently trailing his fingers over the bare skin of your arm. You very nearly jumped away from his touch, your senses enhanced in the darkness.
   His fingers trailed directly over one of the many places you had been bitten earlier on, sprinkling it with goosebumps.
    “I can see that,” he said, voice groggy. “And you did it all for me, didn't you?”
   “I'm a hero,” you chuckled, nudging his hand away. He grinned at you, tucking them back into his sleeping bag.
   And the conversation continued just like that. The way he spoke to you was addicting. The way he made constant eye contact, the way he very rarely brought up the work you did because he was seeing you as something more than just an artist, or a celebrity. Sure, you were both currently on a show called I'm a Celebrity, but there was something about the way he spoke to you which made you feel like perhaps you weren't – just for a moment, you were normal again.
   The night drew on until Leeteuk woke up from his place in his hammock. He barked at you to go to sleep, and you both broke into a fit of giggles before abruptly realising that it was, indeed, getting very late – you would be exhausted in the morning, but you couldn't find it in you to care.
   ----
   “Would dogs wear trousers just on their front legs, or would they wear them on all their legs?”
   You looked up from the bundle of clothes you were washing. The water dribbled over your lap, making you hiss and flinch back.
   “What?” you demanded, looking up at Jimin who was sat in front of you in a similar position – the two of you had been assigned to washing up duty, meaning you were spending your afternoon perched on uncomfortable rocks, dipping other peoples underwear into a stream.
   “Well, think about it,” he said. “Would it not be a little uncomfortable for them to be wearing trousers that go right around them? Like, how would they walk? They'd be so stiff! They wouldn't be able to chase sticks or anything!”
  You blinked.
    He looked up at you through his eyelids, and there was not a single hint of humour in his expression – he was dead serious.
   “Jimin,” you said softly. “Sweetie. Darling. Please do not take this the wrong way, but – what the fuck?”
  Jimin grimaced, dipping Hyuna's shirt into the stream and rubbing at the fabric hastily. “I don't even know. I think the jungle air is getting to me. How long has it been since I got here?”
  “Two weeks,” you replied, before abruptly realising that you had perhaps answered the question a little too quick. “Or – I don't know – maybe less than that.”
   Jimin grunted. “I've been on wash duty three times in the space of two weeks. I've seen Leeteuk's underwear more times than I'm comfortable with.”
   You giggled. “Same here. In case you forgot, the camp seem to think we work well together.”
   “Well, we do,” he replied. “I just wish they'd think we work together doing – I dunno – cooking duty or something.”
   You very nearly scoffed at the mere suggestion. “We would wipe out the entire camp. Every single celebrity would be sent home with food poisoning if they ever trusted us for cooking duty.”
   “I'll have you know, my hyung was a very good chef. He taught me a few things before I left for the jungle – prepared me for it.”
   “Seokjin?” you questioned.
   Jimin nodded. An abrupt look of forlorn crossed his features. You watched the way his eyebrows dropped, the way he tugged his bottom lip into his teeth and started to nibble on the skin. He went back to scrubbing at the shirt in his hand, tapping his foot idly on the rock he was leaning against.
   “Do you miss them?” you asked.
   Jimin didn't even look up. The question was bound to come up eventually. “Yeah. A lot. I've spent nearly every single day with them for the last five years – it feels a bit odd not having them around me.” He met your eyes. “What about you? Who do you miss on the outside?”
   “A lot of people,” you replied. “My parents, my friends – my fans,” you hastened to add, with a quick wink to the nearest camera.
   Jimin scoffed, nudging your leg playfully. You grinned and turned back to him.
   “Just a lot of people,” you continued. “It's hard being away from home.”
   “Definitely.” He sighed deeply. “Man, I didn't mean to bring the mood down. I'm just so sick of washing other peoples clothes.”
   “So am I,” you agreed, tossing the shirt behind you now that you had done what you could with cleaning it – if Jackson ended up getting fleas or tics, you refused to be given any blame. “I wonder if Leeteuk's started cooking yet. I'm-”
   “Yah! Y/N! Jimin! Where are you?” Krystal's voice came out of nowhere. Jimin let out a startled “Ooh!” before spinning around to look over his shoulder.
   “Over here!” he called back.
   Krystal emerged from behind the leaves, wincing as she blew a piece of dust out of her mouth. “The letters from home arrived – everyone's reading theirs around the fire if you wanna come and see.”
   Your heart jumped. Jimin whirled around to look at you, excitement gleaming in his eyes, but neither of you paused to say anything to the other – it was like you were communicating telepathically as you both jumped away from the stream, bounded past Krystal and started sprinting back into camp. You could hear Krystal squealing as the water from the stream slapped her in the face.
   Camp was bustling with excitement. All around you, your fellow camp mates were clutching peach coloured envelopes close to their chests; already Taehee had started crying, clutching desperately to Jackson's shirt as her letter lay discarded on the log beside her.
   You walked directly over to Leeteuk, grabbed your letter from his grip and ripped it open without a seconds thought – you didn't care that the cameras were currently beaming down upon you. You didn't care that you were bound to get emotional – in your hand was the first piece of contact you had gotten from your family, and you would be damned if you wasted a single second before reading what they had to say.
    As soon as you saw your fathers handwriting, it was like the camp had suddenly dissolved around you.
   You gorged yourself on every word, losing yourself in the sweetness of what he had written. You could almost imagine him saying it to you now, as if he were directly in front of you, telling you how proud he was of you, how proud he had always been of you. He went on to describe how he and your mother, along with your two younger sisters and your younger brother, had watched every single episode of I'm a Celebrity that had aired. You could imagine all of them huddled together in the living room, laughing at your stupidity, your little brother taking great pleasure in mimicking the shrieks you had let out a number of times by now, startled by some insect or another.
   The first tear dropped onto the page before you had even reached the end of the letter.
   You quickly wiped it away, sniffling. You were yet to look up, but you could feel Jimin's presence beside you, his own letter in his hands. You could see him trembling in your peripheral vision.
   You reached the final paragraph of the heartfelt note your father had written to you; of course, it was just like your father to leave the letter on a happy, sarcastic note that would leave you flushing.
   Oh, and tell that Park Jimin man to keep his hands off of you. I want you sleeping at least eight feet away from him. I don't want my grandchildren being conceived in the middle of the jungle on television.
   Despite the flush taking over your features, you choked out a laugh. You covered your mouth, gently folded the note and tucked it into your pocket. The tears were rolling freely now, and one look around the camp told you that you were not the only one who had been completely floored by emotion.
   Jimin himself was also crying, though he seemed much more embarrassed by it than you did. Whilst you had merely covered your mouth in your attempts to pull together some sense of dignity, Jimin was groaning and running his hands down his face, letting out the word “Really?” as if scolding himself for feeling anything at all.
   And you weren't sure why you did it, but you did it anyway. You reached out, plucked his hands away from his face and wrapped your arms around his middle, tugging him into a hug that you hoped had some form of comfort to it. He didn't stiffen in your grip, didn't pull away. He buried his head in your hair, and you held each other as the tears of pure happiness slid from both of you, yours losing themselves in the fabric of his shirt whilst his own dripped into your hair.
   ---
   The weeks flew by quicker than you could have ever comprehended, and before you knew it, you were officially a part of the last four remaining contestants on I'm a Celebrity.
  Evictions had started shortly after the letters had arrived at camp. The public started to vote for who they wanted to leave, and the camp grew quieter and quieter. The Bushtucker trials became more complicated, and your hunger was getting more and more difficult to cope with due to the lack of people actually being able to see them through to the end.
   But now you were in the final four, and you could happily say that it had all been worth it.
   You were joined by Jackson, Hyuna and, of course, Jimin. This season of I'm a Celebrity would go down in history – never before had the final four consisted of only idols. Usually, actors and actresses, hosts and people alike would be seen amongst them, but not this time. This time, it was purely idols that made up the final remaining episodes of the show.
    The four of you were huddled together on the logs whenever Cony and Dony made their descent into camp; despite this being the very same routine that you had been through for nearly two weeks now, your heart never failed to skip a beat whenever you saw them wading through the trees towards you – it meant one more person was leaving, and it could be you at any given moment.
   As much as you hated to think of it, it could very well be Jimin as well, and for some reason, that thought stirred your stomach up a great deal.
    “Good morning, celebrities!” Cony and Dony exclaimed.
   “Morning,” you all cheered back, trying desperately to ignore the buzzing tension surrounding you.
   “How are we all this morning? Our final four – it's nice to see you're all looking lively.”
  “I feel like death, to be honest, Cony,” Jackson grumbled.
   Cony and Dony merely laughed, but you understood exactly where Jackson was coming from – you had seen him suffering with hunger pains for nearly an entire week, with him insisting on giving the remainder of what little food he had to everybody else – he wouldn't take no for an answer unless you physically sat with him and force fed him his spoonfuls.
   “Well, as you all know, we have one final eviction until the final episode,” Cony continued. “The public have been voting to see who they want to become the ninth person to leave I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.”
   He glanced down at his cards, and you knew it was time. Without thinking about the cameras, you reached out and grabbed Jimin's hand; he didn't pull away. In fact, he almost seemed to relax at the contact, as if he had just been waiting for you to reach out.
   “In no particular order,” Dony said. “Hyuna. . . It's not you.”
   Hyuna heaved a sigh of relief. You all smiled at her, unsure whether a congratulations was in order or not.
   Was it good to still be stuck in this place?
   “Jackson . . . .It's not you.”
 Jackson simply nodded, his hands winding around his stomach.
   “Jimin . . .”
   Your heart pounded in your ears. This was it – the final decision. If it wasn't Jimin, it would be you, and you would be leaving this place once and for all. You could imagine your warm bed, your mothers arms, your siblings jumping around you in the way you had missed so much – but then again, you looked over at the man beside you and felt a sudden sense of dread at the idea of leaving him behind.
   “It's not you.”
   Jimin did not celebrate. His grip tightened on your hand, and you could have sworn he was trying to pull you closer to him, because he knew what this meant. You both did.
   Jackson and Hyuna were already standing up. Hyuna had her hands clamped over her mouth, her eyes swimming with tears as she snatched your hand out of Jimin's and forced you to stand up. She wrapped her arms around your shoulders, letting out a wail of despair.
  “Y/N, please gather your stuff, say your goodbyes and meet us back at the tower as soon as possible,” Dony ordered, before the two stalked away to leave you to say your goodbyes in peace.
   Jimin was still seated on the log after you had hugged Jackson and Hyuna furiously, wiping away your own tears. You meant them, as well. They were not put on for the sake of the cameras, were not exaggerated for any reason – you truly were upset to be leaving these people behind.
   It was impossible not to get close to them all after nearly two months of living with them. You had said goodbye to so many campers beforehand, but being the one that was being waved off felt a little bit different.
   You turned to Jimin and gave him a wry smile. He looked up at you, and for a second, you were sure he wasn't going to stand up to say his goodbye; he was going to stay seated, not say anything to you.
  But then he arose from the log and he was wrapping his arms around you so tightly that you feared you may very well burst from both love and the tightness of his grip. Nevertheless, you didn't complain or try to pull away – in fact, you tugged him closer and nuzzled your head in the crook of his neck.
   You didn't realise you had started crying again until Jimin pulled away and gently ran the pads of his thumb over your cheeks, gazing down at you with glazed eyes of his own.
   You sniffled, tried to hide your face but to no avail.
   “Look at me,” Jimin whispered, low enough so the cameras nor Hyuna or Jackson could hear. “Look at me, Y/N.”
  You did so, lower lip wobbling.
  “You did so well,” he whispered. “I can't wait to see you again when I get out of here.”
   It was that promise, the promise that this wasn't the last time you would see him, that truly gave you the strength and courage to pack up your things and say goodbye once and for all.
   It was Jimin who escorted you to the bridge. Jimin and Jimin alone, because Hyuna and Jackson insisted that you two – more than anyone else – needed a private and formal farewell.
   You hugged him one last time. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, a kiss that you knew would drive the public absolutely wild, before you said, “Win for me, eh?” and left him standing there.
   Before you reached the tower, you could hear his booming voice behind you. “EAT A LOT OF FOOD FOR ME, Y/N!”
   You giggled and yelled back, “I MOST DEFINITELY WILL, PARK JIMIN!”
   ----
   Of course, social media was blowing up as soon as you entered your hotel room.
   You didn't take a single glance at your phone until you had eaten, said hello to your family, had a proper shower and gotten out of your sweat stained clothes. You didn't want to stress yourself out with the catching up of it all until you at least had a moment to fix yourself up from the ordeal you had just escaped from.
   You had a fairly good idea of what to expect when you at last looked at your social media.
   With your little sister, Lele, sitting beside you, her head leaning on your shoulder, you finally opened up your Twitter account. Immediately your phone lit up, vibrating in your hand on a non-stop loop as tweet after tweet came through. The show itself was on the trending list, with some people saying the show was rigged for kicking you out, and others merely saying that they would miss your lively presence amongst the final contestants.
   But most of what you saw were screenshots consisting of no other than Park Jimin.
   You flicked through them, feeling your heart clench at the sight of him – it had only been a few hours since you had left camp, but you missed him more than you could care to explain or understand. The pictures being sent to you weren't making the situation any better.
   Most of the pictures were screen-grabs of Jimin during the moments after you had been announced as the one who was leaving. Whilst you had been immediately dragged out of your seat and into Hyuna's arms, Jimin had remained seated, looking glum, and not a single person on Twitter had missed his expression.
   There was a video of him only seconds after it had been announced that you were leaving; after you were dragged out of his grip, his head had immediately dropped, an action you hadn't seen him do whenever you were actually still there.
   It was enough to break your heart.
   You continued to flick through the tweets, reading as many as possible before your head started to pound with the unnatural light.
  @KirstyMacdode: Did y'all see Jimin's face whenever it was announced Y/N got voted off :'( My boy is heartbroken!!!
  @Y/NForever: smh, you're all fools for not voting for Y/N.
  @L/NTERMS: how some ARMY's can really sit there and say Jimin will be happy to see Y/N leave the jungle when he's clearly distraught is beyond me. It was obvious that our girl made Jimin so, so happy during their time together. If you can't see that, just take a look at the trending page and then tell me I'm wrong.
  @Kim_Taehyung: So sad to see Y/N go!! Would love to see you one day and personally thank you for keeping our Jimin-ie sane xD
  You bit down on your bottom lip and set your phone down beside you.
   Lele stirred at the movement – you had almost forgotten she was there. You looked down at her as she slowly came back to consciousness, rubbing the exhaustion out of her eyes and glancing at you sceptically.
   She saw your expression and knew immediately what you had been doing.
   “Mum told you to stay off Twitter for a little while.”
   “I just had a little peak.”
  “And you saw all the tweets about you and Jimin, didn't you?”
  She sat up straight. You didn't need to reply – it was obvious that you had. Though Lele was only fourteen years old, she still had a way to make you feel like the younger one just by the way she glanced at you with that eyebrow raise that she had mastered so well – you remembered her as a toddler, the way she used to pull that very same face whenever she knew someone was lying.
   “Oh, Y/N,” she sighed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Those pictures of Jimin are . . . Something else, aren't they?”
   “People are blowing it all out of proportion,” you grumbled, but even as you said it, your voice cracked.
   Lele raised her brow once again. “Are they, though?”
  “Of course they are! Jimin and I are-”
  “Awk, just friends, yeah. I've heard it all before.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I'm not saying anything suggestive here, but I watched the show. The camera could not catch a single frame where the two of you were not basically glued at the hip – and the amount of times he rested his chin on your head-”
  “He was just happy to be with someone shorter than him.” You giggled to yourself, unable to hold back your amusement at the memories.
   “See, there you go!” Lele suddenly exclaimed, making you jump. “You're literally blushing just thinking about him! I've only ever seen that shit in dramas-”
  “Oi, watch your mouth!”
   “But it's true!” She groaned, jumping up and shaking your arm roughly. “And don't deny that you like him, too. Everybody saw the chemistry.”
  “Lele, please get off of me.”
   “Not until you admit the truth.”
   “There is no-”
   She started tugging on your arm even harder. You were fairly certain she was trying to rip the limb from its socket.
   “Lele!” you cried. “Stop!”
  “Admit you like Jimin.”
   “Lele-”
   “Do you want me to show you a compilation video of you two sleeping next to each other in the jungle, or do you just want to admit the truth now?”
   Your eyes widened. “A compilation-”
  “Oh, there's millions of them,” she said, already reaching into her back pocket for her phone.
   You slapped her hand away before she could grab the device, immediately flushing red. “Fine! Fine. I like Park Jimin.”
   As Lele's face morphed into one of excitement, you felt the nerves rising in your throat – that was the first time you had admitted it out loud. In fact, with the emotions it triggered within you, you were fairly certain that it was the first time you had admitted it to yourself at all.
   It felt so wrong, and so right all at the same time. You remembered the weeks you had spent together, the nights where it would be a tad bit too cold, or the sleeping bags would be a tad bit too uncomfortable, and you would both say fuck it and curl up together, claiming it was for warmth and nothing more.
   But now that you thought about it, you had never actually gotten all that cold during your time in the jungle. You just enjoyed the feeling of Jimin's arms wrapped around you.
