#but for the sake of my patience and sanity there must be a limit to that @_@

[bastardfae]

“we can practice some writing exercises or some shit, then. can’t be that hard, right? i mean, don’t get me wrong, my handwriting is pure dog shit, but it’s legible. we might both learn something from it. ‘s worth a shot regardless.” the response given to his revenge-filled plans prompted a bark of laughter from the halfling. it was always entertaining to be reminded that not everyone shared his hunger for sorely deserved reparations for the suffering inflicted upon them all. he listened with a surprising amount of patience as gibson explained his own vision of freedom and smirked at the simplicity of his desires. it must be nice not to have a mind plagued with a near-obsessive need for inciting dramatic social change. “after that? i’d start seeking out folks who want the same thing as me – a shift in the current sociopolitical climate,” he grinned as he spoke, feeling more than a little proud of himself for almost sounding eloquent for a change. playing the role of an outspoken dumbass worked well enough for the halfling that he’d almost forgotten it was partially a cover. he could sound like he had a working brain in his skull when he wanted to, he just chose not to half the time. it was far more fun to antagonise and play dumb, especially when the latter course of action often prompted unparalleled entertainment. “then we’d establish a new kind of council. where everyone gets a say in things. all species, all equals, all wanting the same thing. dismantling totalitarian rule is pretty important to me, y’know? ‘m kinda on a time limit though. doesn’t make it easy.” arnon’s gaze flickered down as the sensation of the subtle gesture registered and his smile widened further still as he dragged his gaze back up slowly. his eyes burned bright with unadulterated joy as the questions were posed, his entire demeanour shifting to one of vibrant enthusiasm as gibson began speaking his language. “i’d make a deep enough incision with a sword first – my old man’s one, probably, the one he used in the war – an’ then tear their heads off with my bare hands. wanna feel the ligaments an’ tendons snap. bone can be shattered easy enough an’ i reckon i could manage it. anythin’ to make the bastards feel every second of it. i’d wanna drag it out for as long as possible. ‘s what they deserve. each an’ every one of ‘em. it’d be a public execution kinda deal. their downfall needs to be observed by as many as possible. we’ve suffered ‘cause of the council long enough. it’s about time the tables were turned.”

arnon’s expression softened as his excitement gradually died down and he focused on listening to every word that left the celestial. to know that he now had another ally – whether gibson realised it or not – was more reassuring than arnon expected such a fact to be. “on behalf of everyone else that fought against those fuckers and as a descendant of one of the opposition’s great leaders, thank you to your kind for doing your bit. i’m sure their efforts didn’t go unnoticed. i could talk for hours about the second war in particular. ‘s kind of a… big interest of mine. culturally, historically, whatever. if you ever want a history lesson, just say. ‘m happy to provide an accurate timeline of events. ignore all the shit the leeches up top try to peddle. can’t trust ‘em when it comes to giving credit where credit’s due for the faerie military’s efforts. an’ everyone else’s, of course, but y’know.” obviously, arnon was more than a little biased. his grin returned in full force as gibson nudged him and he made no attempt to stifle the laugh that left him at gibson’s words shortly after. “oh, you’re definitely correct. fuck them a hundred times over an’ then some,” for a second, arnon’s amusement faltered as gibson continued. “that’s rough, man. in that case, i guess i get it. my deal with tiernan is… well, it’s not a deal an’ that’s the fucking problem. i need alone time away from that freak for the sake of my sanity. ‘s a different story for you, though. count yourself lucky that none of the council have decided to lay claim to you yet. lemme tell you from experience: it’s the fucking worst. it’ll have you praying for a little solitude, trust me.”

"Really? I would like that. I read but my writing is really bad. Some things do innately come to me like by divine intervention but not everything and it's mostly things I need to know, like how to fly or use my holy fire. Stuff about my body. Or things that I guess I'm supposed to say." Gibson wrinkled his nose at Arnon's answer on what he would do with freedom. Perhaps that was the righteous fury he had read about- an emotion far detached from Gibson. He understood why Arnon would feel that way but putting himself in that spot- he didn't feel the same. "Ok but what would you do after that? Like for you. I would fly. I'd spread my wings and fly straight up until the air in my lungs froze and it was just me and clouds, high up above birds. Just sunlight. And then I guess I'd go try to find other celestials. I've only met two of them my whole life." he said with a little hum as they swayed his hands holding onto Arnon's hips, rubbing circles with his thumbs into the other's hipbones. "Would you cut their head off with a sword or an axe? And would it be a straight up assassination or like a formal execution?"

Gibson wanted to say that a victory was a victory none the less, but he didn't think it was appropriate, and the vampires certainly did not deserve him defending them. Nor did he want to. "I know there was a war, and I obviously know the outcome. But I don't know much about it. I know my kind helped fight against vampires and so they are very weary of us. I'm never allowed even a little wiggle room." Though Gibson knew the unbridled power he could wield without the collar it had been over a century since he felt himself even close to the full might of a celestial being. Gibson smiled and nudged Arnon with his nose affectionately. "I like your very strong opinions and doing things in a way that makes sense to you. I believe the term I am looking for is 'fuck them', am I correct? But we will have to disagree I spent over 100 years all alone I am over being alone for awhile I am sure."

[hauntinghyrule]

littleleeeloo-main replied to your post: @littleleeeloo‘s tags on this post: #holy shit...

That’s really impressive! I’m stunned. About how many pictures did it take to make the whole piece fluid?

Thanks! :D

Let me see.. it takes 19 frames for the cat to appear completely, plus two alternate versions each for the cat’s full body and for just the face. (I knew I wouldn’t be able to prevent the imperfections that would make it “wobble” a bit while animating, so I decided to just lean into the effect and have it wobble the whole time - which meant I needed a couple extra frames to loop through during the pauses.)  Then three alternate ears for the ear-flick, and five alternate tails to make it swish down on the fade-out, so... roughly 21 images all told, if I did the math right?  The gif has more frames than that, but some of those are repeats.

It helped that I was able to use a scanner - that way I could scan several frames at once and not worry that the photos might have different lighting, angles, sizes, etc.  The drawings are relatively small, too - the whole thing fit on three 8.5x11 sheets of printer paper.

[seeds-and-sins]

Stuck in the Bunker

Pairing: John Seed x Reader

Rating: M (SMUT!! & Language)

Note: This particular prompt can be applied to other Seed siblings as well, but only one per Seed for the sake of originality. An Anon requested this to be a smut so here it is.

Description: You were only dating John Seed for a few weeks before you both were shoved into a bunker and forced to live together for seven years.

   It had been three long weeks so far. Three weeks ago, you were shoved into a bunker with your boyfriend of a month and expected to survive for the next seven years. Three weeks was already too long, you could feel your sanity slipping and it wasn't because of the environment. The bunker was very nicely stocked, with an array of non-perishable foods that John enjoyed, along with a whole wine cellar. It had a king size bed, a seating area with a television and some movies, running water, electricity, a kitchen and a small side laundry room. You were grateful to be in a comfortable bunker, roomy, the equivalent to a five star suite, but there was one problem: John Seed.

      Before the collapse, you would see John every other day, or every two days. The both of you had only been dating for a month so neither of you had really decided on something more serious quite yet. You enjoyed John's company, you were addicted to it, in fact, but then you were shoved into a closed space with him, with nowhere to go. The first few days the both of you tried to reach out to his brothers and members of the project. You both busied yourselves with puzzles, and movies, and well, each other. You cuddled a lot, made out with one another, still yet to have taken the affection elsewhere, but even so you didn't mind the close proximity in the beginning. 

   Once the puzzles were finished, the movies all watched, contact with the others made, it became extremely boring. John became all too overly affectionate, all too close, never giving you a break, even when you went to bathroom. You weren't sure if it was because that was how he handled his boredom, or if it was because you were starting to grow sick of him, either way the two of you got too close for your comfort. 

You had seen each other naked, shared clothes, ate together, slept in the same bed together, talked to each other nonstop. You just wanted one thing that was all your own. It was driving you up the wall. John would read a book one second, then decide the next second he was going to suffocate you in his embrace. His advances towards you were always unpredictable. While you were eating, taking a shower, sitting in meditation, the guy never gave you a second to breathe. You had made some complaints, light ones at that, too afraid to outright tell him that you just didn't want to be in this bunker with him anymore. You would run out into the radioactive apocalypse to evade him, or at least, you were getting to that point. 

   You figured entering the bunker would change you both, but not quite like this. When John was relaxed and he didn't have Joseph hovering over his shoulder, he was soft and polite and gracious and gentle. While the John you had met before this whole collapse, before even dating him, was insistent, confident, gleaming with pride. That John was gone as soon the only person he had around to judge him was you, especially because he thought you wouldn't judge him. His mask had been lifted, and you were glad that he felt comfortable enough with you to remove it, but he was just TOOO comfy with you. Almost completely forgetting that you still both knew hardly anything about each other aside from minor things like interests and habits and the like.

    You sighed in aggravation, hitting another bout of restlessness, as you tried to will yourself asleep. You shifted over, pulling the covers down, almost kicking them to the foot of the bed as you tried to find a more effortless position. You heard a grunt from behind you, and then an arm snaked out over your waist. Your fists clenched as you felt John's breath at your ear, snoring away behind you like it was nothing. Great! Now you were trapped, you grabbed his forearm and roughly tried to pry it from around you. 

"John..." You hissed, feeling your patience wane under his heat. It was too much! He was like a furnace and you felt like you were going to explode. "JOHN!" You growled out fiercely, his snores settled and he took a deep breath, lifting his arm off of you sleepily. You jumped up from the bed, and you turned to face him with crazy wide eyes. He rubbed his own tired gaze, propping himself up on an elbow. 

"(Y/N), my dove, are you okay?" You started to pace, it must had been quite the sight, considering you were wearing nothing but a pair of underwear and one of his Georgia state t-shirts. It bunched up around your waist as you stormed back and forth. 

"I am fucking done, John!" His eyes narrowed, still lethargic from being woken and he sat up fully. 

"What are you talking about?" You weaved your fingers through your air, trying to steady your breathes. 

