#but it's that feeling that lets it continue. that apathy and that disdain. it's not going to make anything better to just complain.

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [12]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader 18+ mdni - 5.8k words

There’s a curl in your lips, Ghost notices, after his remark. Not quite a smirk, but a vaguely self-satisfied simper, that pushes a subtle dimple into your cheek. 

He hesitates to even call it a smile, and yet - it’s the first time he has ever seen your face lift from its expression of either terror or hatred since he encountered you. Lids low, you look down winsomely at your knees, quietly pleased. Did you think it was a compliment, little thing?

Perhaps it was, though he didn’t intend for it to be one. It was an honest observation, a fact that is likely a genuine detriment to your safety. He considers how differently all of this might have gone for you if you were not as resolute, not as determined to have things go your way. If you continued to play your part as the whimpering maiden, desperate and puppy-eyed. No doubt, he considers, Price would have gone easier on you. He loves his damsels in distress. Enjoys feeling like he is doing them favours by sparing them. Helps him pretend he’s still a hero. 

Ghost would like to think he’d have treated you the same, but he’s more self aware than that. How differently would he have handled you, if you acted in the ways he had expected you to? Might he have gotten more satisfaction in hurting you, if you were no more than a pitiful, sobbing, incoherent mess? If you merely begged at him for mercy, or for forgiveness, for the crimes he had accused you of? If you were incapable of, or unwilling to defend yourself? 

He finds himself lost for an answer. 

Because he hated you. Would have savoured deliciously every tear he milked from you. 

Now, confounding him, he wouldn’t. And it’s your fault. It’s your fault he keeps listening to you, keeps entertaining your anomalous questions, keeps his eyes glued to you as your lilted, syrupy voice emerges from your lips. You’re just, unsettlingly, different. Not a day ago, you filled him with pure, vitriolic disgust, just by virtue of existing. He doesn’t know what he’d call it, now. Pity? Apathy? Curiosity? Regret? 

“I don’t think it’s bravery,” you muse remorsefully, and he quirks his head to look at you. 

“No?” 

You shake your head, as you lift a honeyed leg out of the bath water and prop your bare foot on the edge of the tub. His heavy eyes follow your sudsy hands, as they softly run up and down the length of your shin, working into a lather the rosy soap that he can smell from here. 

Are you intentionally enticing him? Or are you truly that oblivious?

Your sheer nudity glimmers under the scarcely obscuring water, its surface laps at your glossy breasts with each ripple. 

He decides it must be intentional, your dizzying allure. Makes him feel better for indulging in it. 

“Probably…” you think aloud, gently, returning your supple leg to the water and lifting out the other. He watches the beads of wetness trickle down your skin, listens to the quiet dripping as the droplets hit the water. “Stupidity.” 

He snorts. Maybe you’re right. 

“Was stupid enough to come all the way to this fuckin’ country,” you mumble. 

“Why did you.” Deliberately monotone, he asks with feigned disinterest. Can’t let you think he’s that curious.

With a tilt of your head, you blink at him. “What?” 

“Why’d you come here,” he repeats, scorn slithering into his voice. “Why’d you marry him.”

You release a vague snicker, frowning in apparent disbelief. “Seriously?” 

“Mh. Money, was it?” He questions derisively, watches your elbows slip between your knees. 

Your expression sinks quickly into contempt. “What. Do you disapprove?”

He only leers at you, huffs with disdain. “Was it worth it?” 

You hesitate, looking down at the water, your fingers tap gently on its surface as you toy with the ripples. “I would’ve - I would’ve done anything to get out of, where I was.”

Voice shifting quickly from derision to a potent dejection, a morose line forms in your lips. He tastes the guilt in his throat like bile. “Where was that.”

“I, uh. I didn’t have anywhere to live, so I - I started dancing for some extra money.” You pause with a swallow, drawing down a quivering breath and refusing to look up from your fingertips. “And then I… I warmed beds, just for somewhere to sleep. It was… it was only down from there. Victor showing up was like… well, I felt like I had won the fuckin’ lottery.”

He has nothing, nothing to say. 

Homeless? Hooker? Jesus.  

His very first, defensive instinct is to assume that you are lying. Spinning a web to deceive him into pitying you. And yet, despite compulsion, he believes you. And it’s not pity, that he feels. Empathy, maybe. Your sob story resonates with him. He himself had once tumbled in vain to rock bottom. Had let others exploit him in exchange for just enough change to buy a pack of cigarettes. Had lost any and all belief that there might be a better path for him. 

He found one, in the end, didn’t he? Sold his skills to a more stable employer. One that paid a little better but demanded a little more.

As did you, he supposes. 

Do you think you’ve climbed out, or only deeper? Which way has he?

Your eyes flit up to him, a vindictive glare from under your lashes. “You’re judging me.” 

He releases a sharp sigh. “Only surprised.” 

“You think if I was already loaded I would have taken a man like him up on his offer?” You ask tersely, a grumble. 

“So you knew what he was, eh?” 

You scowl. “What kind of men do you think spent money on me.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, you’re above that, are you?” 

He grits his teeth, but you seem to take his non-response as an answer. 

“Right,” you seethe. “You’re above paying for women but not above abducting them, or torturing them, or forcing them to bathe while you watch.” 

With a quiet huff of laughter, he has little defence. “Suppose so.”

You scoff, lowering yourself into the water as if to hide from him. But, confuting him, you then lean back, sinking deeper. Outstretching your torso, you lay backward into the soapy water until most of you is submerged. 

Lying as you are, the only parts of you that emerge above the surface of the water are your face, your breasts, and your legs; illuminated by the glow of the lights above you, bejewelled with glittering beads of water. 

Pricks of gooseflesh trickle across your exposed skin, your nipples stiffen in the chill of the air. 

He can see from where he stands the mound of your pussy, your bent and closed legs prohibiting his lidded eyes from venturning any further between them. 

Are you trying to make a point? Trying to prove he’s no better than the men who pay you for this exact display? 

Well he’s not, is he. 

You look snidely down your nose at him, catching his stare as it lingers on your glistening nakedness. He refuses to break the challenge of your gaze. Refuses to let you think that you’ve won, whatever game you’re playing. Do you think he wants you? Are you daring him to take you? 

Brave, he thinks. Or stupid. You’re gambling on his obstinacy. That his resolve to prove you wrong will prevail over his glaring hunger. 

“You’re not above anything,” you murmur vindictively. 

Ghost is quiet, by turn satisfied and ashamed. He does enjoy it when you challenge him. When you make your spiteful digs, when you best him in battles of wits. 

And he could argue with you - could point out, that unlike your husband, he hasn’t beaten you, or maimed you, or assaulted you, or touched you where you would spurn it. Hasn’t bent you over, or demanded you to. 

No, he only kidnapped you. And waterboarded you. And is, presently, forcing you into life-threatening servitude. 

It’d be an argument he’d lose. 

He takes a steadying breath. With a grouse, he concedes, “maybe not.” 

You reel your head up from the water, then, your hair slicked back, clinging to your neck and shoulders. Eyelashes spiked and clumped together, your expression is dour; you glare knives into him as you sit upright. He didn’t consider his response a threat, but judging by your countenance it seems you might have taken it as one. 

He hopes you didn’t. 

“Finish up,” he grits, flexing his fingers as he turns to step out of the ensuite. 

You perk up, then, though he doesn’t turn to check your expression, nor how much of your body has risen from the water. “Where are you going?”

Are you worried he’ll abandon you, little thing?

He won’t, not yet. 

Grunting, he curtly answers; “need a cigarette.”

You hadn’t at all expected that shadow of a man to leave you alone for even a moment, after how ardently he had refused to give you privacy. After how heavily his eyes fell once you bared your figure to him so unabashedly. 

It was intentional, your little display. A countermove. A game that you were confident you would win, and one that, upon victory, never fails to empower you; whatever twisted, broken, maladaptive form of empowerment it may be. Though the rest of his face was concealed from you by his mask, his flustered stare radiated enough heat that you were certain you had succeeded in making him ache.  

Not only had you proven your point, you think - but you can finally come to an evidenced conclusion. That despite how eagerly he might try to suppress it, he is as much susceptible to his lusting hunger as any other dog like him might be. 

But, you suppose, this one seems to have a much tighter grip on his impulses. He clenches his fists, huffs out of his nose, scornfully averts his gaze if it lingers on you for too long. Tactics that you guess he must employ to avoid losing the reins and mounting you like an animal. 

That, you can appreciate. He hasn’t uttered a word of desire, hasn’t touched you salaciously, hasn’t put even a finger on you in such a way to imply that he wants you. And if after all of this - stripping on his command, bathing under his eye, purposefully flaunting your sweeter fruits just to test the waters - he has still maintained rigid control of his compulsion, then perhaps you can feel even slightly more trusting in his disinclination to attack or rape you. 

You'll never stake your safety on his self control, though, of course - you're not that stupid. Not even twenty-four hours have passed since he stole you. His victims stain and splatter through every room in your house. He is not a good man, nor a stable man. But your standards are low, aren't they - if they weren't, you wouldn't ever have found yourself here. The quality of restraint, one you have very rarely encountered and earnestly admire, is one that you can appreciate in him. And, now, you were grateful for the privacy he had granted you. 

After a while of steeping in the water, from outside the bathroom, you hear the deep roll of a sliding door; no doubt the tall glass gateway that opens out onto the balcony wrapped around the master suite. Out for his cigarette, you suppose. Maybe some winter air to cool himself down, he looked like he needed it. Has he decided to trust you? To bank on your unwillingness to escape him? Might have been foolish of him. You know there's a shotgun in the wardrobe. 

But in the quiet of your ensuite, in the gentle, warm embrace of the bathwater, you can finally breathe. Deeply, properly, filling your lungs with clean and bloodless air. Ignoring your racing heart, you feel your rigid bones and muscles loosen, untwisting and unfurling as you let yourself sink. The bruises that riddle you throb in the warmth, as though the water itself draws the ache out through your skin. 

A temporary relief, you’re aware. A tiny, imaginary respite from the inevitable horror that awaits you. And you savour it, while you can. 

So you take your time. As much time as you can justify taking, anyway. You wrap your hair in your Egyptian cotton towel, wash your face with your overpriced cleanser, rubbing away all remnants of your melting mascara and smeared lipstick. You pat on your oils and your serums with gentle fingers, paint a coat of your vanilla and lavender lip balm over your lips. 

Likely the last time you will ever get to indulge in the few luxuries your brief life of exceptional wealth has afforded you. Come the end of this unwelcome assignment, you will either be dead, or shipped to the UK, and left in the same miserable place you had been before you came here. Unlikely to ever again afford even a drop of the very soap you had washed yourself with. 

But the moment you complete your routine, and meet your own eye in the towering mirror before you - that burgeoning sickness resumes its swell. Returns with a vengeance like a slap in the face. The distressing rush of your heart sends anxious electricity pulsing through your limbs, makes your freshly washed skin tingle and sweat. You can feel the itch at the back of your neck, clawing through your scalp, it makes your eyes water. Nausea swirls heavy in the pit of your stomach, making your abdomen cramp and acne, pushing burning acid up the back of your throat.

Fuck, you curse at yourself, pushing your knuckles into your eyesockets to distract your twitching body from its frenetic malfunctioning. You can taste the ghosts of that horrifically bitter residue, the pills on your tongue, a deception of your senses to coax you into succumbing to the craving. You can feel that potent desperation in every muscle, in every breath, in every organ. Your pills are in your nightstand. Your pills are in your nightstand. Breathe. Breathe. 