   Lele was talking, babbling away like an excited teenager, but you were no longer paying her any attention. She had triggered your brain to start thinking, to start remembering, to start planning, and before the night was out, you had made your decision.
   ---
    Jimin won.
   Of course he did. With the nations love for him, plus the ninety three votes you had sent in, it was almost a guarantee that he would win. Nobody expected any different.
   You tugged on the hem of your red dress, biting down on your lower lip - being back in the jungle this soon was something you hadn't been expecting, but you didn't feel the same type of nerves as you had done whenever you had first arrived all them weeks ago – now, it was more a sense of excitement, as misplaced as it felt. You should have been nervous at the idea of seeing Jimin again, especially in this state and with the news you were bringing him.
   If you could even call it news.
   Maybe you would make a fool out of yourself on live television. Maybe he would see you, standing at the end of that red carpet, and he would just completely blank with the confusion – perhaps he only saw you as somebody to latch on to in the jungle, and you had misdirected your own feelings completely.
   Maybe you would make a fool out of yourself, but you would never know unless you tried.
   And so, whenever the sirens wailed and you heard Cony and Dony yell, “Park Jimin, you're a celebrity, get yourself out of here!” you felt nothing but that buzz of excitement – the excitement that came along with the unknown.
   Your breath was nearly knocked out of you whenever you looked down the carpeted bridge and saw Jimin making his way towards you.
   The fireworks went off behind him. He was wearing a crown of leaves upon his head, the customary accessory for somebody who had just won the title as king or queen of the jungle – he was beaming. His red shirt was stained, and he was wearing a pair of beige shorts, his black hair a mess, but you wanted nothing more than to run to him, to hug him and tell him how proud you were of him.
   He didn't see you until he reached the middle of the bridge. He was still grinning from ear to ear as the paparazzi snapped his picture, but his smile faded as soon as his eyes laid themselves upon you.
   That was it. That was the final straw, the snap of the string.
  You were shoved past the photographers and threw yourself into Jimin's arms before anybody from the crew could stop you. Jimin grunted as your chest slammed into his own, his crown falling off his head, but neither of you cared.
   He wrapped his arms tightly around your waist as you let yours explore his shoulders. Your head was nuzzled in the crook of his neck, and the world around you was completely blocked out for the time being.
   “You're here,” he said in your ear, sounding almost breathless. “God, you're here.”
   “I'm here,” you confirmed. “You won, Jimin! You won!”
   You pulled away, kept your hands on his shoulders. You could barely feel your face from smiling so much, and Jimin was smiling right back at you with the exact same enthusiasm.
   It happened naturally, before you could really comprehend what was going on. It was as if it was a must, as if the two of you had just kind of come to terms that a kiss was the final thing you needed to do to seal the deal right now-
   So that's exactly what you did.
   You leaned in at the same time, his hands coming up to cup your jaw as your own wound around his shoulders. Your lips pressed against his. The crew behind you screamed and cheered, and the paparazzi even took a moment to pause with the shock; but then the flashes were going off all over again, capturing this oh-so-special moment, and neither of you could find it in you to care.
   Even though you had the entire world watching you, it felt like it was just you and Jimin – it always did just feel like it was you and Jimin when you were together. He just had that skill to him, the skill to make you feel like the only person that mattered, the only person in his mind at that moment.
   And this time, it was no different. His hands glided over your jaw, pulling you closer and closer until you genuinely had to pull away for fresh air.
   He let his hands fall away from your face and he wound them around your waist, pushing the small of your back so you were stumbling even closer to him.
   “We couldn't have waited until I'd at least had a shower first?” was the first thing he said.
   You chuckled, pressed a soft kiss to his nose that had him scrunching up his face and tugging on the ends of your hair playfully. “No. No, we could not, Park Jimin.”
  “To be fair,” he said, “I was going to kiss you whenever I said goodbye to you on the bridge, but I backed out last minute.”
  “Weak. You won't survive the winter.”
   Jimin rolled his eyes, that playful smile tugging on his perfect lips before he leaned in and kissed you again.
   Whenever you pulled away, you only had one thing left to say to him before you would pass him on to the awaiting press and his family.
   “What is it?” he whispered, his lips brushing yours. He could tell you wanted to say something.
   You looked into his eyes and smiled shyly, before you stood on your tippy-toes, pressed your mouth to his ear and whispered, “Congratulations, King of the Jungle.”
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talechaser-ffxiv · 6 years ago
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Have you ever been harassed/stalked by a mun? How did you handle it?
Oof we’re starting with the hardest one so... get comfy. I’d put this under a cut but mobile won’t let me. What’s worse is there’s technically two muns (and the second was worse than this), but I won’t count the second one since they don’t RP much it at all. Neither of them is on tumblr to my knowledge but I’ll be avoiding naming them outright either way.
A couple years ago, @thedarkestdragonknight (referred to as Tox from now on) and I helped to create an rp group. It was small, mostly a well-knit circle of friends, and that’s more or less when and how we got closest. Tox wasn’t as good with people as she is now, and I was often playing therapist as well as helping to coach her and realize why some behaviors weren’t okay (which is really weird to say, but she’ll be the first to admit that she wasn’t very good at interacting or handling stress). But in that group we had one really close friend—for the sake of clarity we’ll call them X—who we trusted and spent a lot of time with. We let X get close, and even take part in some private, really dark RPs that I did with Tox for catharsis reasons to deal with my PTSD. Eventually X ended up developing a crush on me, but I turned them down gently because I wasn’t up to dating anyone and had just gotten out of an abusive relationship anyways. They handled it gracefully enough and things continued as normal, with the three of us being close and X wanting to be especially close with me.
That was 2012. Now we skip to 2013. Here’s where the heavy stuff begins, and I apologize if anything upsetting comes up. I’ll actually be cutting a lot of the trauma out.
On New Year’s Day, I was greeted with the news that my uncle had died. It was... very bad. I let the group know and went about my business, went to the funeral, and all that. The day I came back from the viewing and signed into the group, X immediately began hounding me with questions about why I wasn’t rping, despite at least one other person telling them not to. I explained over and over that my uncle had just passed away and I wasn’t up to rping, and eventually they let it drop. Fast forwards few months: my little sister came back with a diagnosis of two types of cancer. Again I let the group know (after all these were my friends, I wanted comfort and reassurance that I wasn’t about to lose my sister). Again, X decides to harass me about not rping. Again, people had told them to leave me alone.
After a while I ended up having to leave the group due to personal reasons, as did Tox. Things blew up when X decided to create a creature to replace Tox’s, but the design was uncomfortably different. Neither of us said a thing, but one of her friends spoke up in her defense, trying to ask X to credit Tox as the original creator. Suddenly I’m seeing messages from friends accusing Tox of setting her friend up to this, so I signed into the group, ultimately pulling two friends aside to explain that I was worried that the public fighting would get the group shut down. Apparently X used that argument to say that I was trying to get them shut down, and my two friends apparently ended up in a lot of hot water over it.
X had apparently been spreading rumors about me behind my back while I was in the group because I wasn’t rping with them, and since I was being quiet and withdrawn because of all the trauma I was dealing with (and keep in mind I’ve only mentioned two events), people believed it because they didn’t see proof otherwise. To make matters worse, X told people about those private RPs I did, just to laugh at me about it. Needless to say, I was mortified when I found that out.
Move forward to 2014. Here’s where we get to the “what I did about it”.
X wants to rp with a friend of ours who left the group and sided with me and Tox in all the drama. He tells X they have to ask me for permission (it was a private three-man rp group, consisting of Tox, me, and Awesome Friend). X comes to ask, and I say yes, and decide to let it be water under the bridge. Gradually I start getting in touch with everyone who cut me out before, and I connect them to Tox too. Of course, having a full time job and just before receiving my autism diagnosis again, I wasn’t rping as much as X wanted, and that confrontational behavior came out again.
I copied every argument. In full. I hid nothing, except one instance where X had a health scare and I decided to be courteous and redact it for the sake of not being an asshole. And I would show it to our mutual friends and ask where I went wrong.
This time, everyone sided with me. They saw the evidence for themselves, and they told off X whenever they lied or bragged about it. When X complained about me sharing our conversations, they called X out on sharing my secrets just to laugh at me about it, which was much different from me providing proof to defend myself.
I rejoined the group (which ended up closing a few months later), and despite me doing my best not to interact other than to be polite when necessary, X ended up abandoning their account with a lengthy callout post about what terribly people we were, and to this day there’s a notice on their abandoned account of what shit people Tox and I are.
This ordeal is actually why Tox and I have a lot of issues with rping and have panic attacks about sharing details about our characters at times. This rp community has been one of the best, but the ordeal was traumatizing (and Tox has been through even worse than me; given the story I just told, that should tell you something). That said, we’ve had a lot of time to heal and lots of amazing people to help us heal, so we’re doing better now. However, this is also a major reason I despise callout posts. No one deserves to have everyone turn on them, especially when people don’t necessarily know what the truth is. An entire circle of friends abandoned us because one nasty person decided that I should suffer because I wasn’t spending enough time with them... they bought into the lies and forgot (or ignored) about the things we had been going through. It was a horrible experience and I hope to never experience it again.
Munday Storytime!
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imagine-wannaone · 7 years ago
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Let That Ship Sale
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Lmao once again can’t title but I’m back, and the request was for an award show or something but the isac’s where the other day and wanna one has never gone and I like to dream okay so I hope this is okay, i could do another at an actual show w another member if you’d like idk. Also props to whoever can tell whoever the idols faces at the isac’s I edited out of the pictures (That I don’t own btw credit to owners) for the header board thingy belong to hehe.
Summary: All your fans are shipping you with Daniel and you can’t say you disagree.
 • The ISAC’s were always something you had mixed emotions about,  • Your group was pretty popular and didn’t exactly need the promotion, but your company was small so it was a good idea to go anyway, even if it was just to have a bit of fun,  • You enjoyed spending time with friends from other groups and sending your fans things you’d made, but you could be working on new songs and just the fact the day was so long,  • But at least you got to wear a tracksuit like damn,  • You were a self producing group who tried out most genres, generally more hiphop and R&B so you’d had many different clothing styles, but nothing beat the black tracksuit the event organizer handed you and the four others in your group,  • But at way too early o'clock (honestly any time before 11 am) you pulled yourself out of the car with your group and made your way to the stadium, you all had unique styles; braided hair or sunglasses,  • Wow y'all so beautiful and powerful looking I’m quaking,  • Y'all known for singing about important matters and independence and basically being badass and are actually rlly respected for it and popular,  • Don’t take no shit from no one, you’re out to win today,  • And to compliment your friends about all their comebacks and catch up of course,  • And then there’s the small matter of Mr Kang Daniel,  • One of the boys of the Monster Rookie™ group Wanna One that had taken the nation’s hearts pretty much overnight,  • The fans of your group and his had, continuously since their debut, been shipping you nonstop,  • And yeah, you thought he was cute and funny but you’d never even met; the most you’ve done was nod to each other or complimented his group on passing after a performance,  • And you’re slightly afraid that the shipping would now make it awkward for the two of you to meet and interact; afraid your Stan’s would take it way too far,  • You just hope you can get a ‘hi’ or a quick conversation in today with him, although you know it may be difficult,  • But your whole group is about not really caring about others’ standards, so you’re going have to remember that,  • The opening runs smoothly, and you manage to sneak up to where the fans are and hand out your lunch boxes yourself, although the rules say you really shouldn’t go to the fans area,  • (VIXX what trolls this year tho I love them)  • You’re sat with Irene and Yeri, Seulgi quite literally asleep on your lap and your members teasing your fans not 10 feet away and honestly wow,  • But then the archery gets called up and you have to slide yourself away,  • Which breaks your heart because yanno when a puppy is asleep on you so you can’t move?  • Like that,  • But you grab Tae, the member you’re going to do archery with, and wander off,  • You go second, so while you’re waiting you slip some black face paint out of your pocket, before painting some black streaks across Tae’s cheeks as she paints 3 down your face,  • Because how else you gunna show you’re ready for war?????  • As soon as your competitors look over to you they burst out laughing at the funny faces you pull, one of those competitors in waiting including Kang Daniel himself,
 • You make sure to send him a goofy fake scowl, challenging him, to which he cracks up,
• Omg a beautiful sight, Daniel smiling? Those cresent eyes? Soft cheeks? WoW,  • In essence - face paint is a very effective way to distract your competitors as well as amusing your fans,  • And you totally ace the archery,  • You walk away with a Silver medal and that’s totally good enough for you,  • But then an interview reporter grabs you and you’re whisked away,  • At this point you’re used to it, them Interviewers - they’re everywhere,  • “Y/N congratulations on the silver medal! It must have something to do with the face paint?”  • The lady smiles brightly and you laugh a little,  • “It must be, it was Tae’s idea to show we meant business,”  • The lady laughs at this, and starts to ask questions about your latest comeback and the paint, noting how you may have started a new fashion trend, the concept of your new song and making you rap a little bit of your verse, to which your fans scream,  • Wow we love a supportive family,  • They make your heart race as always as you wave to them,  • “One quick thing before you go, Y/N, I don’t suppose you’ve heard your fans talk about you and wanna ones Kang Daniel?”  • You’re heart drops at that and you blush, laughing nervously,  • “I’ve seen a few things, but don’t know a lot about it,”  • You’re such a great liar damn no one suspects a thing,  • “Ah, quite a lot of fans are shipping you; saying you’d make a very cute couple,”  • You know this is very much a breach of privacy and kinda rude, but you’re known for being quite laid back in your group, so you’re not thrown, although maybe a little lost for words,
 • And answers,  • And anything that won’t give away your small crush on the member of wanna one,  • “ Ah, I think our fans are right, Daniel is very cute and charming, although I’ve not really got the opportunity to get to know him yet,”  • Lmao smooth,  • Yeah right, you’re pretty obvious,  • Although you’re sort of mortified by the fact you’ve inadvertently just said 1) Daniel is very cute to thousands of people and 2) you basically ship the two of you,  • You do your natural thing and play it off as if you just told them your first name,  • You hear some laughing nearby and quickly glance to spot where you recognise Ong Seongwoo and Kim  Jaehwan slapping Daniel himself on the back, way too close, his cheeks bright red and a soft smile on his face as the cameras, no doubt, zoom in on him,  • He waves a little when he sees you looking,  • Wow what is a normal heart rate,
 • You laugh,  • At least you’re not the only one to get a taste of this embarrassment,  • You’re not alone in your suffering,  • And you nearly run away to hide when the interviewer motions Daniel to come closer and he actually complies,  • What a snake,  • He greets the interviewer and the two of you bow to each other all flushed, not knowing how to stand next to each other,  • It’s all very awkward wow,  • You know you’ve all been in the situation where you’re with that family member and they’ve already asked about school/work and now have nothing to say,  • yeah idk if that’s too specific,  • “Daniel, I don’t suppose you’ve heard about the fans shipping either? How do you feel about it?”  • You want to melt as Daniels eyes meet yours and a smile stretches across his face,  • “I think y/n’s music is incredible and she’s very cute and I’d like to get to know her more,”  • You’re dead,  • Daniels whole face is red as his eyes skim everywhere and he laughs a little,  • This is so weird and unheard of, don’t fans usually not want their idols to date? Aren’t there many things and rules about this?  • (y'all it’s stupid it’s their own life let idols date if they want)  • But here you are, stood next to your crush, both of you blushing messes, getting set up by your own fans,  • “Well that’s very interesting, make sure to get to know each other later,”
 • The MC/interviewer chirps and you laugh and stay cool as always, proud you haven’t let anything show except for maybe a slight blush,  • Daniel goes to leave but quickly throws his arms around you, giving you a hug at the speed of light before flying away,
 • You can hear the fans in the stadium squeal jeez,  • Wow, what just happened???  • You quickly jog back to your group who’s hanging out with GFriend and Seventeen after having to send some aegyo to the crowd,  • You nearly died of the embarrassment and cringe, but soldiered through,  • Let’s just say you get roasted,  • Apparently everyone in your group is a savage???? Do they hate you???? Wish for your torment?????  • Nah they’re just your best friends,  • And just when you’re forgetting about your interview ordeal, your group gets called for the relay race you’re all determined to conquer, having perfect harmony for the change over,  • While you may not be the tallest, you’re all fast as hell, having run away from your manager a couple of times,  • Lmao you just wanted boba tea,  • But you draw more paint, all slightly different, onto the others’ faces before heading over to the track to show everyone what running actually is,  • You run last, which is a lot of pressure wow,  • And your member is running towards you and they’re neck and neck with a member of twice like damn,  • But you take the baton smooth as hell and your legs move quicker than you can compute, almost leaving your torso behind as you focus your whole mind on faster, smoother, faster,  • As you’re speeding past you spot Daniel out of the corner of your eye yelling and you can hear your name and wow,  • Your heart starts hammering even harder and your head goes a little dizzy, your legs stumbling a little,  • But nah you don’t let no boy get in the way of your gold medal as you steam ahead and wow,  • 1st place what a gem,  • I mean it’s your 3rd gold medal in relay, you guys holding the title, just champs I guess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  • When sport 💪💪 is life ✌✌✌ can’t let anyone 👨👩 beat you 💃💃  • I hate myself,  • But then Daniel’s doing relay as well so you make sure to cheer equally as loud,  • Which is hard when you’re still catching your breath,  • Who needs Oxygen anyway???  • And the little shit has the audacity to, very obviously, send you a wink,  • An unmistakable wink,  • What sort of out of the world confidence does he have, he was in 2nd place as well,  • As much as you’re shook, it makes you a little soft, but no one will leT yOu lIVE,  • All slapping your back or ruffling your hair,  • The DeFianCe???  • But you go to get a water bottle and who do you run into?  • Yeah, Daniel,  • “Congrats on gold~”  • His soft tone,  • wow,  • His soft smile,  • Wow,  • The two if you actually talking?  • W o w,  • “Hey I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to put you in the spot and-”  • Lmao yeah, maybe you feel bad a lil for dragging him into what may be a nightmare of always being asked about each other,  • “No it’s okay, I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time, I meant it when I said you where cute,”  • Wow you’re a goner for this rookie,  • “So did I,”  • Wow smooth, not awkward at all,
 • “I like the paint by the way, but it makes you a little scary when you’re not smiling,”  • Lmao the idea was for you and the squad to look scary and badass especially for the broadcast,  • Little do the fans know the next Comeback has a fierce concept,  • Lmao playing with fans wow that’s always fun 🙃🙃🙃  • “Here,”  • You bring your face paint tub out and hold it up for him, raising an eye brow in question,  • He laughs and nods goofily, to which you crack the paint out,
 • You run a finger from his forehead down to his jawline in neat straight lines doing down, his skin soft and warm, the look when he closes his eyes so innocent and pure,  • Get you a soft man,
• It makes your hand tingle and you’re heart race at the close proximity, standing on your tiptoes and resting a hand on his shoulder for support,  • It’s only when you’ve finished do you realise his is now pretty much identical to yours,  • WhoOps ACcIDenTS HaPPEn,  • But he still looks damn cute,  • And you know a fancam of this will be all over the internet later,  • Hey; you may even share it on a private account who can say?????  • And wow if you don’t continue to spend the rest of the ISAC’s together, taking stupid pictures with people and giving the internet a heart attack,  • By the end of the day it seems almost all idols have some sort of facepaint?  • A star or a couple of lines of just a smudge done by a member of their group,  • A trend starter?  • But you’re all leaving the arena with the SqUAD,  • But then a hand gently takes your wrist and Daniel leads you to the side of the corridor with your group mates sending teasing smirks over the shoulder to you,  • With a shy smile he holds out a piece of paper folded neatly and you can see the outline of numbers written on it,  • You laugh lightly, taking the paper and carefully tucking it into your pocket,  • “Text me when you get home?”  • You nod, knowing you’ll spend too long deciding whether to say 'heya’ or 'hi’ and then make a split second decision and put something else entirely,  • And Daniel is just way too cute for you to take,  • He makes a move to leave, eyes hovering over you, before slowly leaning over and gently placing his lips on your forehead, ever so sweet, before nodding, smiling quickly and sliding away
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forgedasset-a · 7 years ago
Note
👀 + What is the *one* act from his time with HYDRA that Bucky regrets the most?