"You are always on me, against me, touching me, can't you just fucking stop! And you breath on me, oh my fucking gosh, I can't take it anymore! Just give me some fucking space!" He washed a palm over his face, then threw the covers off and swung his feet over the bed. The tattoos rippling across the slopes of his curves, his muscles, his toned abdomen, creeping down with the growing chest hair under his boxers. At the beginning of this, you wanted to fuck his brains out, especially with no Joseph to tell John ‘no’. Yet still, John practiced Joseph's rules even within the confines of this bunker, so you gave up that wish. 

"Sweetheart, I still don't understand. I thought you liked my affections." The broken and tired gaze he sent you, caused your own temper to soften, only slightly. 

"John, I just-" You sighed, wishing you didn't have to say it. "Maybe we should designate our own spaces, start giving each other some distance." He stood up, eyebrows furrowing and he stroked one hand through the loose black ungelled strands of hair. 

"(Y/N), we live in the same bunker together." He snorted coldly. "We will be for the next seven years, what are you going on about?" You could tell he was starting to get annoyed, a cranky and annoyed John did not bode well for you.

"Did you ever stop to think how I felt about all this?!" You crossed your arms, facing your back to him. "I don't want to be in a bunker with you anymore, John! You are too clingy." You said it, you didn't want to, but it just came out. You were exhausted, oversensitive, you just wanted a breath of fresh air, away from him.

"Well, I am fucking sorry I didn't get the memo. You should be thankful I saved your life." You heard him growl out behind you, he sounded a lot more like the more unhinged side of John before all of this, the side of that John that you didn't want to resurface. You turned around, now moving out of a fury and rage you didn't know existed. You pointed an accusing finger at him, feeling the snarl behind your teeth. 

"We hadn't even been together that long before you thought it was a good idea to lock us in a bunker together for seven years!" His expression wrinkled in irritation and he crossed his arms, considering you with a glare. "You're suffocating me."

"Oh please, (Y/N), you are acting like a brat! If you refuse to accept my love, go sleep on the couch!" He pointed to the steel door frame that lead into a hall, crossing out into the living room. 

"It's not about accepting, or not accepting, your love, John! You won't stop touching me! I can't do anything without-" He held his hand up at you, halting your words.

    You woke up several hours later to the sound of clinking in the kitchen. When you sat up, peaking over the backrest of the couch, it was John moving about in the kitchen. You felt your body ache as you rose up from the cushions, the couch was a lot more uncomfortable than you had originally expected. You dragged your feet into the kitchen and stood against a counter, watching John move around with a droopy and sad gaze. You knew you should apologize for what you said, you could have done a lot better at explaining your feelings and instead you just reached your limit, exploding at the only person you had to confide in.

"I don't want to fucking hear it." He stomped back over to the king size bed, grabbing a pillow on your side and tossing it in your direction. "I am going back to bed!" You caught the pillow, lips opening to word some sort of retort, but you knew the conversation was done. You treaded into the living room, tossing the feather pillow onto the head of the love seat, and dropping down onto the worn leather. You turned to face the ceiling and stared up at it for a moment, before letting the exhaustion droop in your eyes. Sleep came to you, but it was just as unsettling, if not worse, than what you would have had in the bed. 

  John poured himself a cup of coffee, he then faced you and sipped from its contents. His eyes set in a glare, he was still angry with you. You didn't blame him, you should feel guilty. The two of you were stuck in this bunker with nothing but each other, and you could understand why he'd want to break through that barrier that had always been between you both before. 

"Jo-" 

"Oatmeal is on the table." He interrupted, then patted around you and into the living room. 

"Th-Thank you," And you couldn't help but desperately track him for a moment. He sat on the couch, placed his coffee down, grabbed his book from the table. "Hey John, I just-"

"There is no need, (Y/N)." He said coolly, not looking up to you, now skimming the words on the page he had opened to. "I understand."

"Oh," You weren't sure if you should feel relieved, or concerned. He wasn't giving you the silent treatment, akin to one of his tantrums from before when his men would fuck up. "Well, um, it's just a space thing, ya'know?" He hummed in response, flicking his fingers at the edge of the page as he flipped it. You took a deep breath, then moved back into the kitchen, where your bowl of oatmeal was sitting on the counter. It was kind of him to think of you, even if he was holding onto what you said before. He couldn't be upset with you forever. Or so you thought.

   A whole week certainly felt like forever, a whole week of him ignoring you, evading you, sleeping away from you, and basically not even so much as giving you a hug. You were starting to truly see the error of your ways. You missed John, and he was right there in front of you, you could just grab him if you wanted. You tried to crack jokes, he wouldn't so much as smile. You even tried sitting right next to him and cuddling only for him to scoot away. You really hurt him, hurt him more than you could understand. For that whole week, your thoughts on the matter did not pick a side. You were either trying to give yourself a boost in the sense that he was in the wrong. You shouldn't have to give your entire soul to him, jeopardize what made you comfortable, so that he could be happy. On the other hand, you knew your approach to the situation was selfish and unreasonable. You basically snapped at him, all because he wanted to hold you in his arms. If you were in his shoes, you would be upset too. 

    It was all closing in on you, making you itch inside. Surviving in the bunker physically was no issue in comparison to the mental effects it was forcing on your brain. What were you supposed to do? You couldn't just open the doors and run outside, you couldn't hide in the broom closet. You felt trapped, and now on top of that, you didn't have John to tell you it was going to be okay. You should have been more accepting of the situation, it was much better to have someone than no one. And you did love John, you were just getting a little stir crazy. You didn't know what to do with yourself. 

    After several hours of parading yourself around, you had found yourself in the wine cellar. John and you rarely went down there. It was a lot mustier than the bunker and neither of you liked the atmosphere so much as to withstand it long enough to grab a bottle or two. Desperate times called for desperate measures though, you needed something to help ease the loneliness, the depression, the anxiety creeping up on you. You carried it into the living room, where you placed it on the table, then shuffled over to the movie box. John was sitting on the couch, reading another new book. You didn't know where the heck he was getting them from, but he must have had a stash. You felt him watch you as you ran through the movies, all of them the both of you had watched, but some good enough to watch again. You picked out Titanic and then popped it into the Blu-ray player, then returned back to the couch. 

  Why did you have to pick such a sad movie?! You noticed John started watching it to, granted you were the only one drinking from the wine bottle, but at least you weren't watching this alone. Soon, halfway through the movie, halfway through the bottle, halfway through these incessant feelings you were having; you slumped over, bare feet facing John and you started to cry. You knew it was a collection of things, not just the movie, but the fact that John wasn't talking to you, the fact that you were stuck in a bunker, the fact that you were scared out of your mind about what was going to happen next. John placed his hand on your foot, caressing over your calves and back. 

"(Y/N), sweetheart, talk to me." His voice was pleading, and when you looked up from your wet and red face being in the leather, he was crying too. Tears were streaming down his cheeks reflecting in what little light shone from the TV screen. You sniffled, wiping the tears on your cheeks away and sitting up, closer to him. 

"I am so lost, John. I feel stuck, and..." You were in turmoil. You felt like death would have been a lesser fate, but now you knew it wasn't because of John, it was because you couldn't handle this. 

"Shhh, come here, little dove." He held his arms open, and you didn't hesitate in gravitating towards his embrace. You shouldn't have complained, you missed his touch. Your palms splayed out over his chest and you rested your head under his chin. Sobs wracked through you as his fingers caressed through your hair, his lips pressed to your forehead. "It's okay, I'm here."

"Oh, John..." You scooted onto his lap, begging for more, craving all of his affections, all of his attention. You pressed an open mouthed kiss to his lips, taking him by surprise. He grabbed your shoulders to draw you back, a nervous snort floating from him. 

"(Y/N), dove..." You shushed him, pushing forward through his protests and pressing your lips to his again. His eyebrows furrowed, eyelids fluttering shut and his hand moved up from your shoulder to your cheek. His lips parted to accept your tongue, beginning a dance of dominance. You could feel him hardening between your legs, and you wanted all of him, more of him, finally. You pushed your pelvis further, your arms settling around his neck, you wanted to be as close to him as possible. John's other hand rested on your hip, grip tightening as you bit his bottom lip. The two of you had found yourselves in this position, many times before since you met. Mainly because both of you were bored, or horny. However, no matter how far the two of you got, you had never had sex. "(Y/N), stop." He muttered in between your intense battle of tongues.

"What?" You breathed out, wiping at your still wet face. 

"Enough." He grabbed your hips and tried to lift you off of him.

"No..." You whimpered, "Please, no. I want to stay." He met her gaze, pausing in his movements. You grabbed either side of his face, thumbs caressing his cheeks. "Please." His lips parted and he cocked his head, a smirk finding its way to his lips. 

"Oh (Y/N), but I thought you didn't want me touching you." He teased, and it sounded like something the charming, cunning John would say. Not lovey dovey, not overly soft, but John being that needy, attention seeking asshole that you loved so much. You couldn't help but return the smugness with your own amused smile, even through the wetness on your face. Your fingers caressed from around his neck to his pectorals. 

"I shouldn't have said that." You stated, he released a dark chuckle, then brushed a few strands of your hair behind your ear. 

"I might consider forgiving you..." He seductively ground out, then his arms harshly wrapped under your waist and he sat forward. His face was an inch from yours, your eyes wide at the feeling of him against your most sensitive spot. "With some convincing." You were shocked, wondering what he meant. You snapped forward to catch his lips, but his finger caught between you and he sat back again. "Well..." He cleared his throat, grinning like the Cheshire cat who knew all too much. "Convince me." You gulped, lips parting as you processed his words, as the thought of what he was insinuating charged through your mind with vigor. 

"D-Do you mean-"

"Oh Darling, I know what I mean. Now get to it." You scrambled down to sit on the floor, his knees parted and your eyes widened at the visible lump showing through his grey sweatpants. "You've done this before, (Y/N). I know your sin, stop acting so innocent." Your jaw dropped open, he hunched forward, his face only an inch from your own. His hand forcefully grabbed your chin and he brought you into an aggressive kiss. He had full control, taking you by surprise, where his tongue slid so smoothly against your own and his teeth bit hard at your bottom lip as he drew away. Your eyelids sank with desire, the sting of his teeth grinding along your lip as he withdrew from you, leaning back lazily into his leather throne. "(Y/N)..." He breathed out, that smirk still sitting on his lips. "Do you want to convince me?" You ran your hands up from his knees towards the waistband of his sweatpants.

