#and yet through it all and after he refused to lose his hope and faith even though nobody would have blamed him if he had

[lumi-waxes-poetic]

Some Tolkien affirmations to help you along when the darkness seems too much and everything seems lost

"The world may be grim, but there's always hope. Even in the darkest of days, there may be one bright star to guide you."

—Elrond

"It is not despair, but only the handing on of a torch."

—Aragorn

"The greatest good returns at last to those who share it freely."

—Gandalf

"It is not by sorrow and by suffering that we grow. It is by the choice we make when faced with sorrow and suffering."

—Fëanor

"The world is changed because I am in it."

—Bilbo Baggins

bonus round (Tolkien never actually wrote this — Peter Jackson did — but it's a good fucking line and Tolkien would have 100% agreed with it):

“Saruman believes it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. I found it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love."

— Gandalf

[frvnkcastles]

Hi favorite! 

Frank x reader who has panic attacks every time she sees a needle in a ptsd response and frank knows this, she needs to take blood for a test and he goes with her and calms the panic attack and comforts her

TAKE MY HAND, YOU’LL BE FINE ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: You’re terrified of needles, so when you have to get blood drawn, you need Frank more than ever.

Warnings: Needles, panic attack, feminine nicknames

Word count: 1.2k

Author’s note: Hope you like this anon! <3

Frank’s comforting hold on your hand was currently the only thing keeping you from absolutely losing your shit. The window of the car was rolled down so you could feel the cool breeze on your heated face, and your knee was bouncing up and down with a relentless pace. Despite Frank’s attempts to soothe you, you were so close to fully freaking out, and you weren’t sure he could pull you back from that dangerous edge.

You were regretting going to the emergency room terribly right now. You had gotten checked in for some dizziness and nausea, and the next thing you knew, the doctor had you signed up for a blood test — something you never, ever did. You had a zero tolerance for needles, and the idea of getting one inserted into your veins made you sick in the stomach and your knees weak.

But, with all love, Frank refused to let you risk it. You may not have been into needles, but he certainly wasn’t into your well-being being compromised. So, with reassuring promises that he’d be by your side the whole time, he had ushered you into the car a few days after your initial appointment and driven you to the lab.

”It’ll be over quickly, sweetheart. You’re my brave girl, you got this”, Frank started cheering you on once you were parked. In fact, the car had stopped minutes ago, but you weren’t able to get yourself on the move yet, your entire body stuck on the passenger seat.

With a sigh, not a frustrated one but a sympathetic one, Frank unbuckled himself and took the keys from the ignition before hopping out of the car and striding to your side. He opened the door and held out his hand for you, the look on his face full of encouragement, and with a shaky exhale, you interlocked your fingers with his thick ones and hopped out of the truck. You really didn’t want to do this, but the only thing getting you to act was the fact that you didn’t want to disappoint Frank. He believed in you so much, and he had driven all this way, so you refused to let him down.

He held your hand all the way to the waiting room where you sat down side by side, his alert eyes scanning the surroundings like he always did. There were only a few people, so you suspected you wouldn’t have to wait long, giving you only a little time to prepare yourself for the upcoming terror. As much as you wanted to be brave about it, you had no control over your reaction, and it annoyed you greatly. Frank understood, though.

”Hey, it’s gon’ be all right. I know you’re terrified, sweet girl, but in ten minutes we’re gonna be outta here. How ’bout I take you out for some pizza afterwards, huh?” he suggested, his eyes gentle as he looked at you, and with a faint smile, you nodded.

”That sounds nice”, you admitted, and with a grin, Frank pulled you in closer, his arm around your shoulders.

”Attagirl.”

Just like you had suspected, you were called in only minutes later, and with a gulp, you glanced at Frank. He gave you a look of complete faith and love, and you held onto that as you got up and pulled him behind you. Thankfully, the nurse didn’t protest when he walked in with you, and you clung onto Frank’s hand while you sat down on the chair with anxiety churning in your gut.

The nurse talked you through the process, promising that it was going to be quick, but you didn’t really take in any of what she told you. You were too preoccupied staring at the needle and the tubes that were going to be filled with your blood, and without warning, the panic kicked in.

Frank immediately noticed your shallow breaths and the way your eyes widened, and his heart shattered in his chest at the sight of you writhing in the chair. ”Give us a moment, yeah?” he asked the nurse, who kindly nodded and scooted her chair over to her desk to give you some space. Frank squatted down to be at your eye level, his hand finding a place to rest on your shoulder.

”Look at me, sweetheart. ’M right here. I promise you, it’s gonna be just a minute. All you gotta do is look at my face and squeeze my hand, aight? Squeeze it as hard as you can”, he comforted you, calm and collected as he talked you through the incoming panic attack. ”Easy, darlin’. Breathe with me”, he went on, staying close to you and locking eyes with you so that you’d have something to focus on.

You trembled, but with his help, you managed to fight off the panic, your breathing slowing down to normal. Your heart was still racing and your palms sweaty, but you chose to believe Frank — it was just going to be a brief moment, and he was right there with you through it.

”Okay”, you exhaled, ”I’m ready.”

The nurse rolled her chair back to you and praised you for being brave while opening the package of the needle. Frank noticed you staring at it again, and he quickly reacted. ”No, no, keep your eyes on me, sweetheart. Nothin’ else but my ugly mug”, he insisted, and a nervous chuckle slipped out of you.

”You’re not ugly, Frankie”, you argued back, but you still did as he had requested, and kept your eyes trained on him. You focused on his beaten nose, and when the needle pierced your skin, you took in a sharp breath and turned your attention to his deep, dark eyes. You saw the proud look in them, and it made you feel better. You looked at his lips next, convinced that he had earned the biggest kiss for when you’d be done.

”Doin’ so good, baby. Almost done”, Frank spoke with admiration, and as you trailed your eyes across the bruises all over his face, you were able to distract yourself from the needle.

The nurse finished, and while telling you that you had done well, she taped some cotton on your arm to stop the bleeding. You breathed out in relief, a tear escaping your eye as you realized you had survived the worst, and it put a smile on your face when you looked over to Frank.

”That’s my girl. Knew you could do it”, he commended you, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.

You said your goodbyes to the nurse and left the room, all the while applying pressure on your arm. Frank had a protective grip on your free hand, and when you made it outside, you finally felt like you could breathe.

”Thank you so much for being here. I really couldn’t have done it without you”, you reminded Frank, stopping him from walking just so you could reach up and kiss him. He happily responded, his nose brushing against yours as he kissed you back, passionate enough for heat to crawl up to your cheeks when you pulled away.

”Anytime, sweetheart”, he smiled, ”now, I’m pretty sure I promised you pizza.”

[starrysvn]

married in vegas | choi san

pairing: choi san x gn!reader genre: exes2lovers synopsis: choi san had been your first true love and who you'd hoped would be your last. but things don't always work out. too bad your friends were his too, and jung wooyoung was hellbent on spending a long weekend birthday trip in las vegas. never mind your poor heart. warnings: drinking, swear words, a lil angst, dramatics, fluff, unedited word count: 5.2k author's note: fourth installment is here! hope you like this one, i recently rewatched that one episode of friends (iykyk) and just thought i'd put the final dialogue from it in here, kinda. ngl i feel like on the whole i could've done better but i hope you'll enjoy your read anyway! :3

series masterlist | regular masterlist

The breakup was amicable. You stayed friends and, sure, you didn’t hang out as much as you used to - for obvious reasons - and, yes, you did try to get out of any gathering that you knew he was going to be at. Still, you were civil. You could be in his presence.

And yet, all of that didn’t explain why the mere mention of him joining his best friend’s birthday trip to Las Vegas, had you circling around the room like a madman. 

“I hope you’re fucking joking” you whine through the phone, earning a sigh from Yeosang.

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion” 

“Am I?”

After talking your best friend’s ear off for minutes on end, that sounded wrong to your own ears.

“How did you not realize? San is Wooyoung’s best friend, of course he’d be there!” he reasons, as if you need a reminder that you are being ridiculous. “Plus, he’s taking a huge leap of faith in inviting you both”

“Listen, it was months ago, he didn’t use the group chat to invite us, I didn’t put two and two together. I had a lot on my plate! And hey, we’re civil!” The silence that meets you is so loud. You sigh. “Sorry for the dramatics, it’s been a long day” 

After all, you are still recovering from having to dash home in a downpour. And having to stay after hours to have a long, unnecessary meeting with your head of department. Realizing your ex-boyfriend would also be joining your long weekend getaway was just the cherry on top.

“I’d say sorry for springing this up on you at the last minute, but then again, I could’ve just waited to see your face tomorrow” you hit him back with a real funny, Sang, smiling when you hear him snort. The line goes quiet for a second. “Do you want me to come over? We can head to the airport together in the morning” Yeosang says softly, a silent peace offering. 

“Are you kidding? Have you seen the weather?” you look out the window, the rain’s still unforgivingly pouring down. 

“Unlike you, I don’t refuse to drive in dire conditions” he pokes fun.

“You’re on thin fucking ice, Kang Yeosang” 

“I’ll be over in ten” you could basically see his amused grin. You let out a chuckle hanging up. Then you press a hand to your forehead, trying to soothe the headache starting to form.

Choi San is the boyfriend. The one you never thought would leave. The one parting from hurt like nothing you ever experienced. The one you eventually bounced back from, but did you really? Because it still feels as if he was a part of you, just as much as you are a part of him. And when he left, you had to re-learn how to go through life with a missing piece.

He’d been your best friend, the person you ran to for everything. Someone you loved so much that it scared you sometimes because you knew just how much it would kill you to lose him. 

Choi San is the one that got away and took a piece of you with him.

But what could you do, after months of healing and avoiding him, when your friends were his friends too? Declining invitations got old fast. The first time you saw him again, you thought you could handle his presence for the night. And you did but cried the whole way home. After that, no more. With time, it got better. Seeing him no longer left you with a sinking feeling. Of course, it isn’t like before, but it never could be, and you made your peace with that.

Still, after one year, you microdose on San, afraid of what could happen to your heart if you spent too much time close to him. It’s for your own sake, your peace of mind. That’s why, when it finally clicked into place that you’d be spending a whopping four days in his presence, you flipped. 

The doorbell pulls you from your thoughts, and a smiley Yeosang holding a bottle of wine greets you. You should have known better than to accept alcohol as a peace offering from your best friend. Most of all, you should know that it never really ends with just one bottle. Because now you are incredibly hungover, severely nauseous and totally late for your flight. 

“This is all your fault” you hiss as Yeosang asks the Uber driver to please hurry. Both your phones are annoyingly dinging with unread text messages, not helping your headache at all. 

“Excuse you?” he turns around, tone accusatory. “As far as I remember, you were the one who brought out the tequila” 

“Well, you didn’t stop me”

“You were crying!”

“Even worse!”

Your bickering is brought to an end by the screeching halt of the car in front of the airport. You ignore the severe wave of nausea it causes and get out, Yeosang right in tow. Incessant teasing and half-hearted blame tossing accompanies your run through the airport. 

With just five minutes to spare, Wooyoung’s screeching hyena laughter welcomes the two of you at the gate. Surely the matching sunglasses and coats thrown over your pyjamas are a sight to behold, you think as you hug your friends hello. 

“Birthday boy!” you pull Wooyoung into a big hug, giggling when he sways you both back and forth. 

“Thank you for coming” he already said that months ago, when he first proposed the idea, but right now - with San’s eyes on you - the sincerity in Wooyoung’s somehow shines brighter.

“Thank you for having me” you smile genuinely. The breakup put a strain on your group of friends for a little, and you wanted to make sure he knew how much you appreciated him wanting you here. He squeezes your hand, before moving to Yeosang. 

“We need to go, you’ll say hi in eleven hours when we land. Chop, chop!” Seonghwa rushes everyone to join the last few people in line. You let go of Mingi, laughing, hearing Yunho say something along the lines of they literally just started boarding, and follow the rest. You finish saying your hellos through boarding, finally facing San. 

As you always do when it comes to him, you push down whatever mixed feelings bubbled up in your chest and put on a smile. 

“Hi, San," you wave, so you're stunned when he just spares you a quick side hug, smiling curtly after greeting you.

Your friends had long stopped holding their breath whenever you two are in the same room, but this feels off. Like a splash of cold water, it sends you back to the first, awkward time you met up again. Nobody seems to notice though, apart from Yeosang. Unlike the rest of your friends, his gaze still lingers on you carefully. You subtly nod at him, like you always do. 

Sighing, you keep walking beside your best friend, not really able to shake the disappointment San’s cold greeting leaves you with. Despite your best efforts, you let it eat away at you during the flight, the car ride to the hotel and the moments you unpack. No amount of berating does it. Why would he behave like that? Is this all in your head?

It’s not like you two would usually have heart to hearts but you talked, at least. You were friendly. So you don’t get why suddenly San is being so distant. For Wooyoung’s sake, you promised yourself you’d do your best to ignore it all. Be the bigger person and not get involved with whatever bullshit had his panties in a twist. 

A whole day into the trip and you had to resist the urge to punch him in the face for behaving like an immature teenager multiple times. But you keep contact to a minimum. Complain to Yeosang in the comfort of your hotel room. Take several deep breaths. You aren’t good at this whole maintain-inner-peace thing.

“I just wish he would stop ignoring me” 

The view from the panoramic terrace of the hotel is breathtaking, but, margarita in hand and sunglasses on, you find yourself not fully appreciating it. Not when you are using your time away from the rest of the group to vent to your best friend. Again. 

“Ah, so you do care” the way Yeosang wiggles his eyebrows makes you want to wipe off that smirk on his face. 

“No, I don’t” he doesn’t look too convinced. “Seriously! He’s just making it hard to get along with him”

“Or is his distance making you think about stuff you don’t want to think about?” you hate how much your best friend knows you. You let out an exasperated sigh. 

The last thing you should be thinking about was your ex, but you can’t help it. He wouldn’t usually behave like that and, you had to admit, it threw you for a loop. Not to mention how you despise the way you still catch yourself thinking about him. It’s subconscious at this point and it's been hard to accept. Had he finally moved on? Were you the only one left running in circles inside your head?

No matter how much distance there is between the two of you, he’s still there, in a corner of your mind. Like a phantom pain, he follows you in the most mundane of things. The frozen aisle at the supermarket still reminds you of his favorite ice cream brand. When buying Christmas presents, your brain immediately goes to the one thing he’s been obsessing over. The reminders zap you like an electric shock, bringing you back to reality. San is a friend now - they say. Nothing more, nothing less. And so you’d berate your heart for acting like he wasn’t. You’d put down the tube of mint-choco ice cream with a sigh, and choose fucking socks as a present. 