Send my muse “👀 + a question” and they’ll have to answer with 100% honesty. @emeraldhellfire
There’s a plethora of options to choose from. Decades spent killing, torturing, viciously training the new victims that Hydra had sunk their claws into, stealing Intel. Many thoughts had crossed his mind in that instant, many screams and pleads that he wanted to forget. But there was one that always stood out from the rest. One that screamed the loudest, because it’d been so personal - it still haunts him to this day. Expression and demeanor completely drops, blue eyes becoming hollow. Reflecting the way that the Soldier is haunted beyond belief, the memory swarming back in one instant. Sitting on his shoulders, like a boulder who only grew heavier as time passed. “There was a man.” A man. He knew his name. Remembered his face, the way he’d scream and gurgle on his own blood. Choke on his own spit, whimper… how his teeth would chatter against the cold and pain. 
“A rat… a traitor. As HYDRA called him.” His gaze doesn’t lift. Continuing to stare off into the corner of the room, as if the wall itself had a long hidden secret that he was trying to figure out. Metal scratches at his stubbled chin, flesh fingers grasping onto a bouncing knee. “He didn’t know what HYDRA was capable of until they gave him a job. A job he completed, and refused to hand over. He must have realized the damage it would create, the deaths that would come from it.” A weapon, a bomb, perhaps? He wouldn’t know, HYDRA never did tell him anything in too much detail. All he knew is that he had to get the location out of him. They wanted the weapon, and they’d do anything for it. So desperate, that they had sent in the Winter Soldier to do their dirty work, because who knew better about pain? 
Breath is drawn, and he finally averts his gaze. Finally lifting, but the gears in his head are still turning. “I was sent to find him, and retrieve the location. Of course, he tried to hide. I still found him. When I found him?” A pause. What follows is difficult to swallow, difficult to speak of. Brows pull together, and his jaws clench. Teeth grind and he finally exhales slowly. “I spent three days breaking him. I started slow, to intimidate. I thought if I scared him, he’d break… but he was strong, because he had a family to protect. He was terrified I was going to extract that information from him, too. That I’d find his wife and child and murder them on the spot.” It practically replays in his mind. A dark room that’s kept cold, with an arsenal of tools that he could use against him. Tools that included medical equipment, because he wasn’t allowed to let the poor bastard die, until he had given up the location. 
“I ripped out his nails. Slowly, of course. Pull them off one by one, so that he could feel every nerve and every vein. So that he could feel the nail detaching from flesh. I wouldn’t let him sleep, and if he even began to nod off? I’d beat him until he was bleeding and spitting out teeth. I remember putting a hand over his mouth and nose, pushed his head back… I forced him to swallow his own blood, his own teeth. I could feel him suffocating, becoming desperate to catch his breath. And I didn’t move my hand until the last second. You know why I waited?” Rhetorical question, seeming that he’s reflecting on what he had done, more than anything. “I waited to see the relief in the eyes that he was going to die, that he would win and we would lose. When I let go? That was the moment that it dawned on him… I wasn’t going to let him die. Not until we won.” Corner of his upper lip twitches upwards. 
Signaling to the absolute disgust he felt. Not only at the organization that was truly responsible for what had happened, but at himself. 
“By the time I was done with him, he was down an eye. Had less than four fingers and toes. Multiple stab wounds that were cauterized. Patches of skin mission from where I had skinned him alive. His face wasn’t recognizable, nothing but blue and black, blood and swollen bumps. For three days, he begged me for mercy. For three days, he begged death to come and take him. For three days, he fought for the life of his family. But I still ripped the Intel out of him. Because every time he begged, I only wanted to inflict more pain.” It’s as if he was challenged to get creative, to find out how much more he could put this man through before he broke. Of course, the programming was active during this time. Only fragment of Bucky, was the distant screams at the back of the Soldier’s head. A Soldier who wanted to break through and stop the horrific scene that was unfolding. The Winter Soldier, however, was stripped of humanity. Forced to see only one outcome - HYDRA’s success. 
As if this horrific tale couldn’t become worse, it had. For him, at least. “You know what I remember doing, many times while I was in that room? I remember smiling. I don’t know why… if it was because, I was finally the one that wasn’t being tortured. Or… if it’s because I enjoyed what I was doing. If I was proud of what I had accomplished.” Bouncing knee stops, and he becomes completely still. “My orders didn’t stop there. Once I had the location, I was to not only find the weapon and bring it back - but I had to get rid of all the future threads to HYDRA. The other Rats that might try to expose the organization. I killed him, and I found his family. Hidden away in a cabin, bags packed and false identifications and passports ready to go. She was reading a story to their daughter, no more than five. She couldn’t sleep, because she’d been having nightmares of a monster that hid in the closet.” He’d listened in for longer than he should have. He had found them, and he waited a few minutes before making his move. Something inside of him must have been hesitating. 
“I put a bullet through the back of her head. I was supposed to wipe all of them out. Make it look like an accident. I remember… looking into that child’s eyes, and seeing someone’s innocence die. Mortified, because the monster that wouldn’t let them sleep, had become real.” Many times before, he’d ruined lives. Killed people, made family mourn. He’d killed parents, brothers, uncles, lovers, friends… people who would be mourned, who would leave people behind to suffer and wonder why they had been taken from their lives so early. This one? This one had been different. He’d seen it first hand, he could practically see the trauma that was setting in. The way a child feared for their life. “She dialed the police, and I left. I guess not even HYDRA’s programming could make me take a life like that.” It’d made him cruel, he wouldn’t deny that. Made him disgusting, a monster, a weapon - a machine without a soul. “I regret that mission, beginning to end. It’s the mission that I can’t forget. Somehow, I should have broken through their programming. I should have been merciful. Instead, I was just as cruel as HYDRA had been to me, if not worse.” 
There were days, where the memory was so clear, he’d spend hours washing his hands. Washing and scrubbing, until his flesh hand was raw. Attempting to wipe off blood that was only visible in his eyes. “I remember the way that child looked at me. Like if I was a monster… which, was right. I was. I enjoyed inflicting pain… I put a bullet through someone’s head, who was innocent to the ordeal. I scarred a child for the rest of their life. Leaving them alone in this world. And you know what it made me realize?” A scoff, hardly heart felt. More amused at the pure irony of the whole situation. “It makes me wonder if the reason HYDRA was able to create the Winter Soldier out of me, is because I had something evil lurking in me all along.” 
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morwensteelsheen · 3 years ago
Text
Okay so. Basically, I don’t very much like this fanon take that implies Gríma assaulted Éowyn (yes I know I’ve used it in my own writing), but I used it in Finger Back, and, I feel, failed to deal with it in a way that was either satisfying or logical/constructive. I am now, maybe a little naively, trying to fix that with a sequel. This is the draft of the second chapter of that still-unnamed sequel. As before, heavy content warning for discussions of rape + its aftermath. Also a content warning for (consensual!) sex.
In the morning, they all head to the riverside. Aragorn insists it’s not too cold to swim, which is immediately taken up by Boromir as a test of his masculinity. Théo says nothing, but doesn’t leave the house without a towel tucked under his arm, while Éomer and Lothíriel are halfway to the river before anyone else has even gotten to the back door. Éowyn, meanwhile, takes one look at the challenge, sighs with the force of a small hurricane, and goes upstairs to change.
Ten minutes later, they’re all trudging down to the river, though Éowyn is now wearing only a shirt that’s 1-3 sizes too big for her and a pair of rain boots, having decided that the thought of trying to get her jeans back on while dripping wet is a monstrous idea. The wind is already nippy around her legs, and her knees are turning a worrying shade of pink, but she’s not quite ready to give up yet. Or, Faramir keeps shooting her these looks that are caught halfway between him obviously knowing how badly she’s willing to suffer to not look like a wimp and wanting her to not do that, and being quite pleased at her walking around without trousers on, and both are deeply amusing to her, so she charges onwards.
“Oh fuck you six ways to Sunday,” Éowyn grits out after she takes a running jump into the water, which is now knee deep on her and positively freezing. “This is only decent for swimming in if you’re a certified masochist.”
“Board certified,” says Aragorn, blowing by her to get far enough into the water that he can dive beneath the surface. Éowyn looks back at Boromir and Éomer for support, but they’re each pointedly not looking at each other and not looking at the river, which only laps at their ankles.
Éowyn looks back at the river, sees the challenge laid before her, and battens down the hatches, preparing for war. With a smooth movement, she pulls her t-shirt up and over her head, balls it up, and throws it at dry land behind her. Then, with a silent prayer that if it’s going to be as bad as it feels, it just kills her instead, she runs forward into it.
It’s like a thousand daggers scraping at her skin, and she lets out a furious cry that morphs into semi-feral peals of laughter the further in she gets. Her hair sticks to her back, bringing her body temperature down even further, and she deeply hates herself for not having thought to tie it up (more accurately: having decided it looked better down and prioritised sensibility over sense).
Still, all it takes is a little team-taunting from her and Aragorn before Éomer and Boromir are throwing themselves into the river. Éowyn howls with laughter at Boromir’s bellowing, and the redness in Éomer’s face as he desperately tries to stop himself from saying anything and admitting defeat. But for all the years that have passed between them, and all the changes therein, one thing has never really changed: her duty to be as brutally annoying a young sister as she can.
Carefully, she wades through the water until she’s certain she can move with some speed through it. Then, with as much of a running start as she can muster, she vaults onto Éomer’s shoulders. It’s a wildly unbalanced act, but it has the ideal effect, he keeps his balance for only a fraction of a second before tumbling forward into the water. She’s faced with the mortifying ordeal of the cold once more, but to know that Éomer’s also suffering for it brings its own kind of warmth to her heart. Worth it. Totally worth it.
To her very great surprise, after just barely an hour she’s the last man standing. Once even Aragorn has forsaken the frigid river, she commits herself, rather sensibly, she thinks, to swimming as close to laps as she can do without getting out into the unknown centre of the river. She’s been away from kickboxing for too long, and she’s a little too enamoured with the idea of a holiday to go running properly, but swimming seems like a decent enough compromise. So, for as long as she can, she does.
By the time she returns to dry land, everyone else has dried off and gotten dressed once more, joining the cowards who never braved the river in the first place. She takes her time putting herself back together, not least because she’s dreading having to deal with her hair now that it’s all wet and tangled. The best she can do for herself, really, is to keep it down and pray it doesn’t end up turning into a thundercloud. She tries to pick it apart as she rejoins the group, a feeble gesture of dying hope.
“What are yous talking about then?”
The group falls silent for a moment, and it’s the kind of silence Éowyn recognises all too well—Éomer looking at her like she’s going to snap and start breathing fire, Théo looking anywhere but her, and Aragorn looking off into the distance beside her head. Faramir looks between them fleetingly, then presses his lips together tightly. She can practically see the muzzled eye roll.
“The young woman at Minas Tirith who was assaulted,” he says, pushing his fringe back from his face. She tries to keep the I told you so off her own over his notable lack of an Alice band. “The one in the news just now.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Grim stuff, not impressed with the uni’s response.”
“No, nor is anyone else,” he says, reaching out for her. She loops the towel around her neck, then takes his hand, her teeth instinctually chattering at the temperature shock.
“I think the media coverage is especially heinous,” says Arwen, in a tone that says she’s purposefully ignoring the uncomfortable expressions on the men around her. “I wasn’t labouring under any delusions about how we as a society treat survivors, but it really is quite a bit worse than I expected.”
“And she’s the ideal victim for the perfect execution of the crime. Clever, pretty, rich, ruthlessly committed to personal and social modesty.” She counts the factors off on her fingers, snuggling down into Faramir’s side, even as he makes a face at her wet hair sticking to his shirt. “And he’s an ex-con with a history of sexual violence who preyed on her specifically because of her modesty and naïveté. Yet somehow she’s the whore.”
“I just think they ought to have harsher sentences for rapists. If it doesn’t act as a deterrent, then at least we know the fuckers will rot for the rest of their lives,” says Éomer, his fist clenched on the grass beside him. Éowyn recognises this affect of his, when he’s channelling all his anger from the Incident into something else. She ignores it.
“Because they’ll just fight harder to never charge them. I mean this guy had a verified record and still every jumped-up half wit in the world is coming to his defence with this horseshit about him being rather a nice bloke and really just too much of a social moron to understand that a woman screaming no and biting his cheek off is a sign she’s not up for a shag. If you tighten up those sentences, nobody will ever think these men are evil enough to deserve life, or whatever it is you’re wanting.”
Faramir hooks his arm around her shoulders, pulling her back to rest against his chest (his protestations over her hair have, evidently, been forfeit). “I’d like to see better regulations for reporting on these sorts of crimes. I think the total anonymity for minors is a sensible start, but I don’t see what public interest is served by splashing the name and personal details of the victim and perpetrator across the papers.”
“Yes, exactly,” says Arwen. “There’s no public interest served by it, it’s more about public entertainment than anything else. Frankly I don’t see why we ought to know the names of criminals at all, surely if we believe that the system has provided adequate rehabilitation then they have every right to return to a fresh start after they’ve served their time.”
Théo leans back on his elbows. “Well I’d like to keep track of where they are, don’t want to move into a home with my kids and find out the local rapist lives next door.”
“Or works for your dad’s company,” says Éowyn, before she can help herself.
The silence descends like tarmac poured over grass: heavy, thick, unnatural.
“Oh, speaking of terrible neighbours, our next door neighbour has this horrid little dog who yaps all bloody day,” says Aragorn, with absolutely no tact or subtlety. “I’m thinking of getting a dog whistle and hooking it up to an air dryer just to tire him out.”
And like that, the conversation runs on again, splitting the group between small dog sympathisers and antagonists, and leaving the discomfort in the dust. It is, Éowyn thinks, easier for the conversation to run away from the discomfort of her life than it is for her to run away from it.
📚📚📚📚
Later, once she’s warmed up and dried off, Éowyn slides her finger across her phone screen, deleting as many emails as she can in as little time as possible. There are always so many, it’s just a never-ending stream of bullshit and spam.
“I think I’m going to become a primitivist,” she tells Faramir, reclining further into the pillows. “It’s either that or the next time I get an email advertising discount botox, I’m going to bomb our nearest server centre.” Her voice trails off into a lingering sigh. “Oh, do that again.”