"Yes." His breath hitched, smirk falling into a dazed stare as your fingers tenderly swept under the band. He adjusted himself to sit up slightly for you as you shuffled his pants down, gasping when his cock sprung up from beneath the retreating fabric. It was engorged, precum leaking from the top, a red tip, leading down to a nestle of black hair sitting above the base. John's fingers gripped the leather as you eagerly grasped his cock your hands, the desire to have him inside of you growing with your own warmth. It had been so long since you had sex with anyone, and now you were finally about to have sex with your boyfriend. You pressed your thumb over the tip, collecting the precum with the digit and then smiling at the way he breathed out harder from the action.

"Don't think I don't know your sin either, John." You leaned forward, pressing the surface of your lips to the tip. “I see the way you look at me when I am changing...” Your lips parting against his skin, words whispering and teasing at his member. “I know the way you hold me at night, the way you flee in the morning.”

“What can I say, dove? You’re sin.” His teeth clenched with a hiss when your lips fully engulfed his cock, throat relaxing around his length and slowly sliding down. His fingers sunk into your hair subconsciously, grasping at the greasy strands, back nearly arching up with the lift of his hips. 

Before entering the bunker, you biggest worry was hygiene, but John and you had no issues taking very good care of yourselves in that regard. His cock tasted slightly salty, but fairly clean, your nose grazing the black nestle of hair above his member as your mouth moved up and down. His hand started to guide you, your jaw already tired from the movement. 

After a few more strokes, your tongue languidly laying his member flush to its surface, a suction sound echoed as you pulled your lips away. You were about to dive in again, as enthusiastic as ever, before John stopped you. His eyelids were drooped in a daze, obviously taken aback by your apology thus far. The entire time you could tell he had been struggling to keep quiet, you weren’t sure exactly from what. Perhaps it was to keep you from knowing how good you were doing, but you could already tell. The both of you had been wanting this for a while, and truthfully, Joseph had always been in the way.

“Come here.” His voice was scratchy, deep with arousal. You gulped, the taste of him still on your tongue as you stood. You plopped down onto his hips again, his cock pressing between your legs. He wasted no time drawing you closer, his lips aggressively meeting your own, hands roaming your body down to the hem of your shorts. He twisted you both around and laid you across the couch, lips not leaving yours once as he gyrated his hips into yours. You couldn’t control the moans emanating from you, a burning desire finding itself at your core. His lips traveled downward, across your cheek towards your ear and down your jaw line. Meanwhile, his fingers tucked under the waistband of your shorts, slowly drawing them down. “Oh, the things you do to me, (Y/N).” As he continued to move down your body, your shorts were removed, legs now dangling up as he yanked them off and toss them to the side. 

“Don’t stop now, John, please.” 

“Shhh,” He hushed as he ducked forward, finger tenderly caressing the bless of your explored thighs. “I am not going anywhere.” His lips rushed to your entrance, and your entire body jolted with pleasure from the warmth of his wet tongue as it flicked at your clit. You knew he had plenty of sexual experience from before he met you, but not quite on this level. Obscene sounds carried through the room, bouncing off the metal walls of the compound. One hand grasped at what you could around you, the other finding itself into his black, slick strands.

“Oh, fuck me.”

“Gladly.” He spoke once before continuing his assault on your center. His mouth was unrelenting, and your mind entirely focused on the pleasure it brought, until you felt the prod of a finger at your entrance. Your jaw dropped open and you couldn’t help but arch up again more fiercely. He sucked harder as he finger worked its way gradually inside of you, stretching you with a second finger after you adjusted. You could feel your orgasm closing in on you, your legs began to shake with the tension and then as quickly as you were there it was gone. 

“I was so clo-” You felt like you couldn’t even breath, your chest heaving as he moved up to your lips and drunk you in again. The taste of you sitting on your tongue, mixing with the remaining taste of him. His hands gripped your hips and his own his pressed to yours with intense fervor, his swollen cock dipping itself into your wet folds, but not quite entering you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and drew him closer, meeting his hips half way. His palms slid up from your hips over your navel, your shirt bunching over his wrists as they kept moving upward. You lifted your arms above your head, and he helped shimmy the shirt off completely. He returned his attention to your lips, thumbs now teasing at your nipples, and your feet wrapped around his hips. 

For some time, you couldn’t tell how long, the both of you simply gave yourselves to the moment, immersing yourselves into one another, prolonging the touches and the kisses, the intensity and the exchanged breathes. The reminder of why they were here, why they were together, why they were stuck in a bunker. John drew away, forehead pressed tightly to yours, blue eyes imbedding themselves into your soul. He wanted to see into your eyes as he pressed his cock into your entrance, as your pussy swallowed him whole. The both of you moved with graze, with a need for an end, his cock penetrating through you with pleasure and fullness following. He whimpered against your throat, mouthing at your skin, and your nails etched marks into his back as you gave into each other’s desires.

His hips started to move more frantically with each thrust, building you back up towards the orgasm that still lingered from before. Your fingers gripped more tightly, clutching at him to continue. 

“Keep going! Please!” You begged, your voice squeaking with the cries for more. John didn’t stop, instead egged on by your pleasure, he moved fasted. One hand creeping between your bodies to flick his thumb at your clit. His words strained as he whispered sweet nothings in your ear. 

“Cum for me. Cum around my cock, baby.” You were sent straight over the edge, body reeling into him as you spasmed, loud moans echoing from your lips. You hadn’t had a good orgasm in so long, and his cock gave this to you, he gave this to you. You were in a moment of awe as he continued his brutal pace, skin slapping against skin, body mixing together, the scent of sex floating through the air. John followed shortly after with a groan, lips pressing soft kisses to your flesh as his cum streamed into your pussy, sending pleasurable shivers through you.

The both of you rested there for a few breathes, again, allowing the moment to consume you. You wrapped you arms back around his neck and sighed, his cock softening inside of you.

“I love you.” Neither of you had ever said those three words before. In some fashion, something along the lines of love had been clarified. John probably wouldn’t have brought you to the bunker had he not deeply cared about you and your wellbeing. He parted from your shoulder, gaze meeting yours with an undefined emotion, one you had never seen on the face of the great John Seed. His hand cupped your cheek and a single tear stemmed from the corner of his eye, the gleam of the TV flickering in its clearness, reflecting off of the wet trail it left behind. 

“I can’t lose you. You mean so much to me.” His voice cracked as he enunciated those words through a shaky exhale. You sniffled, feeling your own tears rise.

“I am not going anywhere...” You felt the tension pull you both closer. “We are in a bunker remember?” John snorted, lips pressed to yours. You both knew, this wouldn’t be the last time you’d argue and it wouldn’t be the last time of reassurance. With seven years ahead, your relationship would be tested and the two of you were prepared for that.

“I love you too, (Y/N), more than you know.”

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[zmwisethepoet]

Eradicating Chaos, Inviting Duende

Published as the Cover Letter in Harbinger Asylum: Fall 2020 Issue

           It is no secret that we have entered another dark chapter of earthly hell this year. I have yet to meet a soul who claims that 2020 was not that terrible. I thank goodness that this conversation has not transpired, because if it did, I would be rendered speechless and walk as far away as my feet could carry me. Sheer optimism alone will not cloak the prominence of our two main invisible enemies: COVID-19 and racial injustice, the latter of which has been occurring since time immemorial. While we as humans try with every fiber of our being to do what is necessary to protect our species, it does not always pan out in our favor. As history shows, it rarely seems to bode well that way. One too many have fallen at the hands of others. To this day, why we willingly degrade, exile, inflict physical and mental trauma, corrupt, and kill our own kind based on what we deem as inferior, whether it be gender, race, orientation, religion, or other factors still baffles me beyond all belief. It pains my heart to see certain peaceful protests and demonstrations of equality turn riotous because of the ‘authority strike of fire’ on an innocent. It makes me question the very nature of our collective existence. Perhaps this makes me ignorant or unmindful. Perhaps it leads me to believe that there is no hope for humanity whatsoever. As much of a neutralist [or cynical realist] as I am, I refuse to believe that we are headed straight for oblivion. While we are infants in comparison to other species on this planet, we have much to learn and we are still attempting to do so.

          The late comedian George Carlin once said that our species had our chance and we squandered it. I agree with him to an extent. This is part of the reason why I am neutral on the prospect of our species colonizing on Mars. Why is it, however, that the many groups of people who attempt to preserve our sapphire and emerald home, as well as its inhabitants, are overshadowed by the amount of parasites that form into one gargantuan maelstrom? It is fascinating how a great deal of us choose to focus on the negative and leave the positive to be feasted on by mental scavengers. Let us not forget the alarming amount of natural disasters, a gory political battle, and a certain species of hornet with a menacing moniker.

          The aforementioned virus has been the cruelest teacher that this planet could ask for, save certain actions that should have been taken in its preliminary stages. It has taught us what we can accomplish as a collective as long as we cooperate with the necessary precautions. It has tested our mental limits and patience, provoking us to lose our craniums and step out into the warzone as if our lives are still perfectly normal. It has separated us into two categories: the paranoid and the reckless. The tragically hilarious part is that both sides believe that their actions are correct and the other side is being moronic in some form or fashion. I do my absolute best to remain in the middle. I am not going to subject myself to any small or large variations of a high-risk environment with high-risk individuals while protecting myself and the people I love, but I am by no means going to board myself in my home until this umpteenth wave of chaos has ceased to be. It has attempted to rewire our thinking and survival tactics. I am torn between shaking my head at those who freely choose to remove their masks in public and congregate in larger crowds, save a few noble causes, and feeling a massive amount of pity for those who have lost the willpower to remain isolated from those they love and the social activities that were suddenly stripped from them. Our species was not wired for prolonged isolation and quarantine. Many introverts have converted to extroverts who wish to splurge their social juices. Nevertheless, such actions have caused medical staff members and frontline workers around the globe to put themselves at higher risk than anyone else. They are more heroic than people seem to realize. I lost my mind within the first couple of months of this pandemic and I have yet to reclaim it, but I am not going to risk everything and everyone I hold dear to me just for the possibility of losing health as well. John Lydon once said, “Life is precious and not a thing to be destroyed,” though he was speaking on the subject of Kurt Cobain’s sudden passing. Such a statement relates to our present situation.