“Promise we won’t change?” 

It was hard to make out the look on his face through the tears in your eyes. You never thought breaking up would hurt this bad, like giving up a piece of you. It felt like the end of the world. Of your world. One where you could no longer navigate life with San.

“You’ll always be my best friend” he murmured, lips against the skin of your neck. You felt the wetness on his face, too. “We’ll go back to how it was before”

But how could it? Now that you knew what it was like to be loved by him, and what a thing it was to love him. Against all hopes, that night, you hoped he was right. 

No amount of space was ever able to lessen the strain the break-up put on your already existing friendship. You keep it amicable, for everyone else’s sake, but it just isn’t like before. It could never be. You both broke that promise, one that perhaps you shouldn’t even have made.

You’ve long realized that it’s closure that you need. Because the two of you healed separately, but never really talked about it together. It’s a conversation you need to have if you intend on being around each other. What scares you the most, though, is the possibility of something happening. Or rather, of you letting it happen. You aren’t so sure about San. If you truly want to let go, you need to know.

The dings of your phones pulls you from your thoughts.

meet in the lobby in an hour-ish? we’re going out!

You share a look with Yeosang, knowing birthday celebrations are due tonight, and Wooyoung isn’t about to hold back. 

“Let’s go” your best friend offers an encouraging smile, walking back to the room with you. 

-

The second you go down to meet with your friends, you feel yourself stumble on your heels and almost wish to find a way out of this dinner party. Now, you aren’t a stranger to San’s beauty, you never were. But holy fuck, how you wished that he was still yours. If he were, you could saunter up to him and tell him just how breathtaking he looked with his unbuttoned white shirt and slicked-back hair. The knowledge hits you like a train and leaves you breathless.

You need a drink. 

And, boy, do you get one.

You don’t remember the last time you had this much fun. Wooyoung sure knows how to party. The dinner went quite smoothly - safely hidden between Yeosang and Mingi, you didn’t spare much attention to San, not that he spared you any - and soon after the birthday boy dragged you to a club.

“Sunshine!” Wooyoung appears out of nowhere, stealing you away from your impromptu dance battle against a buzzed Mingi. “Don’t you look stunning” he compliments, twirling you around, flirty as usual. You cackle, throwing your hands on his shoulders. 

“Thanks Woo, you look dashing” you wink back, dancing with him.

“You shouldn’t be saying that to me,” he laughs. The confusion in your eyes must be enough for him to elaborate. “I noticed you’ve been eyeing a certain someone… who happened to be eyeing back”

“Who?” you’re going to fight this. No way.

“Don’t play dumb now” his face gets closer until his lips are pressed against the shell of your ear. “If looks could kill, I’d be dust right now. So would be Mingi” you gape at him, watching as he smiles amusedly.

“Wooyoung, we’re not going to talk about me and him during your birthday party”

“Oh, please! My birthday wish is for you two to get back together already!” homeboy is drunk. Your jaw hits the floor, and you smack his arm. He just laughs harder. 

“Wooyoung, what!? You can’t be serious” 

“Come on! You’re both incredibly oblivious about your feelings. It's getting sad” he groaned in frustration. “You’re still obviously hung up on each other and I can’t take it anymore, it’s excruciating! Take me out of this misery” 

“There’s a reason we called it quits, Woo” you deadpan, taking a step back from him.

“And it’s a stupid one,” he looks like he’s about to say more, but he can’t. 

“Alright enough” because Yunho, your saving grace, intervenes. “We’re going back to our booth” he shoots you an apologetic smile, half dragging the birthday boy away and back to the others. You don’t know how much of the conversation he caught, but judging by the good-natured scolding he’s doing, it was enough. You sigh, deciding it’s time for your well-deserved drink. As soon as you reach the bar, you claim the last free stool for yourself. 

Wooyoung’s words won’t leave you alone. They keep bouncing around in your head louder than the booming music. Was it really a stupid reason? But most of all, how drunk does he have to be to insinuate that San is still in love with you? That you are still in love with him?

You nod to the bartender when the drink lands in front of you. 

The night you broke up is a tangled up mess of emotions and memories you rarely ever allow to resurface. At first, it hurt too much, and then, just like everything else San, you tried to forget in order to move on. But if you think long enough, you still feel him slip away from you, the hollow in your chest when you woke up the morning after and his head wasn’t resting on the pillow beside yours. 

Lazily, you toy with the straw of your drink.

It was something about work and it keeping you apart that drove a wedge into your relationship. The nights when one of you would pass out waiting up for the other started to become the norm. The arguments that the lack of each other’s presence fired up outnumbered the sweet talks you used to have over dinner. 

Bitter words were spoken, and everything crashed and burned to its fateful end. The mutual decision to break it off before you broke the other seemed the best option. You never truly gave yourself time to think if you regretted it, afraid that bringing it up would only prevent you from letting San go. So, you foolishly swept it under the rug. 

And now, here you are, downing your drink in response to the wave of emotions Wooyoung’s words elicited in you. Trying to ignore how your skin crawls every time the man sitting beside you lays his eyes on you. Inching away every time he tries to talk to you. 

“We’re leaving” there is no mistaking his voice, but it feels so foreign. You turn around, facing him. His unreadable eyes send a chill down your spine. You lift a brow in question.

“You’re drunk,” San shrugs. “I’m taking you back to the hotel” 

Who does he think he is? Looking down at you from his high horse of righteousness, worrying about you like he cared. You scoff. 

“‘M not and you most definitely aren’t” you turn around in your seat, facing away from him. 

“Are too, come on” San’s hand reaches for your arm, turning you back around and trying to safely get you off the stool. 

“And what’s it to you?” you finally snap, shrugging him off. “You haven’t spoken more than two words to me the whole trip, why do you care now?” 

Despite your resolution not to cry, or not to care, you feel tears stinging in your eyes. So much for not letting him phase you.

“Yeah, let go man” all hopes of getting out of this situation are ruined the second the guy sitting beside you speaks. You roll your eyes, bracing for what’s to come and cursing yourself for not leaving the bar after getting your drink. “Who are you to ruin their fun?” 

“I’m their boyfriend”

Of course. 

But you can’t deny that the way he says it - like he very much believes it - moves something inside you. 

San doesn't waste any time and doesn’t wait for a reply. His fingers wrap around your wrist delicately, making goosebumps cover your skin. His hold is familiar, warm and it makes you feel like crying. Too stunned to speak, you let him carry you through the stuffy club, not even bothering to apologize to the people you bumped into. 

It takes way longer than you’d like to get out of the club, and the lump in your throat is getting harder to ignore by the second. Suddenly, you don’t feel like blaming San all that much for ignoring you. 

Once the cold air of the night hits you, you free yourself from his firm grasp. San stops dead in his tracks, looking at you. You can’t do this right now. You worked so hard to keep things civil between you two, you can’t fight with him on Wooyoung’s day. Knowing that one more word from him would break you. You take a deep breath. 

“You just had to do that, didn’t you?” Clearly, it didn’t work.

“And here I was, thinking I was going to get a thank you” 

You point a finger at his chest. “I can handle my own, San” and there it is, that look on his face that tells you he knows better. He knows you. And for a moment, you hate that he’s right. For a moment, you hate him for fucking with your head. “And you know perfectly well what I’m talking about” 

“Do I?” 

“What do you want me to tell you, San? You’ve been acting all distant and righteous these past couple of days, and then you pull this stunt?” This is most certainly a conversation you don’t want to have in the middle of the street, but oh well. “You could’ve just asked if I wanted a ride back to the hotel, there was no need for all that”

A gust of wind blows by, making you shiver. When San moves closer, all traces of his anger gone, you stand still, holding your breath. Dumbstruck, you follow his every movement. San peels his jacket off, only to drape it over your shoulders. Something he’s done a million times before. A melancholy so strong pulls at your heartstrings. You didn’t think he noticed. His touch lingers a second too long, eyes looking into yours as if asking if what he just did was alright. 

“Thanks” you mumble, watching him step back. The warmth melts your anger away as much as it messes with your head. You don’t like how the air shifts and becomes heavy with the weight of words left unsaid. 

But what would you even tell him? That, apparently, for how much you tried, you can't move on? That he lingers in your mind, in your heart, your apartment. That he’s still all over you, and you don’t know how to shrug him off – you aren’t even sure if you want to. 

“I miss you” the words leave your lips before you have a chance to stop them. You definitely shouldn’t have drunk tonight. San’s eyes are on you in a split second, but yours stay focused on the pavement. You can feel his gaze putting you on the spot, begging you to say more. You don’t.

“Me too” he speaks so quietly that his words almost get lost in the night. 

San waves a taxi over and helps you in. The whole ride back is quiet; you’re a second away from bursting into tears, having finally realized the extent of your feelings for San. Only cursing Wooyoung for being right keeps you in one piece until you reach the door to your room. 

You go to unlock it and turn around to give him his jacket back. Not being surrounded by his scent sends your heart to your feet. You can’t believe all the work you did not to feel like this anymore has gone to shit. 

“Thank you,” you say once more, before turning to step into your dark room so you can cry to your heart’s content and pretend none of this happened in the morning. 

San’s hand grips yours, stopping you in your tracks. When he whispers your name, you’re done for. One second you’re about to hide in your room and the other he’s turning you to him. You can see how he's looking for the words to say. You know that expression all too well, you recognize the furrow of his brow. Then e pulls you closer and the breath gets knocked out of your lungs. He’s closer than he’s ever been in a year and pressed as you are against his chest, you’re afraid he might hear the way your heart is furiously beating. 

His sorry eyes are scanning every inch of your face, or so you think, blinking back tears. Under his gaze, you’re burning. Because you want him to let you go and hold you closer at the same time. His hands on your hips are still delicate, you can break free at any time, but you’re not sure you want to. 

Your breath hitches when his forehead connects to yours, you can’t breathe, you can’t think-

And then he’s kissing you, and it’s like coming home. It tastes sweet like your drink and bitter like the whiskey on his tongue. You’re unsure if the saltiness is from your tears or his. It’s familiar and your gut tells you that it’s so right, so good that you push yourself closer, lose yourself in him. San’s hold on you is almost bruising, and he’s kissing you like you’re the only thing he’s ever known. Like he used to when he wanted to show you just how much he loved you-

You push away from him like you’ve been stunned. His confused eyes search your face, asking what’s wrong. You clear your voice, but no words leave your mouth. So, when he calls your name with a voice so fragile that it makes you shiver, it’s all you can do to bid him goodnight and finally lock yourself in your room. 

Your lips are still tingling, you still feel San’s mouth on yours. In the darkness, a sob wrecks you. You’re supposed to be over him. You spent so much time trying to be. Your heart shouldn’t be breaking this way; for the time you lost trying to forget him, for how all your efforts were in vain.

“Let me in” though muffled by the door, his voice makes you jump. “Please”

Another loud sob escapes you, and you curse yourself for not stepping away from the entrance. Of course, he’d stay. Of course, he’d hear. Well, you can’t run now, can you? 

When you open the door, San’s head shoots up. He goes to take a step but hesitates. You simply open the door wider, and he visibly relaxes. After letting him in, you close the door and turn on the lights. The silence is thick, and you almost can’t breathe. 

“I’m sorry” he starts, catching your attention. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have done a lot of things these past few days” despite your tears, you manage a scoff. 

“Why?” it’s all that leaves your lips, but you know he’s caught on. You’re met with silence. Disappointment spreads like wildfire in your heart. He doesn't even have an answer - you bitterly think.

“So you’ve got nothing to say for yourself?” you push, starting to feel the anger bubble up inside. “You know how hard I’ve tried to make this trip work for Wooyoung's sake? For all our friends' sake? So that they don’t have to walk on eggshells around us, or invite us out one at a time?”

“And I haven’t!?”

“Oh, don’t sound so surprised, San!” you take a step closer. “We were doing alright, why’d you have to go and act like you have a stick up your ass whenever I’m around? Wooyoung’s your best friend, for crying out loud!”

“Don’t act all high and mighty! Have you ever considered, hell, even ever stopped to think-”

“Have I?” oh, if he only knew. “Have I? All I ever do is think, San! You’ve haunted all of my what-ifs ever since we broke up. So you can’t go ahead and pull shit like this when I’ve been trying my damn best” 

Your voice is thick with emotion and your throat feels tight. The deafening silence that meets you makes your ears ring. San visibly deflates and the way he speaks is in open contrast to how you just did. 

“Would you keep trying?” you don’t remember the last time you heard him sound so small. Still, his eyes are so full of determination. 

“Why would I?” you ask, defeated. It’s like a flip switches inside him. 

“Because I love you! I still love you” 

Time stops, and for a moment nothing exists but you and your racing heart. It’s going so fast you fear it might beat out of your chest, or that he might hear it. It’s so loud that it rings in your ears. A surprised gasp escapes your lips: you understood perfectly fine, you just can’t believe the words he just so desperately uttered. 

“I’ve been in love with you longer than I can remember. I loved you when I thought I’d never get to tell you again. I loved you when loving you quietly and at a distance was all I could do, but it was alright as long as I got to love you”

“San…”

“I’m sorry for earlier. I’m sorry for these last couple of days. There’s no excuse, but I just…” he sighs, closing his eyes. You go to take another step, but all determination to do so dies when you see him produce a little velvet box from his pocket. Your breath hitches and a sigh of his name leaves you. “All I could think about leading up to this trip was our first anniversary. You remember how we joked about eloping in Las Vegas?”

It seems your tears won’t stop flowing. You can’t believe he remembers. It was such a small thing, it takes you a second to connect the dots. It was a comment thrown around, something you said to make him laugh. Though you remember thinking that if he’d asked, you would’ve said yes in a heartbeat. 

“I’ve had this since then” hope sparks in your heart, though you’re not really sure you’re even breathing right now. 

“San-”

“Don’t. I know this is so incredibly stupid, I don’t even know why I brought this with me-”

“Ask me” finally, finally he looks up at you and there’s no doubt in your mind. You still love him, you always have. You always will. 

“What?”

“Choi San, ask me or I will” he’s blanking, frozen in his spot. So, you get down on one knee. His eyes widen and you hear sounds of protest. Suddenly it’s a race on who’s speaking first, both on your knees, face to face. You’re giggling like idiots, tears in your eyes. 

“I thought that I could manage life without you” he starts, and you let him intertwine your fingers. “I thought we could go back to being happy without being in love. That we’d be better at a distance, but I was so wrong. The only thing that matters is that you make me happier than I ever thought I could be, and if you let me, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make you feel the same way. Fighting to make us work. I already made the mistake of giving you away once, I'll never make it again"

"Will you marry me?”