With an anxious grunt, you pull on your black silk bathrobe and tie it at the waist, letting your wet hair fall down your back. Emerging finally from the ensuite, you see Riley through the glass. His back to you, he leans on the railing of your balcony, silently surveying the snow-blown forests and mountains that surround your estate. 

So, unseen, you slither towards your bed, target set - before, immediately, almost tripping on the near-headless corpse of your dead husband. His dark blood splatters the sheets, stains the carpet beneath him, its foul and metallic odour oozes from him like steam. 

You sip in a pointed breath, quivering as you regain your balance - and yet, bizarrely, you find yourself detached, almost adrift in your clouded apathy. The longer you look at it, the less it looks like it was once ever human. Like it could ever have been a man that loved you, that married you, that indulged you, that fucked you. It’s white, and bloated, and featureless, and ugly. You feel your mind go foggy as you glare at it. Your skin itches, as though infested by fleas, fed on by ticks; they suck you dry of blood and compassion. 

Turning your focus to your nightstand, you step over the cadaver, callously avoiding the blood underfoot. You tear open the bottom drawer by the brushed steel handle, and within, you find your vices.

Bottles, and trays, and bottles - orange plastic and silver foil, empty and empty and empty. How many had you gone through? How many months, or weeks worth of pills had once lived there? There's no way to know, you wouldn't endeavour to guess. You always refused to empty the stash, too ashamed by the quantity, to allow it to be seen by anyone but your knowing, enabling husband.

He made sure to keep your pile high, didn't he? Reminded you to take them as if you ever might forget, a subtle dig at your increasing agitation. If you ever nagged him, or irritated him, or pestered him - he would prompt you through teeth. "У тебя стресс, любимая, тебе следует принять еще таблетку." You're stressed, love. You should take another pill. 

Because you were gentler when you were tranquilised. You were softer. You would smile sweetly, blink slowly, when he bent you over. Your throat would go numb, tongue would go limp, when he shoved his cock into your dry mouth. You always welcomed the sedation, a pleasant comfort, a blissful distraction from anything that might have frightened you, or hurt you, or aggrieved you. He liked you better when you gave no complaint, and when you were drugged, you had none to give.

You glare at the green and yellow capsule in the palm of your hand, glossy and unassuming, but it feels heavy. You can hear his hissing praise already. "Хороший. Это заставит тебя молчать, любимая." Good. That will keep you quiet, love.

Now, you imagine that the pill must taste like him. You might feel his hands on you once you swallow. Petting you like a dog, a good bitch, well trained. He needn't a leash when he can lure you with kibble. 

With a sore groan, a shake of your head - you throw the capsule back into the drawer, and slam it shut with a vigorous shove. Your last shackle, you think. If you can make it out, if you can push through the next few days, you'll be out, free. Down to the very synapses of your brain - you'll be truly free. 

Instead, you might be able to alleviate the worsening illness with something else - so you take a tray of promethazine tablets from the top drawer. Popping two tiny blue pills into your hand, you throw them immediately into your mouth and swallow them dry. That’ll settle the nausea, you hope, and maybe dampen the nerves. 

With a deep breath, a self-soothing stroke of your hair, you turn to check the location of your overbearing watchdog. He remains outside, elbows resting on the framed glass balustrade, oblivious to you. Once again stepping over that corpse, you go to slide your feet into a pair of woollen slippers, before meandering to the door and rolling it open. 

He turns his head only slightly, as though listening for your approach. He has changed his clothes. Now wearing the uniform of your sentinels, specks of blood on its black and navy fleece. Seems he had ventured to find one that fit him, among the hordes of corpses he had to choose from.

His mask had been turned inside out, the painted skull no longer visible on its face. With the black knitted fabric rucked up over his nose, you see his clenching jaw and its coating of short stubble, a glimpse of the face you hadn’t yet forgotten. 

He plucks a short cigarette from between his teeth. 

"Took your time," He remarks dully, looking back over the skyline. 

You sheepishly move closer, stopping beside him, shivering slightly in the crisp breeze. Crossing your arms to barely warm yourself, you lean on the railing next to him. The sky is swollen and dark. You expect it to snow soon. 

"Had to make the most of it," you admit sombrely. "Can I have one?"

He glances down at you then, out of the side of his eye. He grunts out a sigh, apparently relenting, he reaches into one of his pockets with a single hand and pulls out a pack of Camels. Flicking open the lid with his thumb, he stands straight and turns to face you, holding it towards you. 

You meet his eye briefly, gaze flitting to his lips as he returns his smoking stub to his mouth. With trembling fingers you pull out a single cigarette, and he swiftly tucks away the carton. Without request he presents you with a lighter, holding it toward your face with his thumb on the ignition. 

You almost snicker. Does he think he's a gentleman? You hold the cigarette loosely in your lips, leaning towards his lighter as he flicks it alight. Looming over you, craning his head, he holds the flame under the end of the roll, cupping it with his other hand to shield it from the wind. You resent standing so close to him, but find yourself grudgingly appreciative of the sheltering warmth his body provides.

Watching the flame glow and flicker, you suck on the roll until it is lit; you draw down the bitter cloud until it fills every pore of your lungs. It slows your heart down. It tastes good. 

Shaking out the flame, he stuffs the lighter back into its slot on his bulky vest. 

"Thanks," you murmur, letting the soft smoke drool from your lips as you speak. 

He answers with a curt nod, tossing the butt of his own to the shale tile and squishing it under the sole of his boot. 

"Feel better?" He questions flatly - a mocking tone, not asked out of concern. But you tilt your head at him all the same, bemused by his interest. Maybe he just hopes to fill the silence. 

"Not really," you answer, voice stiff, as you return to resting your elbows on the balustrade. The landscape surrounding your fortress is daunting and frigid, but beautiful, really. Trees and trees, tall and dark, coated in a layer of white paint. Expansive and unending. Maybe you'll miss it. "I feel like I'm dreaming." 

He lets out a huff of laughter at that, as he pulls his obscuring mask back over his mouth, tucking it under his chin. He leans on the rail beside you. "That might be a good thing." 

You take another hasty drag. "You reckon?" 

Interweaving his bare fingers, knuckles bruised and scarred, he shrugs. "You can wake up from a dream." 

You swallow, tightening your arms as another cold gust brushes over your poorly protected body. 

"I hope I do," you breathe. 

He’s quiet for that brief moment, he seems almost contemplative in his domineering silence. 

“Found a new uniform” you ask after a moment, remarking on his change of clothes. 

He nods. “I’m a guard dog, now, remember?”

“Right,” you chuff quietly. “S’there a poor boy lying naked somewhere, then?”

He scoffs. “Hardly a boy,” he retorts, but seems to quickly back down. “I moved him out of sight.”

“Where?” You query quietly, mindlessly.  

Feeling him look down at you, you don't turn to check. “Do you really want to know that?”

“No,” you sigh. “You look a little less frightening in this, though.”

“That’s no good,” he grimaces, though you swear you hear a whisper of amusement in his tone. 

“Isn’t it?” 

“What use is a guard dog that doesn’t scare people?”

You shrug, turning out your elbows and resting your chin on the back of your hands. “Should only scare the right people.” 

“Not scared of me then, eh?” He goads, as though challenging you. 

“I’m terrified of you,” you reply frankly, surprising even yourself with your defeated candour.

He falls into a brooding silence after your comment. You wonder if he might awkwardly apologise, or perhaps spew out some glad retort, proud of how he frightens you. 

Instead, he switches the subject. 

“Who are you going to call?” He questions abruptly, as if suddenly reminded of the task at hand. 

You absently blow a steady stream of silvery smoke through your nostrils. “Huh?”

“Your friends,” he grumbles. “Who can we expect to be our witness.”

Friends. You almost scoff. How long is he going to pretend they are your allies? 

With a disquieted breath, you take a moment to consider. You had a person in mind since the plan was first discussed with his equally offputting brothers-in-arms. 

You answer with a flat response; “Sergei.”

“Vasiliev?” He questions severely, turning his body once again to face you. Keeps a fist wrapped around the top of the railing. 

“Know him?”

He snorts. “Know him,” he jeers. “He’s third on the list.” 

You take a quiet, pacifying puff. You wonder what horrific crimes this one had committed, if he was anywhere near as covertly malevolent as your husband. To you, Sergei had been the only, seemingly, level-headed member of your husband’s syndicate. A genuine ally and friend to him, so you thought - and one of the few that rarely bothered you. Always thanked you for your hospitality and complimented your efforts. You hope he’ll believe your victimhood. Hope he won’t question your allegiances. You’re just a woman, a wife, a widow, after all. 

“Well, that’s who I’ll call,” you mutter. 

He clenches his hands into tense fists. “Alright,” he concedes, through teeth. “Fine. He can show up, you’ll give him your sob story, and once he believes it we’ll fuck off to Kastovia.” 

You nod stiffly. “He’ll have questions.”

“You gonna be able to answer them?” He interrogates doubtfully, as though certain you’d crumble under the pressure. 

“Think so,” you huff. 

“You sure?” 

With another short drag, your Camel cigarette runs short, burns close to your fingertips. “It’s what I’m good at.”

He snorts. “What’s that.”

You twist your head to look at him, then, flicking the end of the cigarette over the balustrade into the snow two storeys below. “Pretending.” 

Ghost might have smiled if he could find the humour in it. 

But you're telling the truth, aren't you. Are you pretending now? 

The longer he looks at you, watching for twitches or tells in the minutia of your expression - the harder it is for him to determine. Is there a real, unfettered, sincere person at your core? Or are you hollow, a mannequin, merely switching facades when the circumstances call for it? He finds the latter easier to swallow. Granting you personhood means forsaking any vindication of his cruelty.  

He can see in your eyes, clouded by a vacant glimmer, that you are, as you say, walking through a dream. Persisting apathetically through what must be, for you, a waking nightmare. It must be gentler on your psyche, to distance yourself, to float far above the viscera of the reality you have found yourself in. To keep it out of arm's reach. 

Ghost, cruelly, finds himself pleased you've fallen into that state. It'll be easier for you, and easier for him, if you're too distant to viciously begrudge the task at hand. If you're so removed that you don't emotionally register even a single moment of it.

Perhaps that could explain your little show, baring your wet figure to him for motivations unknown. Did you want him to salivate, to lose control, to pull you from the tub and fuck you soaking and bare on the tile floor? Did you want to spite him, to rub in his face the very body he is too sanctimonious to take? Or, little thing, did you just want to remind him what he’s here to protect?

It did, no question, leave him agitated and ravening. Stoked a burning heat that spread rapidly across the back of his neck. But, more than whatever hunger you provoked in him - he found himself replete with quiet guilt. Consuming, shadowing, it forced him to leave the room, just to stop shamelessly lapping up the sight and smell of you. 

Worsened, now, by your candid admittance of your fear of him. He knew you were frightened by him, of course - and, in fact, he had blatantly and deliberately ensured that you stayed that way. That was his goal, his talent, and truthfully, the only tactic he knew. To ensure his adversaries and comrades alike would shrivel and obey in his presence alone. 

But there was something bloody and raw in having that terror returned to him, presented to him on a plate like a beating organ. To be reminded that every action, every effort, every movement you had made or word that you had uttered was, and is, a reaction to your terror. That even when you feign spunk and resilience, it is only employed insofar as he keeps his temper. 