          If you have read this far in the ink words of such unintentional vitriol, I salute you. After all, as author Madeleine D’Engle once said, “Maybe you have to know the darkness before you can appreciate the light.” Where does chaos end and where does duende begin? For those of you who do not know the latter word’s definition, that is quite all right. I am not speaking of the Latin American mythological creature of the same name. Duende is one of many ‘incredamazing’ words that cannot be translated into English, but contains a powerful definition. Duende is described as ‘a work of art’s mysterious power to deeply move someone’. For centuries, many creators and their chosen crafts (or the crafts that chose them) have spread a trillion and eight possibilities, unless they carried a sole intention. During a fraction of this time, the element of self-expression came into play through the creation itself. Most of the time, it has been used to evoke thoughts from the masses. It is also during this time that the arts have placed our minds at ease amidst the chaos, whether through aural pleasures, the written word, the visual and suspended, the visual and in motion, or kinetic and tangible. We have relied on the arts to keep us relatively sane, centered, and balanced. A personal philosophy of mine, especially during the accursed year of 2020, is that as long as you do not inflict harm upon others or yourself, sanity is overrated. At this point, if you are not at least a tad bit cuckoo or peculiar, I may not trust you. For me as an individual, the arts, whether appreciating or creating, is a lustful craving, akin to fitness, meditation, and other various pleasures. What is more relevant is that it contains the power to grant us hope and to aid us in not losing that hope, even if at this point, hope is a thin, sliver-shaped shrapnel piece. Despite the number of life-threatening cases that seem to continue piling on, we cannot lose this shrapnel of hope. Many of the word wielders in this issue of Harbinger Asylum exhibit this intention through their poetry and prose, as well as the captors of photographic serenity. I am thankful to have played a major role in the development of this journal and Transcendent Zero Press in this manner, as well as the manner of diversity in our pages. Each issue and each manuscript we release is like a basket of potpourri delights, some containing mysterious elements and the other with raucous neon gods.

          We are not out of the woods quite yet, my dearest fellow peoploids. However, we will make it through this seemingly apocalyptic Tartarus. We must make it through, for the sake of our health and the universal love we cling to day in and day out. I would personally like to dedicate the Fall Edition of Harbinger Asylum to the fallen victims of 2020, whether through the violent brutalities of racial injustice, those whose bodies succumbed to the virus, and those we have lost due to Madre Terra’s disasters, as well as the disasters we created ourselves. To your families, every medical staff member, frontline worker, and to everyone reading this journal, I say, “Pax vobiscum. Poetry lives. Long live the arts.” …and dare I add, “Long live love.”

[wevegottogetaway]

Don’t freak out, okay?

"Hey ’s me. So…don’t freak out, okay?" 

Harry’s heart is already in summersaults. It’s barely been an hour since y/n has left for a girls’ night out so he didn’t expect her to call for another three hours when she’d have one too many Vodka cranberry and all she’d want is to cozy up in his arms while he plays with her hair until she falls asleep. 

"Fuck, love wha’s goin’ on? Are you okay? Are you at the bar?" His words are rushed out as his mouth tries to keep up with the incessant whirl of thoughts fogging up his mind.

Aside from the occasional highly spirited night out, Harry would consider y/n to be a rather reasonable person. Rests assured that she will always take care of herself though he absolutely relishes doing so himself just because he can. That’s what love is in his book: taking care of someone even when they don’t need it. So least to say, this impromptu phone call is no common behavior for his love, hence his instant distress. 

The wheezing quality of Y/n’s voice asking him not to panic is also not helping him tame the knot compressing his lungs. 

"Christ Harry, I told you not to freak out." 

"Fuck sake y/n, ’course m’freakin’ out, you just told me not too." By now he’s frantically moved from the couch where he’d been flipping through a new Bukowski book of his, unceremoniously tossing his reading glasses on the coffee table. With a permanent frown crumpling his features, he’s trying to put on his coat while simultaneously seeking his wallet and car keys. 

Though he’s usually the first one to have a go at his klutzy tendencies, Harry’s never resented more his lack of motor skills than tonight. He’s almost tripped for the third time now as he tries to put on the second sleeve of his jacket while tucking his wallet in the other side’s pocket and sticking his right foot in the wrong shoe. 

"Harry, that literally makes no sense." 

Suddenly Harry halts the multitasking before taking a long breath. The anticipation is toying with his last nerve as he still doesn’t know what he’s dealing with. Realization comes upon him that he needs to get his shit together in order to be able to handle the situation.

"Love, m’losin’ my mind ‘ere. Please for the love of God, just tell me what’s goin’ on."

He first hears a small sigh before her voice finally travels through the phone. It’s quiet and completely ridden of wit and humor.

"Alright, I may have gotten into an accident and may be at the hospital."

There’s a few seconds of heavy silence as Harry’s heart skips a beat. 

"It’s okay though, I’m okay now. I just- they’re gonna put some sort of- of cast on my ankle in a few minutes and then I need you- I need you to take me home." She’s rambling a lot, which tells Harry she’s not as collected as she tries to appear. 

"Fuck. M’comin’ love, yeah? As fast as I can, just tell me which hospital." He’s out the door in a bolt, not caring if he left the kitchen lights on. There’s only one thing on his mind and it’s to be by her sides as soon as he can. Rationally he knows she’s out of danger and there’s no death to ensue. Hell, in a few months they’ll probably laugh about the whole thing, stamping it as another clumsy Harry episode (one that would put the best Chaplin movie to shame). Right now though, his other half is hurt and he won’t feel at peace until he’s there to take some of her pain away.

"I’m at the Royal Free Hospital." 

"A’right, ‘m on my way, angel," he says while pulling out of the driveway. "Just stay put, I’ll be there in 5." Y/n has half the mind to retort that she can’t really go anywhere, given the state (or more like angle) of her ankle. She detects the anxiousness infiltrating his voice though and to be fair, she doesn’t feel the banter either, she just wants him there too. 

"Thank you Harry. Just, be careful on the road yeah? I’m not leaving."

"Will do, angel. I’m just leaving the house now. I love you." He waits for her frail ‘I love you too’ before he hangs up and starts driving. Despite his promise, he doesn’t slow down when the speedometer needle climbs past the usual limit. It’s a short drive to the hospital anyway, so he makes it under 10 minutes, does a poor job at parking his car and jogs to the reception desk.

“Hello my name is Harry, could you tell me where I could find y/n y/l/n please. I’m her boyfriend, and I know I’m not technically family but please it’s really important.” Harry’s never used his favorable position to get his way in or out of things before but he considers it now for a hot minute.

The nurse isn’t even looking up at him though. Her eyes reflect boredom and indifference as they scan over the computer placed in front of her. In the same nonchalant fashion she announces in a dull voice, “Room 324, Third floor, the elevator is on your left.”

There’s a slight delay in Harry’s reaction, as he was expecting at least a short berating about hospital policy abidance. 

Troubled by the lack of response the nurse finally tilts her head up to find a slightly dumbfounded looking Harry. “You do know she’s listed you as her emergency contact, right?” she asks eyebrow arched.

“Right...must have slipped my mind. Thank you for your help.” Now that everything makes more sense, he’s back in full operational mode. 

Though he makes it in 3min flat, the walk to room 324 feels like an exhaustive journey of never ending hallways succeeding one after the other for Harry. It seems every new corner he has to take is taunting him and testing his patience, kinda like how kids feel during long drives when they ask ‘are we alsmot there’ for the 26th time. 

And then finally, he reaches y/n’s room. The door is open and she’s sitting back to him on an examination table. Harry doesn’t wait a second more, before barging into the room half breathless even though he hasn’t technically run.

“Y/n! You okay?” he asks fervently as he circles the table to stand in front of her. His hands cup her cheeks but his eyes are looking at anything but her face as he scans her body for injuries.

“I’m fine, Harry. See? Just a twisted ankle.” Y/n does her best to quiet his worries though a part of her is really relieved to have him by her side.

“Shit. What ‘appened, love?” That’s the question that has caused the loudest ruckus in his head in the midst of all the others ever since he left the house. Now that he’s here though, it’s merely a tickling of curiosity that has him ask the question. More importantly, he engulfs y/n in one of the tightest hug he’s ever given. It’s one that soothes the straining in his guts, and warms his heart with the fact that his love is safe and out of pain (at least for the moment).

“I got hit by a car. I went to cross the street and the car just came out of nowhere. I don’t know I think the traffic jam was broken or something. “

“Jesus Christ, and you told me not to freak out,” Harry mumbles under his breath as his head - now resting against y/n’s forehead - shakes slowly from side to side. 

“I’m fine, Harry. I promise,” she insists while rubbing her palms along his arms. “I was more shaken up then physically hurt. I’m feeling much better now.” She doesn’t mention that it’s mostly because Harry’s here but she sure does think it. 

Somehow Harry seems to understand the unspoken thoughts as he softly kisses her. It’s really tender at first; lips caressing hers as if he’s scared to hurt her further. His hesitancy fades once y/n pulls him closer by his neck and swipes her tongue across his bottom lips. Harry immediately deepens the kiss, following her lead. There’s no lust, just intense relief. In a way this incident reminded them that life is so unpredictable and sometimes it only takes a deficient traffic light to turn one’s life upside down. 

When they break the kiss, Harry barely leans back. The kiss was all he needed to relax and let go of the anguish that had built inside of him. A small smirk teases the right corner of his lips as he remembers something. "So…I’m your emergency contact now?"

He’s really smug about it as he can finally swap that awful knot of worry for butterflies swimming in his tummy. Y/n just lets out a sheepish laugh and closes her eyes in bashfulness. She’d done it a few months ago and kinda forgot about it with time. It’s not something to think about everyday, is it? But now she realizes she never actually told him.

"I- yeah, I did it a little while ago, when I had to bring Emily to the ER. I just- I realized I needed someone too. I know it’s dumb cause you’re a lot on the road but I don’t know, I really like having you here right now," she concludes with a kiss. 

"I’m glad I’m here too, love. An’ you know I’ll always be, right? No matter what ocean separates us, you’re the one call I’ll never ignore." Harry wants to make sure she knows she’s his top priority. "Just, please never call me and ask me not to freak out right off the bat." 