You waste no time in kissing him, big smiles barely making it a kiss, but you don’t care. You don’t care because San just asked you to marry him. Because he’s lifting you up and spinning you around and kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. And for the first time in a while, you’re happy. So happy you could burst, laughing like you haven’t since you let him go. 

“Do you think we should go get married?” he asks, swaying you around in his arms. You stare up at him, snorting. 

“Maybe let’s wait till tomorrow, when our friends aren’t drunk off their faces, you know?” he chuckles, looking at you like you’re the only thing that could ever hold his attention. How could you ever convince yourself even for one second that you didn’t want to fight for him? 

bonus:

Yunho’s slowly munching on a croissant, head resting on Mingi’s shoulder – who’s barely awake. You fear Wooyoung’s not even on your same astral plane right now, forehead against the table and hand gripping a coffee cup for dear life. Yeosang’s head is thrown back against the wall, he’s sipping slowly at his own coffee. It almost makes you think that you and San walking hand in hand could go unnoticed. 

“Is that a ring?” you should’ve known Seonghwa’s sharp eyes wouldn’t miss it. After all, he’s the only one remotely awake. That, and he’s the only one not wearing sunglasses at the breakfast table. Lethargically, your friends’ faces emerge from behind the shades. Various sets of eyes squint in your direction as you come closer. 

“Holy fuck you got back together” surprisingly, the voice is Wooyoung’s, though he sounds exactly like he just came back from the dead. 

“Technically, we got engaged,” San points out. The words have barely left his mouth that suddenly his best friend is up and asking what, how, when, and why?! Eliciting various groans and shut the fuck ups. 

“My birthday wish came true!” he throws himself at you both, squeezing you in a hug. Over his shoulder, you look at Yeosang. Despite his tired face, he smiles at you. So do the rest of your friends.

“Alright so, wedding tonight before we leave?” Wooyoung smirks all too enthusiastically, and you hear Seonghwa mumble as long as we drink juice, eliciting a round of quiet laughs.

[fractualized]

I finally got around to reading through another classic batjokes story: Lovers & Madmen, which takes place in Batman Confidential #7-12. I highly recommend it, particularly if you are interested in stories about Jack-era Joker. Batman first meets Jack at the tail-end of his first year as Batman, and we get all the batjokes goods, including plenty that aren't evident from the isolated panels that go around. (Plus cameos from aspiring med student Harleen Quinzel and aspiring asylum administrator Jonathan Crane.)

This isn't a full recap, so I hope my rambling will spur you to check it out.

(Beware of gore and suicidal ideations.)

The key thing to know from issue #7 is that Bruce's mission has been going incredibly well. He has been operating for only 42 weeks, and he can feel the city quieting down. He's so proud! So content!

And we can't have that. Enter Jack, goon for hire. Bruce comes across one of his murders and becomes obsessed with how clean the scene is, how little a trail there is to follow. He investigates and investigates and investigates and comes up with nothing to his dismay.

Meanwhile Jack is also having a sad at a bar because there's no challenge or entertainment to his job anymore. :( Luckily a nice server gives him a little pep talk.

Jack does give things another go at a bank robbery, but it's still no fun. He trips the alarm on purpose, but a shootout with the guards is no fun for him either. He's literally in the middle of asking a guard to kill him, when Batman finally shows up.

"He's an idiot. I love him." Nothing like infatuation to restore your will to live. #8 opens with Jack being sure to leave Batman a thank you note before he escapes.

And Jack must see the Bat again, and of course the only way to ensnare him is to commit a series of awful but perfect crimes. And Bruce is infuriated! Here he is taking out his frustrations on a mugger— with Jack watching from afar.

Bruce is just so mad he's been unable to stop Jack, like, "All those books! All that preparation! But crime man keep criming?!"

Batman and Jack next meet at a charity gala planned by Bruce's love interest in this story, Lorna, and boy do things escalate. Jack picks Lorna as his hostage, threatening to shoot her so he can get away, and Bruce ends up grabbing another gun and shooting Jack's gun out of his hand. But then Jack just stabs her good, and while Bruce can't leave her to die, he doesn't just let Jack escape.

Jack isn't even the goddamn Joker yet and Bruce has intentionally given him a Glasgow smile as punishment. And even more insane, is that Jack appears to verbally respond to Bruce's inner monologue.

With Lorna slowly dying in the hospital, Bruce goes to a professional to try to figure out what it is about Jack that makes him seemingly unstoppable— and of course that professional is Jonathan Crane, and his professional opinion is basically, "dude that guy is clearly just insane and you're doomed to fail lol."

Oh yeah? Would an insane man be this untroubled about his face being cut open?

"He'll have to pay for that. Then again… it's nice to feel something." Just summing up Joker's cycling feelings about Batsy in the years to come. lol

And here's the plot point that sticks out to me most, after years of reading Bruce stalwartly refuse to kill Joker, including in other versions of their first meeting:

Bruce has been Batman for less than a year and he's already like, "Fuck it! I give up! This guy stabbed my new girlfriend and made me lose faith in books! He has to die!" In a short time, Jack has burrowed so deep under Bruce's skin that Bruce tosses away the one solid crime-fighting principle he has. It's oddly refreshing??

So Maletesta, who is a crime boss Jack stole from, takes some goons and captures Jack at the doctor's while he's unconscious from surgery. They then take Jack to a pharmaceutical plant, and Maletesta starts beating him while he's still out. Except Jack is actually awake and just kind of bored by the torture attempts and slipping back into ennui. This issue, #10, really goes into Jack's struggle between wanting to live but not feeling there's anything worth living for.

As you can see, Jack does eventually escape his bonds to fight back. As he and Maletesta fight, they end up in the bottom of the vat.

Meanwhile, Bruce is being quietly insane.

Bruce. Bruce, what the fuck are you talking about. I have to unspool this because like, Bruce knows Jack has killed lots of people. But what he's fretting about is the ways Jack's madness has metaphysically harmed the world, maybe, and thinking, "I know he's caused so much damage, but what about the damage to my moral integrity?!" and putting that above all the material harm. I know Bruce already does this all the time, but it feels so much more explicit here, and it gets worse, and just... Sir. Sir. You are not well.

So Bruce arrives at the plant too late to save Jack but just in time to see him get doused in chemicals.

Jack spends more time thinking on whether or not he wants to survive, but we know how this goes.

Jack ends up on the riverbank, and there's a wholesome edge to his psychotic break.

And so begins the criminal career of… the March Hare!

Kidding. The issue ends there, with Bruce lamenting that his change of heart came too late, that even if Jack is still alive, something awful has happened.

But then when issue #11 starts, Bruce finds he's not sure what he saw on the bank, if anyone. He gives chase but…

But if Jack is still alive, then Bruce's soul may be intact. He keeps searching well into the day, but finds nothing.

When he returns home, though, he learns that Lorna will survive after all. He immediately heads to the hospital, to "the only good news in the world."

Ah, Bruce is finally anchoring himself to the bedside of his ladylove. After he colluded to get someone murdered and seemingly succeeded. And it's the fear of what that says about him that sent him to Lorna. Almost like he's turning to her less because of his affection and more to hide from his moral failure. Romance!

Jack does soon appear in his new clown persona, and Bruce keeps his word and refuses to leave the hospital despite the multiple horrors Joker commits. Joker is not happy that Batman is MIA.

Some idiot Joker's captured feels it's necessary to inform him that Batman tried to have him killed, and of course Batman doesn't care. Joker scoffs, because Batman doesn't kill.

Faith restored!

Back at the hospital, Alfred verbally kicks Bruce in the ass, pointing out that committing himself to an unconscious Lorna isn't helping anyone.

Bruce finally suits up to respond to the bat signal, but it turns out Gordon isn't the one who lit it.

My Telltale-loving ass like:

In issue #12, their fight commences, and after some mutual stabbing, we get Joker's real plan.

It's like a dozen Lornas! Only this time Joker is telling Batman to come at him instead of trying to escape, and instead of taking action, Bruce suddenly feels overwhelmed.

Joker says something similar earlier about Gothamites. They're "poor sickies" who can't even see the bunny on the moon. They need the same "medicine" that Joker got to see the big picture, to find true joy. Of course he wants to do that for Batman too!

But once Batman shakes the poison off and starts rescuing the civilians, Joker is also pretty cool with killing him.

Bruce survives, as expected, and Joker isn't really upset about it.

And destined to do this forever, you might say!

Joker goes on to say that Batman gave him a purpose, a world of color to live for. Bruce reiterates that Joker is murdering people and asks why. Joker asks why Batman saves them.

(This panel goes right to left, btw.)

Joker's got a ways to fall, so Bruce has time to contemplate letting him die. "Let it happen… Let chaos prevail for the six more seconds it will take for madman to meet pavement… or the rest of my life will be spent picking up the pieces."

Bruce has already had a moral crisis about what it would mean for his soul if he let Joker die. In the end, he simply doesn't accept there's a meaningful difference between someone who takes a life for personal gain and himself taking a life to prevent the suffering of others. The vat is the same as his parents' graves. Letting Joker hit the ground is the same as pulling a trigger. Bruce chooses Joker over countless future victims. He choose Joker over Lorna, who he'll soon break up with at the hospital, weaponizing the carelessness of his socialite persona. Bruce decides that, amongst all options, taking responsibility for the monster he created means spending his life picking up the pieces.

And he immediately accepts that fact, what's to come. Gordon talks to Batman about the total dead, saying, "Would've been worse without you," and Bruce responds, "Don't be so sure." Don't be so sure today and for the decades to come, because Bruce believes that if that clown dies, then so does his own soul.

Joker sees that future too, and he is delighted!

Interesting detail, the Jack and King visible in the hat, side by side. Brings to mind how not too many years later, Snyder will have Joker crown his Bat King.

So there's Lovers & Madmen. Again, much more goes on in this story, particularly Jack's suicidal ideations and how he links the "enlightenment" Batman bestowed upon him to his contempt for regular people and his need to separate himself from them (and reconciling that with a good deed he does for a future henchgirl). The issues are collected into one book, and if you enjoyed this post, I encourage you to pick it up.

[papaver-decervicatus]

Cat/Mouse/Den: Pt. 4, Mus Urbanus

Fatal attraction is one thing but stuck on a stakeout, a certain little mouse decides to push her luck with the cat who's been chasing her... just how far is too far, and how much more can they take?

CW: Obsession, stalking, canon typical violence, intrusive thoughts, unsanitary wound care

Authors Note: Hahaha, remember how I said I was going to do shorter updates? Yeah well, I felt really bad for missing the previous week but I did have a lot of terrible IRL shit happen, so working through that was a priority. That being said, going back through all the amazing comments and everything everyone has written has been absolutely keeping me afloat! Thank you all so so so so so much, you will never know how much it all means to me.

There are a couple of Hannibal references in this part that, hopefully, will start to make sense by the last part of the story (which was, coincidentally, the first part written!) Not going to lie, I am just glad to publish this so I never have to think about this damned part again as I have been stuck on in for literal months. Also sorry if Soap's accent sucks, the only experience I have with anything remotely Scottish in the way of language tendency is my grandmother whose father was a Scottish immigrant and that's it.

Anyways, I hope you like agnst and interrogation scenes, because next week, König loses his faith in god and in mouse while tied to a chair! See you there!

❣️Cura ut Veleas ~ Caedis 🥀

PREV | Pt. 4 Mus Urbanus | 4.2k words | Mouse POV | NEXT

“Mouse?” A voice from in front of her calls out, but only after she deliberately drags her feet into the threshold of the neutral ground, alerting him of her presence. 

“Quiet as a.” She utters her usual response, stepping into the little flat in Buenos Aries, Argentina. She hears the smile as Soap sucks in a breath at her little joke. Her callback should be old by now, shouldn’t make him smile anymore, but he does anyway. He’s easy to get along with, something hard to come by in war. She crosses the minimal space between the two and takes stock of his little setup. 

For a mission, it’s luxurious. He’s sitting, in a chair might she add, with a scope poking barely out of an antique window on the 7th floor of an apartment building, looking into a busy market square. His arms rest on a table littered with little signs of life, a map of the area adorned with notes and coordinates in inexpensive ink, no less than 7 pens whose caps are chewed through (everyone’s got bad habits but this little sin of his drives poor Price up and down the goddamn wall), two disposable cups with sediment rings denoting how much instant coffee was drunk from them at a time before they returned to their places besides their drinker. Most notably, however, are two radios in a strange moment of near fornication– backs ripped open and wires crossed in an almost pornographic display of field ingenuity. 

Damn demolition specialists, she hears the echo of Gaz say in her head and she absentmindedly rubs the scabbed over cut on her left hand where the shrapnel of a certain someone’s frag grenade got her two weeks ago. She wants to be mad but-

“Hear any good ones, lately?” Soap turns to her, he’s disengaging from his post, changing his guard for her to take his spot, just as command ordered. He’s been in this little nest for about 6 hours and she can feel his desire to scuttle and tinker about radiating off of him. As he takes apart his gun, already aware and familiar that she refuses to use anyone’s but her own, his eyes shine to life. The color of sky blue permafrost, yet they radiate a certain lived-in warmth impossible to distance yourself from. Eyes almost like-

She bites her tongue at the thought. Bad time to be thinking about König… she mourns. But, speaking of the man.

“Yes, but it’s bad,” she offers, in fake warning as she sheds her outer jacket before moving to unhook the case that stands between her and the assembly of her gun. She knows the warning will only intrigue the poor pyrotechnic more. 

His smile is nothing short of sadistic as he raises an eyebrow.

“No, like, really bad,” she emphasizes, throwing a pleading look his way. His grin gets even more shit-eating-er if that sort of thing were even possible. “I mean it, MacTavish. Pass it along to your long-suffering Lieutenant, and you will be picking teeth out of your shit.” “I’m sure I’ve done worse to Ghost,” he supplies, rolling his shoulders. Yeah, I’m sure you have, she thinks but is much too self-preserving to say, especially aware that the Frankenstien’s monster of a radio he’s resurrected from two dead circuit boards is likely not secure enough to promise any real privacy. She would rather not alert Simon Riley that she’s become a dealer in his and Soap’s arm’s race of terrible jokes. He does not take prisoners, after all… 

“Alright, alright, just don’t tell him it’s from me,” she smiles, putting her hands up defensively in a quick jest. “Okay, play along with me now,” he nods along as he steps away from the perch and lets her take his spot at the table. 