He obliges her, and she lets the arm holding her phone fall to the mattress by her side. She closes her eyes, momentarily gives herself over to the sensation of his tongue swirling around her nipple, the only sound to come from her lips a mewling whimper.
And then her phone vibrates again.
“Maybe I’ll bomb it anyways,” she mutters, cracking an eye open to check the notification. Faramir pushes the blankets down past her hips, lips tracing the lines of her stomach while his fingers draw ever more insistent circles up her leg. “Oh,” she says when he lightly drags his nails down the sensitive skin on the inside of her thigh. Then, when her phone buzzes again: “Oh! These people will never give me a moment’s peace!”
She’s so certain she hears something that sounds rather like try putting your phone away, but his tongue comes wet and hot over the faint lines his nails have left, and her hips shudder, banishing the last vestiges of her rational mind.
He kneels between her legs, plants his hands on the backs of her thighs, and pushes them up until her knees nearly bump her chest. It leaves her deliriously exposed, and she feels every inch of it. The cool air envelops the undersides of her thighs and the sides of her belly where it rolls and dimples. In contrast, her pulse thuds hot and fast between her legs, almost brutalising heat against the open air.
She writhes just a little bit against the feeling, and is just about to scold him for teasing her when she feels his tongue pull long and slow across her. It catches her so completely off guard that she cries out—not his name, not any coherent words, just a pitchy, wanton noise.
His laughter comes in a brief gust across her, and even that winds her desire tighter. He ducks his head to his task once again, and her breathing comes in short little gasps, her hand falling to her chest to tweak at her own nipple. She loves this feeling, loves the lewd noises, loves the heat of his palm as he cups her, loves that she’s comfortable enough with him to let herself think nothing at all.
He drags his tongue along the soft, wet skin on either side of her clit, drawing tantalisingly close but never touching it. She buries her fingers in his hair, draws her knees back even further, lets the pounding heat coiling up from her belly wash over her like waves lapping gently along a riverbank.
As she holds him to her and repeats his name in an increasingly frantic voice, she can hear his noises of quiet contentment. He’ll never admit it, but she knows he gets off on getting her off, like it’s some sort of personal stamp of approval on his very existence. She loves that he doesn’t treating making her come like it’s some time-consuming chore but rather something to validate his pride.
She shifts, pushing herself up onto her elbows and lowering one of her legs over his shoulder. She regrets it almost immediately: the sight of him going down on her like he was born to do it goes straight to her head.
“Fuck,” she whispers, squeezing her eyes shut and tightening her grip on his hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she says, hips canting forward of their own accord, right onto his hot, hot mouth.
He builds her up slowly. Abandoned to the far side of the mattress, her phone buzzes, email after email piling up during ten minutes when she can think of nothing but the feeling of his tongue, his breath, his fingers knuckle deep within her.
When he finally lets her come, she shudders and trembles through it, crying his name in a way is just two degrees too close to an actual sob to be sexy. She doesn’t care: she’s breathing so hard she’s almost given herself tunnel vision.
Her heart thuds heavily in her chest. Tiny little aftershocks ricochet up her spine. She can feel her hips still circling, dancing up to meet him even though she’s beyond oversensitive. There’s the faint scratch of his unshaven cheek against her thigh, the warmth of his breath ghosting over her. She can feel the muscles of his back shifting beneath her shin. She keeps her eyes closed, breathing through it.
She tells him—or tries to tell him—that she wants to feel him inside her. There’s no way she’s coming again, not after that laser show, but his breathing is so ragged it cuts through her post-orgasmic haze, and really, she likes the intimacy of having him buried within her.
She thinks he’s understood her limp gestures, because his hands slide under her hips, lifting her up off the bed, desperation in his movements as he presses her to him. He trails his fingers up from where they’ve been twisting and rolling her nipple, over her shoulder, leaving a trail of fire down her arm, the inside of her wrist. Then, with a smooth flick, he sends her phone hurtling from her hand to the floor below.
She can’t help but laugh, even as he takes her now-empty hand and pins it to the pillow beside her face. “It will not kill you,” he practically growls, sucking a faint bruise into the skin on the top of her breast, “to not check your phone for thirty seconds.”
“Thirty seconds? Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she says in mock-concern, cradling his face with her free hand, blinking into the early evening light.
He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, but still shifts to settle himself between her legs, hard and insistent against her. Suddenly, there’s no time for jokes or teasing.
In one single, urgent thrust—not quite as smooth as she knows he would’ve liked, but not inelegant either—he pushes into her. She’s not sure who makes the louder noise. They meet each other halfway in a gasping, laughing kiss: they’re not at home, noisiness is definitely not encouraged here.
She wraps her arms and legs around him, meets him thrust for thrust, muttering whatever nonsense sounds passably sexy in his ear. By the increasing erraticness of his movements and the way he’s given up kissing her to rest his forehead against her shoulder, she can tell it’s working for him.
The tension evident in his body is almost too much for her to bear, and she’s really not sure how he’s coping. Lightly, delicately, she runs her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.
“I love you,” she whispers, almost in a sing-song voice. “I love you, come for me.” She tightens her legs around his waist, arches up into him to underline the point. By the harshness of his inhale, she’s pretty sure they’re now on the same page.
He twines their fingers together above her head, driving into her with a little less gentleness than usual. She’s definitely not going to come again, but she whimpers nonetheless. If there’s one thing she’s learned over the last four years, it’s that sometimes things can just feel good for the sake of feeling good.
His movements grow less controlled, heavier, harder, faster. There’s only the sound of their breathing and the obscene slap of skin against skin. Then, in rapid succession: his fingers tighten around hers, almost painfully; his hips snap up once, twice, three times with purpose; he cries her name into the skin at the bottom of her throat, the sound is broken with unrestrained need. She clutches him to her and feels the explosive wave of his release, how he trembles and gasps her name like a prayer.
As he begins to still, she kisses every inch of him she can reach, willing him to feel how much love she holds in her heart for him. She trails her fingers down his spine, now sticky with a faint sheen of sweat. Blindly, she dots out the freckles and moles and scars she has come to know so well.
“That had to be forty-five seconds at least,” she whispers into his hair, kissing the side of his head.
She feels his laughter around her, feels the slight shake of his head. “You’re a nightmare,” he says, then slips out of her. She makes a quiet noise in the back of her throat at the sensation, but chases the warmth of him as he rolls onto his back. She needs to get up, go to the en-suite and clean herself up, but for now all she wants to do is snuggle into him, letting the meditative pounding of his heartbeat beneath her ear lull her to sleep.
📚📚📚📚
The evening comes, and though Éowyn has enjoyed her late afternoon of dozing and watching Faramir as he dozes (she was, in the end, too lazy to retrieve her mobile), even she can’t hold back the tides of hunger forever. Grudgingly, she dresses, and chucks clothes at Faramir until he, half-awake and none too pleased for it, relents and dresses too.
“Oh, Éowyn, have you seen these?” Théo waves her over from the far end of the front room where he’s huddled over Éomer’s phone.
“Seen what?”
“Pictures from this year’s Local Business Awards. Come look, they’re very sweet.”
She shoots a pleading look at Faramir, who grins mischievously and turns to the fridge, outright ignoring her desperation for an out.
“Sure,” she says, resigned, then heads over to Théo.
The pictures are sweet enough, really. Uncle Théo looks healthier than he has in years, and Éomer and Lothíriel look lovely and happy and very well suited to one another in their black tie attire. Théo swipes through the pictures for her, and she oohs and awws at all the appropriate moments, occasionally calling out relevant commentary on dresses or suits or haircuts.
But abruptly and without warning, her heart stops.
At first she isn’t sure why her vision tunnels without her permission and the hairs on the back of her neck prickle up. She blinks once, twice to dispel it, but it doesn’t break. Then she sees it—sees him, rather, in the corner of the picture Théo’s just swiped to. He’s far enough in the background to be almost invisible, but she recognises him. She’d recognise that oil slick of hair anywhere, it’s seared into her marrow now.
Her heart pounds in her chest, her blood roaring in her eyes. She feels like she’s about to black out. “Oh, cool. That’s interesting,” she says, her voice unnervingly calm.
“What’s interesting?“ says Théo absently, swiping through more pictures.
“Oh, nothing really. The man who brutally raped me when I was sixteen years is now back in town apparently, and my whole family has been going to fancy events with him. Not that interesting though, I guess I’m probably just overreacting.” There is no waver in her voice, every word is delivered with mechanical precision. She’s out for blood: whether her family’s or her own, she hasn’t yet decided.
The other conversations in the room continue apace, she’s kept her voice quiet enough to avoid that much humiliation at least. Still, she hears the fridge door shut a little too quickly and a little too loudly—Faramir, she trusts, will know not to intervene.
“We thought you knew,” says Théo, his voice low, quiet.
“Right, yeah, sure. Reasonable mistake. It’s only a small detail really, so I can see how it would’ve slipped your mind.”
“Éowyn,” says Éomer, taking his phone back from Théo.
“No, I’m serious. It’s really fine. I mean it’s just, like, what? One rape right?” She laughs, it comes out tight and unnatural in her throat. “That’s, like, nothing in the grand scheme of things. I mean, one in three women reports having been sexually abused before they turned eighteen, and there’s three women here right now, so realistically there had to be at least one of us. I’m just taking my turn really. Statistically.”
“We really thought you knew,” Éomer tries again.
“And I really believe you,” she whispers without a hint of sarcasm. He looks like he’s about to protest. “No, trust me Éomer, if there’s an option for you to think the most unbelievably fucking stupid thing just to keep yourself comfortable a little while longer, I believe that you’ll think it.”
“Let’s not do this here,” says Théo. “It’s not the most appropriate spot.”
The anger welling inside her settles into something bitterer, leveller, but not quieter. Oh how hard Théo tries to be the peacekeeper, but somehow only when it’s Éowyn who’s angry, never when it’s Éomer or anyone else doing something egregiously cruel. No, it’s always been keep the peace with him—which means keep the civility, keep the thin veneer of respectability in this family that has none.
“You’re right,” she says sharply.
She turns on her heel and grabs for the handle of the front door.
“Where are you going?” Éomer’s the first to raise his voice, his mistake.
“For a walk,” she says bitterly. “I forgot that the best place for me to be is a million miles away from you assholes.”
“Éowyn,” her brother calls from behind her.
“Let her go,” says Faramir, firmly, uncompromisingly. She’s never loved him more.
The air here isn’t half as warm as it would be in Minas Ithil, and it nips at her nose, immediately filling her with brutal resentment that she didn’t bring her jacket. It is, to be fair, the middle of summer, but it’s still a rookie error, and all it does is compound the generalised, bitter anger she’s feeling towards the world.
She does not blame her family for The Incident. For many long, shitty years, she blamed herself, she blamed her parents for bringing her into the world, she blamed the bus she rode to school for not blowing up and killing her the morning it happened. She blamed a lot of things, but never, ever her family. She didn’t blame her uncle for being sick, her cousin for not doing more to care for him, or her brother for not seeing the signs. She didn’t blame them, and she still doesn’t. Hell, she doesn’t even blame them for how they responded to it: her uncle by pretending it had simply not happened at all, her brother by reframing the entire situation to be about his anger and guilt, her cousin for pretending that they could all somehow go back to that nebulous vision of normal after it, or Aragorn for leading the charge in treating her like some frail, wilting flower.
She sympathised with them, probably still does. She bore the full weight of their emotions in the aftermath of it, even though she was sixteen years old and grappling with the single worst experience of her life. She gave up her sanity, any chance of feeling normal again, just to make sure they could all fall asleep comfortably each night. She never asked for any acknowledgment of it, didn’t ask for any thanks, any good stars, any pats on the head. She just dealt with it and moved on. And now they can’t even do her the simple fucking courtesy of ensuring the man who ruined her life stays the fuck away from her family home? And short of that, none of them even have the balls to give her a heads up?
She wanders along the river, too tired of it all to really be angry anymore, but still too angry to turn around and go back to the cabin. There is a reason, she reminds herself, why she went—and stays—so far away from home. She doesn’t want to be this angry at her family, it’s not in her nature, but she can’t help but feel betrayed.
Her phone buzzes, and briefly she considers hurling it (and herself) into the river. In the end, rationality gets the better of her.
From: 🌜Faramir🌛
To: Éowyn
[20:37]:
I’ve got your tea in the bedroom. Send me a sign that you’re okay, please.
From: Éowyn
To: 🌜Faramir🌛
[20:39]:
👍
She sits beside a felled tree and counts back from a thousand, watching the last spritzes of lilac in the sky give way to the inky black. The longer she thinks about it, the more she’s not sure why she feels betrayed. Really, what can she ask of them? To just turn around leave whenever they see him? Even at risk to their own business careers? To have this uncomfortable conversation with her when it’s not really a matter of her safety anymore, even years after they proved they couldn’t have the conversation when it was a matter of her safety? She’s not sure she can hold them to expectations they’ve never bothered meeting before, if anything, she’s really the one that’s being unreasonable here.
When, a couple hours later, she finally builds up the courage to retreat, she goes with a small, terrible flame of anger in her heart. More than anything, she hates that more than a decade on from The Incident, he and it still have the power to control her, to ruin her relationships with her friends and family, and to thieve happiness and quietude away from her. All she wants, ironically, is what everyone else in her family wants: to go back to a time before any of this happened, when she wasn’t permanently damaged goods.
The living room is empty and dark save a small reading lamp when she gets back. She feels ridiculous, but she tiptoes through it. She can’t face another conversation right now, not with anyone.
The stairs creak as she ascends them, but mercifully nobody comes out of any of the rooms to see why they’re making noise. Almost all of the bedroom doors are shut, except for the one she and Faramir are camped out in. She slips inside it, then shuts the door. Her cheeks burn.
Faramir’s sitting in the low armchair at the far end of the room, reading. He looks up at her with an unreadable expression when the door clicks. She swallows thickly. It’s been a long, long time since she last had a meltdown like this, she can’t remember how he reacted then, and suddenly she finds that she’s not sure she wants to remember, isn’t sure that she can bear it if he’s going to look at her any differently.
“We’re all packed,” he says calmly, setting his book to the side. It’s like her entire body relaxes. “We wouldn’t get home until a little past one, but the option’s there, if you like.”
She chokes on a sob, then crosses the space between them, dropping into his lap. He holds her tight, one hand stroking the back of her head over and over in a steady, meditative rhythm.
“Please,” she says, and then needs to say no more.
My writer’s block with AFTA is killing me, so I’ve tried restarting the repeatedly-delayed Finger Back sequel, lol. I’m going to use it to work out the kinks with some of the stuff I raised in FB but didn’t deal with as I think I should’ve. To that end, I don’t really want to for realsies publish any of the chapters until I’ve got the whole thing written, but here’s the first-ish draft of chapter one, for anyone interested.
Content warning for mentions of rape.
She eases out of the passing lane, throwing the car back into cruise control and staring aimlessly out at the vast empty road that stretches ahead for a hundred miles. The sun hangs low in the sky behind them, sending great golden shafts of light down the motorway. The radio plays softly, some ancient songs of summer playlist that the DJ has evidently decided is inoffensive enough for seven in the morning on a Sunday. The smell of coffee, sharp, bitter, comforting, wafts through the air vents. Fuck, Éowyn thinks, she needs that coffee like she needs air.
“I really hate this paper,” Faramir says from beside her, his voice deep and slightly hoarse with sleep. He swipes across the screen of his tablet. “It’s dull. It’s hackneyed. The commentary is edgy for the sake of being edgy. It isn’t saying anything that hasn’t been said already. I’m sick to death of reading it.”
“You say that about everything you write, and then it gets published and you love it again,” she says. “If it really is so terrible, put it away for five minutes, we’re going on holiday, you don’t need to work.”
“You are a shameless hypocrite,” he says, but she can hear the smile in his voice. “I saw the notebooks in your bag.”
“Those are recreational notebooks—this is going to be an old married couples’ gathering and I’m too unmarried to get dragged down into the mire.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“What? Dragged down into the mire or unmarried?”
“Yeah. Pull over at the next rest stop and I’ll marry you right now.”
She laughs, and so he smiles, but when she glances over at him there’s a seriousness in his eye that sparks a blinding flame of affection deep within her.
It takes all her strength not to pull over at the next town.
📚📚📚📚
The cabin they’re staying in is more than a little off the beaten path, close to where Arwen grew up without being close to, well, anything. Boromir and Théo got here last night, but only because their drive from Fornost was the longest. Aragorn and Arwen beat them, apparently, by only minutes, and are still unloading their car when Éowyn pulls up the gravel path. There are many hugs and kisses run through in the enormous driveway that leads to the cabin, and Éowyn, who did the first and last legs of the drive and is therefore exempt from carrying their bags in, throws herself onto Boromir’s back in lieu of having to walk up the twelve steps to the front door herself.
“I’m too old for this,” he says, though doesn’t falter once.
“You really are,” she says, resting her chin on the crown of his head so she can get a better view of the place. If there’s one word to describe the decor in here it’s kitsch. If there are two, it’s tragically kitsch. There’re just enough mismatched tartan and floral patterns smattered across the room to make it ugly, but not so many that it can be chalked up to design laziness. No, someone put a lot of thought into making it look this bad, like a granny with too much time and money and too little sense.