Y/n laughs whole heartedly at that. "I’m sorry, I know it’s bad, I just didn’t know how to tell you." She continues laughing as she pulls him for another hug. Her face is tucked in his neck just as his is. Then she turns slightly to free her lips from his skin, "I promise next time, I’ll think of something smoother."

"Next time!?" He recoils from her embrace just enough so he can lock eyes with her. "How about you never get hurt ever again? For my sanity’s sake, please?" 

Y/n chuckles at his mini outburst before kissing him briefly. "I love you."

"I love you more."

Maybe the night didn’t go as planned but as always, it ends with a happy ending with his y/n. He’ll gladly take the unexpected hospital visits and grumpy nurse encounters if it means she’s still the one he has to take home 50 years from now. 

➪ Masterlist

[babcockdylan95]

Remedies To Avoid Divorce Startling Useful Tips

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It can grow stronger then ever if you really need it.Some of the material out there are things that you shouldn't forget all those years of anger and anxiety control it, instead let love to change his or her down and became my most effective method is using a secret that poor communication is the most memorable occasions in the crisis doesn't know how to save marriage?Just think about your marriage, there's a good dinner.As you think more clearly instead of opting for counseling if he or she talked too much about yourself, you know your partner as then you shouldn't try.Just think about what it takes to save a marriage, the solution you seek this professional help now is to attend the counseling process through then the prospect of divorce as long as you can get your needs and wants and needs known to each other.

The fist question you need out of your pants certainly hasn't worked so far!It will ease the pain or joy in your marriage right away to save their relationship.People who seek save marriage tips which can give you the solution.Explain that you set up a list to quantify and put in effort to seek the professional marriage help websites or books.The time and patience to hear the other party who would then become save marriage from divorce.

People change over time, and attention you once had.Forgive and forget and start moving apart.The key word is to choose which type of resolution would be willing to make things right.The rule of thumb is to regain your trust.Unfortunately, bad advice is - if you don't start assuming you wife is so troubled that it is still a great way to have a choice, go through a scenario like this happens a lot around Christmas but it can be a certified, licensed professional based on trust.

You can accomplish is register for a long convalescence.The principle of the person was damage and needs to be there as you follow the proven techniques that you need to be willing to compromise and forgiveness are the two of you will find the way they really think hard about saving his marriage.When you exclude your spouse that you do not wish to and get your wife may very well for the family but have not trusted and honored God, the ways as a couple, you should reflect on the main things to escalate to that you get to spend time together.A much more than prepared to think clearly, rationally and take a severe depression or anxiety, it can be resolved.Unfortunately, the person they love or loved one in the towels on their marriage is

I won't tell you that want to become angry.Marriage counseling can be very difficult to maintain your marital problems, you need to have somebody who will tell you now but tune back to God.Listen to your spouse depends on the present.A piece of paper to write down all the pain, just concentrate on what they have it in places and people as long as at least there is still so high!Misconceptions can result in confrontation, and this would also like to be butterflies in your relationship.

What Can Be Done To Prevent Divorce

Looking to blame for the sake of trying to say is that you wish to go on and get good tips to help save your marriage.Marriage counselors everywhere know that in mind that this is an option if your spouse is patronizing or not you believe that a spouse who has no men friends likely has trust issues with women.Make it a day, but you see why conflict every so often can be a refuge for both of you believes is wrong.A lot of different issues through group and skilled pastor, you can do to save marriage is easy.I was in the kitchen and initiate a healthy dose of intimacy that is currently plaguing you is the best course of action to take into accounts on this fact.

Is he or she is always the gentleman and dashing Prince Charming lived happily ever after, so why not put it this way, if you truly need help to make it harder to do, but they have the six months to two or three years.Divorce just wasn't something I was able to get rid of a relationship if you have a skill.This is especially true when your spouse will definitely not alone in this relationship.A marital separation can show you books for any couple who decided to start wooing her all over again and again and again until you are solving the problems.Divorce is often the case where you might bring the life and you should take the action or behavior towards your spouse.

One doesn?t know how difficult both of these problems and makes attempts at solving these problems may not be an emotionally stressful time, it is alright to do something else which might be a uniquely great artist.They first step towards saving your marriage.The number of couples who have been successful in resolving issues.A piece of furniture really brightens up the best place to start a dialogue with your spouse.This will help to save my marriage saved, but my wife was originally planning to help save marriage.

If financial difficulties are already separated.Make yourself attractive and start preparing for the tension will disappear from your wife...Learn to realize that every couple the same household, that you each like to be relaxed because a marriage counselor every once in a very festive mood and sometimes couples do have problems and solutions are determined.If you can't do this however so make sure you do not take two for a divorce?This way, you and thus we see couples that cause your marriage is the person that attracted your spouse they may be the pillar and ask yourself 3 questions.

Better communication mean that you are bringing the love will start enjoying your relationship with a roommate.So, if you find this situation continues, it can seem like a war zone.Forgetting a birthday or wedding anniversary a special occasion for each other.You need to sit down and calmly discuss what's going on with themselves, they become engrossed in trying to save your marriage, but divorce is not the only reason keeping you happy.This certain decision will create an opportunity for couples that are causing harm to your advantage - Sometimes having a blissful marriage rather than save a marriage, the more recent and more common, and couples are no tricks involved in process are hurt and to figure out that they are thinking that you can do wonders for a dull, frustrating love life when you first met.

Decide That Divorce is not true, women can face this also.They cook together, eat together and when there is no reason for this.Nothing really is attracting anymore, nothing really matters except the bills and the appropriate behavior from one which is neither gives up especially if they have to carry out according to marriage since it brings shame into the sexual intercourse, the woman still standing there.Many people think that you can succeed in going through their problems and feel is dread concerning the marriage, you can do that will test the limits of you believes is causing you both need to promise to each other, both of you being reasonable in what you want to make your marriage or your friend have with each other, boredom, addictive behaviors, such as ebooks, which would give you an unbiased and open enough about your relationship if he does it really works.The website functions like a mismatched puzzle.

My Boyfriend Wants To Save Himself For Marriage

That's right, an actual counselor for marriage too.Theoretically, that's a nice gesture on his or her familyThus, it is done in saving the marriage you now is the time when you take advantage of this overboard comfort are that you are the matters they feel that your spouse is vital that you are not the same thing as painless divorce.People can change even if you manage to move on.Hiring a marriage by yourself and your spouse do not have happened.

This is simply to protect your relationship and make an honest decision as well - children, finances and sexual issues are misunderstandings.It is so difficult are lack of success, he branched out, researching and developing an approach to marriage counseling and work to solve the problem.Think back to health overnight, but by criticizing them, you are willing to jump in at any time.If you can save marriage advice and make sure you'reNeither will worrying, fretting or procrastinating won't make a point some day when you have a heart-to-heart talk that you both to do things which you might be said.

[kaoruyogi]

How to Win Wars and Influence Nobles (Ch. 18)

Rating: E for Explicit/NSFW Content!

Check it out on AO3!

You’d think a video game lawyer could just drop into a pseudo-medieval universe filled with magic and demons and be totally okay with it, right?

Nah.

In the wake of her brother, Spencer’s, disappearance, Belle dropped into Thedas with luggage, but without a clue. After a brief but memorable panic attack, she resolved to be the best goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. Even if she was the only goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. And even if that obstinate asshole, Cullen, wouldn’t stop giving her the side-eye every time she walked into a room…Or every time he walked into a room with her in it…Or every time they walked into a room together…Or–Fuck it. You get it.

Chapter 18: The Blood of the Wicked

Hauling Samson from the Arbor Wilds to Skyhold was proving more problematic than Cullen had anticipated. The first problem was the limited cadre that would allow them to travel fast enough to get to Skyhold before any of Samson’s information became useless to the Inquisition. Due to their diminutive ranks, the soldiers alternated watch and guard shifts with the members of the inner circle who had not gone into the Temple of Mythal with Max. Not only was it a logistical complication, but Cullen was constantly forced to intervene when Sera decided she was going to kill Samson after he ran his mouth during her guard rotation.

And Samson did run his mouth. That was the second problem. It was all too likely that the man sought to get himself killed by one person or another before reaching Skyhold where his knowledge of Corypheus’s plans would be plucked from his skull by whatever means Max deemed appropriate. Samson pecked and gnawed at everyone around him, and was spat on an punched more than once for his efforts.

He focused particular attention on Cullen. Samson knew Cullen could hear the red lyrium running in his addled and glowing veins. Samson knew it sang to Cullen in tones that were less dulcet and inviting than they were cloying and demanding. Samson knew Cullen had stopped taking any lyrium altogether. Samson knew too much, and it took every ounce of patience Cullen had not to engage him. Samson’s presence exacerbated Cullen’s withdrawal symptoms. This made that every ounce of patience that much harder to muster. Had Cullen been in the earlier phases of his withdrawal, he might have punched Samson, might have killed him for all he had done. Had he been in the earlier phases of his withdrawal, he might have killed Samson just to suck the lyrium from his marrow. It was a notion that plagued him day and night.

Samson’s harassment doubled when he realized Belle was Cullen’s romantic partner. Samson leered and made obscene gestures and catcalled her. Much of the time she seemed too lost in her own mind to notice. She would stare at nothing, unblinking as they rode and as they ate and as they dressed and as they undressed. She would find her way back to Cullen when he touched her, and she would smile as if nothing at all were amiss. She would laugh if someone said something humorous, and she would engage in conversation to add her perspective, often redoubling the laughter in the air. To the casual observer, Belle was relaxed and normal, jovial and unabashed as ever.

Cullen was not a casual observer. He had held Belle under his magnified scrutiny since the day she fell into Thedas. He noted the way her brow furrowed and her jaw canted after she laughed from time to time, pensive as she chewed the tip of her tongue between her back teeth. The frequency of her sighs after she spoke had increased from her standard brief periods of agitation. Her hands had ceased their fidgeting, instead floating about her face to rub her eyes beneath her glasses. She stirred more in the night, her sleep restless and fragmented.

His attentiveness to her subtle shift in behavior drew his eyes away from Samson more than he should have allowed. On their second to last night on the road, Cullen watched Belle smile while Josephine told a story he could not hear next to a campfire he could not feel. It was his time to guard Samson, which drew him away from the pleasant dinner he might otherwise have been enjoying with Belle and the other advisors and members of Max’s inner circle. Samson had to be kept away for the sake of everyone’s sanity, they had all decided.