That when you leverage your nudity, your sex, his transparent lust - you do so out of desperation. So used to using your body to pacify men you are terrified of that it is your very first instinct when confronted by one. Hopeful that if you give them what they want, they won’t take it by painful force. 

You say he’s not above anything, but he knows that he is. Because he wouldn’t ever do that to you. 

With a subtle shiver, you pull your thin satin robe tighter across your chest in the chill. You look wan, and jittery, watching him with skittish eyes as though awaiting a rebuke for some unknown wrongdoing. 

“Inside,” he orders dryly. “Before you freeze to death.”

You let out a quiet huff, before obeying, meandering towards the towering glass door. He remains close behind. 

As he shuts it, you immediately sit yourself on the antique daybed opposite the door, falling into it like you had lost your balance. With a long and shaky breath, your head drops into your hands. 

“What’s the matter,” he instantly questions, dubious of any action you might have taken while he let you out of his sight. Who knows what kind of medicine you have in that bathroom. What toxic chemicals you might store under the sink. 

“Nothing,” you grit into your hands. “Just nervous.”

“Good,” he remarks impassively. “Use that. Sound convincing.” 

Looking up at him, you anxiously sweep your damp hair out of your face with your palms. With a nod, and a deep breath, you stand back up and move to your bed, apathetically stepping over the corpse of your husband that lies in your path. That surprises and unsettled him. You really have drifted away, haven’t you?

You return with a seemingly unbranded smartphone, black and in a thick protective case. Can’t be yours. He imagines - if you were allowed a phone at all - something rose gold, with glitter and rhinestones and something dangling from it. 

Sitting back down on the daybed, you unlock the phone with your face alone. Seems you were trusted with whatever it contained. Your fingers flit about on the screen for a moment, before you glance up at him and bring the phone slowly to your ear. 

A small part of him is anxious that you’ll fuck it up. That you’ll blow your cover the second you open your lips. But the rest of him, somehow, trusts that you won’t. Your life hinges on your ability to convince them, after all. And he trusts that you’re not stupid enough to cross him, to test your fate by crying for help from your Soviet captors. 

He watches in overbearing silence as you hold your breath, he can hear the dial tone from where he stands. 

When the dialling stops, he listens to the faint distorted murmuring of an answer. You look away from him, then, and as if with a flip of a switch, your face contorts into a pallid, quivering horror. 

“Нет, это Mia.” No, it’s Mia. 

In an instant your voice shifts into a viscerally terrified whimper, barely letting the quaking words emerge past your teeth. Even your breathing has altered, you sip shallow breaths, wet and mewling. 

“Сергей... случилось что-то ужасное. Я не могу - oh God. ” Sergei… something terrible has happened. I can’t - oh, God.

You seem to swallow a sob, as though feigning composure. Every inflection in your voice, every twitch in your expression, every breath you swallow - so carefully controlled and contorted that it begins to convince even him. You even switch between your Russian and English, still masterfully pretending that your Russian is broken and incomplete. Some part of him is in awe, watching you don your mask so quickly, fill your role so suddenly. Witnessing first hand what seems to be your second nature, how easily it comes to you, it almost disturbs him. 

“Нет - он - они…” No - he - they…

He hears an enraged bark through the phone speaker, unable to decipher the message but can plainly understand the intention. Aggravated impatience. 

You turn your head, then, to look straight at the mangled cadaver that lies at the end of your bed. The remnants of your malignant husband, twisted and defiled on the floor. And he sees your face shrivel, your brows curling into a painfully sorrowful grimace. Tears swiftly well in your reddening eyes, and begin their escape onto your cheeks as you finally release a harrowing cry. 

“ Они убили его. Сергей, они всех убили. Есть - oh, God. Я не знаю, что делать. Я застрял, не могу пошевелиться. Они убили его. Fuck, oни убили его - they fucking killed him!”

They killed him. Sergei, they killed everyone. There’s - oh, God. I don’t know what to do. I’m stuck. I can’t move. They killed him. Fuck, they killed him - they fucking killed him!

Your visceral emotion must be sincere, now. There’s no way you can simulate grief that convincingly. It truly perturbs him - pouring from you in a waterfall of terror and despair, shaking and panicked, you wail as though harkening back to your own experiences not a full day prior, perhaps even further. Finally letting loose the outburst of anguish that you had been bottling for the better part of your captivity. 

“Я не знаю, что делать. Я не хочу… no, I can’t -  я не могу его трогать. Я не могу смотреть на него. Пожалуйста, не заставляй меня смотреть на него.”

I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to… no, I can’t - I can’t touch him. I can’t look at him. Please don’t make me look at him. 

There’s a lull, your quiet sobs and the mumbling chatter from the man on the phone.

“Нет, я не помню. Они ударили меня и – было темно. Я прятался. Я так напуган.” No, I don’t remember. They hit me, and - it was dark. I have been hiding. I’m so scared. 

Your eyes flutter up at Ghost, then, and you swallow a trembling breath. 

“Я думаю, только один. Он нашел меня в туалете. Он со мной.” I think, only one. He found me in the restroom. He’s with me.

Releasing a vigorous sigh of relief, you sob, wiping your cheek with your palm. 

“Thank you, спасибо - пожалуйста, пожалуйста, поторопитесь.” Thank you, thank you - please, please hurry.

With an anxious nod, you tug the phone from your ear and hammer the end-call button with your thumb. You drop the phone carelessly, letting your head fall into your hands, massaging your temples with your palms. 

Arms crossed, Ghost merely watches you. Struggles to find something to say - whether he’ll say anything at all. He found it strangely difficult to witness, artificial or otherwise. Finds himself wishing already for another cigarette.

“He’s on his way,” you croak, speaking to your knees. “Bringing some backup, he says.” 

“Good,” he replies with a disgruntled sigh. “You ready?” 

With a groan, you answer, “No.” 

“You put on that show again, you’ll convince anyone.” 

“Show,” you scoff, sniffing, wiping your cheeks as you finally tilt your head upward. Eyes swollen and brimming with wet tears, you glower at him. “That one was real.”

[thelazybard]

Instead I Pour the Milk. [Alejandro Vargas x fem!Reader] Chapter 10

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ao3 saw it first

warnings: graphic depictions of a wound and SO MUCH ANGST

Breakups tended to be rough, but they seemed even rougher when there wasn't an actual established relationship in the first place. All a person could do is sit and think about what could have been if fate had been in their favor after only getting a mere taste.

You were no stranger to dating and its consequences. There'd been other people in your life before Alejandro, some you even considered spending the rest of your life with. You weren't some delicate, naïve flower. You'd been through it all before, and that meant you knew your worth.

Alejandro called and texted and left voicemails, all of which you ignored. There were more pressing matters to be dealt with than being gaslit. You had three new hires that needed training. They all came in one Thursday, your least busiest day of the week. All on time too, so you were able to get started almost immediately and show them around the store and appliances.

Yelena, who was the oldest of your new employees, was quick to picking up what you demonstrated. She was younger than you by a few years, and wanted a job nearby while she finished her last few semesters of college. You remembered her visiting the shop a few times before today, and from your recollection she was a respectful, upbeat gal. Maybe one day you'd make her manager.

Carlos was your youngest employee at sixteen years old. His mother made him apply, much to his blatant displeasure. He sighed, scoffed and made his disdain apparent the entire day, but you were patient. If it really came down to it you'd lay him off, but you could see through his teen angst and apathy that he actually enjoyed working the espresso machine.

Then there was Maria. She didn't talk much, but remained polite and was a fast learner. You made a note to give her tasks around the shop where she wouldn't have to speak to strangers.

The first day of training was a modest success. You showed your employees each machine and how to work and clean them, then served them coffee and scones for their break. There were minimal spills when you taught each person how to do an espresso pull, in fact Carlos didn't spill at all. His cappuccino was nearly perfect, too.

It would be nice to have the extra help and give your body time to recover from your previous busy weeks. Maybe you'd now have time for a hobby, something more intellectually stimulating and less physically demanding than zipping around a shop almost mindlessly as your hands did all the work second-naturedly. And if you were being completely honest, you buried yourself further in work to ignore the sting of betrayal you were feeling from the previous weekend.

When it was finally closing time your employees helped clean up and were on their way, ready to come back tomorrow to continue their training. You cracked your back and locked the door behind them, and that's when David approached you from the kitchen with news.

"So, Alejandro called me."

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply, then let a forth a gravely exhale. Your initial thought was to react explosively and finally let out all the anger you've been bottling up this past week. But that would be unfair to David, who was only the messenger in this situation.

"Did you pick up?" You asked.

"Yeah. He really wants to talk to you." David said.

You almost scoffed and walked past him to the flight of stairs leading to your apartment. "I could have told you that."

David followed you. "Yeah, but... You should hear him out."

"Why should I? What else did he tell you?" You wondered.

David paused. "I think it's something you should hear from him yourself."

You rolled your eyes into the back of your head. "For the love of–"

"Just– Look, all I'm going to say is that maybe you didn't see what you think you saw."

"I didn't see Alejandro and his ex girlfriend at a fancy restaurant? I didn't see that?" You asked, increasingly irritated.

David sighed tiredly. "That's not what I'm saying Scout, and you know that. I hate it when you get like this." He mumbled.

"Then drop it. I didn't even want to talk about it."

"Fine. Sorry for trying to help."

"I don't need help. I need to be left alone." You shot back.

"It's okay to be upset Scout, but don't close yourself off. That solves nothing."

"David, I don't stick my nose into you and Eva's business so quit trying to stick your nose into mine."

"Alejandro called me, Scout. I was fine with leaving you be, but after what he told me I know that you have the situation all wrong."

"And yet you won't tell me what I have wrong. You know what? Here's what you can do; Have Alejandro write down his explanation, fold it up nice and tiny, and shove it right up his di–"

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, but the ringtone indicated that it was in fact not the devil-in-question but your mother.

"I gotta take this." You said, slipping past David and making a beeline for your bedroom.

After your weekly phonecall with your parents, you marked your calendar for their arrival. November 17th. It was October 30th now. Day of the Dead just about here, and you planned to celebrate accordingly. You wanted to honor your late grandparents and aunt by setting up an altar for them in the shop.

David didn't speak to you for the rest of the night, far too frustrated at you to maintain any normal conversation. Perhaps that was for the best, as conversing would only lead up to another argument about your predicament. And the only way to solve that would be to solve your issue.

Truth be told, part of the reason why you didn't respond to any of Alejandro's messages was because you knew you'd lash out and thought it best to wait to speak to him when you weren't angry. Especially since there was indeed a chance that you had it all wrong afterall. You both desired and dreaded the possibility. It'd be great to be wrong, but boy did you hate being wrong.

The next day came and went, and it was just you closing the shop after you relieved your employees and David early to enjoy their Friday night. You and David were hardly on speaking terms and exchanged maybe twenty words at most with each other that day. It hurt you to be snubbed by your favorite cousin, but it was for the best until further notice. Still, that notion didn't make the aching loneliness you felt on this Saturday night any less painful, especially since you knew he was going out to be with Eva. He all but threw his healthy situationship in your face.

Once again, you found yourself alone in the shop on a Friday night. It was too late to call up Nanami to make any plans for the night, so you figured you'd just finish up in the store then sulk upstairs on the couch with your cats like the crazy cat lady you were destined to be.