“So, what's the difference between a piano, a fish, and a gluestick?”

“I know about two-thirds o’ this one.” 

Mouse trap baited. She smiles.

“Give it a go, then.” She wiggles in the chair, pressing her cheek to the crux of the sight and its metal holder. She sighs into the familiar feeling of control that settles into her bones as she hunches over.

“Can tuna piano but’cha can’t tuna fish?” He supplies, half teasing her already.

“Yep, but you’re forgetting something.” She sighs and goes to fiddle with the red-light optics extension, Command is confident enough in her abilities that she was specifically told to take it off for this one. She hears Soap whisper a quiet ‘oh shite’ behind her when he realizes he probably forgot to himself and she laughs a little. 

“What about the glue?”

Mouse trap set. Poor Soap, always getting himself into ambushes…

She smiles wide and hums remembering how excited her kitty-cat was to tell her this part. 

“See, I knew you’d get stuck on that one.” 

Mouse trap sprung. A moment of silence.

“Oh fuck me, that one is bad.” Soap chokes out a hearty laugh as he collects his discarded coffee cups from her side.

“No thanks,” she purrs as she finally sets herself into position. “Use it at your discretion, soldier.”

“Aye, that I will.” 

Soap goes to rummage through the kitchenette to her right and she takes the moment she lacks supervision to indulge herself. She does not move her sights to alert the man with her of the wandering of her eyes, instead, she scans windows and alleys without visual aid. The stale air threatens to choke her as she rakes over the golden-hued morning scene with desperate efficiency. 

After what feels like an eternity of stolen glances switching between her targeted area and anywhere he may be, she sees him. 

Technically, she has no way to know for certain that it’s König, she doesn’t have his usual wave or cheeky grin (affectionately referred to as a Cheshire Cat Smile in her own belabored heart) to alert her to his presence. That being considered, there is a masculine figure barely peeking out of a window into an alleyway who is just shy of 7 feet tall and his face is covered. Yeah, probably König. She smiles despite herself and her company. She wonders if he has radio access to her little hideout. 

(She remembers the seemingly endless weeks of his arrival to her perch. The early morning light hits the streets the same way it had hit the forest ground that day. Like a fairy tale prince, beseeching a princess on hand and knee, he would always somehow appear in her sights, nearly as though it was just meant to be! 

His form stands out tall and proud from its surroundings and she recounts every single reason he should not be here. By the third time their eyes caught she’d decided he was doing it on purpose, but she never let him get away with it without some acknowledgment on her side. She can only imagine that if she’s getting hunted for sport, her calling out his position will, at least temporarily, halt his advance. 

But by this rate, she’ll be in his mouth by the end of the year. 

His eyes are cold and bloodshot red. Painted tears lick their way down the hood she’s never seen him without, possibly a feeble attempt at impersonality? Maybe if he looks enough like a monster people will just trust their first assumption and leave him alone. But she’s never been one to judge a book by its cover…

“I see you, König.” She warns out to him. He stills among the foliage, bathed in sweet-honey-like warmth from the rising sun. He does not shy away from his imminent death on the business end of her rifle, of course not! Instead, he raises his chest proudly, seemingly aware that the loneliness in her yields to whatever greater magnetism the loneliness in him commands. He’s an enigma, it bothers her that of all the people to put the effort into finding her, it has to be him. Mostly she curses herself for promising him a next time all those encounters ago, if she’d known what sort of a game it would inspire in the predator stalking her like prey despite her flipping sniper rifle, she never would have said a thing. 

He may be in her scope, but he’s got her under a finer microscope to seek her out so faithfully. She wishes she got this sort of dizzying devotion from someone, anyone else. It is the third day this week he has found her.

What she expects to happen is what has happened for weeks now, 1) he hears her transmission, 2) he smiles at her as a predator smiles at pray, his eyes find hers and her hackles rise in utter terror, and 3) he hums to himself and turns away, self-satisfied enough to have won hide-and-seek for the time being.

That does not happen. 

Instead, König sits down, right where he is, and pulls out that monster of a knife he keeps strapped to himself. He throws it up and catches it without looking at it, instead his eyes are laser-focused on Mouse. This is, of course, despite the fact he should have no earthly idea where she is. He plays with his knife idly for what must be an hour, but she does not- no, can not- look away from him.

She remembers her trigger finger twitching with sinful power, she remembers choking back the insistence at killing another lonely person, devoid of their autonomy on a basic level when they signed up for a mercenary-issued ticket to hell.

She remembers hopelessness. She remembers refusal. She remembers the smile reaching his eyes when she played along with his joke. 

“Why don’t rats like cats?” Her radio labors out. 

She half forgot what his voice sounded like, surprisingly excitable and shrill for a man of his stature. Her brain stutters around the implication of the only words she’s heard him say to her since the fateful ravine that gained Mouse her own personal 6’10” shadow. 

She blinks a few times in surprise, genuinely pondering if her long hours hiking through the woods have made her susceptible to hallucination and general hysteria. She is not thinking when she timidly responds-

“Why?” 

“Because they are weapons of maus-destruction.” Konig replies like it’s not the stupidest thing she’s ever heard in her goddamn life. Perhaps it's pity at the memory of his discomfort around his comrades. Of the thought of the way he tries to make his body so small when around others (truly an impossible task he routinely fails.) Maybe it’s irrational fear, twofold and buried in her instinct to shoot despite the clear disadvantage on his behalf and her insistence that she does not do her damn job, or fear of the inhuman man in front of her stalking her through the woods. Or it could be discomfort, no one ever prepared her for dealing with whatever the fuck this is in basic training or field school. In the end, it doesn’t really matter what it is.

In the sparkling, decadent light of a sunrise, her heart hammers in her throat at the first joke he’d told her, in some strange and desperate attempt to fill the meters of silence between them.

She laughs. 

And he hears it.

And with his wide stance, his ghastly executioner’s hood in the place of a crown, and his knife back in its holster- his beautiful eyes seem to smile. Suddenly, his eyes look lived in, like someone has just put up new curtains in an abandoned house. His whole affect changes hinging on what was an irresponsible outburst on her behalf at best.

And for the first time, she does not fear a monster hunting her through the woods, silent and purposeful in his pursuit of prey. Instead, she wants to understand a man, whose eyes have lit up like a princess has just laughed when he kissed her hand.) 

Soap wanders back into her small perch with two cups of coffee and sets one down next to her. She takes a quick glance and hums with appreciation. He takes another sip out of his and she remembers that they’re supposed to share shift for about an hour before his rotation ends.

“You treat all your girls to coffee in the morning?” She quips.

“Only the pretty ones,” he returns with an effortless charisma and her breath catches.

Not because of Soap, but because in that alleyway, where she really shouldn’t be looking, she sees the uneasy rise of two massive shoulders and-

Oh my god, did König just… get jealous? 

The next idea she has is downright evil, really this is not the place or the time or any of that but-

Fuck it. She’s already flirting with the enemy, what more could this do? She’s already told the poor mountain of a man something dangerously adjacent to “God I really missed you when we didn’t talk to each other for three weeks like a horny teenager and by the way I love you desperately and think about you when I’ve got my hands down my pants,” and she probably imagined him tensing up, anyways. No harm, no foul. 

Maybe, it's dangerous, to wave a steak in front of a mountain lion, but what if she wants to get mauled?

“Hey Soap, what page are you on?” She says, putting her terrible plan into action. She sees him look up from his report, or more likely an idle sketch, on her periphery. 

“Ah, only the second chapter, did'ya move my bookmark?”

“Nope, the book’s in the leftmost pocket in my duffle.”

“Thank ya,” He says and moves from his spot to go fetch the book from it. She takes a quick sip of her coffee, delighted to realize he’s made it to her specifications as far as milk and sugar go, as he rummages around in her bag.

The impromptu book club started nearly eight months ago when Nova passed her copy of Emma by Jane Austen off to Gromsko to help him with his English. That turned into Mouse recommending the book Jane Eyre to Nova on the pure suspicion that she would hate it, which she did. Gromsko still needed to practice and enjoyed the spirited discussions so he joined the blossoming group with an English copy of The Doll by Aleksander Głowacki after he finished Jane Eyre. Never one to be left out, and surprisingly well-read when he wanted to be, Soap had pitched the idea of The Lord of the Flies (because to quote “Fucking Brits,” and he wanted to subject others to his high-school reading list.) If she remembered correctly, Farah and Reyes had also started sharing copies of books they enjoyed occasionally.

“Can’t believe it was Gromsko that put it in rotation.” Soap says, pulling out a well-worn copy of The Silence of the Lambs from the bag.

“He said he picked it up years ago in Polish thinking it was a cooking field guide.” She offers, as the man next to her idly thumbs through pages.

“Yer shitting me, yeah?”

She just shakes her head and smiles into her scope. Soap laughs and removes his homemade bookmark, a pencil sketch of a stake-out view somewhere in Mexico scribbled onto scrap paper. He keeps his thumb on the page and flips through to where hers is, much further along.

“Yer a right romantic, ain’cha Bonnie?” Soap laughs somewhere between the pages and somewhere behind her. “Hmm?” 

“This part, that’ya highlighted,” she hears a well-meaning sneer in his words. “The one you put the hearts by and everything…”

Mouse’s mouth tethers itself into a terse line and she attempts her best noncommittal shrug. 

Somewhere in her line of sight, a mountain shrugs himself chuckling lightly. She wonders what it would feel like, to lay on his broad, muscled chest as he laughs, how closely he would hold her, how she could rest entirely on top of his chest and not touch the ground beneath them and-

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” She lies through her teeth. Soap’s laugh behind her is loud and proud. Suddenly, his casual sadism isn’t so amusing when turned around on her. 

“Do you think it's because I like to look at you and think about eating you up—“ he reads from the book, voice dripping in mock chivalry and breathless romanticism. “About how you would taste?"

She feels her cheeks and ears heat up as Soap loudly proclaims her funeral to all those who may care, and she doesn’t miss the way König leans a little too close to his radio as he goes about mocking her. His stance shifts as if he hangs on the very words like he’s found a secret buried deep in her subconscious. Technically, she has no way of knowing, but Mouse knows in her heart that König is smiling. At least someone is having fun. 

Once Soap comes down from his laughing fit he puts her bookmark back to its spot and talks at the back of her head. 

“With your pressed flower bookmark and everything. Oh, it would be sweet if he wasn’t Hannibal the Cannibal.” Soap hisses out. “I always figured you were…” he pauses searching for the right word, “adventurous from how Gromsko talks bout ya, but seriously cannibalism?”

If she’s not mistaken, König’s hand grips ever so slightly tighter on the radio attached to the best. Maybe the battle plan has to change, but she’s still got some ideas. 

Soap is completely oblivious to the electricity licking up the air between her perch and one man on the ground. He looks around frantically, seemingly desperate to find her, and look in her eyes. Mouse is a sniper, she really should hate the attention, but something fatalistic descends into her smile as she lets Soap continue his little outburst. 

“I swear. You and him, yer sure there’s nothing there? He’s even given you special field medicine lessons, no one gets treatment like that from Gromsko.”

“His name is Sobieslaw.” Notably, it is not a denial. Technically, everything that’s just been said is the truth. 

König’s shoulders rise. 

He looks right down her site. 

She smiles. 

Come and get me, kitty-cat. 

“See! That’s what I’m talking about. You’re the only person who calls him by his first name.”

“Because you never put in the effort to learn it.”

“That don’t mean a thing since I don’t have tits.” 

“You do, just not as good as mine.”

“Aye, off it. Gromsko is into you.” She can hear from the way Soap’s voice carries haphazardly around the room that he is pacing and talking with his hands. She doesn’t turn her back, gaze still fixated on the looming shadow in her sights. Soap continues, entirely unaware of the exact type of beast he is tempting. “He swaggers around you, never even bothers to fucking ask to pick up your boxes, he just does it. His voice gets all soft around ya, too, like he’s cooing at a goddamn pet animal or something. He nearly got into an actual pissing contest with Ghost the other day when he bitched about you beating him in poker. Face the facts, Bonnie, he wants you.” 

König’s eyes have focused with the ferocity of an apex predator and his chest labors out concentrated and sharp inhales and exhales. He resembles a recently sharpened knife, desperate for some carnage after a particular kind of attention. His body is crumpled in on itself not unlike a cat getting ready to pounce. His heels dig desperately into the cobblestones beneath his feet. His hand flicks out his beloved Glock field knife with all the reverence of a praying man.

In short, he looks every part like he does in immediate battle. He looks like he did the split second before he started sprinting for her in the snowy woods, the scene that occupies her lonely nights when she tries in complete vanity to recreate the feel of his hands cradling her sides.

Mouse should be scared of König.

Instead, she sees before her a scene of complete and hopeless adoration focused so intently on her alone that she should be afraid of. Realistically, she recognizes the clear and present danger of the moment. Is König upset at her? At Soap? At a potential adversarial suitor by way of Gromsko? She doesn’t quite know, but after a career of intentionally hiding like a coward, she basks infatuated by the calamitous captivation he exhibits.

He looks like he wants to maul something to death.

As keen as she is on getting him close enough to try to get over to her (and ideally, throw her under him,) in her infinite mercy, Mouse decides the teasing has gone on long enough.

“I like Gromsko just fine, but not like that.” Soap audibly scoffs and König’s entire form relaxes. Both men mutter something to themselves before an encore of gunfire breaks out. Mouse’s heart stutters to a stop when her radio comes in.

“Visual on Gaz, he’s hit!” Nova calls out, clearly alarmed. Soap grabs for the radio right next to Mouse and brings it to his face, holding onto a few loose wires as he does to ensure the amalgamation does not fall apart in his fingers.

“Where is he?”

“Two blocks from south from you, Gromsko is a click out.”

Soap looks at Mouse with his heart bobbing in his throat. The pain and worry on his face is palpable.

“Go.” She says. Soap looks around frantically at their supplies, seemingly taking a split second worth of inventory, making as many life-or-death decisions as he can in such little time.

“Soap, listen to me,” Mouse soothes. “I keep overwatch, you take my TAC vest and stabilize him until he can get a medic.”

“Mouse, I can’t just leave you-” “You can, and you will. Go.” She says with all the finality of a door slamming shut. Soap doesn’t look at her again as he gathers her supplies and nearly sprints downstairs. 

Soap leaves. Quickly. Quietly. He never looks back.

Her stomach settles into discomfort and she looks through the door he closed with the same sad nostalgia she looked through falling snow and monumentous trees. She can’t help but think she would not get the same priority in Gaz’s situation. Like some terrible premonition, she imagines bleeding out on the ground as Soap turns away, never once looking back.