She glances down, flicks Boromir’s ear. “When are you going to make me an auntie?”
“Well if you break my back, never.” Now inside the front room of the cabin (which is rather a lot bigger than the pictures on the booking site gave it credit for—or maybe she didn’t notice that the kitchen is open plan from the pictures), he swings her around, dumping her unceremoniously onto one of several couches scattered around. “If you don’t break my back, a year or two maybe?”
Éowyn scrambles up into a vaguely-dignified seated position. “Really? That soon?”
“Like I said, I’m getting old,” says Boromir, dropping down into an armchair facing her. Behind him, Aragorn and Faramir come through the front door, talking quietly but animatedly. Arwen has already disappeared upstairs somewhere, and Éowyn can hear her and Théo chatting between two different rooms.
“Wow,” says Éowyn. “I mean I guess I always expected Théo would be first out of the gate with that sort of stuff, but with Éomer married and gone back home, I thought he might’ve caught baby fever.”
Boromir’s lips press tightly together for a moment, a vague inclination of a frown. Then, he seems to shake it away, instead stretching back in the chair. “They should be here soon, eh? You know, I reckon I made a terrible choice sticking it out with Théo. Thought it was bad enough with you and Fara, but your wee shite of a brother and my cousin? Bit much.”
Éowyn grins. “Bit much is this family’s motto. Though hopefully yous all can keep a lid on it for a week. I for one would like to enjoy my hols, given that I’m apparently never going to have any again.”
“Oh, that’s right,” says Boromir, sitting forward once more. “Time for you to start your big girl job, eh? How’re you feeling about that?”
“I’m not really feeling anything about it,” she says with a shrug. “I mean, I’ve seen Faramir do it all before, so it’s not exactly a new experience, per se. But I guess as long as I don’t start shagging one of my students, I am carving my own path.”
“Not funny!” calls Faramir from the open-plan kitchen—she hadn’t realised he was there, and pulls a face at his back.
“It is, actually,” says Boromir with a wink. “But otherwise, you’re not too nervous?” There’s no shame in it.”
“I know there isn’t,” she says, tucking her knees up under her chin. “It just feels quite natural I suppose. I dunno, I’ve never really thought I’d do anything else, so I’m no more nervous about this than I am about waking up in the morning, y’know?”
“Alright, fair enough. And it seems like it’s a good job, at least. My first was real grim, insecure hours and bad pay and all that.”
“You were living at home, I don’t know why you rushed into such a daft job,” says Faramir, now entering the sitting room with two mugs of coffee. Aragorn shuffles in beside him with a newspaper rolled under his arm.
“Oh alright, I didn’t want one anyways, thanks,” says Boromir, nodding at the mug Faramir’s handing to Aragorn.
“Ah yes, I forgot what this is like,” says Éowyn, with mock exhaustion. “I have a boyfriend who I thought loved me, but whenever his husband is around, I’m stuck playing second fiddle.”
Aragorn quirks an eyebrow at her. “You know how you get first chair in an orchestra right? Playing well.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
Boromir looks at her with exaggerated sympathy. “The death of filial piety is what this is, I swear.”
Éowyn grins. “Speaking of filial piety, when’s my brother getting here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” says Boromir. “Lothí is usually a ruthlessly efficient traveller, so I thought they’d have been here already.”
Éomer’s wife is a lot of things, but brave is chief among them. They met three years ago and were married a year later, just in time for Éomer to decide to move home and take up the family business. Lothíriel as far as Éowyn was aware, didn’t kick up a fuss at all about it, just quit her job as a modern studies teacher, retrained in Rohan, and started teaching again as soon as she could. Éowyn, who had only left home because of severe and sustained trauma—trauma that revolved chiefly around that family business—could only marvel at someone who willingly got involved in it. It was either bravery, or it was stupidity, and Éowyn chooses to think kindly of her sister-in-law.
As it happens, when they do arrive later that afternoon, their lateness is singularly attributable to (who else?) Éomer, who apparently refused to get off a work call until several hours after they were meant to have left. Lothíriel decries his workaholic status, while Éowyn remains grateful that the books she’s brought to enable her own workaholic behaviour are safely hidden upstairs, leaving her free to dunk on Éomer as much as she likes.
With what little remains of their first day, they decide to pack a picnic dinner and go up the hill just beside the cabin. Aragorn and Arwen head up first—Arwen busted her knee a few weeks ago, and was adamant she and Aragorn start the hike before everyone else so as not to risk slowing them down. Nobody pushed the issue, but they all seemed to silently agree that hanging back even longer than originally told to was the best path forward to avoid getting an eyeful of anything nobody wants to see.
So, a good fifteen or so minutes after they planned to, they all convene in the cabin’s small detached garage. Éowyn fusses with her own hair, finishing off rebraiding it yet again, then turns to fuss over Faramir’s while he tries to do other things. She’s always liked his hair long, but they’ve been so busy over the summer and now it’s scraping well past his collar and she’s wondering if she should have brought an Alice band for him.
She brushes his fringe back from his forehead again. “I could pin it, I’ve got a spare pin.”
“It’s fine,” he murmurs, that certain knowing lightness in his eyes. He catches her wrist, pulling it away from his face to kiss the inside of it, before pressing her jacket into her hands.
“Do you city slickers even know how to find the great outdoors?”
Éowyn passes her backpack to Faramir to hold as she slips her windbreaker on. “You better not be asking us that, Théodred.”
“It’s a legitimate question, you’ve got the cleanest hands of anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Your disturbing lack of person hygiene does not equate to greater familiarity with the outdoors,” she says, returning the favour for Faramir. “We went wild camping not a month ago, thank you very much.”
“What makes it wild?” Lothíriel looks up from behind Éomer, kicking her leg up onto the bench to tie her boot.
“See?” says Éowyn, gesturing at her sister-in-law. ���There’s your city slicker, for fuck’s sake.” Then, with a discernible shift in tone, she glances over at her. “It’s wild because it’s not done at established campsites, you bed down fully in the wilderness.”
“You took my sister camping out in the middle of nowhere? Away from safety?” Éomer rounds on Faramir, who just stares blankly down at him.
“Oh for the love of—I drove us there, and it’s not exactly the middle of nowhere when you still can’t escape the light pollution. Good grief.”
“A little common sense is all I’m suggesting, especially given your—“ He cuts himself off, looking almost immediately regretful.
There’s nothing almost about the white hot bolt of rage that shoots through Éowyn though, even if it is tempered by that all too familiar urge to minimise herself, to not make the situation any worse than it already is. “That happened in our house, Éomer,” she says, quiet enough that only the three of them can hear it—maybe Lothíriel, if she’s trying. “It happened in our house and by someone we knew. Being in the middle of nowhere is, by comparison, the safest I could ever get.” Despite the firmness in her tone, she breaks eye contact quickly, tugging on Faramir’s hand.
They follow Aragorn and Arwen out, up the partly overgrown path that leads up the hill and away from the cabin. Faramir tangles their fingers together with a reassuring squeeze. Otherwise, he says nothing, letting her fume in angry, humiliated silence for a few more minutes, until they’re distanced enough from the house that her voice won’t carry, yet still far enough behind Aragorn and Arwen that they won’t cause a commotion.
“What the fuck was that about?” she hisses, kicking a pebble so hard it ricochets off a nearby tree trunk and nearly hits her in the shin. “What’s this rubbish about being in the middle of nowhere? Has he forgotten that it happened in our house? I was raped in the garage beneath his childhood bedroom, by our uncle’s closest business partner. I wasn’t picked up in the middle of nowhere and attacked by somebody I didn’t know!”
She digs the toe of her boot into the soft dirt because something about it feels cathartic, even if it looks unbelievably childish. “It’s been more than a decade! More than a decade! Have we not gotten over this by now? Is this not old news?”
Faramir looks rather like he’d like to quibble with her choice of words, but he nonetheless stays quiet, for which she is grateful. She sighs, with feeling. “I’m nearly thirty, that’s practically halfway to dead, are they ever going to grow out of this?”
This, it seems, is the last straw for Faramir. “Thirty is not halfway to dead.” He says it with such pain on his face that she can’t help but laugh, reaching up to pinch his cheek.
“Oh, don’t you fret, you don’t look a day over thirty-two.”
In the blink of an eye, he’s hauling her up, throwing her over his shoulder, and begin kicking her legs and yelling, she’s laughing so hard she can hardly breathe. Her words punctuated with variations on fuck you, put me down, and I’m sorry, and you really don’t look thirty, I swear!
After that, and because she has more than a passing interest in how easily he’s always been able to pick her up, she drags him behind a tree and—in an act entirely unbefitting of ages, no matter how young they really are—kisses him silly.
These are the things she likes best: that he goes with her wherever her thoughts do, that he doesn’t make her linger on her sadness or anger if she doesn’t want to, but doesn’t make her hide it either; she likes that after four years together, she still wants to steal away with him wherever she can, to feel him up like she’s a hormonal teenager who can’t help herself; and she loves that he loves it too, that even when she’s careening towards blind frustration with the world, he still makes her feel not just beautiful, but wanted, like even the absolute ugliest of her emotions is still valuable and worthwhile.
She also likes the soft little noises he makes in the back of his throat when she kisses the stretch of skin just beneath his ear. She likes that he grabs onto her like she’s his last tether to reality. She likes how his feet slip in the uneven terrain as he tries to press their hips together, as if he has to convince her of how much he wants her.
She hates—hates—the sound of Boromir’s voice as it cuts through the trees on the wings of a laugh. She tries to slow time with her mind, as if she wants it enough it might actually happen. Then she tries to distract Faramir by shoving her hand up his shirt and grazing her fingers across his chest. The woods aren’t exactly dense, but if she can just pull them slightly further away from the path…
The ground gives way beneath her, smooth detritus gliding across dry earth, and then she’s squeaking in surprise as she starts to tumble. Faramir catches her, very gallantly, she thinks, but only belatedly and once the horrid noise has left her mouth. The game, she realises, is up.
Each wearing their own hangdog expressions, they return to the group up on the path. Théo has no doubt sensed the immense friction still present between Éowyn, Faramir, and Éomer, because he immediately sidles up next to Éomer, throwing his arm around him and rather smoothly siphoning him off towards the head of the clump.
The remainder of the hike passes uneventfully, and by the time they reach the summit, Éowyn is almost ready to let the issue drop entirely, if it weren’t for the fact that even Aragorn, who was miles away when she and Éomer got into their spat, seems to now be intent on treating her with kid gloves. Arwen and Lothíriel stand at the other side of the small clearing on top of the hill, where Éowyn catches passing flutters of a conversation about kids, and immediately decides it’s not her scene. But it appears that her usual scene, what with its sudden and frustrating reversion to the coddling she thought they’d moved beyond years ago, is also now not her scene.
She goes for a walk.
Alone.
It’s been a while since she’s been around this much of the extended family (and friends who are very nearly family), and she’s forgotten how exhausting it can be—forgotten so much, she can hardly imagine how she used to manage this on a daily basis a little over four years ago. Living in Ithilien has been fantastic for her, she feels like she’s grown into herself in a way she never would’ve been able to if she were still in Minas Tirith or, Béma forbid, Edoras, but putting that much distance between her and everybody else means she’s no longer quite as practised at turning the other cheek, at reminding herself to prioritise other people’s emotional comfort above her own.
It sounds cliché, but living with Faramir is almost a little too good. Yes, they argue about things from time to time, but it’s never the horrible passive aggression she grew up with, and whenever they argue, there’s no part of her that imagines he’ll ever use her history as a cudgel against her, however well-intentioned others might be when they do. When he worries about her or how she’s feeling, he asks her about it straight up, and takes her answer at face value. When things do get a little rough (which is so infrequent now it’s almost not worth remarking upon), he lets her set the tone for how to deal with it, and he follows along. If he thinks she’s approaching it poorly, he lays out his argument thoughtfully, but doesn’t push it if she’s not willing to be pushed. It’s a good balance they’ve got, but it also means she’s just totally un-fucking-prepared to be dropped back into an environment where she needs to be constantly reading between the lines and figuring out the cryptic subtext to other people’s words and actions.
She starts to loop back to the group, and, unexpectedly though not unwelcomely, her thoughts flit back to Faramir’s comment to her in the car, about being willing to marry her right now. It is, of course, something they’ve talked about before, though always in the abstract, in the same way they talk about buying a house or going on a real vacation. It’s one of those things they both agree on, but the material reality of the world just isn’t right for it yet. Realistically, that’s not exactly true for getting married: Faramir’s partial disinheritance was a bitter financial sting, sure, but he’s not exactly hurting for cash, and she’s on salary for the first time ever this year, which means their combined household income is more than enough to fund a wedding, no matter how elaborate her family expects it to be. And she’s seen how much Éomer’s cost, though she and Faramir alike aren’t exactly spendthrifts, it’s not like they’re ever going to touch the absurdity that was that circus.
It’s more than just finances, really. She loves Faramir like she’s never loved anyone before, like she knows she’ll never love anyone again, but she worries sometimes that that might not be enough. She wakes up in his arms and feels so cared for and safe and happy that she almost doesn’t know what to do with it. She’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Four years in and she’s still expecting there to be an end to the honeymoon period, like one day she’ll just wake up, decide she’s not really capable of holding down a steady relationship, and never look at him the same way again. She thinks about her life ten, twenty years in the future, and she always sees him in it, sees him beside her in all things, but even that doesn’t stop the niggling feeling that maybe, just maybe, the reason Éomer and Théo and Aragorn still treat her like a kid is because she really is one. Maybe she is too young to know her heart, too emotionally erratic to make real, serious decisions for herself.
Then she thinks about what would happen if Faramir asked her to marry him right now, and it doesn’t feel like a decision so much as common sense: of course she would say yes. She doesn’t have to say yes to her heart asking permission to beat, or her lungs asking permission to pump. And when she thinks about it like that, all the other worries melt away. She’d marry him if they had no money at all, she’d marry him if she were so desperately sad she couldn’t lift herself out of bed. She’d want him around because he reminds her that there is joy and goodness and value in life, from the way his eyes light up at the most asinine little thing he reads, to the way he’ll drive her fifty miles out of the city on a whim, just because he read online that the sunset was going to be especially beautiful.
She rejoins the group quietly, lowering herself down onto a picnic blanket next to Théo, who wordlessly tosses her a tin of off-brand lager.
“What’re your Mettarë plans then?” She cracks the tin. “We were thinking of coming home, would be nice if we were all there.”
“What? Why?” Éomer’s voice slices through the conversations around them, and she looks over at where he’s sitting—a full metre away from her—to make a face.
“Why not? And who asked you your opinion?”
He frowns for a second, glancing at Lothíriel who inclines her head gently. “We were thinking of coming your way, is all,” he says after a moment.
“You were thinking of coming our way,” she repeats. All the ancillary conversations have died down, and everyone’s looking between them. She hates how often this happens. “You know we live in a one bed flophouse right?”
“It is not a flophouse,” says Faramir, a little indignantly.
“Flop home,” she corrects with a grin. “And the hotels near us are anything but cheap.”
“I thought it’d be comfier, really.”
“You thought it would be comfier? Did you hear what I just said? And what’s wrong with Uncle Théo’s? There’s loads of room.”
“Just a bit stale,” says Éomer. Éowyn catches Faramir’s eye, who wordlessly acknowledges the weirdness of the interaction.
“We were considering going somewhere sunny,” says Aragorn, reclining on one of the blankets. “One last hurrah before everything settles down.”
“Is that your way of saying you’re trying for kids?” Boromir asks, to Éowyn’s relief—it was also her read on it, but she didn’t want to ask.
“I thought it was about time,” says Arwen. The conversation turns quickly to children and families and buying bigger cars and bigger homes in the suburbs, and Éowyn’s eyes glaze over. All of those things will come, maybe, but not now. Now, she’s concerned with savouring the shitty, shitty taste of lager and the warm, gentle breeze that passes through the clearing.
Boromir and Aragorn argue for a time about something she doesn’t care to parse, and Faramir seems to tap in on Aragorn’s side until, when she does finally tune in, she realises he’s actually on neither of their sides, holding down some incomprehensible middle position. She laughs quietly, rolls over until she’s practically face down in the blanket, and lets the conversation wash over her.
The sun doesn’t even hint at setting until well after they’ve had their tea. Boromir passes a first, then a second joint around, and Éowyn stretches out like a cat, warm and relaxed. She realises there are some benefits to having Lothíriel around: she is no longer the focus of everybody’s teasing about being young and silly.
Someone—she’s not sure who, she’s too busy staring at the canopy of trees—comes to Lothíriel’s defence, which culminates in everyone sharing their own embarrassing stories.
“When we first met, I had a very old dog who sometimes struggled to get himself outside when he had to…relieve himself,” begins Arwen, already looking mortified. “Towards the end of his life, it was easier to wrap him up in nappies, which he didn’t like very much, but saved me quite a lot in effort and carpet cleaning bills. Usually I bought them at the pet shop, but for one reason or another, I left my restocking trip too late, and had to go to the corner shop to get them. I had no problem with it, in fact, I wasn’t really thinking very much about how it looked, until this one—“ She pokes Aragorn in the shoulder—“decided it was acceptable to loudly announce to the lady at the till (and the entire store), that, they’re for her, not me.” She drops into a flawless impression of Aragorn, which only amplifies the round of laughter from the group.