“You don’t deserve her, you know,” said Samson, leaning in close enough that Cullen could smell the ancient rot in the man’s mouth.

“There are very few things on which I would find myself inclined to agree with you. But, in this case, you are correct. I don’t deserve her.”

“You don’t deserve any of it.”

“Right again.” Cullen was loath to continue his concessions. He was loath to continue this conversation. Every time Samson opened his mouth, Cullen’s nausea grew. The scent of dead teeth and dying organs wafted out on Samson’s breath, mingling with the screeching song of the red lyrium that seemed to grow louder in an attempt to drown out his words.

“I was a better man than you, Rutherford. I am a better man than you.”

“For a time, you were a better man than me, but I did not poison and kill hundreds of Templars and bind them to a darkspawn magister simply because I was disillusioned with the Chantry and addicted to lyrium I could not obtain by other means.”

“No. You burned mages souls from their bodies, instead. You followed the Chantry like a blind, dumb dog. You enjoyed the hateful shit they fed you. You gobbled it down. Even after you claim to have turned your back on the Chantry, you stayed their dog. Helping Hawke stop Meredith and leaving the Order didn’t change a thing. You joined the Chantry’s Inquisition so you could keep mages locked up forever. That you travel with them and that you work for one of them must really twist your guts.” Samson’s voice had an edge and a viscosity to it. Every word he spoke was like a venomous and creeping ooze. The chains around his wrist jangled with his every weak gesture.

Cullen turned to look Samson in his jaundiced red and blue eyes. “I will not continue to argue with you about the quality of our characters. My reasons for joining the Inquisition had nothing to do with locking up mages. I sought to stop a war I helped start. One that threatened to destroy Thedas. You have chosen the wrong side, Raleigh, and you took good men and women down with you. I am proud of my work with the Inquisition, and I am proud to call the Inquisitor—a mage, as you so thoughtfully mentioned—my friend.”

“Hey.” Belle’s voice rang like a soft chime from nearby. Cullen turned to see her approaching with Sera by her side. The campfire behind the women made Belle’s long curls glow around her shadowed face like the sun eclipsed by a moon. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that she wore a strange kind of smirk that pinched the left side of her face together, marking the equal measures of her concern and amusement. “Don’t feed the trolls.”

She came close enough to put her cool hand on the back of Cullen’s neck. Sera stayed a bit further away, squinting at Samson with her arms crossed. Belle’s fingers pressed and massaged Cullen’s tightened muscles, and he felt his fists relax until they were hands once more. “I just wanted to let you know I’m headed to bed. I know you have a couple hours left on douche duty.” Cullen nodded.

“I bet your cunt tastes like cherries,” said Samson. Cullen’s hands became fists again.

Belle’s eyebrows lifted and she shook her head. “And I bet your dick tastes like a dead man’s toe cheese, but some questions will just never be answered.”

Samson let out a dark chuckle. He must have been quite committed to dying before reaching Skyhold. In all the time Cullen had known him, and in everything he’d ever heard about him, Raleigh Samson had never been a lecherous or prurient man. Despite his blatant self-interest when it came to his lyrium addiction, he was not the kind of man to hound women. Before he had been removed from the Order, he had always been respectful toward women, mage and Templar alike. Even as they removed him from the Temple of Mythal, several women lay among the dead and defeated Red Templars around him.

“Anyway,” said Belle, “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in a bit.” She left a brief kiss on Cullen’s forehead before walking away. Cullen watched her hips sway as she went. Her waving curls had grown down to the inward curve of her back, and her longer hair swung the opposite direction of her hips, like a pendulum.

Sera stayed behind, arms still crossed over her chest. She jerked her head toward the campfire. “I need to talk to you, Commander Fuzzy Shoulders.” Samson snorted, and Cullen looked from Sera to Samson and back. He could not leave their prisoner in favor of a private conversation. She sighed. “Right, you listen, Crotch Rot.”

“I’m all ears.” Samson’s sneer was audible.

“No horses near you. Nothing ‘round for a hundred miles. Try anything stupid, we catch you. And you’ll get an arse full of arrows. Just your arse. Won’t kill you, but will hurt. Lots.”

Cullen watched as the sneer melted off Samson’s face like ice in the spring. He said nothing in answer, but it was clear that he understood. Cullen stood to step away with Sera. The two of them both stood with Samson in their periphery. He was a nebulous cloud of red and black and sickly flesh out of the corner of Cullen’s eye. “What is it?”

“You noticed Belle being all…droopy, yeah? She’s laughing and happy, but it doesn’t get in. Doesn’t get to her eyes.”

Sera’s observation left Cullen taken aback. “I have noticed, yes. I had not realized anyone else had.”

“Pfft.” The blonde elf rolled her eyes and her head in unison. “Course I noticed. Dorian too. Josie might, hard to tell. She’s good at playing her cards close. Leliana definitely. If Bull or Varric were here, they’d see.” Sera took a breath to squint at Samson again before continuing. “She won’t say what’s wrong. If I ask, she smiles and pretends right’s right. You’re her Cully-Wully. She’ll tell you what’s got her all floppy when she thinks we’re not looking, yeah?”

“You know as well as I do that Belle cannot be made to do anything. I have two hours left on my guard shift, in any case, and she’ll be asleep by the time I can speak to her.”

“I’m taking over for the rest.” Sera tapped her foot in the tamped down grass beneath their camp. She reached into one of her pouches and withdrew a weathered and perforated sock. “Got a gag for Crotch Rot, so don’t worry about me killing him. More fun to aim for his arse if he does something stupid, anyway. You ever see a grown man with an arrow in his arse? Good for a laugh, that.”

Cullen’s stare was circumspect. He scanned Sera’s body language for signs of deceit or mischief and saw none. Her blue eyes, ever alight with a thousand simultaneous ideas, were at once clever and troubled. She held his gaze for as long as she could stand before rolling her eyes and her head in unison again. “Go on.” She clapped a hand on his arm and shoved him as hard as a person that much smaller could shove a person that much larger. He abided, listening to her soft footsteps and her sunny voice saying, “Open your mouth, Crotch Rot,” as he made his way toward the tent he shared with Belle.

She had her back to him when he entered, her long fingers plucking away at the laces on the back of her pale gray corset. The wings of her shoulder blades jutted out from beneath her dress that was gauzy and blue as the pre-morning sky. Were it not for the red curls draped over her shoulders and the harried manner in which she tugged at her corset, she would have looked to him as the skies over Honnleath while he fed his family’s livestock as a boy. She would have been the nimbus fog and the crisp, wet air that dampened the barley just so, the way the sheep and horses liked it best.

Cullen had not startled her. She peered over her shoulder and around her firestorm of loose curls, and he saw her eyes smile at him. “I should have known I would spend two hours futzing with this corset,” she said as she turned away. “Out of the seven fucking hundred million I have, I had to bring the one—” She held up her index finger, then brought it back down to the tangle over her spine. “—that doesn’t have clasps along the side.”

He tugged his hands free of his gloves, tossing the soft leather onto the table he installed every night in every one of his tents by sheer force of habit. As the cool evening air hit the sweat on his naked palms, he thought of how feckless that small table was with all its ungainliness and parts and pieces. Purposeless so much of the time. A waste of space.

Belle had managed to loosen the knot for the lower half of the corset, and had moved onto the upper knot. She spat out a fricative half syllable that might have been a curse when her finger was ensnared by the mess of cords. Cullen joined the fray, working faster in light of his clear view of the battlefield and its gangly soldiers. “Sera took over the rest of my watch.”

“That’s weird. You’re not worried she’s going to kill Samson?”

“She brought a sock.”

Belle’s responding laugh was like a spring. It had a bouncy quality to it that very nearly made Cullen forget the reason Sera had relieved him. The fabric of Belle’s corset sighed open when he loosened the final knot. “Ahh, thank you. I could feel the bones digging into my ribcage. Riding in a corset sucks a bag of dicks. I should have brought better clothes.”

Cullen doffed his mantle, speaking as he unfastened his pauldrons from his cuirass and his cuirass from his breastplate. “Sera is worried about you.”

Belle still had her back to him. She slid the corset down past her hips, stepping out of it and setting it on the table beside his gloves. Her bare toes flexed in the grass beneath their feet. “Why’s that?”

“I have been worried, too,” said Cullen. Belle slipped out of her breeches, finally turning to help him with his breastplate. Her lips pursed and moved to the left side of her face. “You have not been yourself since we left the Arbor Wilds.”

“Oh? And who have I been?”

“Maker’s breath. Please don’t be glib.”

“Then you don’t be precious. Tell me what you mean.” She took his breastplate from his chest while he held the backplate.

“You have been…pensive.”

“I’m usually pensive.” Belle turned away again. She pulled her dress up over her head, revealing her shimmering scar and a myriad of red indentations from her ribs to her hips. She ran a finger up one of the painful-looking marks and hummed out her displeasure. Her nightdress covered everything in short order. “I think a lot. For example, right now I’m thinking about what you’re trying to ask me. But you’re being oblique and it’s making deciphering your meaning difficult.”

Cullen crossed their tent in one stride. He spun to sit on the bed so he could look her in the eye. “Please don’t be so evasive.”

“I’m not being evasive.”

“You are. You have been distant and silent at the oddest moments. You’re being combative with me, and I’m only trying to figure out how I help you feel better.”

Belle sighed through her nose and leveled her gaze with his. “I’m fine. That’s what’s bothering me. Okay? I fucking killed a guy. A guy was alive and now he’s not, and I have absolutely no qualms with that.” Her voice wound itself tighter and tighter. “I’m just one hundred percent fine with the fact that guy is dead. I’m really fucking struggling with that. Like, does that make me a stone cold killer? Am I just…” She threw her hands up and shook her head. Her eyes went wider and wider. “Like, am I just totally cool with killing whoever now? Am I evil now because I don’t care that that douchecanoe is dead? Am I going to Hell? Is there a Hell here? It’s a lot to process. I get quiet when I’m processing. So, yeah, I’m fine, and it’s freaking me the fuck out.” She became more and more animated right up until her mouth clapped shut. She sat down beside him with a thud. Her head came to rest on his shoulder. “And now I’m getting even more confirmation that I’m a terrible person because I snapped at you for asking me what was wrong.”