Would König come for me? She ponders, before she smothers the paranoia-induced delusion with the memory of his large hands on her sides. She looks down at her shoelace, where she carved a cylindrical hole through his effigy to attach it. The birchwood mouse carving that sleeps at her right toe gives a silent reassurance: he never really left you, did he?

By the time she looks back into her scope, in between the all-too-familiar white noise of war that’s broken out around her, she sees a shadow dart out from the alleyway one down from where König is. The figure is cloaked in the specific type of military fatigue denoting his affiliation, one that is unluckily for him, kill on sight. It ducks behind the building to the right, where König is. It stalks out, lining itself up behind the hooded man, brandishing a drawn pistol.

König doesn’t have the time to react to the blood spray that litters across his back from the other man’s head once Mouse pulls the trigger on her gun, silently thankful (as awful as it is,) that Gaz getting hurt allowed her to take the shot without Soap inquiring into her actions. (But maybe it’s her fault in the first place that König was distracted enough to allow someone to get the drop on him…)

König looks back towards her and his head lulls to the side like a heavy flower bloom weighed down by morning dew. His eyes, somehow the softest she’s ever seen, are also carving a large chunk of her soul like a knife cuts through soft wood. When he lifts his hood to blow a kiss to her, she knows she will never get her traitorous heart back.

“Danke, mein Engel,” the radio on her table whispers in his voice.

“It’s only fair. I did owe you, after all.” She responds, all together unconcerned with whether or not he can hear her. She smiles, thankful she can see those bright eyes another day. 

When he turns away, she feels her entire heart walk away with him. With every step of his fleeting form, she feels less and less herself, as though someone had separated her shadow from where it meets her feet. Something has changed in the air between them, a sad resignation settles into her trigger finger when she releases it.

For the first time, she does not feel as though she wouldn’t run if he took her, but rather that some integral part of her is with him as he leaves. 

All is fair in love and war, but she’s not sure just how much longer she can stand to play cat and mouse.

taglist!

@kneelingshadowsalome @sprout-fics @bucca2 @dead-cipher @gallowsjoker @lostagoodcigar @berryjuicyy @haisebo @crowbird

And special thanks to @bucca2 and @ivymarquis for finally kicking my ass into gear to write this. Can't wait to read yall's WIPs!

[coraniaid]

I'm not suggesting that Buffy and Faith were secretly dating (or at least making out between patrols) before the events of Revelations.  Even if Buffy joked about “seeing someone tonight” when her friends asked her if she was dating somebody, before putting her arms around Faith and insisting that they were really “just good friends”.  Even if Faith’s reaction to finding out about Angel – “Buffy knew … I can’t believe her” – is very easy to read as romantic or sexual jealousy.  Even if Gwendolyn Post’s last attempt to manipulate Faith (the accusation that Buffy was “blinded by love” for Angel) seems specifically designed to play on this jealousy.  Even if Faith’s decision at the end of the episode that “you can’t trust people” implies she’s been betrayed by more than one person; even if Buffy’s “you can trust me” is met with a disbelieving smirk.

I don’t really think that’s how the writers intended the show to be viewed.  More importantly, I don’t think that Buffy – even if she was emotionally self-aware enough to acknowledge her own feelings – would be ready to have that sort of relationship so soon after Scott Hope, let alone be able to keep it a secret.  

But what I am saying is that, in a world where that actually was the explicit plot of Revelations, you really wouldn't have to change any of the dialogue in the opening scene of The Wish at all. 

This is a scene in which Buffy’s lament that she  “couldn’t reach [Faith] … again” segues straight into her commiserating with Xander over the fact he’s had “no luck reaching Cordelia”.  Cordelia of course, is Xander’s ex-girlfriend who refused to speak to him the last time he went to see her, after Xander was seen secretly kissing Willow, and hasn’t been seen with him since. Cordelia's furious because she was just starting to tell herself that she was in love with Xander and he betrayed her.  Faith, on the other hand, is Buffy’s [redacted] who refused to speak to her the last time she went to see her, after Buffy was seen secretly kissing Angel, and hasn’t been seen with her since.  Faith's furious because she was just [redacted].

Meanwhile Willow tells Buffy she’s looking forward to seeing Oz again so she can “beg for forgiveness”, and Buffy – fresh from visiting Faith’s motel to do “damage control”, to apologize for keeping secrets and to promise her that she’s on her side, and who just finished telling her friends that she’s sad Faith hasn’t been hanging out with her lately  – tells her that that works too, and she “knows the feeling” Willow is going through.

The one line I might cut is the one that doesn’t make much sense even in isolation.  Xander decides that Buffy can relate to what he and Willow are going through because she “went through it with Angel”.  Only … well, yes, it’s true in a very broad  sense that Buffy has already experienced some sort of heartbreak with Angel, but the comparison doesn’t really work beyond that, does it?  Angel didn’t break up with Buffy because she was unfaithful. (Sort of the opposite, really.)  Buffy never had to apologize to Angel for kissing somebody else. She's carrying a lot of Angel-related guilt, but it's not particularly similar to the guilt that Willow or Xander should be feeling (Buffy blamed herself for Angel losing his soul in Innocence and for sending him to hell in Becoming, but she had no way to know the first would happen and was forced to do the latter to save the world). As of the last episode, if anything it’s Buffy who broke things off with Angel.  As parallels go it just feels a little forced.

Again, this is the first time Angel’s been brought up in the conversation.   And yet, Buffy has been talking about somebody she hurt and deliberately lied to and wishes she could make things right with, hasn’t she?

But, like I said, I’m not suggesting that  Buffy and Faith were secretly dating before Revelations.  I’m not.

Obviously that didn’t happen until Bad Girls.

[agendabymooner]

colour me your colour || toto w. x ofc (7)

Summary: Tilly Marie nearly loses faith in her passion as she refuses to listen to everyone who told her to quit. Everyone but one. And it’s the man she met years ago at a racing event she didn’t want to attend. Who would have thought that her father’s partial ownership of three brands could take her to the zone of Mercedes and meet the love of her life?

Chapter summary: It turns out, Tilly and Toto looked like they were loving each other up constantly - so Tilly's mother, Blanche, had decided to step up to warn her about the wonders and failures of being in a relationship with someone more mature.

Content warning: Age gap relationships, use of explicit language, brief mention of Max Verstappen x OFC (Sylvie), mention of divorce and mental health problems

masterlist

vii. age is just a number and love is just a shame

LOVE ON CAMERA: Future Racing Teams Major Shareholder Tilly Hearth Sends Mixed Signals Alongside Toto Wolff

“Are they the newest power couple of F1 or is this putting their teams to shame?”

AGELESS ROMANCE: FIA Executive’s Daughter Tilly Hearth Cozies Up with Mercedes-AMG Petronas Team Principal Toto Wolff Post Qualifying Interview

“Is this a ploy to get a favourable result for this year’s championship?”

This isn’t the kind of day I’d like to have today. I’m not going to be distracted by some silly gossip outlet’s article.

“I’ve read that. That’s fucked,” Daniel huffs out, peering over my shoulder. Today’s going to be a disaster. I haven’t even seen my family just yet, and now I’m being hounded by gossip sites about my love life. Was I ever thankful that I told my sisters about the “rumours” that’ll soon circulate around the paddocks and F1 world beforehand. 

“Tell me about it,” I mutter, resting my head on the table that I sat on. 

“That should have stayed in the garage or something, I don’t know how they’ve managed to even know it’s Toto,” he says. 

I look up at him and answer, “The Daily Mail caught me arriving in a Mercedes with him yesterday. Remember?”

“They’re fucking fast to capture that,” Daniel shakes his head incredulously, “you were practically running away like you robbed him.” 

“I told him that the British media are too invasive,” I scrunch up my face, “some of them were just here to get some drama to broadcast throughout England and fuck all.”

“Sorry you have to go through that,” he offers a sympathetic smile as he pats my shoulder, “I hope they’ll fuck off for once.”

I gave him a lopsided grin. “Don’t expect too much from them— shouldn’t you be waiting in your driver’s room right now?”

“TILS!” My back nearly broke after I turned my upper half around. A strangled screech escapes my mouth as I stand. Daniel, who’s standing behind me, is accidentally pushed off to the side as four arms wrap around me. I can’t even see Daniel’s reaction but I can hear him introducing himself to a woman. 

I pull away from the embrace as I look between my sisters. Last time I checked, Aimee- our youngest sister- was on her trip to Scotland. What’s she doing here? I look at Stevie, her hair tied neatly, her ponytail coming out of the Mercedes cap that she’s wearing. 

“What’s with the Mercedes get up?” I look at Aimee, who’s wearing a white Mercedes shirt. They’re in the Red Bull hospitality. 

“Hello, too,” I shake my thoughts away as I grin, looking past my sisters and approaching our mother.

“Maman!” I exclaim, hugging her tightly before giving her a once-over. “Still pretty I see.”

“You’re still as hilarious, Tilly,” she rolls her eyes, keeping her arm around my waist. I look at Daniel and he’s standing there with a grin.

“Daniel, you’ve met my mom,” I gesture at my sisters, “these are my sisters, Stevie and Aimee. Steve, Aims, this is Daniel. He’s a driver for Red Bull.” 

Stevie immediately reaches out to shake his hand. She looks more like our grandmother, according to Maman. Nobody could ever mistake her for someone else besides Nan. Her honey-blonde hair and blue eyes are the kind of features that’ll make you feel like you’re in a tropical paradise. 

“Holy shit, you really weren’t joking when you said your sisters are models,” Daniel’s eyes widened as I nodded. “How do you push yourself through it?” 

“It’s— ehh…” Stevie scratches her head and tries to answer his question, “Modeling is kinda fun… if you’ve been doing it for a long time. Like racing.”

Aimee only waves at Daniel, then she’s hiding behind Stevie. Her mother always encourages her to be more… out there yet she disagrees. She can be whatever she wants to be, she’s 14, but she pressures herself to stick to one thing like an adult. She told me once about wanting to model as well and expressed how she wouldn’t do well like Stevie and our other sister would. I don’t know what made her think that; her brown skin and eyes made her glow, like she has her own spotlight. She’ll need to be encouraged more. Or perhaps I should just accommodate her and her camera shyness. She didn’t like being in front of the cameras.

Speaking of our sister. I look around and ask, “Where’s the other one?” 

“Causing ruckus somewhere in the pits,” Stevie jokes. I look at her with my frown becoming more obvious. What is she even doing in the pits? How did she even get in the pits? It was a question never asked yet Stevie has an answer to it. She tells me, “We met Lew in their area and he gave us access to the garages. Just to say hi to a couple people we might know. Now she’s probably running amuck in there—“

“Stupid, stupid, dumb boy,” I hear a hiss nearing us. Daniel peers over Maman’s head.

He gestures in her direction, “I think we found her.”

The middle of the three approaches us as she wraps her arm around me, still seething and her head rests on my chest. I turn to look at Maman and my other sisters, my forehead creasing as if I’m asking for an explanation. They’re just as clueless as I am.

I pat her on the back, “Daniel, this is Sylvie. Sylvie, that’s Daniel— the driver for Red Bull.” 

“Hi,” she nods curtly before her eyes burn with irritation and anger. She gives me a dirty look. “You know— if Father is giving you Red Bull, do you think you can fire that idiot?” 

Daniel’s eyes widen at the comment while Maman hisses at Sylvie, “Sylvie!” 

“What?” Sylvie scowls at our mother, “he’s such a bloody nuisance—ugh!”

“You’re not even telling us who it is, sweetheart,” Daniel pipes up, his face expressing amusement as he continues to goad Sylvie into spilling her feelings. 

“Verstappen! Did you know he’s the reserve driver for Toro Rosso?!” Sylvie stomps her feet like a child as she groans aloud. She’s so bloody dramatic. 

But hearing her answer makes me say, “Ahh. Max.” I can’t say anything else besides those two words; Sylvie despises Max Verstappen since god knows when… maybe at birth. The thing was that they’ve been best friends— like soul mates since birth so it wasn’t exactly hatred that they’ve shared for the past few years. She claims that she sees him all the time and “thinking about his ego gives her a migraine.”

And she quit racing. She enjoyed karting as much as Aimee did, but for some reason, she quit attending the tournaments two years ago. She pushed herself with modeling even more instead of joining Formula Three. My father wasn’t happy with that. Sometimes, I’d like to think that her hatred for Max would soon disappear and that he may be the reason why she quit. I’m not blaming him of course. But there should be a reason why she’s acting like that towards him, right?

“Tilly, please please promise me you’d fire him,” Sylvie whines dramatically, clutching onto my Red Bull jacket as I continue to stare at her. She’s growing taller and she’s beginning to look more like an adult, but her petulant behaviour says otherwise.

“No,” I pushed her off with a sigh, “I can’t do that, lovie.”

“Why not?”

“Because Verstappen is a good driver and if your sister did fire him everyone would chase after him. It would be a shame if Red Bull loses an asset,” Daniel answers for me, making me nod in agreement. 

“And he isn’t in Red Bull, love,” I explain, making her groan aloud. 

“He’s shitty,” Sylvie curses out, crossing her arms with a grumble, “he’s an ugly Neanderthal. He pisses me off to no end. You can be good at driving and be bloody handsome, you know? Clearly he doesn’t—“

I rolled my eyes, now turning to Daniel as my pager went off. Looking down at it, I give Daniel a once over and say, “Garage. Go now.” 

“Fine fine fine,” Daniel rolls his eyes before grinning at my family, “I’ll catch you pretty ladies later, yes? Sylv, maybe you can rant more about him later. If you want, I can pass a message.”

“Dis-lui que je le déteste,” tell him that I hate him. Sylvie tells him with a huff. Daniel gives me a look and I can only tell him, “Don’t worry about it. Go.”

“Get that P1, Daniel,” Maman tells him, making his grin stretch until it reaches both of his ears. 

Daniel winks at her, “I’ll make sure to dedicate my win to you, Mrs. Hearth!” He stalks off. I look at the four of them. 

“I’m going to the Mercedes zone to see Lewis,” I announced with a shrug.

Stevie’s eyes brighten at the announcement and she exclaims, “I’m coming along!” 

“Haven’t you seen him already?” Sylvie snickers—surprisingly happy now— beside me as I chuckle quietly, trying to avoid having to laugh loud. 

“You know,” Aimee begins with an evil smile, “some people might think that you’ve got you know… a crush on Lewis?” 

Stevie, who’s standing between the two, has taken the chance to reach out and pinch their sides. The girls cry out at the pain, leaving me no choice but to hit Stevie at the back of her head as lightly as I could. She pulls away, shooting the both of them a death glare. 