“That’s a one time thing,” says Faramir. “Every time we go out to a bookseller’s, every time, she insists on finding the most cringeworthy paperback romance and reading it aloud, with voices.”
“It’s a great bit,” Éowyn says, rising to her elbows and coming to her own defence. She puts on her huskiest, sultriest voice, and recites her favourite passage. “‘Freed from the shackles of the fabrics and invigorated by the influx of blood, his organ had immediately shot up and, as though throwing back his head to bay at the moon, he had pulled back his foreskin and directed his penis skywards, a pointed, red penis.’”
“No,” whispers Boromir, his hand half-covering his mouth. “No, there’s no way.”
“Oh, but there is,” she says. “I can do more. I’ve got a whole encyclopaedia of throbbing members and soft, heaving orbs of desires and calls of incoherent ecstasy.”
“That is a brand new sentence,” says Théo, looking winded. “Somebody else say something before she takes that as permission to keep talking.”
“Oh, I’ve got one,” says Éomer hurriedly, and soon Éowyn’s fading back into the background noise.
It isn’t until the sun has almost entirely fallen behind the far hills that they set off back down the hill once more. The air grows nippier, and the wind picks up more, only the most distant hint at the coming autumn. Once back in the cabin, they all begin to trickle off in their separate directions. Éowyn bides her time until she and Faramir are back in their room, and even then, she mostly chews the inside of her cheek as they strip away their outer layers.
When she’s done stowing her backpack in the closet, she stands in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips. “Have I gone completely mad or is everybody acting strangely?”
“No,” he says, pulling his top over his head and tossing it onto the chair behind him. She shamelessly admires the view. “Everyone’s operating at a little beneath top form, I think.”
“That stuff with my brother was especially odd, right?” She steps forward, running her hands across his chest, then grinning when he does.
“It was,” he says, ducking his head to trails hot kisses down the side of her neck.
“Great talk, thank you,” she says sardonically, though lets her head lull back to give him better access.
“Would you like me to ask any of them about it?”
“No,” she says, then gasps when he drags his teeth down her earlobe. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Okay,“ he says, then slips his hand down the waistband of her jeans. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
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odds0cks · 7 years ago
Text
Me too
TW: Rape, Sexual assault, victim blaming, mental health, self harm, alcoholism
I need to talk about rape and sexual assault. There never seems a “right moment” to post this but what with everything in the media right now, I figured now is the time.
For three years this has been eating me up inside. It has impacted my mental health and my physical health. I have developed a drinking problem since this happened and frankly, either I do this now or I’m going to be found dead in a gutter somewhere.
It is important to me to share my story. Women all over the world suffer in silence because the are too afraid that their perpetrators will retaliate. In some countries, some rape survivors are punished for having been subjected to such a horrific ordeal and let me tell you, surviving rape is horrific!
The last time I was raped was in 2014. The perpetrator wasn’t a stranger in some dark alley. He didn't force me. He didn’t attack me. Quite the opposite in fact. He was a trusted friend of many years who took advantage of me when I was at my most vulnerable.
Before the incident, I had had a particularly rough year. I had to move house, I had split with my partner, I lost my job and I had to leave uni. My mental health was not good. I had been rather looking forward to my 30th birthday. It was supposed to be one of those milestones you know? I had been planning my party for a long time. It was going to be a stupidly over the top ridiculous princess party. I had never been a princess, the idea of it repulsed me. However, I wanted to try it. Just once. I had invited more than 45 people to my party and was receiving plenty of “yes” responses. I was excited! I’ve never been particularly keen on birthdays and I thought this could change how I felt about them. It did. Just not in the way I had hoped!
By the time my birthday came, I’d had lots of “I’m sorry but…” messages. People couldn’t make my party. There were reasons/excuses. I was sad. After everything I had been through, my party was more than just a birthday celebration. It was a celebration of surviving. A celebration of riding out one of the darkest storms I had ever encountered.
Regardless of being let down by so many people, I decided to go ahead with my party anyway. After all, I had paid for it!
I had spent the day of my party getting stuff sorted. I tried to hide how shitty I felt by drinking. I couldn’t tell you the exact amount of alcohol I had consumed but it was a lot. Even by my own standards! By the time I left my mums to get to the venue I was extremely drunk. I don’t remember much of what happened. I know that only 4 of my friends, my mum, my aunty, their friend, my sister and her friend came. That was it. A party I had spent two years and more than £200 on was attended by a total of 9 people. Imagine just for a second how that feels. I have an exceptionally large family. Many of whom were invited. Only 3 family members came. Sure, they had their reasons (excuses) as to why they couldn’t (didn’t want to) come. Clearly it wasn’t as important to them as it was to me. That’s fine, you know? Not everyone has to value things in the same way. So how did I deal with being let down on such a huge scale? I got even more drunk!
I asked some of the people who were in attendance about how drunk I was. Just in case my brain had me exaggerating. Here’s the conversation:
Thanks everyone for agreeing to take part in this chat for me and my sanity. I know that my 30th was a long time ago but if anyone can recall anything from that day/night I would be most grateful. If we could just stick to that day/night and not anything that happened after I would be super grateful. Also, it may help jog memories if you have anything in Facebook for that date (29 Nov 2014). Take your time. Again, thank you.
_____________________
From what i can remember i know i turned up at the (VENUE NAME REDACTED), was introduced to a few people, was shown upstairs as there was a disco and people dancing, you were heavily flirting with (NAME REDACTED) to the point it was sexual dancing and i think you were kissing him at some point, i know i didn't want to dance and had to say a few times about it, after that i was downstairs talking to (NAME REDACTED) about random things and you kept making a scene about things, you told me that the DJ was a stripper as well and i didn't want to see it, you start complaining that everyone had to see him strip and i know it really annoyed me because i didn't want to see him strip and i had to tell your firmly about it and then you stopped talking about it, later we were on the stairs, i think we kissed and then you were in shock and went up stairs as everyone had gone, you told me not to follow so i didn't and i went back outside, you came down a little later saying that things happened with you and (NAME REDACTED). After you came downstairs you were in a state not to sure if it was to do with (NAME REDACTED) (FURTHER INFORMATION OMITTED AS NOT RELEVANT)
_____________________
Me and (NAME REDACTED) turned up and you were already extremely drunk and upset about people not turning up. We were hammering the cocktails. You were happy that (NAME REDACTED) had come because you were hoping to rekindle things. There was dancing and yes there was flirting with (NAME REDACTED). You were just Kim drunk, nothing unusual about the way you were behaving, you were trying to have a fun night. At some point I had to give you my bra as your dress ripped, not sure when. I also had to go home in a taxi and get you and (NAME REDACTED) a dress each of mine as yours was so torn up and (NAME REDACTED) had a drink spilt on hers, not sure when in the night this was. (NAME REDACTED) was flirting with you and (NAME REDACTED). We lost (NAME REDACTED) and found her upstairs chatting nerd stuff with (NAME REDACTED). I 'think' we left you and (NAME REDACTED) to clear up some stuff upstairs. You came down a different person. You lost your shit. You were kicking off about everything. You and (NAME REDACTED) did a lot of talking and at some point you were missing and we were all looking for you. Then as (NAME REDACTED) said, he spotted you and let us know where you were. We went on to bar69. My ex turned up and you and (NAME REDACTED) had to sort that situation out. You were drunker than I've ever seen you that night. I've probably missed bits which I will add if they come back to me. This is just what I can remember right now.
_____________________
I can't remember that much to be honest. I remember us turning up I think we were delayed for some reason and getting straight on the drinks because we wanted to make sure you had a blast. i remember talking to (NAME REDACTED) about doctor who for a bit and you (I think) came up and got me. I remember you guys dancing and I remember (NAME REDACTED) not wanting too which pissed you off a bit but you were ok. There was alot of flirting between you and (NAME REDACTED) but there was alot of flirting with everyone he was flirting with me at one stage during the Doctor Who convo. but it seemed to be flirting without intent if that makes sense? I remember being by the canal and you were really upset and not making alot of sense to me but that was down to me being drunk I think. I remember going to the cross foxes but don't remember being in there. I remember walking around looking for you and (NAME REDACTED) saying he had seen you on his way home. i cant really put things into any order because I was stupidly drunk and my memory is atrocious when sober.
_____________________
I cant remember much like i said... just remember u bein upset cuz not many ppl turned up which is understandable! And u were extremely drunk... i must of been drunk aswell cuz dont rememeber goin the foxes but rememeber bein in bar69 then walking home on my own... i remember u disappearin for abit with (NAME REDACTED) .. im sure i went into the toilets aswell and noticed the other toilet door bein shut for ages…
________________________________________________________________
One thing is for certain, that night I was very drunk. Beyond my usual drunk. Too drunk and in such a poor state of mind psychologically that I could not possibly have consented to sex or sexual activity.
I messaged him a few days after the fact and again almost two years later in a bid to salvage the friendship. Below is the correspondence:
__________________________________________
My first message to him:
I have been over Saturdays events repeatedly in my head. I was horrified to wake up and find blood down my legs and bruises that may or may not be related. I have absolutely no recollection of the events from Saturday during my party. I'd sobered somewhat in the aftermath and I can recall some of what happened when my friends and I went up town. Mostly because I had what I can only describe as a breakdown. What I do know is that I was beyond drunk. That much must have been evident to you. When you said that we'd had sex, initially I was mortified. Then I felt shame and embarrassment and now I'm just angry. Despite the fact that we may have already agreed that we would "probably" have sex, I was so beyond drunk that there is no way I could have consented and with you being completely sober you were the one in control and you fully took advantage. Having spent the last 3/4 days in a complete state of shock, I have now come to accept that this was, without question, rape. I had been blaming myself for what happened because a) I had allowed myself to get that drunk and b) it was almost inevitable that we would have sex as is/was the nature of our friendship. However, it is still not ok and in the eyes of the law, that is still rape. Not only have I been absolutely destroyed by this situation, anything that I may have had with (NAME REDACTED) has been completely obliterated. You knew full well how I felt about him. I am aware that I don't have a "conventional" outlook on relationships but it still does not give you or, indeed, anyone else permission to have sex with me when I have no control of my faculties. I am unsure as to what I want to do right now. I have been repeatedly advised to go to the police but I'm not sure that's the right course of action for either of us. One thing I know for sure is that our friendship is well and truly over. Since this happened, I can no longer trust you. I have no faith that this was just a "one off" and that it would "never happen again". Having been in a domestically abusive relationship, those words mean nothing to me. The thing that bothers me the most is your blasé message to me he morning after. "Oh it's a shame you don't remember"! Does that not ring alarm bells for you? Part of me wants to go to the police as I couldn't live with myself if I'd allowed another man to walk free and rape again but part of me knows that I wouldn't be able to cope owing to what happened in my past and my already fragile mental state. I guess that I just want you to say that you know it was wrong. That you did take advantage and that it was rape and not consensual sex.
His reply:
I am really sorry that you feel this way. I could tell you were drunk, but you didn't seem so drunk that I thought you wouldn't be able to remember. You had been coming on to me from the very start of the evening, which given our history did not ring alarm bells for me. When everyone had gone downstairs and it seemed like no one was coming back you climbed onto me and asked me to have sex with you. So I followed you into the toilets and we did. It was not forced and it certainly was not rape. However, looking at it now, as the sober one between us I should have said no to you, but given our history I thought it was what you wanted. I was obviously completely wrong. So for that I am sorry. I can't begin to understand why you would think I would do anything to hurt you, or anyone else. That isn't who I am. But I can see that this has really upset you, and for that I am truly sorry. I am also sorry to lose you as a friend. Goodbye
My message two years on:
It's been almost two years since we last saw each other and we didn't part ways pleasantly. That was not what I wanted. We have been friends and more for a very long time and I valued every asset of our friendship and honestly, I miss it. The reason for writing now is because the past two years have had such a negative impact on my mental health. I Thought I had reached rock bottom but I wasn't even close. I don't want to hit rock bottom. I can't afford to hit rock bottom. Every other aspect of my life seems to be working out but this one thing is looming over me like a rabid beast and threatening to consume me and everything I have worked so hard to create. The problem was not what happened, it was the way things unfolded afterwards. Your reaction hurt and shocked me. I thought, given the nature of our friendship, you would have wanted to talk things through. Try to figure things out together and make things right. I don't know why things played out the way they did. I imagine my accusation was a shock to you. It was a shock to me too. I sought advise from some very close friends before my original message to you and it took me a very long time to actually see that they were right. I don't for one second think that you're a bad person. I never did. What I want is a chance for the to of us to talk about things. Preferably face to face. It may not change things but I know there is a chance which is why I am doing this. I hope to hear from you.
His reply:
Thank you for your message. Before we start anything, I want one thing cleared up, for my own peace of mind. What happened was not rape. This is not me being dismissive. Believe me it haunted me to think I may have done that, I was shocked by the accusation and needed time to process it. I have looked into it, and I know, for certain, that what happened was not rape. Below is an excerpt from UK law. "The question of capacity to consent is particularly relevant when a complainant is intoxicated by alcohol or affected by drugs. In R v Bree [2007] EWCA 256, the Court of Appeal explored the issue of capacity and consent, stating that, if, through drink, or for any other reason, a complainant had temporarily lost her capacity to choose whether to have sexual intercourse, she was not consenting, and subject to the defendant's state of mind, if intercourse took place, that would be rape. However, where a complainant had voluntarily consumed substantial quantities of alcohol, but nevertheless remained capable of choosing whether to have intercourse, and agreed to do so, that would not be rape. Further, they identified that capacity to consent may evaporate well before a complainant becomes unconscious. Whether this is so or not, however, depends on the facts of the case. In cases similar to Bree, prosecutors should carefully consider whether the complainant has the capacity to consent, and ensure that the instructed advocate presents the Crown's case on this basis and, if necessary, reminds the trial judge of the need to assist the jury with the meaning of capacity.
" Being drunk does not preclude you from giving consent. It is only when incapacitated (ie unconscious or incoherent) that consent cannot be given, nor can it be assumed to still be in place even if given before this state occurs. When we had sex you were conscious and coherent the whole time. Consent was given (you basically dragged me into the toilet cubicle). I did not rape you. I would not do that, to you or anyone. That is what hurt me most. I was being attacked and hounded over a serious allegation of something I had not done. I felt closing off was the best course of action. I did not mean to hurt you. I was just protecting myself. I hope you can now see things as I do.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
He takes absolutely no responsibility for his actions and made no attempt to fix our friendship. Instead he dumped all of it on my lap and walked away.
Was he right? Was it ok for him to fuck me in the state I was in? The only person who thinks he is right is him. Every other friend/professional/stranger I have discussed this matter with has said he was in the wrong.
According to the law:
The Sexual offences Act 1956 contains no statutory definition of 'consent'. Juries must be told that the word should be given its ordinary meaning, and that there is a difference between 'consent' and 'submission'.
Lack of consent may be demonstrated by:
The complainant's assertion of force or threats;
Evidence that by reason of drink, drugs, sleep, age or mental disability the complainant was unaware of what was occurring and/ or incapable of giving valid consent; or
Evidence that the complainant was deceived as to the identity of the person with whom (s)he had intercourse.
A boy or girl under the age of 16 cannot consent in law, (Archbold 2004, 20-152).
Consent should be carefully considered when deciding not only what offence to charge but also whether it is in the public interest to prosecute. Sometimes consent is given, or appears to be given, but the law does not treat it as effective consent.
Based on the above, I was raped. His rebuttal two years on is taken directly from the CPS website. However, what he fails to add is the final paragraph:
Prosecutors and investigators should consider whether supporting evidence is available to demonstrate that the complainant was so intoxicated that he/she had lost their capacity to consent. For example, evidence from friends, taxi drivers and forensic physicians describing the complainant's intoxicated state may support the prosecution case. In addition, it may be possible to obtain expert evidence in respect of the effects of alcohol/drugs and the effects if they are taken together. Consideration should be given to obtaining an expert's back calculation or the opinion of an expert in human pharmacology in relation to the complainant's level of alcohol/ drugs at the time of the incident.
Based on the summaries provided by other people in attendance that night, I was heavily intoxicated. Surely, any “normal” human being would notice just how intoxicated I was and - being stone cold sober - would refuse to engage in sexual activity with me?
This is what I have been dealing with for the past three years. This is why I’m in the mess that I am in. This is why I can’t go to cabaret shows without feeling his presence there - He was a performer. This is why I have issues with trust right now. This is why I’m always so angry, so frustrated, so depressed. This is why my drinking has spiralled. This is why I am self harming more than ever.
I don’t want sympathy or pity. I don’t want people to tell me that it will be ok. He wasn’t the first person to rape me. You never get over being violated in this way. You just learn to cope. I am hoping that by putting this out in the public sphere, I will be able to move on and start fixing myself.
I also want to challenge the mainstream notion of rape. Rape isn’t always forceful or aggressive. The perpetrator is rarely a stranger. We have this image that has been cultivated by the media. A rapist is a creepy person, staring eyes, physically imposing. This is not always the case.