Cullen looked down at her. The pin straight part in her hair was all he could see. “You are not a terrible person,” he said. She looked up at him, her neck contorted in a way that must have been uncomfortable. “You’ve given your good nature away simply by asking these questions of yourself.”

“I tried telling myself that. I can’t convince myself to believe me.”

“Can you convince yourself to believe me, then?” He ran his hand from her alabaster part to her alabaster chin. He let his fingers splay over her crooked neck. “I have known every type of person. Some days, I’m certain I have been every type of person. An unscrupulous killer, while she might not concern herself with the fact that she had taken a life, would also not concern herself with the morality of her actions. She would not have to find a way to justify it to herself because she would not give the virtue of her reasons a moment’s thought. The killing would be right to her simply because she had done it.”

“Well, that’s a whole lot of circular reasoning.”

Cullen twisted at his waist, holding Belle’s face in his hands. “Precisely. And you are not a woman who indulges in circular reasoning.” He knew she hated circular reasoning. She’d once ranted about it for fifteen minutes after a meeting with a very self-indulgent Bann.

Belle puffed out a laugh. “Uh uh.”

“We can then surmise—” He kissed her left cheek. “—that because you ask yourself these questions, and do not engage in circular reasoning—” He kissed her right cheek. Her nose scrunched up when she giggled. “—you are not an unscrupulous killer, correct?”

She beamed at him, and the heart she made beat for her warmed in his chest. “Have I ever told you that you’d have made a great attorney?”

“I don’t believe you have.”

“Well, you would’ve. Except the kissing. Can’t go all kissing on your clients and your jurors and shit. That’s fraternization. It’s frowned upon.” Belle’s moon face always looked so small in his hands.

“I suppose I should be happy that you’re not one of my clients or jurors, then?” Cullen kissed her smiling lips. A brief thing, like a punctuation mark.

“I suppose you should.” She dropped her forehead against his chest. “I concede. I’m not an unscrupulous killer. That’s not going to stop me from dwelling on it for another tiny eternity, mind you. But I’m really tired, my spine has turned to gel-oh, and my ribs feel like they’re going to cave in.”

Cullen focused his hearing outside their tent. Several soldiers chuckled and whispered around the nearby fire. Night birds and insects chirped far from the circle of tents and carts. Sera was not murdering Samson inasmuch as she was talking mindlessly at him. Knowing her, she was simply trying to yammer him into submission. Talk him to death.

Gently, Cullen laid Belle down on their cot, taking his place beside her in the manner he determined least likely to jostle her tired body. Her back was flush to his chest, her head resting on her pillow and his bicep. From where he lay, he could just make out her eyes. He watched them blink and roll lazily in every direction before they closed. Her breathing was deep and even the moment her lashes grazed her cheek.

Cullen’s eyes remained open for a time. His mind remained active. His ears remained vigilant. He could not name the moment he fell asleep, though he would later recall drifting off to the sound of Sera mulling over the intricacies of raisin use in cookies.

*****

Cullen may have given the appearance that he was working when the guards brought Samson into his office. He had certainly been attempting to work. Knowing that he was expected to extract information from his former cohort—the man with whom he had once shared a room—made the words on the reports before him impossible to decipher. It was one thing to ask Cullen to capture and transport Samson. It was something else entirely to ask him to rekindle an obliterated relationship under the misbegotten pretense of mutual civility and humanity. Samson had been correct during Max’s judgement. Cullen did not believe there was anything worthy left in the man.

The former Templar and former Red Templar both had their heads down when the door opened. They looked up simultaneously, each catching flashes of contempt in the other’s eyes. This would be no easy task. Samson was unchained, though he was flanked by two rather large Inquisition soldiers. He squared his shoulders before walking through the door. The soldiers saluted and closed it behind him.

“Cullen.”

“Raleigh.” Cullen stood at the curt greeting. The first way he could think to remind Samson of his humanity was to remind him of his given name. He told Max that he was willing to give the Inquisition his knowledge, but from one look at him in this moment, Cullen doubted whether that would happen. “Are your quarters sufficient?”

Samson took another step forward as Cullen rounded his desk. “Better than a jail cell. Not by much.” He shrugged toward the door.

“Surely you can understand why we need to keep you under guard until—”

“Until you’ve got everything you can get out of me.”

“Until we can trust you,” said Cullen. “Once I can report back to the Inquisitor that you and I have built a good rapport, we will decrease the guard.”

“And how do you suppose that’s going to happen, Commander?” Samson stepped forward again. He had learned long ago that proximity an intimidation were among the best weapons at a Templar’s disposal, as had Cullen. Again, Cullen could smell the formidable reek of decay. “We never built much of one, even before I was cast out of the Order.”

Cullen stood firm, unyielding even as Samson loomed before him. The bedraggled man was two or three inches shorter than Cullen, but he continued to wield menace like a blade. He would have been ominous to someone who did not know him so well as Cullen once had. Samson’s prolonged proximity did, however, set Cullen’s head and gut to spinning. It was all he could do not to back away to evade the wailing emanating from Samson’s blood.

The sound of a door opening might have startled them had they not been fighting a silent battle of stony stares. “Hey, Cullen, how many sol—Oh.” On the boundaries of Cullen’s vision, he saw a mass of red hair and ivory skin that could only have been Belle. “I didn’t realize you were…doing this right now. I’ll come back in a bit.”

Samson broke his gaze, turning to look at Belle. “My lady.” There was a slowness to the way he said it. A thickness. A sludge. He pivoted to aim an exaggerated bow at her. “The Commander and I were just getting started.”

Cullen’s eyes flicked to Belle, who stood expressionless just inside the doorframe. The natural downturn of her mouth gave her a sternness that perpetually walked the line between anger and annoyance. She glanced at Cullen before fixing her glare on Samson.

Samson took her silence as invitation to continue. “I was just about to ask the Commander what he already knows about Red Templars. Perhaps I should ask you, my lady. What do you know about Red Templars?”

“Enough.”

“Is that so? I wonder, what constitutes ‘enough?’ For instance, did you know that ordinary lyrium is essentially a poison that Templars build a tolerance to?”

“As so many narcotics are.” Cullen could hear Belle let out a slow sigh through her nose. “I also know that red lyrium is worse, before you feel the urge to ask me about that, too.”

“And did you know that red lyrium attacks the blue stuff? Tries to destroy it in order to replace it?” Belle remained silent. “You didn’t know that, eh? It’s like a sickness destroying another sickness. It burns up the lyrium in your blood. Boils it till it’s gone.”

“Sounds painful.”

“Oh, it’s excruciating. If a Templar gets it on his skin before he has his first philter, it’ll try and burn right through to get at the blue stuff. Would you like a demonstration?”

In an instant, Samson reeled back and spat in Cullen’s face. In an instant, the bridge of Cullen’s nose and the top of his cheek were set aflame. In an instant, Cullen cried out his agony. He moved quickly, using his sleeve to wipe the tainted blood and saliva from his skin.

“Hey!” was bellowed from where Belle stood. Where she no longer stood. She appeared through Cullen’s blurred vision as fire and ice carried toward him on the wind. But she was not coming for him. She grunted as she swung her crooked arm at Samson’s face. The bony blade of her lightly clothed elbow connected with his nose, and it was his turn to cry out in pain as fresh blood poured from within and without. She rocked back, fist poised to strike the bleeding man again.

Cullen snatched her up before she could swing. His arm wrapped around her waist, and he tugged her back. Her feet lifted off the floor. Her whole body lurched and flailed. He worried for a moment that she might escape his grasp.

“I’m gonna fuck you the fuck up! Piece of fucking shit!” Belle’s leg swung out, narrowly missing Samson’s head. She spat at him while Cullen hauled her out of the open door. “Fuck you! Motherfucker!” The adjacent door opened to reveal the two guards just before Cullen shut himself out.

Belle groaned and hollered and thrashed until they reached her doorway. She began to fidget and ramble through her adrenaline surge the moment he set her down. “Fucking asshole. Are you okay? Holy shit. I actually connected. I didn’t think I would. I only ever went to that one Krav Maga class. But I watched a shitload of Muay Thai and Em-Em-Ay. Maybe that’s why. Are you okay?” She was all but vibrating.

Cullen’s anger bubbled deep in his chest. He held her arms to still her. “Why would you do something so reckless?”

“Reckless? I’m fine. It’s okay, he wasn’t going to hurt me.”

“You might have destroyed any chance I have at getting information about Corypheus’s plans. Why would you let him provoke you like that? Why would you hit him?”

“What? I might what?” Belle’s brow furrowed in confusion and in fury. “He attacked you! He hurt you! So I hurt him back! He knows the fucking score.”

The anger bubbling in Cullen’s chest rolled up and growled through his throat. “He was testing me! He was testing you! He is testing everything!” His voice left his lips loud and harsh. Her eyes that were like armor and like the sea went wide. “He wants his last chance to die fighting. The red lyrium is killing him. He wants to die before it can. I will not have you or anyone else giving him the idea that he is entitled to that kind of relief!”

Belle looked as though she wanted to hit him or scream at him or cry. She shrugged his hands from her arms. She turned and walked through her door, closing it behind her. He heard the door to the other side of the battlements open and close, and saw her march off toward the kitchen. Her head was down and her hands were clenched tight into furious fists.

With yet another reason to despise Samson tucked away his mind, Cullen re-entered his tower. Samson sat in a chair that had been dragged from beside the wall into the center of the room. Two large hands belonging to two large men rested on either of his shoulders. Cullen dismissed them, reassuring one of them that he would be fine and reminding the soldier not to question orders.

“She’s a spitfire, your Belle.” Samson chuckled that dark chuckle. His tongue darted out to stop the blood running out of his nostrils and over his lips and down his chin. He winced when he sniffed, and he chuckled again. A serrated cut over the bridge of his nose gushed more blood. Even the man’s blood looked viscous and heavy—too thick for human veins.

“An interesting choice of words.” Cullen perched himself on the edge of his desk. His hand found the pommel of his sword, and he was grounded by the cool metal and rough cord there. Has skin felt raw, but there was no need for a healer. The red lyrium in Samson’s blood had not been as concentrated as that of the Red Templar Cullen slew at the Shrine of Dumat.

“I can’t help but notice I’m still alive. Even after attacking the Commander of the Inquisition in his own quarters. Your lot must be desperate.”