You were descending the loft stairs with a tray of dirty dishes when you heard the door's bell ring. Cursing yourself for not locking it when you should've, you forebode telling your customer(s) that the shop was indeed closed and to come back tomorrow.

Approaching the front of the store with your customer service voice, you recited your typical closing speech while looking at the tray of mugs that threatened to tip over in your hand. "Sorry, but we're closed. Feel free to come back tommor–"

Subconsciously, you were hoping that it was Alejandro with a bouquet of flowers in that button down of his that you liked so much, here to serenade you with a guitar and recite original poetry about the color of your eyes. That would have been so, so, so much better than who it was.

Three men dressed in dark clothing, veiled in balaclavas, were waiting for you at the front of the store. When they noticed you freeze they began to close in and walk your way until they were backing you up against the stairs' wall.

The tray of dishes rattled in your hands as fear sunk its teeth into you like a subtle snake. "T-the register is over there, I have the k-key to open it–"

"We're not here for that you stupid bitch." One of them said.

Your heartbeat was deafening as it pounded your eardrums. Oh, why didn't you lock the door when you had the chance?

"My cousin will hear me scream." You warned.

"We know it's just you here." Another said.

You swallowed hard. "What is it you want?"

"For you to pack your bags and get the fuck out of Las Almas." One said.

"The people here love you, so we want you gone. It's that simple." Said another.

"Who- who are you-" You began to ask.

The biggest of the men pushed you to the ground before you could finish your sentence. "Do you want to piss me off?! Ask another question and I'll break your fucking jaw."

Glassware shattered around you. You didn't dare get off the ground and kept your eyes on the floor, far too petrified to dare looking any of them in the eyes. In the corner of your eye, you saw crimson.

"You have three weeks. Get your shit and get out of Las Almas." He said.

The shortest and scrawniest of them all kicked you in the stomach, causing you to cry out in pain. He snickered and followed the others, knocking books off shelves and pictures off the walls on their way out.

You had broken your fall with your dominant hand. Unfortunately, it was the hand that was holding a mug. Your palm was sliced open deeply when the mug shattered around your grasp upon hitting the floor . The blow to the stomach left you gasping for air, the pain sharp and throbbing deeply in your abdomen. You hugged yourself as you tried to restart your breathing while also being in immense pain.

Wheezing, air finally found your lungs, and once the room stopped spinning you made your way to your feet. A thick trail of blood followed you through the store as you walked to the phone on the wall to dial a number.

David didn't pick up, of course. He was seeing a movie with Eva so he probably shut his phone off. You growled called Nanami next. "Come on, come on." You whispered, eyes darting towards the door a few times while you dialed her number with shaking fingers.

She picked up after a few rings. "Hello?"

"N-Nanami?"

She said your name once she realized it was you. "What's the matter?"

"Can... you drive me to the hospital?"

"What!?"

"Yeah. I cut my hand open so I can't drive."

"I'll be over as soon as possible. What happened?"

"Some people came to the store and they... they–"

Tears spilled down your cheeks as the shock began to wear off and fear for your life took its place. You hiccupped as you tried to articulate what had just transpired but it came out as incoherent sobbing. It didn't help that you were in pain now that you were coming down from your adrenaline high.

"We'll be right over." Nanami promised.

"Should I call the police?" You asked in a small voice.

"No. Call Alejandro, if anyone."

"I... I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Why not? You know what, that's not important. Just... lock all the doors and get somewhere safe until we get there okay? I'm getting my shoes on right now."

"Okay..."

Nanami arrived with Paola and the two helped you into their car while minimizing the amount of blood spilled. You had your hand wrapped in a kitchen towel, but even the thick fabric was no match for the blood you were loosing.

Paola did her best to get to the hospital while also abiding by the laws of the road. You had peaked to see if the bleeding was coming to a stop, but your vision gradually became overcome with spots of white after catching a glimpse of the exposed tendons in your hand. Nanami noticed your eyes roll into the back of your head and shook you awake.

"Do you have a fear of blood?" Nanami asked.

"More like seeing the inside of my hand..." You mumbled.

"Christ." Nanami whispered.

You were seen relatively quick in the ER, probably to get you to stop getting blood all over the waiting room. The doctor got the bleeding to stop, stitched up your hand and bandaged it tightly. She sent you home with gauze and medication for the pain and practically grounded you from any possible work until you recovered. Any extensive work with your hands could tear your stitches and undo any healing. It was a good thing you got those new hires, eh?

"You were lucky. That mug cut you any deeper and you would have lost all control of your ring finger to your thumb. It's too early to see if there'll be any lingering nerve damage, but if so we're prepared to put you in physical therapy."

Physical therapy. It's that serious, you thought.

When Nanami and Paola took you home, the three of you noticed several silhouettes in the store along with two armored trucks parked nearby.

Your breathing became short and quick as panic set back in. "Oh God, they've come back." You breathed out, holding onto your door and seat next to you.

"No, that's not it. It's Sergeant Vargas and his men." Paola announced upon further inspection.

The three of you piled out of the car and approached the store with you walking behind them. David, Alejandro, and several soldiers were standing around the shop, obviously looking for clues as to what happened to you and your whereabouts. The door's bell alerted the men of your arrival.

David was the first to address you, by your real name this time. For the first time in years, probably.

He practically swept you off the ground in a hug and squeezed you tight, making white dots reappear in your vision.

"Easy! She's lost a lot of blood." Paola practically barked.

When David set you down, you found a seat at a nearby table and held your head in your unwounded hand. "What the hell happened? I came home and there was all this blood and broken glass!" He motioned to the crime scene.

"Three men came in. They... They want me to get out of Las Almas." You answered, tiredly.

"What the fuck? Who the hell–"

"What did they look like?" Alejandro asked you.

Gosh was it great to hear his husky voice again. You just wished it were during better circumstances. It was the first time seeing him since that night at the restaurant. He was in his uniform, with a rifle on his back just like the first time you met him. It was surprisingly bittersweet. Alejandro's jaw was tight but ticked when you locked eyes. It looked like he was physically stopping himself from approaching you. Despite the situation he still knew you wanted nothing to do with him and did his best to respect your wishes. He tried to speak to you from a tactical, professional perspective, as this wasn't a recreational visit but rather him being conscripted to aid at a crime scene. The police were 50/50 as far as being able to trust them. More like 70/30, but the ratio wasn't in your favor. It was a good thing you hadn't called the police, if officers sent to your place were in the cartel's pocket, there was a chance you'd never be seen again.

"I don't know, they wore masks." You finally answered. Tears brimmed your eyes again and you took deep breaths through your nose and out your mouth to slow your beating heart.

Alejandro approached you carefully with a handkerchief and kneeled to reach eye level. "It's okay, you are safe now. We won't let anything else happen to you."

Externally, the Sergeant remained surprisingly tranquil despite the burning urge to rake the streets of Las Almas for those responsible for hurting you and wreaking havoc upon them.

You took the cloth and dabbed away your tears. "I was so scared. They knew I was alone. They waited until I was alone, Alé."

"What does this mean?" Nanami asked.

"It's got to be the son of La Araña's doing." Paola said.

"But why does he have a problem with me? I haven't done anything." You asked, voice audibly cracking.

"Because you've become a beacon of hope in the community. I'm one too, but they'd never try to threaten me like this. He had his men threaten you because they think you're harmless... And because he probably knows how much you mean to me."

You didn't realize the two of you had been holding hands until he rubbed the back of your bandaged hand tenderly.

"They said I have three weeks to leave." You admitted, not pulling away from Alejandro.

"Until what?" David asked eagerly, almost impatiently.

You shook your head and practically wailed. "I don't know."

Nanami scoffed. "You're stressing her out, guys. The doctor said she needs rest. Let's get her to bed and then we can all talk about it when she's better."

Nanami and Paola helped you up the stairs to your room, changed you out of your blood-stained clothes and settled you into bed. When you were comfortable they returned downstairs to continue discussing the issue at hand.

It had been good to see Alejandro despite the predicament. You wondered if David called him when he couldn't find you. You never meant to keep them worrying about your whereabouts, you just didn't think to find your cellphone before leaving.

Sleep evaded you, no matter how comfortable you'd been. Guillermo carried the kittens to your bed and the five of them kept you company as you stared up at your ceiling. She always knew when you were upset, somehow. Momo knew everything. It was a quarter till 10 o'clock, so it wasn't like it was extremely past your bedtime. But, eventually you dozed off sometime after eleven.

The next morning you didn't feel as weak, but you didn't exactly feel like a hundred bucks either. David greeted you at the dining room table with a big breakfast, sure to help with your recovery. He watched you struggle to use a fork with your non-dominant hand, and tears silently streamed down his face.

You finally looked up at him, and David noticed you cock your head at him. "I'm... I'm sor–" He choked out.

You stopped him, having already anticipated the immense sense of guilt he must have felt. "Don't. There's nothing to be sorry about. None of us could have known this would happen."

"When I came home and saw the mess and-and the blood... I didn't know what to do. I was so scared for you."  He covered his face and turned away, sobbing lightly into his hands.

You set down your fork and stood up to hug him. He shook like a leaf in your embrace, and it reminded you of your childhood together. "Don't cry, Dave. I can't take you seriously when you're in your Miku apron." You joked.

David chuckled between sobs and hugged you tighter.

Later, the two of you went downstairs to the café. They must have cleaned up the mess last night, at least the glass and blood. There were broken picture frames leaned up against the wall, one being of you during your college graduation.

You pointed to it. "Piss. I liked that frame."

David scowled in the direction of the mess. "We're gonna find those responsible. Alright?"

You nodded slowly. "I know. Do we have to talk about it?"

"No."

"Thank you. I'm going to step outside."

"Scout–"

"Just to water the plants. Besides, it's the middle of the day and I'm not alone. They wouldn't strike now, would they?"

"No... I guess not."

You grabbed your watering can and after filling it up in the kitchen sink stepped out to water your various herbs and flowers growing in front of the store. Two soldiers had been standing on either side of your door, and after looking between the two of them they saluted you.

"Oh, good morning soldados. Did you want anything?" You asked.

One of them shook his head. "No ma'am, we have orders from Sergeant Vargas to keep guard of your store. Maybe when our relief comes, you can pour us a cup of coffee?"

Alejandro. Making sure you're safe even when he can't himself.

A small smile grew on your face and you nodded. "Of course, just let me know yeah? And thank you."

"Just following orders, ma'am." He said simply.

It was decided unanimously between you and your cousin that the shop wouldn't be open today. The night before was awful enough, and with your hand the way it was you doubted David would be able to run the store alone on one of your busiest days of the week. Surely word had gone around town by now about what transpired last night, so the community would understand.

As for the deadline you were given. It made you so unbearably fearful, for both your life and your cousin's. David was 6'3 and muscular, hence why those punks waited until he was out of the house to strike. But he wasn't invincible. Neither of you were.

And yet, with Alejandro's watchful eyes over you and your shop, the notion set your nerves at ease. The anger you felt was nearly gone. Nearly. Still pissed, but no longer desiring strangling him. That would have to be enough.

You sat on a couch in the loft and pulled out your phone to shoot him a text.

You: I'm ready to talk.

Mere minutes later, he replied.

Alejandro: I can be over there tonight. How is your hand?

You: Not bad.

Alejandro: Good. You're strong, mi vida.

Alejandro: Can I still call you that?

You: We'll figure out tonight.

Alejandro: Yes ma'am.

You locked your phone and carried on with the rest of the day with unmistakable butterflies in your stomach.