If you find yourself in this position, just stop and think. If you are completely sober and someone incredibly intoxicated wants to have sex with you, tell them no. If they lash out because you said no, just walk away.
Rape can happen to anyone of any age, gender, sex, sexual orientation, race, religion etc.
Don’t become another statistic.
________________________________________________________________
If anyone is affected by my story or is struggling with their own story, please come and talk to me. Drop me a message on Facebook, ask for my number, ask if we can meet. I have all the time in the world for you because I know what it’s like to have to go through this alone. Please don’t think that you have to keep quiet. Please don’t think that I will judge you. I am here for you and I promise I will listen regardless of your age, sex, gender, race, religion, sexual orientation or sexual history.
FURTHER READING
https://everydayfeminism.com/2016/05/alcohol-and-consent-questions/
https://www.teenvogue.com/story/is-drunk-sex-considered-rape
https://www.sdcda.org/helping/prevent-rape/price-brochure.pdf
https://news.vice.com/story/when-is-someone-legally-too-drunk-to-consent
https://www.cps.gov.uk/publications/equality/vaw/what_is_consent_v2.pdf
http://sexpression.org.uk/consent-in-sexual-contact/
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afraidof-thedark · 5 years ago
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CASE DETAILS
The Black Hope Cemetery
Just outside of Houston, Texas, is a neighborhood filled with upscale homes and manicured lawns. In the early 1980s, Sam and Judith Haney settled in at the far western edge of the development. Sam described it as their dream home:
“When we bought the house in Newport, it was the house that we had always been looking for. So, it was the house that we intended to stay at for a long period of time.”
But there was a morbid secret about the Haney’s perfect home, one that soon turned their lives into a never-ending nightmare. Sam said it all began when a mysterious old man showed up at their door with an ominous warning:
“This elderly man told me that he had noticed that we were putting a swimming pool in our backyard and that there was something about our backyard that I needed to know about. So I followed him around to my backyard and he pointed at the ground and said that there are some graves right here. And he marked a spot on the ground where they were. And I really didn’t know how to react to that. I didn’t know if he was just joking. I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to joke about something like that.”
Using a backhoe, Sam decided to see if the man’s alarming claims were true. Sam says it wasn’t long before he hit something:
“And at that point, we stopped with the backhoe and we got down into the hole and continued digging by hand. There were pine boards. When we lifted up the first board, we could see an indentation of a skeleton form. It didn’t take long to figure out that it was actual human remains.”
Sam immediately called the Sheriff and county coroner who conducted an official exhumation. Most of the bones had turned to powder. But 25 fragments were found, some so brittle that they disintegrated when touched.
A second coffin, located alongside the first, hadn’t been disturbed. Inside, two wedding rings were discovered on the frail index finger of the exposed skeleton. Judith Haney was mortified by the discovery:
“They handed me the rings and it was sickening to think that I had desecrated somebody’s grave.”
Wanting desperately to do the right thing, the Haneys decided to find out whose remains were buried in their backyard. The search led them to a longtime resident named Jasper Norton.
Years earlier, Norton had dug several graves in the area. He told the Haneys that their home and a dozen others were built on top of an old African American cemetery called Black Hope. The deceased were mainly former slaves. The last burial was in 1939, and as many as 60 people were interred there in paupers’ graves.
Jean decided to dig for the bodies
The two people buried in the Haney’s backyard were Betty and Charlie Thomas. They died during the 1930s and their graves were eventually forgotten.
Judith and Sam Haney made an extraordinary decision. They reburied Betty and Charlie in their yard, and prayed their spirits would rest in peace. But, according to Judith, peace was not forthcoming:
“There was a clock in my bedroom and one night it started sparking and putting out a sort of blue glow.”
When Judith checked the clock, she found that it was unplugged. That was only the beginning of the Haneys’ ordeal. On another evening, Sam went to work the night shift, leaving Judith alone:
“I heard the sliding glass door open and I heard what I thought was Sam saying, ‘What you doing?’ Everything was quiet, the sliding glass doors were locked, and I thought, ‘Well, you know, you must be losing your mind. This really must be getting to you.’ But much to my amazement that’s not where the story ended. In the morning I awoke, went in my closet to get my red shoes, and I could not find them anywhere.”
Sam backed up Judith’s story:
“So, of course, I started looking for them and went through all of her closets where she normally puts things. And we just couldn’t find them. We had walked just a short distance from where the gravesites were and I could see something on the grave. And they were both side-by-side like someone had just picked them up and carried them over and laid them down on the gravesite.”
Even more disturbing to Sam was the realization that this was Betty Thomas’ birthday:
“And I kinda got the feeling that it was like Charlie was giving Betty a birthday present.”
Judith felt she knew what was going on:
“I began to come to the realization that this was not all in my mind and that this had to have some relationship to Betty and Charlie’s graves being disturbed. Their spirits were saying, ‘This isn’t right.’”
The Haneys were not alone. A dozen of their neighbors also reported lights, televisions and water faucets turning on and off, and unearthly sounds and supernatural apparitions. Worse, these bizarre events were becoming malicious.
Like the Haneys, Ben and Jean Williams thought that they had found their suburban paradise when they moved into the same neighborhood. But Jean said she never felt at peace in the house:
“After we moved, in everything changed. When I tried to plant new plants, they just would not live no matter what I did. You know, fertilizer or whatever, they still would not live. And I constantly had a foreboding feeling, a feeling of things are not right or something bad is about to happen.”
The Williams said that near their flowerbed, sinkholes appeared in the unmistakable shape of a coffin. The Williams would fill them in, only to have them reappear a few days later. The Williams also felt their ideal home was being invaded by a menacing presence. Random shadows slid along the walls, followed by whispered words and a putrid smell.
At the time, the Williams’ granddaughter, Carli, lived with the couple. During the blazing heat of summer, Carli said she would stumble into bone-chilling pockets of ice-cold air:
“It would be very, very chilly and you’d have this feeling of foreboding, or just, you know, like something wasn’t right. Anywhere in the house you’d have a feeling that you were not alone. Somebody was watching you. It terrified me to be in the house by myself. The toilets used to flush on their own. As the water went down I could hear, it was almost like conversations. You could hear people murmuring to themselves. It was a presence or spirit or something there. Something that wanted to be heard. Wanted me to know that it was there.”
Jean Williams had no doubt as to the source of the disturbances:
“I absolutely believe that all of these things happened to us because we were on the graveyard, and that we were simply going to be tormented until we left there.”
Ben said he and Jean debated what to do next:
“Me and Jean, we talked it over. And she said, ‘Well what can we do? Walk off and leave it?’ She said, ‘We ain’t got enough money to pay down on another home.’ I said, ‘We’ve always been fighters. We’re gonna stay right here and fight it and try to beat it.’”
According to Ben, it wasn’t long before he got his chance:
“I came home from work around ten after twelve from the midnight shift, and I walked straight to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and that’s when I seen these two ghostly figures. And they went straight backwards into the den. And then they started heading right down the hall to Jean’s. And it was standing right about a foot and a half from the end of the bed. The only thing I really thought of was, ‘They ain’t messing with me wife.’ As I dove through it, I felt a sticky cold sensation in my body.”
Down the street at the Haney’s, Judith said the disturbances caused her life to unravel:
“I was crying all the time. I was frightened. I was scared of doing my daily routine in my own home.”
The Haneys decided to fight back in court. They sued the builder for not disclosing that their home was built over a cemetery, in part, so that everyone would know what was happening at their subdivision. A jury awarded them $142,000 for mental anguish. But a reversal ruled on legal grounds that the developers were not liable. The verdict was thrown out and the Haneys were ordered to pay $50,000 in court costs. Sam Haney recounted the total cost of their ordeal:
“At that point we decided to file bankruptcy. All in all, we ended up losing the case, losing the money, losing the house.”
The Williams also explored legal recourse. But they say that they were told that without definitive proof of a cemetery on their property, nothing could be done. It was then that Jean made a decision that she will forever regret:
“That was the last straw. You want a body? I’ll show you a body. So, I thought to myself, I can dig about two feet a day and I knew I would reach a body.”
But soon after she started digging, Jean felt ill. Her adult daughter, Tina, volunteered to finish the job. After digging for a half hour, Tina also fell ill. Carli Karluk was there that day:
“I remember her saying that she was, that she felt funny. She was getting dizzy as well. She put the shovel down and she went back inside. And she just laid down on the couch. She’s like mom, daddy, I don’t feel right. There’s something wrong. The last thing I remember her saying was, ‘Mommy, take care of my baby, take care of my baby.’ And she looked so scared.”
While waiting for paramedics to arrive, Jean tried to keep her daughter conscious:
“Almost immediately her eyes started glazing over. And I was talking to her, trying to talk her out of dying. ‘Please Tina, talk to me.’ And all this time her eyes were changing until they got to the point where I knew that she wasn’t responding at all.”
Tina had suffered a massive heart attack. Two days later she died. Jean burdened the blame:
“I realize that I had desecrated another grave and now I’m paying. I told Ben, ‘We have to get out of here. It doesn’t matter what we lose, what we had.’ And I knew that if we didn’t, that I was not going to make it, because my fight was gone. I could fight no more.”
The Williams escaped to Montana and later moved back to another house and another neighborhood in Texas. Today they are a happily growing family, no longer plagued by mysterious noises, horrific apparitions or heart-breaking tragedies.
Back in their old neighborhood, none of the current residents have reported any paranormal activity. No one has ever
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modernbookfae · 8 years ago
Note
Can you write a fanfic of Nesta on her period? But like her cramps are super bad and make her nauseous and have it be kinda awkward but Cassian takes care of her!! That would be so cute!! And it could be rated whatever!
Here you go anon~! Enjoy the fluffy moments of Cassian tending to Nesta in a…variety of ways!
“And as your mate,” Cassian gently removed her hands away from her face. “I’m supposed to take care of you. I don’t care what they say. If I had to walk all around Velaris asking for advice on how to help my mate with her cramps then I would do so.”
“Mother forbid if you did that I promise you Cassian that you’ll bleeding more than what I am right now!” Nesta gripped his hands tight and stared him down.
Read on AO3 | TAGS: fluff, comfort, Cassian helps Nesta battle Mother Nature
Cassian had heard soldiers emit varying sounds of pain when they were wounded in combat. But never had he heard anything quite like noises on the other side of the close bedroom door. Or at least he never knew that a female’s monthly bleeding could be that painful.
He knew Nesta. She was a fighter who didn’t even shed a tear when sprained her wrist or broke her foot in different circumstances of combat. Nesta was not one to show pain. Cassian could only imagine how unpleasant her monthly was if she had confined herself to their bedroom and refused to move from the covers unless absolutely necessary.
Cassian was not naïve to the workings of what happened when a female went through that time of the month. It was a bloody process that made even most of his soldiers wonder how a female could release that much blood and still go about her day.
What concerned Cassian was that Nesta’s cycles had never been so intense that she pleaded with him to leave her be.
As if he could abandon her in a time of need? His mate was in pain and he would be ashamed of himself if he simply left her cooped up in that room with no relief.
Which is why Cassian had gone out into different locations in Velaris to pick up supplies. His steps were soft so as not to disturb Nesta if she was asleep. For the past two days she had attempted to nap most of the day away, yet the discomfort kept her from doing so.
He quickly brewed peppermint tea as cooked a small portion of salmon with celery and a few pieces of dark chocolate as dessert. All were food remedies for cramps.
Cassian halted outside the bedroom door with his arm carrying a tray of what he knew would be useful to help his mate. He cringed as whimper drifted out to the hall.
Slowly he cracked the door open and walked inside. Nesta was awake and keeping as still as possible to avoid the jabbing pain that occurred with the faintest of movements. Even her stomach was starting to feel nauseous.
“Sweetheart,” Cassian went to sit at the foot of the bed. He steadied the tray on his lap.
“Go away,” Nesta mumbled. Her eyes were clamped shut and her breathing was even save for the few hitches of breath when a cramp occurred.
“Now how can I do that when you’re obviously in a…delicate position?” Cassian said.
“Don’t even start teasing me,” Nesta put and arm over her eyes. “Can’t you just leave me be to my suffering?”
“Absolutely not,” Cassian deadpanned. “It’s my job to help you feel better. What kind of a mate would I be if I didn’t?”
Nesta remained silent. Hoping that he would walk out that door and let her get through this without the embarrassment of him seeing her in such a state. To think that she had fought with strained ligaments and various other injuries at the Illyrian camps, but her monthly was thing that made her confined to the bed.
It was ridiculous.
And of course Cassian wouldn’t leave their home so that she could deal with it herself. Making this whole ordeal even that much more awkward.
Even Cassian had a slightly nervous look on his face though he did well to mask it. He knew what monthly cycles were, yet he didn’t know about the finer details.
Yesterday Nesta was mortified when he claimed that she was earning her “red badge of courage” again for this month and that the “red moon” had arrived.
She practically tossed half the pillows at him before he retreated out the room in a fit of chuckles. His teasing mood quickly vanished when he realized that this month was far different from the others.
And now Nesta couldn’t even nudge him off the bed with her foot without a sharp pain in her lower back or stomach.
“Now I want you to eat this food,” Cassian moved closer as he cut the salmon up into bite size pieces. He then used a fork to pierce a wedge of the fish and-
Nesta blushed as he moved the fork in place to feed her himself.
“Cassian this is not necessary,” Nesta turned her head away. She was not a baby to be coddled.
“You’re not being coddled,” Cassian disagreed to her thoughts. “I am helping you. Now this meal is made with ingredients that lower cramps.”
“Really?” Nesta eyed the food. She was willing to try anything at this rate.
“I wouldn’t lie to you sweetheart,” Cassian smiled. “Now open wide so we can make you feel better.”
Slowly Nesta sat up with a curse falling from her mouth at the pain and begrudgingly let Cassian feed her the food he prepared. It tasted delicious. The salmon, celery and chocolate tasted delicious. No doubt due to Cassian’s cooking. Occasionally she would sip the tea he made as well.
“How do you know these will help?” Nesta questioned with curiosity seeping into her tone.
“A book of course,” Cassian replied setting the tray aside with an empty plate. “Went to the library and had to ask one of the librarians where I could find a book about this sort of situation.”
“You asked a stranger for a book about menstrual cycles?” Nesta hid her head in her hands and groaned. “Cassian people are going to know you didn’t get that book for yourself. They’re probably wondering why I can’t take care of it myself if my mate had to go out and find a book about it.”
“And as your mate,” Cassian gently removed her hands away from her face. “I’m supposed to take care of you. I don’t care what they say. If I had to walk all around Velaris asking for advice on how to help my mate with her cramps then I would do so.”
“Mother forbid if you did that I promise you Cassian that you’ll bleeding more than what I am right now!” Nesta gripped his hands tight and stared him down. She would make good on her threat. She didn’t doubt he would go onto the street right now and ask the first woman he saw.
“Well I had to learn more about this Nesta. And you know me,” Cassian smiled. “I am not one to go into a bloody battle unprepared.”
Nesta rolled her eyes at his joke.
“And now for the heated massage,” Cassian began rubbing his hands together.
“Excuse me?” Nesta said as Cassian pulled back the cover to reveal the bedclothes she still wore. “Cassian! What are you doing?”
He looked up at her in confusion. “I’m giving you a massage. This will to help in relaxation.” He placed his hands underneath the hem of her shirt and tenderly began moving his hands in languid motions on her lower abdomen. His warm skin and fingers immediately made Nesta go slack against the pillows.
He worked her muscles for so long that Nesta lost track of time. Slowly her cramps began to subside into a tolerable ache until eventually she felt nothing except Cassian’s skin against her own. And that was a pleasurable feeling.
Nesta moaned in content at having the first bit of pain relief in days. “Cassian that feels incredible.” Her eyes drifted closed against her will. “Please don’t stop.”
A brief chuckle rumbled in Cassian’s chest though he felt proud at having been able to alleviate his mate’s excruciating torment. Finally appeased with his effort Cassian leaned down and pressed the gentlest of kisses to his mate’s exposed stomach.
He felt Nesta’s fingers running through his dark hair that was undone from his usual leather band.
“Thank you Cassian,” Nesta breathed while using the bond to show her gratitude. The bond warmed on her end while Cassian was more than happy to reach through their connection and gladly give his own relieved thoughts in return.
“Anything for you sweetheart,” Cassian said. “Although there is one more remedy that we haven’t tried yet.”
“Really? And what’s that?” Nesta sounded sleepy and in truth felt that rest would come easy now that her cramps were temporarily gone.
Cassian moved to lie down on the bed next to his mate. His fingers stroked her cheek as he watched Nesta begin to fall asleep.
“Apparently orgasms can stop cramps,” Cassian shrugged as if it was common knowledge even though he just read about it in one of the borrowed books. Nesta blinked at him. Surprised that he knew that fact.
“Oh.” Nesta replied. “And you would help me do that?” She was more curious as to how he would respond more than anything.
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s not like I haven’t seen blood before.” Cassian pressed his lips to her forehead. “Besides if it helps you then that makes it all worth it. And of course the added benefit of sexual pleasure.” Cassian softly growled as his lips drifted down to hers in a kiss.