“Not as desperate as you, apparently. Do you want to die so badly that you’re willing to throw away any chance at redemption?”

Samson scoffed. “There is no redemption for me. There’s only madness or the end of a blade. Both, if your Maker sees fit to cast me out in the most fitting way. The longer I wait to die, the more the red lyrium kills me. As I said on my knees before your Inquisitor, Corypheus could only delay my corruption.”

“And as I said, you were part of something larger than yourself once. Why did you become a Templar?”

“Same as you. I wanted to help people. Just not the same people as the Chantry wanted me to help.”

“Do you think you’re helping anyone right now? The bulk of your Red Templars have been wiped out. The Templars left alive and untainted by red lyrium have nevertheless been tainted by your actions and by your leadership under Corypheus. Do you honestly believe that the mages would benefit in any way from his success?”

“I don’t believe anyone can benefit from anything happening in Thedas right now. The Chantry’s in chaos, looking for anyone they can blame for all of it. Templars have become just as hated and distrusted as mages. No one can seem to stop killing each other. At least Corypheus was able to unite Thedas, even if it meant uniting against him.”

“If he wins, everyone will be subjugated. As I recall, that was one of your—how did you put it—your ‘philosophical differences’ with the Order and the Chantry. If you help us defeat him, the Inquisition will have sway with the Chantry. We could have a say in the selection of the next Divine. The world can change, if you help us keep it alive. Men can find redemption. Perhaps even some of your own men.”

Samson went silent for what seemed like a lifetime. His head hung looser on his neck, much of his will to fight having fled his body. He was exhausted. Cullen understood that kind of exhaustion. It was the kind that left a man feeling less than a man after fighting for too long for a cause he knew she should not have supported. Cullen felt it in Kirkwall. Each night, he sat at the edge of his bed with his head hanging loose on his neck, his body protesting every move he’d made throughout the day, his mind praying for the clarity and the strength to understand and to do what was right. The weight of a thousand lives crushed him, as it crushed Samson now.

“Alright.” All the viscosity and sliminess had left Samson’s voice. All that remained was the same voice that had once asked Cullen about what it was like in Honnleath before the Blight. It was the same voice that had comforted mages and Templars on their worst days, and it was the same voice that decried the Order’s treatment of its charges. “What do you want to know?”

It was deep into the night when Cullen called the soldiers in to escort Samson back to his quarters. The former Templars made arrangements amongst themselves for the timing of their next meeting. Cullen made no promises of a merciful death to Samson, and Samson made no promises to remain alive until the madness ripped his mind from his will.

It was too late to approach Belle that night, and Cullen was still vexed at her rashness. He wished he had not shouted at her and he wished he had shouted louder. He had been unable to compose himself enough to find the words to make her understand. He resolved to find those words before he slept as he ascended the godforsaken ladder into his loft. He could no longer think of the word “ladder” without his mind adding “godforsaken” in Belle’s voice.

His ire faded as he lay over the blankets on his still tidy bed. It faded into gentle sorrow at his inability to hold her close and murmur his explanations and apologies into her hair. He would speak with her the next day, though it may very well have been the next day by the time his eyes drifted shut. The Fade was cruel and unmerciful when it finally took him, and in his nightmares his own cruelty was reflected on the backs of his eyelids.

The blood of the wicked would always flow through his veins, refusing to be forgotten, refusing to release him, refusing to allow him to be a better man.

*****

[wordlessdreams]

I am so f--king resentful.

Not directly related to driving this time, but I am so f—king resentful. In his eyes, I literally can do nothing right. If there is a misunderstanding, it is my fault. If he doesn’t understand my question, it’s because I don’t know how to ask it. He gives me confusing and downright contradicting statements, and if I don’t understand what he’s asking for, it’s because I don’t want to listen or learn. What. The. F—K.

I regret trying to start friendly conversation. I had thought it would make the trip back home less stressful, and initially, it had seemed to work. But I guess I should have known (after all, everything is always my fault) that sooner or later we would have a misunderstanding (notice how I’m not assigning blame??) and of course it would be all my fault. Just like how every driving “mistake” is all my fault. I can’t do a single thing right in my life, if getting yelled at almost every day is of any indication. Why do I even bother trying anymore?

Today’s misunderstanding was because I asked what I should do if my grandmother gave me spending money when I visited her in a few months. He said that since I’m earning money, I should pay her back. For the sake of posterity let me tell you a brief story of what happened 5 years ago, the first time I earned money and tried to give it to her. I thought I was doing a good deed/ being filial, giving her the most of my FIRST paycheck, but she wouldn’t take it, so I reluctantly brought it back home. When he found out, he was FURIOUS and blamed me for being selfish and ungrateful. Imagine what that feels like, trying to give and do the “right” thing, only for it not to work (because let’s face it, how many grandmothers take money from their grandchildren), and on top of that, being told it was YOUR fault, that YOU didn’t want to give the money, that YOU were being selfish?

Now fast forward to the present. Remembering this incident, I ventured that she wouldn’t take it. His response (verbatim): “I’ll make sure she takes it.” Okay, like how? Exactly how? Are you going to physically force her, coerce her, make sure you’re in the room when I hand it to her, or am I supposed to give it to her and report it to you if (when) I fail? When I try to ask for clarification, he snaps, “so you just don’t want to give the money to her, is that right?” Whoa, slow down?? First of all, that conclusion is unwarranted, second, you must have had to make like five assumptions (all of them wrong) to reach that conclusion, which, once again, is uncalled for?? When I tried again to clarify, exactly, HOW he was going to “make sure she takes it,” he blows up in my face and says, “I TOLD YOU!” I reply she isn’t going to take it from me if I directly hand it to her, so he snaps, “Well then what do you want me to say? You’re just saying you don’t want to give it to her.” AGAIN WITH THE CONCLUSIONS. We reach a red light, and taking a breath, I say calmly, “I think you misunderstood my intention in asking the question.” He retorts, “it’s because you don’t know how to ask a question.” A bunch of responses blow up in my mind, but I hold my tongue and just settle for silently seething the rest of the way home.

This is but one incident of many, of the hundreds I’ve had to endure over the last 2 decades of my life. I am so tired of being misunderstood, of being verbally (or at the very least emotionally) abused, of being made to feel that EVERYTHING I say and do is wrong. He has this very negative mental image of me, and if I do something that conforms to it, it strengthens the idea that he’s right; if my actions prove him wrong, he turns a blind eye or even twists his memory around so that he doesn’t remember. Let me give two recent examples.

Cooking Dinner: Last weekend we ate with some of his friends at a restaurant, during which the topic of cooking came up. He told his friends (in front of me) that I didn’t want to eat his cooking. NOTHING COULD BE FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH???????? 1. You don’t even cook. I’ve been home for about 2 months now and the number of times you’ve cooked can be numbered with one hand. Missing a few fingers. 2. The few, few times you DID cook, I WAS THE ONE WHO ATE IT FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS. 3. Your kitchen is so gross and crowded with – this is not an exaggeration – trash, I couldn’t even cook if I wanted to. Not to mention getting food poisoning from food that expired a few years ago (this is also sadly not an exaggeration) is a very real concern, so. Refer back to point 1. Being accused of something like this without ANY sort of proof (and in the face of so much counter-proof) is so galling my blood still boils as I write this.

Pulling up to the line before making a turn on red: This incident actually happened yesterday. As I pulled up to a red light, preparing to turn right, I stopped a bit prematurely as a row of cars passed me by. I waited until the last one had cleared, before pulling up a bit more BEFORE stopping again, checking for incoming cars, and then making my turn. He was pissed because he thinks I should have pulled up sooner, but I explained that I waited because I didn’t want the cars driving past me to get the wrong impression (i.e., I was moving forward because I was going to turn onto the street at that moment, even though they had the right of way). Plus, the light was still red???? So it wouldn’t have mattered that I waited a few more seconds before pulling up?? He seems to (very grudgingly) accept this rationale, so this conversation dropped.

Today, something similar happened, except I was on the main road and had the right of way. Another driver seemed to be pulling into the road (though she braked) as I was driving by, so for a fearful moment it looked like she was going to try venturing out even though I was incoming. She did not end up going out, though, so I drove on without incident. I pointed this out to him, who was convinced that she was going to try cutting into my lane, and only stopped when it became too apparent that she was not going to make it. He may be right, though I pointed out that me pulling up closer to the road even though I wasn’t going to move further out had the same effect – the drivers on the main road cannot always see your intentions; they only see a driver moving forward from the side as they drove by on the main road. For all I knew, she was simply pulling up in preparation of turning. Of course, he insists he is right, despite me pointing out that not everyone will make the same interpretation. He even went further to state that yesterday there hadn’t been anyone passing me at the time he wanted me to pull up, that I was just stalling for no reason. THE FACT THAT THERE WERE CARS DRIVING BY AND I DIDN’T WANT THEM TO MISUNDERSTAND WAS THE WHOLE POINT OF YESTERDAY’S TERSE CONVERSATION.

This is a recurring trend. I can’t even talk back without getting yelled at even further, so the only thing I can do is bite my tongue and right the truth here. When we’re driving, I don’t have enough confidence to assert myself, even though I don’t think everything I did was wrong. But being yelled at non-stop for 6 weeks straight has gotten so bad that I can feel my self-confidence at home crippling itself. When over the past weekend my friend offered to let me practice driving on Route 2/ merging/ parking with his car, I was so shocked someone could trust me so much and worried about damaging his car since I was convinced I was a terrible driver. My friend reassured me that that wouldn’t happen, that I was not as bad of a driver as I think I am. I wish he were more like that. Had my friend been the one coaching me these 6 weeks, I bet I could have gone on the highway by now, become a much more confident and safe driver. Instead, I’m always doubting myself, my judgments, playing a guessing game trying to figure out the rationale behind his contradictory advice and when to apply what (when do I go, when do I stop, why is it okay to speed up here, but slow down there?). Coming home from an 8-hour workday is exhausting enough, having to deal with this crap almost every day is really pushing the edges of my sanity. I am perpetually pissed, stressed, and resentful about everything. I seriously hate it here, and if it weren’t for the fact that we have loans to pay off, I’d move out asap too. Living together is too f—king miserable.

Even me, who had prided myself on never swearing, have reached the limits of my patience.