“You three,” I jeered, “if you won’t stop I’m going to leave.” 

It did not take long until Toto found me and met my family. Him finding me somehow made me think that he has some sort of antenna that’ll lead to me. How he manages to either come across me or find me is amazing. Like a mastermind.

It didn’t take my sisters long to catch onto the stories that Lewis clearly wanted to tell about the time spent with Toto. He was rather vocal about his feelings about the three being here — not wanting to save face and be pretentious around his teammate any longer. The interview yesterday was nothing but a way to avoid the fines— Lewis really didn’t want to act all friendly but had to do so. I was only there to make the situation better… somehow. Lewis texted me yesterday about how thankful he was to have me there for the interview.

“Tilly,” I look around and ask myself where the voice came from, only for me to find a 6’5 figure nearing me. Toto Wolff’s rare smile appears as I nod as a greeting. “Nervous?” 

“About my drivers?” I scoff, “No way. Are you?”

“Eh, I’m confident that Lewis and Nico would do a good job,” he answers lightly.

“I know my boys would do alright,” I murmur next to him, “but it seems like the power unit’s been fucking them over. At least Vettel is being fucked over by it.” 

“Well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen this time.” 

“Christian didn’t have an outburst in Austria for nothing,” I joke quietly, making him chuckle under his breath as he refrains from laughing. Oh my god. Handsome.

“Oi, lovebirds,” I sigh as we both turn around to face my siblings, my mother and Lewis. Sylvie continues to tease, “Tils, if you’re done being flustered—“

“I forgot how bloody blunt you are,” I interrupted her with a glare. She cheekily smiles as I look at Toto. I gesture at my family, “My sisters— from left to right are Aimee, Stevie, Sylvie. That’s my Mama. Everyone, this is Toto Wolff. He’s the Team Principal of Mercedes.” 

“Oh look at that,” Toto teases me with a smirk, pointing at their Mercedes hats, “everyone’s a Mercedes fan.” 

I roll my eyes, “They’re bound to run the teams you’ll be competing against, Toto. I wouldn’t be that excited.”

“But at least now I know where their hearts belong,” he continues with a shrug. He looks at my family, reaching out to shake my mother’s outstretched hand. “Pleasure to meet you all.” 

“Likewise,” my mom introduces herself, “Blanche Ford.” 

“Ah, you are the lovely Miss Ford that Tilly’s talking about,” he grins, his charm obviously taking effect on no one but me. “I finally found where your beauty came from, schatz.” 

My face suddenly feels warm as I look down to my feet, watching them as I rock back and forth. 

I didn’t notice Stevie slowly inching toward Lewis but I can hear her say, “Oh she is in love love.” I can’t even debate on anything in front of the person that they think I’m in love with. Am I not allowed to admire a fine specimen such as him? 

And Stevie is literally in love with Lewis! She’s been cracking the worst jokes ever and Lewis is laughing, she’s so proud of herself. She’s telling me, of all people, that I’m in love with the Mercedes team principal whereas she’s literally pining after his driver. 

“Hey Lew,” Sylvie then turns towards Lewis as he gives her a questioning look, “mind if you make Toro Rosso cry a little bit?” 

“Sylvie,” I warn her, “you cannot just say, ‘please make them lose a bit harder’ to someone just because you hate the reserve driver.”

Toto’s forehead creases at my warning. Sylvie ignores the look on his face as she says nonchalantly, “You’re right, I can just smack him in the face if I “accidentally” come across him at their garage.” 

“Stop resorting to violence,” Lewis tells her with a scowl, “there’s other ways to handle a situation than a fight.” Yeah, like he wouldn’t have done that last Monaco race.

My eyes peel away from the conversing people as I look at Toto, “I’m off soon enough. Are you ready?” 

“Ready,” he answers me with a nod. “Will you be there at our after party if we win?”

“I’m not exactly the full on party kind, to be honest,” I tell him, “it gets overwhelming talking to people. It doesn’t sound as bad, though. But it’ll get overwhelming at some point.”

“Fair enough,” he agrees before pausing, then he looks at me once more and asks, “How does dinner sound?” 

My mouth did not even hesitate to answer, “Depends. If either Red Bull or Mercedes get a podium then sure.” As if I was expecting it to happen. Toto felt the same, I think. He didn’t take a second to think about his next move as he continued,

“If we get a first?”

I shrug out, “Well, I’ve got no clue just yet.” 

“I’m looking forward to it then,” he grins. 

Yeah, Mercedes is definitely getting a podium today. 

“You’re thinking again,” my mother says, pulling me back into reality as I shake my head and glance at her. “That must be hurting your head.”

“Maman—“

“I’m joking, ma fille.” 

It’s so hard to lie to someone who practically knows everything about you. Even the dirty laundries I’ve never aired out? Yeah, she knows about them yet she never mentions anything. 

She pays attention to details as she’s used to staying at home as a mother. She told me once that she has enough money that she doesn’t need to work, but she writes under pen names that eventually makes her a lot more than what one should have. Her marriage and divorce clearly never stopped her from pursuing her dream all while she takes care of her three daughters by herself.

Julius Hearth, I rarely call him father now, divorced Maman shortly after Sylvie was born. I was 13 and with enough support from the staff in the household, Maman was able to cope without endangering herself nor anyone. Was I ever thankful for having a chauffeur? Absolutely. If it wasn’t for Jordan, the lovely driver, I wouldn’t have been able to get home earlier so I can spend my time with my sisters. Maman was resting, and I always made sure she’s doing that. 

Now that she’s feeling better, she’s managed to get back up and running. The Mother’s Day celebration in our middle school had her running across the field with bare feet. She certainly loved the game especially when Stevie and I were screaming our ears off. She began taking Stevie to her karting class, which then changed into modeling the moment my sister claimed to work as a model. 

So throughout my life, she could sense the emotions deep inside her daughters. She could tell which career we wanted to have and if she was able to support it. 

She could tell anyone a thing or two about themselves just by looking. So it wasn’t a surprise that she decided to deduce me. 

And since she kindly observed what I’m thinking, I decided that this is the right time to discuss the shitshow that we call Julius Hearth. 

“Father is naming me as the shareholder for his teams,” I’m staring at her as if I’m feeling so solemn about such a matter. “And he’s giving me everything. Did you know that?” 

“Yes and no,” Maman tells me. I’m so glad the girls aren’t here and being watched by our personal guard as they prepare themselves to watch at the grandstand. I didn’t want to expose them to this for now.

Maman continues, “I knew he was going to give up his position in his teams but I didn’t think he’d pass it down to you. Or to your sisters for that matter.” 

“He wants me to hold ownership on those teams and his money, Ma,” I tell her, “all because he wants that promotion at the FIA and to keep Red Bull on a leash.” 

“He only said he trusts you and your sisters enough to do his part,” she sighs, her sympathetic smile can be interpreted as a charming one. “I wish I could do more but… I’ve no place in power.” 

The sad truth is: she’s right. She can only do so much with the company. Even if I’ve taken her in, word would still get out to father. He still doesn’t trust her, despite being the one to cheat and be absent in the household. 

“Toto is a decade older than you,” I must have zoned out again because her voice drowned out while my eyes squinted. But her voice returns the moment she mentions him. 

The cold tone on her voice after saying that has me questioning her. She then continues, “Much like your father is to me, Tilly. He’s an older man.” 

“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask her, actually curious about what she’s insinuating. 

“Just—be careful with him,” she tells me quietly, her voice warning me like she’s been there before. She had been there. She married our father when she was 28 and he was 40. “Older men, no matter the validation they’d give you, would hold their maturity above your own. I’m not saying most men but… be careful when you’re falling in love with someone who’s seen more in the world than you have.

“They tend to hide that away from you.” 

Her advice, while it’s something to remember, has me laughing as if it is actually a joke. But still, a piece of it was etched into my heart and brain. “I’ve only met him,” I shrug and deny, “I don’t think I’d fall for him that fast.”

She rolls her eyes as if she doesn’t believe it. She says, “With how you two looked at the picture? Some are already saying that you’re smitten. Just as he is. I think you should give him a shot.” 

“Oh, Maman,” my eyes narrowed at the comment, “Don’t believe what you see on the internet.” 

“I’m just telling you what I can see,” she giggles quietly, finally standing up and gestures, “Come on, do you really want to miss out on Lewis winning?” 

“I’m supposed to be rooting for Red Bull,” I mutter to myself, standing as I begin to take her to where the girls are.

At first, I wanted to ask myself why she brought up Toto as if I was meant for him. I wanted to ask her what made her think that I’m even willing to try things out just like the others are thinking. 

But everyone is slowly seeing it as much as I am seeing it. For such a short period, he has already decided to do the things he wouldn’t normally do just to reach out to me. In this busy weekend alone, he’s managed to squeeze me into his schedule no matter how stressed he looked before everything. He acts as if he’s much calmer than me when he has a whole team and another to run. 

Maybe my mother is warning me about the price that relationship may come with. Perhaps she’s afraid that the fate I want for myself isn’t something that I’ll get if I continue on with this.

Or she’s just scared that she’ll have to watch that scene again. But instead of her falling apart, it’s me this time. 

Who knows. 

[divkazkdovikde]

having thoughts about barty crouch jr

like what do you mean he escaped from azkaban thanks to his mother who took his place??

just to be then imperio’d by his father???

he basically spent most of his life in prison. you know, metaphorically speaking… (screaming crying throwing myself against the wall)

also on the other note: the fact that barty and james both had an ivisibility cloak???

not to mention the fact that he was obviously very fucking smart??? (the whole gof being the evidence of that) of course he was a fucking ravenclaw, his brains mate, his fucking brains

always kinda cackling about the way he basically went: yeah i’d like for you to die but mate my boss wants to kill you himself so i refuse to let you die before that so yes i will help you to get through murdeous tournament at all fucking costs alright just take it ask no questions trust me dude i know what i am doing

and then screaming crying throwing up because he survived all his friends. all of them. regulus, evan, dorcas, pandora. (he lost pandora and dorcas first, when they went the different way, after losing reg there was no more hope for him, but losing his evan made him lose his mind, made him the mad man)

(barty finally understood why dorcas went mad, basically all achilles, after marlene died. he finally understood the pain dorcas felt, when evan died in his arms. and you know how it goes, going mad with pain. he finally understood why dorcas laughed, when she took down no small number of death eaters in her madness, before voldemort finally stopped her. he understood it, when he tortured alice and frank, ones of those responsible for evan’s death, and he laughed too, madly, finally tasting the sweetnest of revenge. and at those moments he allowed himself for a moment to miss his former friend, to mourn her. and he let himself taste the bitter memory of her, of them, of who they used to be, of who they never got to be. just for a moment. and it was dorcas who he thought of in his last moments, when he finally understood the relief, she must have felt, as she was finally going to join the love of her life and above. and he died with the same little content smile as he thought of the girl who was once his friend, who went mad over her lovers’ death, whose doom was so similar to his, yet not really. he thought of dorcas and marlene when he finally reunited with evan in the afterlife. and in the afterlife, finally free, finally happy, finally not in pain, he hoped that in their next life, the doom would be fate instead.)

alright this escalated quickly, that was not the plan but eh, anyway, i’ll leave it there.

so yeah. barty crouch jr. want him in my pocket. he’s my bbgirl an i’m starting to go absolutely feral over him. hopefully i’ll be able to stop that train before it crashes, and there will be no faith for me anymore. (hehe delulu is the solulu)(i’m a lost cause already, who am i kidding)

also absolutely convinced he and sirius talked shit in azkaban. they were absolutely the prison buddies.

anyway barty. crouch… junior. (fr mr igor karkaroff had no business to say his name like that in the bloody movie) my mad crazy felon. i love him your honor.

[brandwhorestarscream]

alright let’s hear you horrendous D-16 torture idea

Oh I am SO GLAD YOU ASKED-

SO! This takes place within the idea of "D-16 and Orion never make it to the surface, and the quintessons eventually invade Iacon" idea. The two of them are separated during the invasion, Orion ending up on the run with a group of stragglers, and D-16 is taken back to the quintesson ship.

Aboard the ship, he and all of the other cybertronians they've caught are immediately sent in for processing: sanitized and vaccinated, branded and collared and chipped, those that still possess transformation cogs forced to undergo surgery to have them removed. Then, they're split into groups for conditioning, to have them broken in and gentled, preparing them to be molded into good little quintesson slaves.

I could wax poetic about the horrors of the conditioning + brainwashing, but that's more in line with worldbuilding (and also I don't have all the details ironed out yet. If you have any ideas about how the quints treat their trainees, hmu! I'd love to hear lol). We're not here for worldbuilding on this post, we're here for D-16 angst!

For awhile, Dee keeps his helm down. He's not yet had the spark of rebellion lit in him. He has no information to work with, no hope for escape, and no faith in his own abilities. Getting away from the quintessons is impossible: there's no way to defend themselves, they'll never be able to outrun them, and they're given the bare minimum of fuel to keep them from dropping into stasis lock, nothing more. With gauges constantly in the red and on the brink of starvation, he barely has enough energy to do the work they demand of him. For awhile, he's helpless, and it does a great job whittling away at his spirit.

He works hard to avoid punishment and hopefully to earn extra energon, and the overseers take notice. Its not long before Dee is dragged out of the physical labor stocks and instead thrown into the entertainment stock: bloodsport is a favorite of the quintessons. He has no formal training but has good reflexes and decently athletic body. Putting him up against some cosmic beast or other in the quintessons' gladiator arena is sure to be entertaining. Oh yeah, we're doing gladiator D-16 up in this bitch

Days turn to weeks turn to months, he has no idea how long he's in there or how many dead bodies he has to climb over, but he refuses to die and give them the satisfaction. It feels like an eternity, time passing in a blur, before he's officially named their unofficial champion. His matches are always extremely well attended and he's very popular. The quintessons love watching him disembowel their various beasts and even his fellow mecha.

Here's where we finally get to the fucked up angst. D-16 is considered a wild cybertronian, but wild bots suggest the existence of domesticated mecha. The cybertronians bred in captivity are considered much higher quality, living longer with more mellow temperaments and much easier to train. And as great as Dee is, he'll never be as good as a cybertronian bred in captivity

They drag him in to the reproductive facilities, and through a very robotic procedure, have him artificially inseminated. That's not the horrible part though

For the first several decacycles, Dee is left alone. They don't make him do any fights, they give him enough energon to keep his topped up and full. They actually let him recharge as much as he wants, even give him a comfy little room with a cushioned berth. They want this sparkling to be born healthy, after all, and a healthy carrier is tantamount to that end.