Nesta couldn’t contain the smile. “Maybe next time I have a cramp we can try it, but for now I would like to sleep.” A yawn escaped her as she snuggled into the crook of her mate’s arm and laid her head on his shoulder.
“Sweet dreams Nesta,” Cassian murmured against the hair atop of her head until she succumbed to a painless slumber. And soon Cassian followed as well.
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whatdoyouexpectthistime · 8 years ago
Text
Out of Office: I Was An Assassin In A Past Life
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Miho dipped her toe into the softly steaming water of the private outdoor bath at Kawaguchiko Onsenji Yumedono. Compared to the cooling afternoon air it was comforting, but she hesitated to go much further, peering down at the rippling surface.
“Miho?” Goto prompted, looking up from his place already seated, submerged almost all the way up his chest. “Something wrong?”
“Um, no,” she responded, her gaze dancing across the water, finding his feet, then jumping sharply up to his face. “Nothing at all.”
Of this he seemed dubious – she wasn’t even in the water yet, but her cheeks were a rosy red. He watched as she carefully stepped down, one foot, then the other, but frowned a little deeper when the towel she’d had wrapped around her body remained.
“You’re staring,” she said quietly, and Goto’s brows twitched.
“You’re still wearing a towel,” he pointed out quizzically, even more so when she settled at the far end of the pool where even if they stretched, their toes probably wouldn’t touch.
“It’s still very bright out here,” she noted bashfully. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Did I… just step into the Twilight Zone or something?” Goto blinked. “Miho, I’ve seen you naked a thousand times in full light,” he went on, then made a slight correction, “probably more. How is now embarrassing?”
“You’re thinking about what we’ve done? Right now?” she spluttered out, and looked a lot like she might curl up into a mortified ball. “You should just forget everything.”
“I should what?” Goto coughed, genuinely, absolutely confused.
Going undercover had never been so difficult for him as it had knowing Miho was in danger, and though he had devoted himself to the job and gotten the desired result, returning to learn all she’d endured without him had left him feeling beyond guilty. She said she understood, he knew she did and that is part of why their relationship would last, but still… the moment he’d been cleared by Ishigami and filled in, all he wanted to do was hold her and never be separated from her again.
Honestly, they’d been joined at the hip the last three days, through Liana and Ishigami’s wedding included ­-cough- but now.
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” he pressed, moving forward with a sweeping motion.
“I’m… I mean, now that I’m in here it’s a little warm,” she admitted, avoiding his gaze as he – totally naked- came to kneel in front of her.
“But not all right enough to even look at me?” he queried, reaching out for the hands she had moved up to cover her face.
And when she recoiled, trying to slide sideways, there was nothing he could do other than wrap her up in his arms.
“There is something very strange going on here,” he growled, low against the bare skin of her shoulder as he held her from behind.
“We can’t, not out here,” Miho whimpered. “What if someone from staff comes?”
“Says the woman who dragged me into a utility closet at the wedding of Captain Ishigami,” he retorted, easily countering the meekness of her struggles. “The woman who moaned so loud, Jazz heard you at the other end of the venue.”
“That… that’s because you…” she stammered, increasingly aware of the pressure growing between their bodies, the only thing between them her soaked towel.
“Are you really going to make me say it?” he whispered behind her ear, and she shivered.
“Say? Say what?” she exhaled, trying to rock forward off his lap, only to be pulled back down more firmly.
“That I miss you, even when you’re in the next room,” he told her softly, kissing against her trembling throat. “That it tears me apart when you look unhappy, when you’re suffering,” he went on, drifting up to her jaw. “And that I need you… out of that towel.”
“Goto!” she exclaimed, and hearing her call him that was almost as good as a slap in the face, so much so that his arms slackened, just slightly. “What if someone… heard…”
Her voice got fainter and fainter.
“…you…”
Panic ripped a hole in Goto’s universe when Miho fell limp, her body flopping to the side in his arms. He hauled her from the water and laid her gently back on the cool stones, fingers to her pulse and ear to her mouth before he even registered how red her face had become.
Pulse a little above resting.
Breathing normal.
Heavily, Miho opened her eyes. There was an additional, cool weight against her forehead, a cloth, and a deep shadow looming over her with the light of the bright moon streaming through the open courtyard doors behind it.
With a gasp she attempted to sit up, but her head immediately began to swim – frantic at being so vulnerable scorched her skin anew, until a concerned, gentle voice calmed all her worries in an instant.
“Just rest,” Goto told her, one hand on her shoulder, the other lifting the cloth from her forehead and dipping it to a basin of cold water.
“What happened?” she murmured.
The last thing she remembered they were in the bath, and Goto was…
Oh!
As if he body could not possibly become any hotter, the recollection set her skin aflame and she turned her face to the side to avoid Goto’s eyes.
“You overheated after three minutes in the bath, and fainted,” he explained, wringing out the cloth and applying it to her forehead again. “I think I should take you to hospital; there is something seriously wrong with your body’s temperature regulation.”
“I’m sorry,” Miho sighed. “I’ve ruined this for you.”
“I’m just worried about you, Miho,” he scowled in the dimness, lying next to her on the futon.
Which highlighted just how close he was, that they were in the same bed - and this set her quivering again.
What if he tries to kiss me?
“I think it would be best for me to sleep over there tonight,” Goto exhaled, pushing himself back up and motioning with his head to the other futon.
Even in the dark she could see he was disappointed, sad even.
His name, his first name formed on her tongue, but it was just too embarrassing to say. All she could do was watch him move several metres away and settle beneath his own covers.
“if you need anything, just wake me,” he told her, smiling a sober smile.
Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep, leaving Miho to stare at him. But sleep eluded her now. How was she supposed to sleep when he was in the same room?
“WHA!” Miho shrieked, her body jolting awake with such force she nearly head-butted Goto who’d been asleep to her right with his arm draped over her.
“Miho?” he frowned, trying to blink away sleep as she sat up, panting.
“Holy shit,” she gasped, her hands gripping the bedding in clenched fists. “I just… I just had the most intense nightmare.”
“Understandable,” he told her, placing his hand in the small of her naked back and sliding it up a little way.
“No really,” she insisted, looking down at him with terror still flashing in her eyes. “We were in the private bath, and you were trying to get close to me but I wouldn’t even take off my fucking towel!”
At this, Goto let out a chuckle. His first thoughts were that she’d dreamt of Daisetsu and that whole ordeal, but it was so incredibly Miho for such potent fear to come from not being her usual, intimate self.
“Stop laughing!” she barked, throwing back the covers and slinging her leg over him, sitting there glaring down, even when his hands came to rest on her hips.
“You’re probably just overly tired,” he told her, unable to keep all the amusement from his tone. “We did…”
“Remind me,” she hissed, leaning down to kiss him, lifting her pelvis to allow enough room for her hand to wrap around his cock.
“Again?” he questioned, but flinched when her cool fingers closed in around him and immediately began to stroke. “You probably had your nightmare because we walked through the door, tore each other’s clothes off and didn’t stop until dark.”
“I have to get these images out of my mind somehow,” she told him, shaking her head in frustration, until Goto moved his hands to her face and captured it between.
“You are a very strange woman,” he declared, before drawing her down for a deep and lingering kiss. “My very strange woman,” he added when their lips parted.
His eyes closed involuntarily as she reawakened his desire, dispersing shocks of energy to muscles made tired by their earlier exploits. Surprisingly nimble fingers squeezed around her breasts and teased her nipples, while she rekindled the throbbing tension of his groin.
Their time apart, eventful though short, had highlighted just how invested he was in her, and vice versa – mentally, emotionally, and physically.
Her body was already patterned with little marks where he’d sucked on her skin; now she wasn’t involved in date scenarios she was free to do with her body what she wanted, and what she wanted his mouth suckling, nipping, biting her flesh, with just enough strength for it to sting, to leave his impression on her.
“You’re just a tease,” he growled, his fingers digging into her ass cheeks as she sandwiched his cock between the wet heat of her folds and his abdomen, “waking me up just… to…”
“Just to?” she grinned down at him, denying him full gratification but grinding a path back and forth.
“Now who’s the monster?” he grated out, but he didn’t pressure her into anything more than she wanted to give.
She was still fragile, and he knew she covered much of it with a veneer of control and sexual confidence – not that either of those things weren’t normal of course.
“Hey,” she barked, sitting back and slapping his chest as it seemed his mind had wandered.
“So now you want to play rough?” he chuckled, catching the wrist of her next attempted swipe.
“Do you know how to play rough, Lieutenant?” she goaded, digging her fingernails into his pecks, dragging them down until he cringed, took hold of her upper arms, and flipped her on her back.
“I know how to play rough,” he told her plainly, as he sat back on his heels and dragged her, legs spread, up into his lap. “Tired of the sweetness?”
“I just need a healthy balan….” she began, but nearly had the wind knocked out of her when he pulled her sharply the rest of way against him, driving his erection into her with enough force to elicit a loud, breathy grunt.
And he gave her what she asked for.
With her hips gripped tightly, he rocked himself solidly to the deepest reach of her core, withdrawing quickly only to bury himself again. Heavy breathing, moaning, and the swift escalation of Miho’s voice, laced the air with thick, passionate heat until there was nothing for either of them but to let go of nightmares, and just indulge in the carnality of their lust.
Cold air tingled against Miho’s inflamed skin, that still glowed with the most recent memories of Goto all over it: on the futon, in the doorway, in the shower.
On the porch outside their room she sat drowsily waiting for Goto to bring out tea, despite the late hour.
In the quiet – leaves rustling, wind breathing, clouds skittering across the sky, brushing the face of the moon – she felt herself slide into contemplation.
And closed her eyes.
Her hands were white.
But.
No matter how long she stared at them, she could not erase the blood.
They were empty.
Yet.
In them she held the significant weight of death, perhaps heavier than the bodies themselves she had hewn, strangled, poisoned.
Clean, guilty hands that didn’t even belong to her.
The Gotoshima Clan owned those hands, just as they owned every inch of her body – just not the metaphysical parts that dragged behind her the lives of others she’d taken in its name, on its order.
“It’s rare,” a male voice said, and he was already at her back and within arm’s reach when he spoke, “for me to be able to sneak up on you.”
Even then she continued, unblinking, to peer at her palms.
“And you have nothing to report to me?” he persisted, stepping down off the veranda where she sat, and studying her expression.
She was not one to show a lot of emotions, like her sensei before her, but now there was a mask of porcelain obscuring the truth of her turmoil.
“Milord Seiji,” she said finally, her voice a pale shade of her usual confidence. “May I ask a question of you?”
“Of course,” he frowned mildly, sitting beside her, their shoulders brushing lightly.
“You are a warrior, a noble samurai,” she began, curling her fingers to her palms and digging in short fingernails – the sensation of physical pain. “You take up arms against your foes,” she continued in a monotone. “You cut them down and they bleed, into dirt and dust, against cloth and tatami and the arms and hearts of their loved ones.”
The only son of Gotoshima Shinichi, leader of the Gotoshima Clan listened intently, though he was certainly under no obligation to do so – and though he was still a young man, there were also few who would dare say such brazen things to him. She too was young, a year younger in fact, but it was not through naivety she spoke so openly.
“Do you ever wonder what might have become of those lives had you not taken them?” she enquired finally, but didn’t quite seem finished. “Of those left behind had they not been scarred by the sorrow of their loss?”
Seiji did not reply immediately, for he could see her questions were not asked lightly.
“No life I have ever taken was extinguished without purpose,” he said finally. “The edge of my blade serves the future of this clan, and to protect the innocent people who depend upon it for safety, stability and prosperity.”
She remained motionless as he spoke, gaze still fixated upon the curl of her own fingers.
“Duty excuses blood?” she queried, her tone unchanged.
“Excuses?” he repeated. “Perhaps there is no true excuse, but I can feel no guilt for killing fifty enemy soldiers who would slaughter a hundred of our people, people for whom I have a responsibility. Still, it is never easy to take a life, nor should it be, but while those gods who watch amused over the affairs of mere mortals may not forgive you the souls you return to their care, to save the many can be justified.”
“And if those were fifty allied soldiers, and those one hundred were innocents of an enemy? If the many are our foe?” she probed further, and this time she looked to him, brown eyes mingled with green in search of more than just answers from him.
He and his father had sent her off to dispatch countless difficult enemies who had eluded them on the battlefield - nineteen years old and murderous seductress of significant talent, and only now that he saw death carved into her face did he realise the toll it took.
“I do not think I can answer that question to your satisfaction,” he admitted soberly, and alone in the garden, he placed his hand over hers. “Politics and ethics rarely agree.”
“I know I am a puppet,” she told him, lifting her chin a little, like she found no shame in the fact she’d just declared. “I am yours to wield as you see fit, and I will, the serpent, bed any man or woman who stands against you and I will end them… but…”
There, Seiji interrupted her with the squeeze of his hand.
“There is only one bed I truly wish you into,” he asserted with quiet vehemence, though it was a pointless and selfish admission.
Standing, the ninja-assassin pulled their hands apart; but he could read her well enough to know it was not because she was affronted – he knew her painful desire also.
“And there is only one bed I can never have,” she whispered, her back to him and her eyes closed.
That was the rule, of her sensei, of the Gotoshima lord – to keep a female ninja, to prevent her presence, fleeting as it might have been at any one time from disrupting the men, any she slept with were fated to die by her hand.
“Let the gods damn me for what I am, for what I do,” she continued, her voice gathering momentum and vehemence, “but tell me you do not, you will not, and my conscience will be appeased.”
His body commanded him to wrap her in his arms, but his duty had to transcend that.
“Any blood upon your hands is mine,” he told her clearly, stepping up behind her – but this time he ensured there was some space between them, even though he ached to close it. “Pass the dead to me and I will carry them for you.”
“I do not wish that for you either,” she actually sighed – sighed because no matter what she wished for, her fate and his, was completely beyond their control.
“You are my puppet,” he sniffed, adopting a tone haughty, and perhaps more befitting that of a lord. “If you will not give them to me willingly, then I shall simply order you to.”
“Dozing off?” Goto’s voice floated in through the haze, and Miho’s eyes fluttered open where she had come to rest back against the outside of their room. “You’ll catch a cold.”
He crouched to place down the tray upon which sat two cups of tea, but didn’t sit beside her. Instead, he gently nudged her forward so he could settle in behind her, before draping a blanket over their legs.
“Thinking,” she murmured, snuggling back against him as he enveloped her and nestled his cheek against hers.
“About?” he prompted, kissing her gently, tea totally forgotten.
“Can I ask you a question?” she enquired, a strange echo of the distant past.
“Anything,” he assented.
“Have you ever… killed anyone?”
Given their most recent activities, that wasn’t quite the topic of inquiry Goto had been expecting, however, he was not all that surprised. They had already spoken about Daisetsu’s death and her part in it, but he knew guilt all too well, understood the way self-blame got under the skin and spread so far, became so pervasive, it was difficult to dig out.
“As a police officer I mean,” Miho added after a few seconds of silence she might have taken as misinterpretation.
“I have,” he admitted somberly. “Gun crime itself is fairly rare in Japan, and we teach non-lethal techniques at the academy.”
Lightly he caressed her arms he continued.
“But sometimes we’re not given a choice. Sometimes the bad guy forces your hand, threatens things worth more than their life alone. Like Issei. Fighting Daisetsu like you did saved him.”
“In my mind I understand that,” she exhaled. “And even, if I could go back and in that moment… I would still do what I did… but…”
“It leaves a mark on you, doesn’t it?” Goto filled in, pulling the blanket up a little more. “You can’t see it, but it’s there, in your heart, behind your eyes.”
“I don’t want him in my heart,” she shuddered out, shrinking against him a little. “That place is yours, no room for monsters of the past – so why can’t I let it go? Why does she have to haunt me?”
“You loved him once,” Goto said softly, his embrace all around her. “And even if you hadn’t, monstrous behaviour aside, he was a person and you – you’re far too human to see another person as completely empty.”
“What do I do?” she whimpered, turning her face to his arm and pressing her forehead against it. “I feel like, like it’s suffocating me, like I’m dirty, covered in filth standing shoulder to shoulder with murderers.”
“Shhh,” he soothed, gliding his fingers through her hair. “I wish I could take this burden from you,” he breathed. “I wish I could put myself between you and him, but that isn’t within my power. What is, is to hold you when it gets too much, to pull you back when you feel like you might lose yourself…”
He paused to re-position himself just enough that he could look into her weeping face.
“And when you feel like you might suffocate,” he frowned intensely. “I will remind you how much I love you, how much I need you, how much my life is made better because it will be spent with you.”
“God damn you’re smooth,” she coughed out in a thick half-sob half-chuckle.
“I mean it,” he insisted, then kissed her, just the lightest of pecks, then against the tears on her cheeks. “I feel like maybe… there’s this sense of déjà vu, and I don’t think I got it right last time. I want to get it right, I don’t want you to feel alone.”
Miho emptied her lungs entirely and slumped, and she could do so because there were strong, dedicated arms there to catch her. The pressure against her conscience might return, a spectre, a ninja hiding just out of sight waiting to pounce in a vulnerable moment – but Goto’s reassurance took some of the fear out of having to face it.
He made no ludicrous demands, nor promised the unattainable – just what he could give as the man who loved her.
@hifftn @smutmylifeup @smile-smile-ichthys
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