[oceanicmarxist]

Combat Liberalism (1937)

Combat Liberalism is a pamphlet written by Mao Zedong in 1937, on the topic of the continuous ideological struggle between Communism and Liberalism within the Communist Party of China.

We stand for active ideological struggle because it is the weapon for ensuring unity within the Party and the revolutionary organizations in the interest of our fight. Every Communist and revolutionary should take up this weapon.

But liberalism rejects ideological struggle and stands for unprincipled peace, thus giving rise to a decadent, Philistine attitude and bringing about political degeneration in certain units and individuals in the Party and the revolutionary organizations.

Liberalism manifests itself in various ways.

To let things slide for the sake of peace and friendship when a person has clearly gone wrong, and refrain from principled argument because he is an old acquaintance, a fellow townsman, a schoolmate, a close friend, a loved one, an old colleague or old subordinate. Or to touch on the matter lightly instead of going into it thoroughly, so as to keep on good terms. The result is that both the organization and the individual are harmed. This is one type of liberalism.

To indulge in irresponsible criticism in private instead of actively putting forward one's suggestions to the organization. To say nothing to people to their faces but to gossip behind their backs, or to say nothing at a meeting but to gossip afterwards. To show no regard at all for the principles of collective life but to follow one's own inclination. This is a second type.

To let things drift if they do not affect one personally; to say as little as possible while knowing perfectly well what is wrong, to be worldly wise and play safe and seek only to avoid blame. This is a third type.

Not to obey orders but to give pride of place to one's own opinions. To demand special consideration from the organization but to reject its discipline. This is a fourth type.

To indulge in personal attacks, pick quarrels, vent personal spite or seek revenge instead of entering into an argument and struggling against incorrect views for the sake of unity or progress or getting the work done properly. This is a fifth type.

To hear incorrect views without rebutting them and even to hear counter-revolutionary remarks without reporting them, but instead to take them calmly as if nothing had happened. This is a sixth type.

To be among the masses and fail to conduct propaganda and agitation or speak at meetings or conduct investigations and inquiries among them, and instead to be indifferent to them and show no concern for their well-being, forgetting that one is a Communist and behaving as if one were an ordinary non-Communist. This is a seventh type.

To see someone harming the interests of the masses and yet not feel indignant, or dissuade or stop him or reason with him, but to allow him to continue. This is an eighth type.

To work half-heartedly without a definite plan or direction; to work perfunctorily and muddle along--"So long as one remains a monk, one goes on tolling the bell." This is a ninth type.

To regard oneself as having rendered great service to the revolution, to pride oneself on being a veteran, to disdain minor assignments while being quite unequal to major tasks, to be slipshod in work and slack in study. This is a tenth type.

To be aware of one's own mistakes and yet make no attempt to correct them, taking a liberal attitude towards oneself. This is an eleventh type.

We could name more. But these eleven are the principal types.

They are all manifestations of liberalism.

Liberalism is extremely harmful in a revolutionary collective. It is a corrosive which eats away unity, undermines cohesion, causes apathy and creates dissension. It robs the revolutionary ranks of compact organization and strict discipline, prevents policies from being carried through and alienates the Party organizations from the masses which the Party leads. It is an extremely bad tendency.

Liberalism stems from petty-bourgeois selfishness, it places personal interests first and the interests of the revolution second, and this gives rise to ideological, political and organizational liberalism.

People who are liberals look upon the principles of Marxism as abstract dogma. They approve of Marxism, but are not prepared to practice it or to practice it in full; they are not prepared to replace their liberalism by Marxism. These people have their Marxism, but they have their liberalism as well--they talk Marxism but practice liberalism; they apply Marxism to others but liberalism to themselves. They keep both kinds of goods in stock and find a use for each. This is how the minds of certain people work.

Liberalism is a manifestation of opportunism and conflicts fundamentally with Marxism. It is negative and objectively has the effect of helping the enemy; that is why the enemy welcomes its preservation in our midst. Such being its nature, there should be no place for it in the ranks of the revolution.

We must use Marxism, which is positive in spirit, to overcome liberalism, which is negative. A Communist should have largeness of mind and he should be staunch and active, looking upon the interests of the revolution as his very life and subordinating his personal interests to those of the revolution; always and everywhere he should adhere to principle and wage a tireless struggle against all incorrect ideas and actions, so as to consolidate the collective life of the Party and strengthen the ties between the Party and the masses; he should be more concerned about the Party and the masses than about any private person, and more concerned about others than about himself. Only thus can he be considered a Communist.

All loyal, honest, active and upright Communists must unite to oppose the liberal tendencies shown by certain people among us, and set them on the right path. This is one of the tasks on our ideological front.

Sourced from Marxists.org.

[chainmail-butch]

Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung

COMBAT LIBERALISM

September 7, 1937

We stand for active ideological struggle because it is the weapon for ensuring unity within the Party and the revolutionary organizations in the interest of our fight. Every Communist and revolutionary should take up this weapon.

But liberalism rejects ideological struggle and stands for unprincipled peace, thus giving rise to a decadent, Philistine attitude and bringing about political degeneration in certain units and individuals in the Party and the revolutionary organizations.

Liberalism manifests itself in various ways.

To let things slide for the sake of peace and friendship when a person has clearly gone wrong, and refrain from principled argument because he is an old acquaintance, a fellow townsman, a schoolmate, a close friend, a loved one, an old colleague or old subordinate. Or to touch on the matter lightly instead of going into it thoroughly, so as to keep on good terms. The result is that both the organization and the individual are harmed. This is one type of liberalism.

To indulge in irresponsible criticism in private instead of actively putting forward one's suggestions to the organization. To say nothing to people to their faces but to gossip behind their backs, or to say nothing at a meeting but to gossip afterwards. To show no regard at all for the principles of collective life but to follow one's own inclination. This is a second type.

To let things drift if they do not affect one personally; to say as little as possible while knowing perfectly well what is wrong, to be worldly wise and play safe and seek only to avoid blame. This is a third type.

Not to obey orders but to give pride of place to one's own opinions. To demand special consideration from the organization but to reject its discipline. This is a fourth type.

To indulge in personal attacks, pick quarrels, vent personal spite or seek revenge instead of entering into an argument and struggling against incorrect views for the sake of unity or progress or getting the work done properly. This is a fifth type.

To hear incorrect views without rebutting them and even to hear counter-revolutionary remarks without reporting them, but instead to take them calmly as if nothing had happened. This is a sixth type.

To be among the masses and fail to conduct propaganda and agitation or speak at meetings or conduct investigations and inquiries among them, and instead to be indifferent to them and show no concern for their well-being, forgetting that one is a Communist and behaving as if one were an ordinary non-Communist. This is a seventh type.

To see someone harming the interests of the masses and yet not feel indignant, or dissuade or stop him or reason with him, but to allow him to continue. This is an eighth type.

To work half-heartedly without a definite plan or direction; to work perfunctorily and muddle along--"So long as one remains a monk, one goes on tolling the bell." This is a ninth type.

To regard oneself as having rendered great service to the revolution, to pride oneself on being a veteran, to disdain minor assignments while being quite unequal to major tasks, to be slipshod in work and slack in study. This is a tenth type.

To be aware of one's own mistakes and yet make no attempt to correct them, taking a liberal attitude towards oneself. This is an eleventh type.

We could name more. But these eleven are the principal types.

They are all manifestations of liberalism.

Liberalism is extremely harmful in a revolutionary collective. It is a corrosive which eats away unity, undermines cohesion, causes apathy and creates dissension. It robs the revolutionary ranks of compact organization and strict discipline, prevents policies from being carried through and alienates the Party organizations from the masses which the Party leads. It is an extremely bad tendency.

Liberalism stems from petty-bourgeois selfishness, it places personal interests first and the interests of the revolution second, and this gives rise to ideological, political and organizational liberalism.

People who are liberals look upon the principles of Marxism as abstract dogma. They approve of Marxism, but are not prepared to practice it or to practice it in full; they are not prepared to replace their liberalism by Marxism. These people have their Marxism, but they have their liberalism as well--they talk Marxism but practice liberalism; they apply Marxism to others but liberalism to themselves. They keep both kinds of goods in stock and find a use for each. This is how the minds of certain people work.

Liberalism is a manifestation of opportunism and conflicts fundamentally with Marxism. It is negative and objectively has the effect of helping the enemy; that is why the enemy welcomes its preservation in our midst. Such being its nature, there should be no place for it in the ranks of the revolution.

We must use Marxism, which is positive in spirit, to overcome liberalism, which is negative. A Communist should have largeness of mind and he should be staunch and active, looking upon the interests of the revolution as his very life and subordinating his personal interests to those of the revolution; always and everywhere he should adhere to principle and wage a tireless struggle against all incorrect ideas and actions, so as to consolidate the collective life of the Party and strengthen the ties between the Party and the masses; he should be more concerned about the Party and the masses than about any private person, and more concerned about others than about himself. Only thus can he be considered a Communist.

All loyal, honest, active and upright Communists must unite to oppose the liberal tendencies shown by certain people among us, and set them on the right path. This is one of the tasks on our ideological front.

Transcription by the Maoist Documentation Project. HTML revised 2004 by Marxists.org

Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung

“Liberalism is a manifestation of opportunism and conflicts fundamentally with Marxism. It is negative and objectively has the effect of helping the enemy; that is why the enemy welcomes its preservation in our midst. Such being its nature, there should be no place for it in the ranks of the revolution.”

— Mao Zedong, Combat Liberalism, 1937

[adj4mp]

Writing, Blogging, Speaking

Part of the job for any politician is communicating the ideas they have.

They have to persuade people to vote for them.

They have to convince people in parliament that the policies they want are more beneficial than costly.

They have to give speeches and addresses.

They need to represent themselves, their constituents, and their country.

As with my post on practicing reading this blog represents an opportunity to practice my writing. Preparing the things that I would want other people to hear me say.

I try my best to get to the point and be precise. But I worry that sometimes I let things go on for too long.

I am starting to learn about the expectations of the chamber, the rules of etiquette, and the necessity for every individual to recognise other members and their contributions. With everyone doing such things it can be seen as a failure or a slight to forget to do this yourself.

This is why everyone wants to give their input on the king's speech, rarely will speakers have something especially new or enlightening to say on the subject but not giving a speech can be seen as apathy or disdain for proceedings.

If you do not thank or comment on other contributions were you listening? If you cannot comment on the emotional weight someone else brings do you not care? If you only deliver prepared words is it really you that's speaking?

I would be delighted if I could shake politics to the core with my contributions, I certainly have the desire for that, but I have a feeling the required rhetoric and filler is not worth my energy to fight.

I think I'm developing skills, I definitely feel like I am developing my own style and I feel less stiff in my words, though my editing still needs work. I consider structure, metaphor and rhetoric. I may overuse techniques like the rule of three, triplets and some third thing (ha my first intentional joke).

Unfortunately, practice only makes something easier, if you practice something that is wrong you just make it a wrong thing that you can do without thinking. Improvement comes with introspection often aided by external critique.

So what does that mean for my writing practice? More of the same for sure I don't want to uproot my blog completely at this point, it's still providing plenty of opportunities for me to write. I still want to blog my progress and comment on what I'm doing on a given day or discuss my plans, though the amount of planning/housekeeping posts may decrease over time. I will discuss things that matter in the moment filling my queue with posts I don't consider overly time-sensitive but interesting enough to write about. I will continue using this as a diary of my progress and a portfolio of my capacity to do the work.