During his unexpected break, Dee tries so hard not to get attached. He knows he can't keep them. Knows that, once they're born and their wee little spark can stabilize, they'll be taken away. As soon as they can survive without him, he'll lose his newspark, and never be able to see them again. They'll be carted off to a designated wetnurse, then start their conditioning just as soon as they're weaned. He can't keep them, so he cannot get attached to them. Surely his spark couldn't bear the suffering

That all goes out the window the first time he feels their little spark fluttering against his, feels the very first blip of their consciousness. Nothing but a bare, ghostly imprint, the faintest hint of "warm-content-nice" nestled close against his soul. And the second that sensation leaks through, love swells in his spark, more intense than anything he's ever felt. He pushes back what he can through the fragile bond, trying to tell them that he's there and he loves them.

It happens after the bitty's spark descends. Once it separates from his spark chamber and transfers to the protoform growing in his belly. With their body and soul merged, the baby kicks for the first time, and Dee is once again overwhelmed. He loves them so much it hurts.

The day after the sparkling starts kicking, he's suddenly brought into the medical wing. The quintessons sedate him with no warning, and when he wakes up there's a fresh incision on his belly. Precisely done welds under his fingers, already cold to the touch as he sleeps his hands over the expanse of his abdomen.

He feels lighter. He's so sore and stuff but he feels lighter. The sparkling is frightfully still inside of him. He can still feel their carrier-creation sparkbond, distantly, and when he reaches out for them he gets a flicker of "cold-afraid-wrong".

He pats and rubs at his belly, trying to get them to respond. To kick back, to squirm around the way they always did when their sparks connected.

Unfortunately, he's never going to get to feel his sparkling kick again 😌 he's the quintessons champion pitfighter, after all. They can't have him out of commission just to bear a single sparkling to term. So they've taken measures to expedite his recovery, performing very premature cesarean and putting the sparkling protoform into an external incubator to continue it's growth. Dee can go back to work and they'll still reap all the benefits of his bloodline, and he's forever scarred, knowing that they knocked him unconscious, slit open his belly, and stole his precious sparkling before they could even be born >:)

...

Hi this is unbeta'd so please forgive my fuck ups lmao. Press F for poor Dee. You want more of this fucked up jaunt? Want this AU to ever see the light of day and not die as a half-baked brain baby? You know what to do aksjskaka-

[dragon-kazansky]

Something Worth Protecting

Iceman x Dragon

Bodyguard AU

Dragon's popularity has grown tremendously, and as she takes off on tour, a security team has been hired to see it through. Leading that team is Tom Kazansky. He's the best in the business. He is here to do a job, but for the first time in his career, feelings are involved. He can't get too involved or he'll lose his job. Yet, ignoring what he desires is harder than it looks.

[Masterlist]

[Previous Chapter] - [Next Chapter]

WARNINGS: Mentions of abuse and sexual abuse. When I say Hermes is a bastard, I mean he the worst if the worst. It's only a brief mention, but I'm warning you all the same.

Chapter Six - A warning

♡♡♡

Jade arrives at the next concert show in high spirits. Hoping that if she keeps a positive mind all will go well for tonight's show.

Rachael is with her bodyguard, and therefore she is safe. Jade has faith in that.

Hermes is a bastard.

He discovered Rachael singing in a bar one evening. She had been singing in that bar for a months or so, once a week. The owner of the bar was fond of her. Every night she sang, the bar was full.

Hermes had fallen in love with her voice. Her voice turned heads and people lost themselves within the words of the song. He saw potential in her.

Potential for himself.

He lured her in with an offer anyone would want to take. An opportunity to sing to crowds, to share her voice. To be heard on a mass scale.

Except, those were lies.

Rachael would still sing, but not for her fans. She would record an album of songs he had chosen for her. He would refuse any invitation for her to meet her fans. She could only sing for him.

As a result he abused her. Used her. Made her do things she never wanted to do.

After her second album was released she confided in her friend. Jade had always been there, but Hermes had tried so hard to distance them from each other. When Rachael couldn't cope any more, Jade stepped in. The abuse came to a stop with the end of Rachael's contract with Hermes. Jade studied all she needed to know to be a good manager to Rachael.

Dragon would one say sour to sing for the world. Jade would make sure of it.

However, it seemed that he could just not let go of her.

One of the stadium managers approached Jade with a box in hand. Jade took the box and saw her name written on it. The staff member left as Jade opened the box. She was cautious though. There was no indication where this had come from.

In the box sits a tape.

Jade frowns in confusion as she picks it up.

"Is there somewhere I can watch this?" Jade asks. Someone points her in the direction of a back room she can watch the tape in.

Jade makes sure the door is closed before she turns the TV on and plays the tape. The screen is blank for a little bit, just static, but then an image comes on.

She recognises Rachael right away.

Rachael stands with her back to the camera. She looks nervous. Then another figure comes into frame. Hermes. He pushes Rachael back, gently at first, but when she doesn't do what he asks, he pushes harder. The woman falls onto a bed just below frame.

Jade feels sick.

She stops the tape and takes a deep breath. She knows what this tape is showing. She knows what her friend went through. The fact that he even has a tape of this sickens her.

It was never about Rachael's singing. He just saw something pretty and had to have it. Abuse it.

When Jade saved Rachael from his filthy grasp, Rachael was quiet. She was a shell of a person. It took days for Rachael to even feel okay with talking to Jade about it.

It took months before Rachael even thought about chasing her dream again.

Jade was there for every bad day and night. She was there through the worst times, and never best.

Jade saved Rachael.

The tears fall and it takes her a moment to realise she's crying. A knock at the door makes her jump and she is quick to turn the TV off. She wipes at her cheeks and hurries to the door.

"Yes?"

It's Ron Kerner who stands there. He goes to say something but then notices her expression.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. What is it?"

"Miss Kingsley was asking for you."

"Oh..."

Ron furrows his brow. "If there is anything I can do?" He asks.

Jade shakes her head. She goes back into the room to retrieve the tape and returns to him.

"Take me to her. I need to see her."

Ron nods and leads the way.

Rachael is with Tom on the stage. She's admiring the background, but her mind is thinking about Kazansky. The way he looked sleeping in that chair.

Jade crosses the stage and looks at Rachael. Rachael looks back at her now that she's there.

"Can we talk?"

"Of course," Rachael smiles.

Jade takes her friend to the dressing room. Tom and Ron follow. Jade invites them inside too, feeling it best to explain everything to everyone.

Rachael grows concerned when Jade's eye begins to gloss over with tears. She seems to struggle to find her words and instead holds up the tape. Rachael stares at it.

"What is that?"

"A video... of you... and Hermes."

Rachael feels cold all of a sudden. She stares at the tape with fear.

"Rach, I think we should cancel the tour and call the police. Hermes is stalking you. He has this tape of.... what he did to you."

Rachael shakes her head quickly.

"I'm not asking you to watch it, I just need you to know that he sent me this. Rach, you can't tour if he's here. He could do anything. I don't know if I can protect you from him."

"Is that not why we're here?" Tom asks.

Jade looks at him with sad eyes. "I don't know if it's enough. This tape got to me. Who's to say he won't get to Rachael?"

Tom steps forward. "I won't let him."

Rachael hugs herself as she closes her eyes and bows her head down. She can't fight the tears. She's afraid.

Jade steps forward and wraps her arms around her friend.

"I will fight as much as I need to, but I need to know you're safe."

"Jade, we have worked so hard to be here. We can't give up now."

"I know, and I'm so proud of you, but I don't want you to get hurt again. He did awful things to you. I don't want to see you become the person he made you again. Never again."

Rachael clings to Jade like a lifeline.

The dressing room is quiet.

"The show goes on," Rachael whispers.

Jade is silent for a moment.

"Alright."

There is nothing else to be said or done. Rachael wants to sing and sing she shall.

♡♡♡

@bayisdying - @mrsjaderogers - @breadsquash - @cycbaby - @callmemana - @askmarinaandothers - @starlit-epiphany - @callsignscupcake - @ladylanera - @mysticaldeanvoidhorse - @gracespicybradshaw

[pat-the-togorian]

Pat's Febu-Whump Day 23: "You'll Have to Go Through Me"

We ran for the lab, knowing enemy reinforcements could emerge from inside at any moment. Two Clones rammed the door open and we charged in. I had my lightsaber drawn and the Clones had their blasters on a swivel, searching through their sights for the enemy, who could have been lurking behind every table, desk, or doorway. We pushed deeper into the lab, finding such a complete lack of resistance that it set us all ill at ease. This didn’t feel right at all, almost like— no. 

Please don’t let him be here. 

Scélérat. 

“Well. It’s you again. Why do they always send the same Jedi after me…?” He muttered. 

“Scélérat,” I growled. “I should have known. Save your breath! I’ll never join you as a Sith,” I defied. 

“Oh, Pat, Pat, Pat,” he laughed softly. “You don’t have to do anything like that.” 

I hated myself for my curiosity at that moment. “I-I’m not interested in anything you have to say!” I stammered, cursing myself for my fear. This was the voice of my nightmares, who’d made the Council doubt me and goaded Sinvulkt into chasing him down on her own in an attempt to keep me safe. All I wanted to do was run. But I couldn’t let him keep getting to my pack. 

“Look at what they’ve done to you,” he mourned. “They keep putting you in such terrible situations. All that you’ve seen today included.”

“Stop!” I yelled, hands covering my ears and tears springing to my eyes, failing to stop myself from shaking. 

“As my Padawan, you wouldn’t have to do anything like this,” he persuaded sweetly, walking closer. I cocked my head at the term “Padawan” instead of “Apprentice,” but I still refused. 

“I told you, I won’t lose faith in them! I… made that mistake last time.” 

 “But what if they lose faith in you?” Scel retorted. “Listen, I know you’re scared, and angry. The Order hates all of that… but I understand it.”  

“Y-you’re trying to compare us,” I growled. “But I’m nothing like you!”

“And yet, here you are, in a cave, without them.” 

I froze. 

“How many caves have they sent you down into, now?” 

I couldn't find an answer I was happy with. 

“I was sent down one cave too many,” Scelerat reminisced bitterly. “Imagine my shock when I fought my way out, sacrificing everything to keep going, and I found them gone!” It seemed like he was genuinely crying. “I can’t have my justice without you, Pat,” he threw in, hand held towards me. That was his blunder. 

“If you want to hurt them, you’ll still have to go through me,” I spat. I strode forward and drew my lightsaber, completely ignoring that he was the superior swordsman, and disregarding that we weren’t prepared to find anyone as strong as he was on this mission. 

“Hah! I will happily hurt them through you, then,” he scoffed. His blade lit up. “I hope you are ready for this cave to be your last,” he taunted. Simultaneously, two of his men sprung from the shadows and locked a heavy metal collar around my neck. I immediately felt light-headed and so, so cold. I flung out my arms in an effort to Force-push them away from me, but nothing happened. Shivering and utterly terrified, I froze in place. But I did not yield. The Clones opened fire on Scélérat, forcing him to rapidly deflect a hail of blaster bolts with his blue and red sabers. It was at their own cost, as many of those bolts struck their origins, killing the Troopers instantly. I willed myself to move, feebly swinging my own saber in the openings as Scélérat blocked blaster bolts from both sides. 

I finally thrust forward and grazed his chest, causing Scélérat to seize and lose his footing.

I miscalculated. Both of his lightsabers reflexively swept towards my torso as he fell, primed to cut me in half.

Until… 

Someone shoved me out of the way and I heard a horrific double-slash of lightsabers piercing Clone armor. 

I staggered and turned back around, dazed. I stood alone. At my feet laid the cauterized torso of the Trooper who had saved my life, still breathing. A familiar scrape on the fallen Clone’s helmet stared back. 

I let out the longest, saddest, screaming sob I could remember, before or since. 

Falling on my haunches, I crept closer to the Clone’s dying form. He didn’t have much time, that was certain. 

“Commander…” he forced out. “Save yourself,” he weakly implored. 

“Why did you do that? After… everything…?”

“This was my honor,” he whispered, his last breath escaping him. 

I knew Scélérat would regain himself soon. I fully considered striking him down as he lay, but I did my best to remember, even without the Force, that I was a Jedi. I refused to prove him right, even if he wouldn’t live to see it. 

Approaching footsteps and shouts yanked me back to the present. I remembered that I’d been inside for less than an hour, and that reinforcements from some neighboring fort had arrived. 

Depending solely on my own stealth and speed, though not easy due to the horrible feeling of isolation from the Force, I skirted around traps and stuck to the shadows. I made my way back to the surface to discover that the battle was still going on, though our battalion had taken horrible losses and our remaining Troopers were mostly beating a disarrayed retreat. Shying back from the cave’s entrance, I forced my tired mind to consider my options. I couldn’t sense anyone’s Force presence, couldn’t reach out for help from the Jedi, and couldn’t even call for any Clones to converge on my position without risking detection. The enemy was clearly winning. 

But I could still smell. 

I used the simple scent of sweat to find a small band of Clones taking cover in a thicket in the woods nearby. To my astonishment, they seemed happy to see me. 

“Commander Pat!” their Sergeant called. “You were thought to be lost!” 

“Greatly exaggerated,” I did my best to joke as I gestured to the collar. The Clones and I tried to remove it, but there was nothing we could do without putting a lightsaber or a blaster bolt way too close to my neck. 

“We’ll get you back to the ship, right boys? It’ll be hard for them to get through us. Especially since we’ve had Pat’s wilderness training!” 

The rest of the Clones cheered at the boost in morale. Inside, I felt ready to drop, but on the outside, I drew my lightsaber one more time, and we all braced to charge. 

At the sight of us, blaster bolts and grenades whistled from all directions. I did my best to deflect as many as I could, but I couldn’t save everyone. When the first man fell, I scooped up his wounded body without a second thought. 

“Go on without me!” He insisted. 

“I’ve lost enough today,” I growled. The party slowed as my exhausted body became even slower with the extra weight. A grenade landed uncomfortably close, knocking all of us forward like bowling pins. 

I tried to save one and lost so many more… 

But there was still the one whom I had landed on top of. 

My own blood coated my back from flak wounds, and Troopers’ blood covered my chest and hands. Through some combination of leaning on each other, the last Clone and I reached our troop carriers.

“Commander Pat! You’re alive!” the pilot exclaimed. “It’s good to see you, sir!”

“Please,” I whispered, brokenly. “Take me home.”