As for changes, it would be worthwhile to look at my old posts occasionally, there may be times when a reblog with amendments, corrections, new information. I may even rewrite things into more of a parliamentary speech format or argue the other sides of the discussion with myself as I learn more perspectives. This will let me grow as a writer, see how much I've changed but also acknowledge where I've been imperfect.

[codedhell]

Fuck

4 Jul

I don't know why I still let my mother make me feel this way.

New new year's goal:

Move on from the fantasy of having a loving mother or even a father who has a backbone of standing up against her to treat me with love and care that any child deserves.

I read "Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents: How to Heal from Distant, Rejecting, or Self-Involved Parents" by Lindsay C. Gibson, so I know how to put it in motion. That's always the hardest part, the action, it's so easy to continue reading without actually doing the work. How do I give up the fantasy?

I don't know how to process my disdain, dislike, apathy - no, I care too much - I wish I was apathetic. Maybe I need to learn to be. I feel really pathetic.

I remember sitting here alone while my mother slept and thinking, how do ducks just keep going? Why do we lack a connection with nature? Why do we resist it? I want to find peace. Think positively... I will find peace.

[surgeratesfucko]

Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung

COMBAT LIBERALISM

September 7, 1937

We stand for active ideological struggle because it is the weapon for ensuring unity within the Party and the revolutionary organizations in the interest of our fight. Every Communist and revolutionary should take up this weapon.

But liberalism rejects ideological struggle and stands for unprincipled peace, thus giving rise to a decadent, Philistine attitude and bringing about political degeneration in certain units and individuals in the Party and the revolutionary organizations.

Liberalism manifests itself in various ways.

To let things slide for the sake of peace and friendship when a person has clearly gone wrong, and refrain from principled argument because he is an old acquaintance, a fellow townsman, a schoolmate, a close friend, a loved one, an old colleague or old subordinate. Or to touch on the matter lightly instead of going into it thoroughly, so as to keep on good terms. The result is that both the organization and the individual are harmed. This is one type of liberalism.

To indulge in irresponsible criticism in private instead of actively putting forward one's suggestions to the organization. To say nothing to people to their faces but to gossip behind their backs, or to say nothing at a meeting but to gossip afterwards. To show no regard at all for the principles of collective life but to follow one's own inclination. This is a second type.

To let things drift if they do not affect one personally; to say as little as possible while knowing perfectly well what is wrong, to be worldly wise and play safe and seek only to avoid blame. This is a third type.

Not to obey orders but to give pride of place to one's own opinions. To demand special consideration from the organization but to reject its discipline. This is a fourth type.

To indulge in personal attacks, pick quarrels, vent personal spite or seek revenge instead of entering into an argument and struggling against incorrect views for the sake of unity or progress or getting the work done properly. This is a fifth type.

To hear incorrect views without rebutting them and even to hear counter-revolutionary remarks without reporting them, but instead to take them calmly as if nothing had happened. This is a sixth type.

To be among the masses and fail to conduct propaganda and agitation or speak at meetings or conduct investigations and inquiries among them, and instead to be indifferent to them and show no concern for their well-being, forgetting that one is a Communist and behaving as if one were an ordinary non-Communist. This is a seventh type.

To see someone harming the interests of the masses and yet not feel indignant, or dissuade or stop him or reason with him, but to allow him to continue. This is an eighth type.

To work half-heartedly without a definite plan or direction; to work perfunctorily and muddle along--"So long as one remains a monk, one goes on tolling the bell." This is a ninth type.

To regard oneself as having rendered great service to the revolution, to pride oneself on being a veteran, to disdain minor assignments while being quite unequal to major tasks, to be slipshod in work and slack in study. This is a tenth type.

To be aware of one's own mistakes and yet make no attempt to correct them, taking a liberal attitude towards oneself. This is an eleventh type.

We could name more. But these eleven are the principal types.

They are all manifestations of liberalism.

Liberalism is extremely harmful in a revolutionary collective. It is a corrosive which eats away unity, undermines cohesion, causes apathy and creates dissension. It robs the revolutionary ranks of compact organization and strict discipline, prevents policies from being carried through and alienates the Party organizations from the masses which the Party leads. It is an extremely bad tendency.

Liberalism stems from petty-bourgeois selfishness, it places personal interests first and the interests of the revolution second, and this gives rise to ideological, political and organizational liberalism.

People who are liberals look upon the principles of Marxism as abstract dogma. They approve of Marxism, but are not prepared to practice it or to practice it in full; they are not prepared to replace their liberalism by Marxism. These people have their Marxism, but they have their liberalism as well--they talk Marxism but practice liberalism; they apply Marxism to others but liberalism to themselves. They keep both kinds of goods in stock and find a use for each. This is how the minds of certain people work.

Liberalism is a manifestation of opportunism and conflicts fundamentally with Marxism. It is negative and objectively has the effect of helping the enemy; that is why the enemy welcomes its preservation in our midst. Such being its nature, there should be no place for it in the ranks of the revolution.

We must use Marxism, which is positive in spirit, to overcome liberalism, which is negative. A Communist should have largeness of mind and he should be staunch and active, looking upon the interests of the revolution as his very life and subordinating his personal interests to those of the revolution; always and everywhere he should adhere to principle and wage a tireless struggle against all incorrect ideas and actions, so as to consolidate the collective life of the Party and strengthen the ties between the Party and the masses; he should be more concerned about the Party and the masses than about any private person, and more concerned about others than about himself. Only thus can he be considered a Communist.

All loyal, honest, active and upright Communists must unite to oppose the liberal tendencies shown by certain people among us, and set them on the right path. This is one of the tasks on our ideological front.

Transcription by the Maoist Documentation Project.

HTML revised 2004 by Marxists.org

[citrustan]

lovefool [drabble 2] (jjk)

pairing: jeon jungkook × reader

genre: angst, fluff, smut

summary: a little peek into yuna's mind. alternatively--- where jungkook reveals to yuna his crush on you and yuna has a bad day.

word count: 1.6k

note: this is part of the ‘lovefool’ (and chapter 2) au. This follows drabble 1 and doesn't really include 'yn' but Yuna and Jungkook talk about her. Also, you've been very patient with me and thanks for that lol

Yuna wasn't having a good day so far.

Her Depop clothing and jewellery store wasn't doing too well, she was having trouble finishing her assignments and catching up on the topics taught in class and there was a constant emotional cycle of disdain and apathy surrounding you (very hypocritical, she knows) in the back of her mind.

You, in her thoughts, were like that itch under the skin that her fingers couldn’t reach to scratch.

She felt like nothing in her life was planned well enough for her to follow through, it was almost as if nothing made sense. She was not very welcoming towards change.

She started her own online upcycle, thrift store because she felt the need to contribute to the world in some way.

She thrifted clothes and fixed them up or elevated them and resold the freshly made items, she crafted cheap jewellery with recyclable materials to feel good about herself. Yet, her major had no connection to her current job and she has not the slightest clue about how it'd help her.

Lucky for her, she wouldn't struggle financially because of her generous parents.

As cliché as it sounds, Yuna knew something was missing in her life.

Yuna has had a few boyfriends and consistent hook-ups before, but nobody filled that void as well as Jungkook could, even platonically. They grew up together, everyone (including Yuna) thought something romantic was bound to happen with the two friends. Since they never came remotely close to dating, Yuna paid it no mind.

Well, not until recently.

In her mind, she believes she missed an opportunity to start something with Jungkook but it isn’t too late.

Does she find him attractive? Yes. Does he find her attractive? Yes. Do they get along? Yes. Do their families get along? Yes. Is them being romantically involved ultimately something that is anticipated by their friends and families? Yes, to that, too!

Finally deciding that she had to speak with Jungkook about these thoughts that bother her constantly, she texted him, only to find a message from him reading 'I need to come over rn.'

The wheels are turning in her head.

She's guessing he wanted to make jewellery with her like he usually does when he feels overwhelmed or maybe he just wanted to continue watching the TV show they started together.

After responding with a ‘come right in, I need to talk too,' her mind drifts back to the new addition to her circle--- you.

You are a threat to her future (with Jungkook) but at the same time, you aren’t. Because she still plans to make a move on him.

It’s messy because she knows this is as good as taking a leap of faith, even for her own feelings for Jungkook.

Everything is black or white for Yuna, she refuses to pay attention to detail. It’s either all or nothing.

You and Jungkook have been getting along awfully well and a little too fast at that too.

Nothing has happened between the two of you. As far as she knows. Not yet. Maybe it would’ve if she had let Jungkook take you home yesterday.

She reminds herself to thank Taehyung for indirectly aiding her.

She’s positive you would’ve tried to sleep with him.

Speaking of Taehyung, she wonders why she didn’t feel the anxiety of being replaced with him. He’s just as close to her as Jungkook. She needs to figure a lot of details of her own emotions out by herself.

She doesn’t buy your whole shy act.

Jungkook might have fallen right into your silly trap but she knows better.

It’s pathetic how you can’t seem to hide your crush on her best friend from anyone. Or maybe you don’t want to hide it and you pretend to be this oblivious fool.

Yuna groans in frustration.

“Should I come back later?”

Jungkook was by her front door, taking his sneakers off and exchanging them for some house slippers.

“What the f- how’d you even get in?” Yuna rests her head in between her folded knees.

She isn’t actually surprised. Jungkook has a key and frequents her apartment every now and then.

He plops right next to her on the comfortable, leather couch and drapes his arm around her retracted, bent frame. “What do you mean how I got in? I practically live here plus you texted me it.”

“Then why don’t you just move in and help me pay rent?”

“You don’t even pay your own rent, Yu.” Jungkook deadpanned.

“That’s because I can’t afford it and need someone to split with me!”

“You’re a little brat,” Jungkook leans back on the seat. His innuendo wasn’t not on purpose.

The two friends messed with each other like this regularly. It wasn’t anything new, yet, it made Yuna feel a tiny bit tingly.

Right.

“You wanted to talk?” She asked curiously.

“Oh, yeah, I did.” He was now evidently nervous.

His arm wasn’t around her shoulders anymore but now held a random Rubik’s cube he picked off of her coffee table.

“Go on then. You now have my undivided attention.” She shuffles around and turns to face him.

She noticed him trying to work his way around whatever he was thinking of. “JK, is there-” “_____.”

Yuna’s face fell almost instantly. You haunt her.

“_____?”

“Yes, ___-”

“Stop saying her name. What about _____?” She was impatient.

His lips formed a pout. “We’ve been texting a lot since last weekend, I even call her randomly, it’s like I almost know her entire schedule by now and it’s sudden but today she sent me this picture of a dog in a suit and we have the same sense of humour and IthinkIlikeher.”

It took Yuna a few seconds to wholly register his confession.

Huh.

Ok!

Her first reaction was denial. Yuna doesn’t even want to address the dog in a suit.

“Think again,” She negates.

Surprised by her tone, Jungkook whines, “I thought you’d encourage this.”

“Why would you assume that?”

“You like her, don’t you? You were the one who introduced me to her in the first place.”

His words made her pause and reflect on her original intention with you.

She didn’t really have a motive of any kind, let alone an ulterior one.

Yuna is friendly with almost every stranger.

Well, strangers who don’t use her to get with her best friends.

You visited the same café as Yuna and had light conversations about clothes and plants.

A week after her last chat with you, she ran into you while grocery shopping with Jungkook and he was accidentally introduced to you.

Following which, you had become a somewhat regular in her little circle.

“But you haven’t thought about anyone like that since- since forever. What makes you want her?”

“Specifically? Well, she’s obviously objectively beautiful, but apart from that, _____ has this charm to her. I know you’ve noticed it too. I started talking to her about dad and we connected? I really want to try dating her.”

Yuna blinks owlishly. “So, you want a therapist then?”

Now, Jungkook dumbly stares at her.

“And, you don’t want to sleep with her?” She adds.

“Oh, no, yeah, I definitely do.” Jungkook smirks.

Then he scoffs, “But Yu, how often have I told you I was into someone?”

She ponders for a minute.

He has never really shared any detail of his ‘relationships’ with her before. Well, not intentionally.

“Why are you telling me this anyway? Do you want my permission or something? She isn’t even my friend.”

“No, but you’re my friend. I need a little push in the right direction.”

Right.

She laughs bitterly, “Gukie, I think your judgement of her is a bit rushed. Give it some more thought. Is it because _____ is charming or just that she’s a little different than the other girls you’ve, ya know, been with?”

“It’s both.” Jungkook confirms.

“Fine, then go to her." Yuna spits.

“Why are you so nonchalant about this? Do you have something on her or...?” Jungkook asked, beginning to feel agitated.

“I’m not nonchalant, I just told you what I feel.”

"So, I shouldn’t tell her?”

“I don’t think you should do it just yet, no.”

But, she just told him that he should go to you.

“But you just said I should?" Jungkook scrunches his brows.

“No, well now I’m telling you no.”

After a moment of silence, Yuna sits with her back upright, “Do you want to play Genshin Impact or-” - “I was just going to go, actually.”

“Oh? Don’t you have some time to spare before your guitar lessons?” She asks, hopeful that he'd stay.

“I do, I was just going to go over to…”

“Taehyung?” 0

“_____." Jungkook sighed, "I mean she invited me, kind of."

“What for?” Yuna frowned unintentionally.

“I mean she called me to this animal shelter near her place but I’m not sure if that’s like a code word for sex or something. I don’t think it is...” He rambled away.

Yuna was beyond annoyed with Jungkook. “Why’d you bother to talk to me if you already planned on doing it all with her? And stop thinking about sex twenty-four-seven!”

“Yuna, I didn’t plan shit. I came to you as a friend in need of some advice. I still- I am considering what you said.”

“You’re not going to tell her?”

“Not really, no. And you’re right about it being too soon. That would probably scare her off.”

“So, can you stay?” She looks at him with big eyes.

“Well, I made a commitment to her first.” Jungkook pouts.

“So? Ditch her. She’s not your girlfriend." Yuna half-joked.

“Not yet.” Jungkook smiled, liking the sound of it. “I’ll stay for a bit and leave.”

Obviously, Yuna still had plenty of unresolved issues that she suppressed. She isn’t someone who can be very vocal about her personal feelings (ironically similar to you) and often puts on a façade.

She may not realise it but her thoughts are always written on her face.

Jungkook immediately caught on the subtle drop in her mood when he brought you up but he really wants Yuna to be comfortable enough with him to tell him about it herself rather than milking answers out of her.

He loves his friends and is always patient with them.

For years, Jungkook’s friend group has stayed unaffected and unchanged. Sure, there have been many disagreements amongst them but it always works itself out.

You are slowly making a place for yourself in their circle and he simply can’t wait to spend more time with you.

[firelxdykatara]

Gun to your head, do you ultimately prefer Buffy or Elena?

YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME NORA IT ISN'T FAIR JUST PULL THE FUCKING TRIGGER- /hj

gods, ok, if i absolutely 100% had to choose... probably buffy.

both buffy and elena are SO important to me (there's a reason i imprint so heavily on female protagonists who go through extreme trauma and have extensive on-screen depression arcs but ahhhhh let's not unpack THAT right now--but lana lang and emma swan also go in that category, it's basically the easiest way to sell me on a show but let's move ON -cough-) and both of them are treated so unfairly by the writers/showrunners AND by the fandom, but i think at the end of the day i'd have to pick buffy because, overall, btvs is just better, in about every single category.

i never really got the sense, while watching btvs, that the writers disdained me, specifically, for enjoying their show and loving buffy summers. she gets put through SO much shit, and i have so much criticism alongside the love in my heart for how her friends treat her, how her mother treats her, how the writing treats her at points... but ultimately, she's still the focal point of the show. she is the pin on which everything hangs, and without her, it all falls apart. the show cannot exist without buffy summers, and it never tries to.

i may loathe joss whedon on a very personal level these days, but i have to admit that at least he understood that he couldn't carry on the show without buffy summers. his intention may have been to end the show with her death, but once forced to extend it, he brought her back--and that lead to her arc in s6 which is incredibly important to me, and i'm not sure i'd still be here today without it.

(which, again, we can leave packed lmao)

while i love elena gilbert so fucking much i can't breathe sometimes with it (yes i'm dramatic but listen), a lot of that is in spite of the way the narrative clearly wanted me to feel. there is so much scorn and apathy baked into nina's final two seasons on the show, and the fact that it even continued after that point is an insult to the work she put in and the character she played who was the central load-bearing pillar of the entire series.

granted, i got the feeling that the writers and showrunners just quit caring about anything at all with respect to the show, not just about elena, so maybe i'm reading more malice into what was ultimately just a lack of care. it hardly matters, because the result is the same--the series tanked, the two seasons without the main character were terrible, and the show is treated with well-deserved scorn in a way that i don't think btvs ever will be, despite public opinion having long since turned against joss whedon (also deservedly).

but the point here is that while i'm absolutely willing to put in the work to keep loving elena in spite of what the show did with her and her relationships in her last two seasons, that's a whole lot of work i don't have to do for buffy. granted i will still put a lot of time and energy into picking apart things that did not land well--Dead Man's Party and Empty Places, Seeing Red, so much about the way buffy is treated in the final season by her loved ones, ongoing issues with racism and biphobia throughout the series, etc--but it's a bit like the energy i put into atla vs vld. one of them is, overall, an excellent piece of media that didn't always stick the landing but still survives as a cultural icon for a reason, and the other is almost universally derided because everything that had been of value to the narrative was destroyed in universe by its end.

so yeah, i guess, tl;dr: at the end of the day, i'd pick buffy--because she comes from the stronger show, her arc ultimately had a purpose i can still point to even if i don't always agree with the directions the narrative took it, and i don't feel the same sort of enduring bitterness when thinking about her that i do when thinking about the show elena came from that did her so poorly and then ran itself into the ground completely in her absence.

[athenawasamerf]

Feminism in Egypt, Part 2

FGM

FGM has a long, bloody history with African and Arab women. Some people say it originated in Ancient Egypt; others lean more towards it being a Bedouin Arab tradition. I’m not here to discuss the origin story of one of the most horrific human rights infarctions on earth. I’m here to talk about the current feminist struggle against it.

FGM was outlawed in Egypt in June of 2008, and a 2014 survey showed that a whopping 92% of married women and girls between 15 and 49 years old have been subjected to FGM (I will talk more about the inclusion of 15 year olds in official surveys of married women in a post about child brides), and that 72% of these crimes were carried out by doctors. In 2008, a DHS survey of women and girls in the same age range showed that 63% of them were in support of FGM as a practice. Of those 63%, 60% cited husband preference for ‘cleaned’ girls, and 39% cited religious reasons. All of these are easily googleable facts, but these things always sound so clinical when they’re presented like this. Cold, sterile, detached. So, let’s get a little deeper into it, shall we?

Girls in Egypt are mutilated anywhere between birth and marriage, but mostly before the age of 15. These are children. Every single year, we have cases of babies, toddlers, children, young women dying from botched mutilations and infections, especially after the 2016 criminalisation of FGM practitioners. Parents will take their daughters to backwater clinics, or have ‘doula’s who have no medical experience of any kind visit them at home, and cut into the flesh of their young daughters with non-sterile equipment, often without anaesthesia.

I’ve heard and read first-hand accounts of girls who got topical anaesthesia that wore out halfway through. I’ve heard and read first-hand accounts of girls who were dragged, kicking and screaming, and held down by family and neighbours forcefully as their bodies were torn into. Of girls who bled for days, of girls who had to have their legs bound to each other for weeks, of girls who couldn’t stop screaming in pain every time they went to the bathroom, to complete apathy and even disgust and anger from their families, of girls who were snarled at for making noise while their bodies were being torn away on their own beds, of girls who still have constant pain over a decade later, of girls who hate themselves and hate their vulvas, and hate their lives. Of girls who are suicidal, of girls who are terrified of marriage, who have trust issues, who can’t handle the thought of anyone touching them there again, after the first time being so traumatic and painful and horrifying. All of this is done while the family, and even friends and neighbours, celebrate in joy. It’s even tradition in some rural areas to take all the female children of the family to get ‘fixed’ together, dressed in pretty dresses and fancy shoes.

I’ve also heard of women who are asexual due to trauma, whose husbands rape them continuously, who are abused for refusing sex, whose families disown them for being such a disgrace, whose husbands divorce them and leave them for dead, whose husbands marry multiple women besides them, and they are left to fend for themselves, unable to get a divorce and move on, and completely abandoned by the people they trusted the most. They’re told the angels will curse them all night for refusing sex, but what about their trauma? What about their feelings? What about them, as people? Nobody cares.

So, how did we get here? There are 3 main reasons.

The ’’religious’’ folk will cite a (weak) hadith as their proof that FGM is a good, healthy practice. It goes that the prophet saw a woman going to get her daughter cut, and he told her to ‘not cut severely, as that is better for the woman and more preferable to the husband’. Apart from any implications of misogyny in this hadith, it has been disputed multiple times, along with a couple others in support of FGM. You can read more about that here.

Regardless of the truth of FGM having Islamic support, the reality of the matter is that a huge amount of actual, real life Muslim people cite these hadiths as their reasoning to mutilate their daughters, and everyone sees that as completely justified. The truth of the matter is this: Someone put these hadiths into the public conscience knowing full well they will be used to abuse, maim, hurt, kill women for centuries. Whether that someone was prophet Muhammed himself or later scholars, no one can actually ever know.

The second, more indirectly religious and directly misogynistic reason, is to ensure ‘purity’. You see, as I’ve talked about before and as many of you already know, women in Islam and in MENA in general are seen and treated as property. The family’s honour lies between a woman’s thighs. A young girl who speaks to boys her age in the most innocent context possible can be subjected to house arrest, beatings, forced stopping of her education, even death, for daring to put the family’s honour in jeopardy. A girl who has a boyfriend, well...

In a society that places so much value not only on women’s virginity, but also on their complete removal and separation from the male sex at any cost, it’s not very surprising that tips and tricks like using FGM to ‘cull a woman’s sexual desire’ spread like wildfire. Girls are mutilated to make sure they don’t become wh**es. This is said frankly, openly, it’s common knowledge. If you refuse to hurt your child in this way, you will be met with disdain and disgust, and even wails of despair, with shock, with animosity. “Do you want her to become like a prostitute and ruin your family name? Do you want her to walk around uncontrolled? Don’t you know what shame she will bring on you?” These statements are directed at girls as young as... in the womb, if you show your dissent early enough.

And the final reason is the least of them to hide under religious pretences, and the most misogynistic: Because this is how men prefer their wives to be.