@febuwhump

@formeralleycat

[colin-blackwood]

Colin Blackwood ♦ Cis man (He/ Him) ♦ 52 ♦ Law Enforcement ♦ Detective Chief Inspector

“Honestly? I’d rather stick my dick in a blender than hear another one of those lies.”

divorce tw, siblings death tw, murder tw, guns tw

Colin was born in Leeds (Yorkshire) in 1970. His mother worked in a canning factory while his father worked in one of the many collieries of the region. With his elder brother, they’d gone to public school with hopes and dreams and yet the dooming realization, as years passed, that there was no rising from their condition. Colin’s brother started working in the mines, but on his fourteenth year, in 1984, miners went on strike across the country to protest Thatcher’s decision to close 20 coal mines. Although the strike went on to last a whole year, his father and his brother lost their jobs, eventually, as the mines shut down permanently. His father went on to find a new job in the months that followed, but Colin’s brother, Henry chose to stop following his father’s footsteps and instead joined one of his friends at the fire department.

Colin loved hearing his brother’s stories over Sunday lunch, and he told himself that one day, he too would have stories of his own to tell the family, and you could say that he managed to do just that.

He started as a constable and slowly but surely made his way up the hierarchy. An arrest he made in 2001 earned him a spot on the front pages of local newspapers as he put an end to the macabre career of a serial killer. He was offered a book deal and a position as an instructor at the London Police Academy, but both were refused by Colin, who didn’t want to stray away from his mission. Leeds was however growing a bit too small for him, and he made them a counter offer : he wouldn’t work for the Academy, but he’d love a place in one of their precincts. London would be a nicer place for he and his wife to raise their unborn child. But when one Blackwood brother was met with success, one was met with a much darker fate. Colin had been working in London for a week when he received a phone call from his mother to let him know that his brother had perished in a fire. The perspective of becoming a father might have been the only thread that kept Colin from drowning in his sorrow then, but as years passed, feelings of guilt and helplessness replaced the pain of loss, and it was through burying himself in work and accepting more cases that Colin made it through his days. His attitude led the pair to an inevitable divorce, one which Colin never really blamed himself for.

Although he eventually recovered from losing his brother so soon, Colin finds it sometimes difficult to let things go, and tends to get obsessive working on cases. He can count on his partner not to let him fall into the rabbit hole.

Recently, Colin gathered the attention of the press on another serial killer case he’d solved, but this time, not for the same reasons. Having shot the man dead during the arrest, he’s now under investigation to figure whether his actions were justified.

+ / -  hot headed, honorable, faithful, gruff, dutiful, logical, traditional, easily angered

Every now and then, he’ll get phone calls from True Crime podcasters regarding his 2001 arrest. Although he never once agreed to one of these, requests still end up in his professional inbox anyway.

While he doesn’t particularly resents the Conservative Party for what they did to his family (after all, the Labor Party also shut down collieries), Colin has an unspeakable hatred for Margaret Thatcher. He may have peed on her grave at some inebriated point.

The serial killer that Colin shot was an arsonist and it is the belief of some people that the detective acted the way he did because his brother died in a fire that had been the handy work of another arsonist.

Although Colin doesn’t precisely spend a lot of time out of work, he will make time for his daughter. They can spend hours on jigsaw puzzles, but another favorite activity of the pair is going to the movies.

[wolint]

THE SPIRIT OF JOSEPH 2

THE SPIRIT OF JOSEPH TWO

Genesis 40-41

 

There is always room for improvement or more! None of us knows what we’re capable of, the extent of our potentials, and the capacity we can contain until we come to a crossroads.

May the Lord add, may He make us who He wants us to be. We know that the obvious skills and spiritual gifts that Joseph had were his ability to interpret dreams, a skill that was used appropriately.

What are your skills? Talent? Spiritual gift? Have you discovered yours yet? How are you using it? Are you using it to glorify the Father?

Joseph used his gift wisely and prudently, and so should we. Joseph never lost sight of his dreams, even as time flew past, he held on to his trust in God and the vision of his dreams. As you hold on, God will orchestrate events to allow your helpers to locate you, even go through the same path as you just so you can meet. If not, how do we account for the chances of Joseph being in the same prison with Pharaoh’s servants? Your helpers, assigned, ordained, and approved helpers may be anywhere, but God, the divine orchestrator, will put them in your path and you in theirs to fulfil His purpose, see Genesis 40:1-4.

God will even trouble our helpers if they refuse to move on our behalf. God made it so that there were no professional interpreters available to help Pharaoh in Genesis 41:8, thereby paving the way for Joseph. No matter how long we must wait for our helpers to show up, God keeps things running so that our time will eventually come just as Joseph’s time came after two long years - in 41:1. Don’t give up, no matter how long you’ve waited, wait some more. Joseph’s thirteen (13) years wait was long, but his lifting and favour were for a lifetime. Wait! Resounding Ecclesiastes 3:1, that there is a time for everything and a set time to favour each of us.

God will create a situation to cause His will and purpose to be perfected as seen in Psalm 105:16-24. Joseph was granted favour everywhere he went, and soon he had favour with his new master, Pharaoh. Joseph kept getting promoted, but then something unjust would happen to him. Potiphar’s wife tried to seduce him, but because he was a man of integrity who feared God, he “fled temptation” according to 1 Corinthians 6:18. Joseph ignored his problems and tried to help others the entire time he was in prison.

He never complained, and because he had a proper attitude in his suffering, God eventually delivered and promoted him. He ultimately had so much authority in Egypt that only Pharaoh was higher than him in rank in the entire land. Where did Joseph’s courage come from? How was he able to stand all these tests without losing hope, faith, and not showing fear? He could have looked for the expected deliverance in every quarter, rather than wait to see where God would take him, but instead, he looked to God to keep His word, believing in Numbers 23:19.

The Lord is saying rather than bow to fear, uncertainty, pressure, and circumstances, stand firm and see Him move in and on your life. You’ve been endowed with the spirit of Joseph and all those challenges will eventually come to an end; they are only light afflictions according to 2 Corinthians 4:17. You will make it.

PRAYER: Thank you, Lord, that my set time to be lifted is in your hands, thank you for ordaining my helpers to locate me when it’s time in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Shalom

WOMEN OF LIGHT INT PRAYER MIN

[aceing-on-the-cake]

I was going to be reasonable and not analyze this poem to death but they are my favorite poet and I cannot express into words how much I like this one of theirs in particular, so instead you all get to hear my rambling thoughts in the hopes they make sense to anyone else.

First off

I'm well aware they edited it and posted the second version, and that version was amazing, but I feel it's worth pointing out that the original was also by no means bad. These lines. These lines, are good poetry. It still is incredibly vivid in the imagery they're giving us here. It is still, so fucking raw emotionally. These lines alone are ones I could leave somewhere to reread for an entire day and still be hit again and again by how they make me feel. They also said they were feeling vulnerable and needing validation which is why I think this is an important point. Yes, they made the poem better in the editing process, but it was good even before they did that. Editing it just made it so much better.

Second

I don't even know where to start with this line. The ability to find joy amid misery? Misery loves company? But you're not handing your misery and yet commiserating, so can that truly be connected to that phrase? Is there a community to be found even in death? Is death itself the embrace of a hug entirely too tight but a hug nonetheless? I don't know, I don't know what I want to even say about this line, because I'm not sure I want to pick one thing

Next Trauma; Mainly Mine

Jesus christ the religious trauma is hitting me here. I don't think that's the author's intention necessarily, but regardless poetry is a connection once released into the wild, and this will always be my connecton to christianity. He's not wrong to pray, but I would sit nonetheless. He's not wrong to hope, but I too wouldn't often bother. People aren't wrong for their belief in god but it is an endeavor I cannot follow regardless. And maybe that's why Lazarus rose, maybe in the end I'll be sitting alone in a grave with the doors to any after life closed because I chose not to believe, but I can't make myself believe regardless of the outcome.

Brain Itch

Look, look, look, I love christian symbolism and mythology on it's own used to illustrate points. But Icarus??? Combining Icarus with christian symbolism???? And the angels??????? God's sons???????? Are they icarus or his father???????? Are they doomed to fly too close to glory and crumble??????? Or are we icarus and they along with their father here to warn us to not get too close to the sun ourselves???????????

There are not words to express how giddy this line made me. There are not words.

Look

I don't think I even have anything to add here. Just read the words. Because I'm just the words and I don't think there's a better way anyone could've said that.

Then We Have This Entire Masterpiece of a Section

Look, just the slow degradation of holy itself. I am a slut for repetition, but mainly, when it's done well like this so clearly is.

Using capitalization of the lack therefore to where you can physically hear the words getting quieter. Punctuation used in connection to show losing faith. Hope turning into questions turning into bitter resignation into apathetic desperation.

I love this, you should love this, if you didn't love this, reread this

It Always Comes To This Doesn't It

It always ends up with being one straw too short, one minute too late, lessons others have already learned before me, things people have accomplished that I am still scraping coffin-bloody fingers (TM Berklie) against see through walls just to get at.

Does that make sense? I'm not sure it even makes sense to me, but I don't think that matters. Just go read their poem, their words make more sense than mine ever will.

I Think I've Mentioned I Have Religious Trauma By This Point

Which means I don't even need to explain this one. I don't. I refuse to. It's too obvious. Read it yourself.

We're Back to Icarus and I am Here for It

The angels are Icarus. Why are they Icarus? Who is the sun? Is god the sun? Is Death the heat no one was meant to escape once within his grasp? Did the angels pay the price for Lazarus? Or is god paying the price and choosing to keep the angels aloft despite their melted wax? Is that what the christian god is supposed to look like? Is he the one who holds up his sons with their melted wings from an impossible task he himself gave them? Or is he the father who warned his children not to get too close to brightness and greatness but gave them the wings anyways knowing in all knowing power there would always be a point they would fly too close and melt?

(I don't have religious trauma, you have religious trauma)

I. Do. Not. Have. Enough. Skin. Available. To. Get. All. The. Words. Berklie. Has. Written. That. I. Want. To. Keep. Forever. Like. Some. Fucked. Up. Crow. And. This. Is. Truly. The. Travesty.

Regardless, I'm probably gonna make an exception for these.

Again. I Goddamn. Love Repetition. Done Well

I just, that's so good. Like that's the kind of thing that's pleasing to read. It's pleasing to hear. It's pleasing and comforting to be lulled into a sense of sameness that's used for emphasis.

In Conclusion

Berklie is a fantastic poet. Full stop.

This poem was amazing. You already know that if you've gotten to the end of my rambling thoughts because you had to read their poem in the first place to even get here. But regardless, that deserves to be said.

They are a fantastic poet. They craft immaculate poems. And I am convinced honestly they can do no wrong and I will fight the devil, god, and Berklie themselves if any of them disagree with me.

Thank you for coming to this display of autism.

Go read more of their shit

hello i wrote a poem

[stellar-waves]

tell me

{ Third Watch }

Faith shows up at Bosco's door with one last shot at hope. Post-series one-shot originally written in 2006.

. . .

“What are you doin’ here?” his husky voice growled.  His hair was disheveled, going in all different directions, and the old olive green shirt hung loose over his muscular torso.  He rubbed his tired eyes, the smell of beer and cigarettes from the bar still lingered on his body.  

She bit her bottom lip, nervously playing with the zipper of her jacket.  “Can I come in?” 

He ignored the hope in her tone, and started to shut the door.  “No, you can’t,” he stated matter-of-factly.  

She stepped forward and placed her hand on the door.  “Bosco, please?  I need to talk to you.”  

Reluctantly, he caved, creating more room to let her in.  He shut the door behind her, but they continued standing in the entryway.  He didn’t speak a word; instead, he waited for her to explain what was so important that she woke him up to talk to him about.  

“I uh…I’m getting married tomorrow,” she announced, her breath catching in her chest as his face fell ever so slightly.  

He tried hard to maintain his emotional brick wall.  “Good for you,” his reply was detached, monotone.  Silently he pleaded with her why she’s bringing more heartache for him.   

She dropped her gaze, afraid that she’d lose all composure due to his baby-blues.  “I guess I just wanted to tell you…maybe invite you.”  

His forehead creased with anger.  “Maybe?”   He couldn’t help the volume of the word, but he was so frustrated he didn’t care.  She still couldn’t bring her eyes to meet his.  When she refused to answer, the anger bit harder.  “Maybe?!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, causing her to flinch.  “What the hell do you want from me?!”  

Finally she looked up, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.  “Forgive me, Bosco.”  

Honestly, her words floored him.  He was not expecting her to plead for his forgiveness.  And yet the anger still burned inside him.  The way she betrayed him, the way she stopped believing in him still hurt him after all that time.  “Forgive you?!  Why should I forgive you?!  Just so you don’t have to feel guilty anymore?  Huh?  Is that it?”  

“No, it’s not like that—”

“Then fine!  I forgive you!  Happy?”  

She just stared at the floor, wishing she could find the strength to fight him.  She lifted her head, her vision cloudy as he started pacing the living room.  “Bos…” she called in a soft, saddened voice.  

He turned slightly, catching her stare with his.  “Don’t call me that.  We’re not friends anymore.”  

As soon as the words left his lips, she stopped breathing, staring at him in disbelief.  She sucked in a shaky breath, allowing a single tear to fall down her cheek.  “Tell me not to do it.”  

He turned around all the way, facing her full on, and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.  “What?”

“Tell me not to go through with it.  Tell me not to marry him.”  

He stepped towards her, but stopped, still wanting to keep a reasonable distance from her.  “What are you talking about?”  

She raised her voice.  “Tell me you love me and I won’t do it!”  

Another string of words that he wasn’t expecting her to say…something that he’d convinced himself he’d never hear…something that he swore to himself he wouldn’t have to deal with.  “Damn it, Faith, why are you doing this?”  

“Tell me you love me, Bosco!” 

“No! You can’t just come in here after all this time, and think that I fucking love you!  I don’t!  Ya hear me?!  I don’t love you!”

She froze.  His words stabbed her in the chest, causing her eyes to exhibit a mixture of despair and rage.  

Suddenly, he lunged at her, taking her face in his hands and capturing her lips with his.  He kissed her forcefully, full of passion and longing that had built up over the years.  She melted in his arms, clawing at his back as she pressed her body into him.  His breath was warm against her skin, and he pulled her closer, tighter in his grasp.  Her heart was beating fast, her breathing labored as he kept kissing her.  She tasted his soft lips, letting their tongues dance around each other.

He pulled back, his eyes intense as he stared into her soul.  Tell me, she begged without saying a word.  He took her face in his right hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb across her cheek, as his stare silently assured, I’ll show you.  

. . .