You might think when I say preference here, I mean it in the way I mean, “Oh, I personally prefer brunette hair,” but you would be sorely mistaken. By prefer here, I mean demand. I mean a man could force his grown wife, through physical force or through abuse, to mutilate her body for his satisfaction. I mean that men will sneer at un-mutilated women. I mean that men will beat their wives on their wedding night to within an inch of her life for ‘cheating’ them if the wives are not mutilated. I mean men will suspect their wives of adultery and murder them, which carries a reduced sentence of ‘time served during investigation’, just for the simple act of having intact genitals. I mean men will divorce their wives on their wedding night for being unharmed, for being whole. I mean men will act so entitled to women’s bodies that they will always have the assumption that the ‘product’ they are ‘buying’ is cut to taste, and they will become violent and aggressive and murderous if they find out this is not the case.

I personally don’t know whether or not I’ve been mutilated. With such high numbers in Egypt, the likely answer is yes, but I genuinely have no clue. I am not allowed to ask about these things, or I’ll be seen as a loose wh**re. My parents would beat me up and they still wouldn’t allow me the dignity of knowing whether my own body has been altered against my will. I don’t know if I’ll ever find out.

The feminists fighting constantly for tighter regulations, for harsher punishments, for longer sentences; these women are seen as the spawn of the devil. Accusations of loose morals are thrown their way day in and day out. Death threats and rape threats (’that’s what you want anyway isn’t it?’) are hurled at them from every direction. They are silenced. They are ridiculed. But they are prevailing. This year, the Egyptian president has decided to alter the FGM laws to cover loopholes, and possibly to increase enforcement. He has also altered the charge set to doctors who perform FGM which results in death from manslaughter to first or second degree murder.

The problem, however, remains in lack of reporting. Ever since the criminalisation of performing FGM in 2008, and the setting of punishments in 2016 as a minimum of three months’ jail time, to a maximum of 2 years, or a minimum of 1000EGP to a maximum of 5000EGP fines (63.71 to 318.53 USD), and until 2018, and possibly until today, not a single mutilator had been convicted.

Imagine being fined as little as 60 dollars for the permanent mutilation of a little girl’s body. And even that is not happening.

People refuse to report the monsters who do perform this, despite a 2012 gynaecology convention condemning the practice, and calling it an inhumane act, and stating quite forcefully that it is not a medical procedure, and that it is an infringement on the human rights of women and girls, which medicine and medical ethics do not condone. And yet, the public opinion remains the same: this is their business, it is not our place to intervene. It is not our place to get this fine young man thrown in jail, or fined, for performing a ‘cleaning’ procedure, and besides, wouldn’t you rather they had a medical professional perform it, rather than an uneducated woman, or a barber, or a butcher? It is not our place to report this family and tear them apart -  what did they ever do to us that we may hurt them like this?

No one ever asks what little girls have ever done for us to fail them like this.

[startanewdream]

Into her sleep

This is me writing Hinny smut (or any kind of smut) for the first time, so, you know, be gentle?  Thoughts and suggestions are appreciated!

And because I can’t write pure happiness, it’s more of an wankst (wangst?) than anything else.

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Summary: “...after a while Harry found himself taking it out simply to stare at Ginny's name in the girl's dormitory, wondering whether the intensity with which he gazed at it might break into her sleep, that she would somehow know he was thinking about her, hoping that she was all right.”

In which, unlike Harry thought, Ginny was not sleeping.

Rated M, so below the cut:

__________________

It’s well past midnight when Ginny finally finishes her shower and leaves the bathroom. For a few seconds, she just stands on the door, hearing the soft breaths of her sleeping friends, but her eyes are on the two empty beds. Anne and Janet didn’t return to Hogwarts this year. They are both Muggleborns; she hopes, as she does every time she sees their beds, that they just fled with their families.

The alternative is too painful to think about.

And if there is something Ginny’s been understanding lately is pain.

Not that she should be complaining today. By Alecto Carrow’s standards, her detention was easy, but then Alecto is much more smooth than her brothers. Alecto likes her venomous words and, unfortunately, she had finally heard more about Ginny’s relationship with Harry.

Ginny supposes she was lucky if there is such a thing in her life now. But she had three free months in Hogwarts without the Carrows knowing more of her connection with Harry than the fact that her family was close with him; why Snape didn’t mention it to them - or why he didn’t question her himself - she is too tired to guess.

She should’ve known there was something weird when she entered that room on the fifth floor and Alecto was waiting for her with a sweet smile. Ginny had faced other detentions with Alecto - she’d endured a few rounds of the Cruciatus Curse, had felt the pain of a quill cutting her skin, had blacked out once after being thrown in the room - but she had never feared Alecto as then, with that smile that did not fit the room with chains and spots of blood.

‘You’ll clean up today. Muggle style, since you love them so much’, Alecto had said, pointing to a bucket and a mop.

After so many detentions, Ginny just nodded. She knew that her silence annoyed the Carrows more than when she’d scream to them, so she just concentrated on her task, trying to stop her thoughts of who had been bloodied in that room. Not a pure-blood, sure, they were so protective of them. Maybe a First Year, someone who was as innocent as she'd been before the darkness had tried to wrap her…

‘I heard you used to date Harry Potter’, Alecto said then, and when Ginny didn’t answer, she snorted. ‘Maybe you forgot to mention early when I asked you about him’.

Ginny tried to control her breathing. She’d know a moment like that would come up sometime.

‘It was nothing’, she said without looking up. ‘We were just messing around. He dated other girls’.

The truth is far from it, but Ginny expects her apathy is enough to convince Alecto.

‘I see’, said Alecto and for a second Ginny thought she had believed. ‘So he just used you then he dumped you’.

That was low and they both knew it; there was no good answer for Ginny, so she just kept her head down, trying to clean the floor as fast as she could.

‘Boys are after one thing only, you should have known better’, Alecto continued, and Ginny could hear the mocking tone in her voice, could now understand her sweet smile. This was her real punishment. ‘You’ll be lucky if any Pureblood accepts you after you are… profaned’.

Ginny bit her lips to keep from screaming with so much strength she felt the iron taste of blood on her mouth. Alecto was talking as if Ginny was dirty and no matter the fact that she and Harry never had time to really be together, she knew that nothing she’d ever do with Harry would be stained.

But Alecto didn’t deserve to know anything about her relationship with Harry. That was one thing that nothing - not Tom, not that Dark Regime, not the Carrows - would take away from her. The memory of the way his  green eyes spark when he laughs. That dimple in his face when he’s smiling shyly. The way his hair is even messier after he lands from a flight. The determined expression on his face the first time they kissed. The way his eyes had darkened that night when she’d opened her shirt, had taken out her bra -

Perhaps it was the fact that it happened also in an empty classroom, a lifetime ago, but somehow this specific memory stayed with Ginny, protecting her almost as a Patronus against Alecto’s increasingly obscene comments. It was almost easy to turn off Alecto’s voice and after that, Alecto’s fun seemed to be dispersed. She discharged Ginny with a disdainful look, but Ginny didn’t notice for once; when she met Neville in the Common Room and he looked at her with concern (that’s the only kind of look they share these days), she’d been almost truthful when she told him she was okay.

‘I just need a bath’, said Ginny, and Neville nodded, understanding.

Ginny stayed under the hot water for a long time, as if the heat could clean away the filthiness that the Carrow’s presence always brought to her - it was worse than the blood that made her scrub her hands almost to raw skin, it was their evil dark magic. It reminded her of Tom’s diary and that’s the worst part for Ginny.

So she concentrated on her memories of Harry, letting the pure raw emotions she’d felt with him draw the heaviness of the day away.

It had worked for her shower, but as Ginny lays down on her bed, closing the curtains around her except for an opening where the moonlight enters, the stress returns as always.

She is tired and she feels tired. She can’t complain, though, because people look up to her to not give up. Neville and Luna are counting on her as much as she’s counting on them. Neither can fall.

But somehow Alecto Carrow’s voice still echoes in her mind and Ginny closes her fists, feeling her fingernails in her flesh, using the pain to draw away Alecto’s laugh that Harry used and dumped her.

‘No’, she whispers, hearing her voice. Her voice is real. Her relationship with Harry was - is - real. ‘He cares for me’.

She repeats it to herself as many times as she can, until Alecto’s voice is far away in her mind, no more than an annoying fly. Quietly, Ginny takes the Gryffindor scarf she always keeps by her bedside and hugs it close to her body, feeling  its scent.

Even after five months, the scarf still has Harry’s scent.

She sniffs it, letting that musky smell fill her nostril, until she shamelessly wraps the scarf around one of her pillows, hugging it, pretending it’s Harry she’s with. It’s only imagination, of course - she doesn’t have a memory of sleeping like this with Harry, but she wonders if he would cuddle her, if she would caress his hair until he falls asleep first, if he would wake her with soft kisses - she likes to think she would giggle them, marvelling at the fact they were together...

That’s what hurts her the most. All the questions that she doesn’t have an answer to only because there wasn’t enough time.

When these thoughts come, Ginny admonishes herself. Be grateful for what you had together, she says firmly, and waits for what will come in the future. She can do both.

She bits her lips carefully to not reopen her wound, and she hesitates just one second before grabbing her wand from below her pillow.

‘Muffliato!’, she whispers, pointing from one occupied bed then to the other one, her mind already remembering Harry casting the same spell after pushing her to that deserted classroom seven months ago. Her heart beats faster, just as it had then, thrilled by the fact that Harry was the one being bold then.

He’d been so innocent at first, so careful with her and with her boundaries that in the first weeks it was Ginny that had been the one to pull him into empty broom cupboards, who had coached him to wait for her in the Common Room so they could have a moment together alone on that couch in front of the fireplace.

But that night Harry was the one who had searched for her in the library and had called her for a night stroll. Ginny had accepted eagerly and it had been so worthy.

She touches her lips, feeling the ghost of Harry’s mouth over hers - the moment the door had closed, Harry had spent two seconds casting a protective spell on the door and then he’d kissed her as if he’d stayed away from her for years rather than since breakfast. His mouth had been hungry, demanding, and for once it was Ginny that was matching his excitement instead of the other way around.

‘I’ve missed you so much’, he’d whispered, his mouth inches from hers only enough so those words could slip away, and even then it had sounded more as groan than anything.

Their time together had been scarcely on these last few days, with her exams starting and Harry not wanting to disturb her in this final stage. They had barely a time together - other than a good morning kiss and a brush of lips before she went to bed, exhausted, and Harry had not once complained; he was too noble for that.

The fact that he was asking - almost demanding - a few minutes for them - of her - brought Ginny an elation she’d missed amongst all stress from her exams.

Ginny remembers how she had pressed herself even closer to Harry, and how he had lifted her until she was sitting in one of the tables, with him standing in front of her, their heads for once in the same level. It had been exhilarating, but she had wanted more back then and she wants more now.

Just like that day, her hand trembles slightly when she opens the button of  her shirt. With her eyes closed, she can visualize how Harry’s eyes had widened when she took off her shirt, then had darkened when she had removed her bra; he had seemed so torn between his evident desire and his nobility. He had already felt her up during their fumblings on broom cupboards, both above and below her blouse, but this was the first time he was really seeing her naked skin and Ginny would have hexed him mercilessly if he’d dared ruin the moment. Harry didn’t.

She takes off her shirt and the light breeze makes her nipples harden, just how it happened then - or maybe then it was the pure adoration in Harry’s eyes, how he seemed entranced beyond words seeing her naked chest. With an almighty effort, he’d looked in her eyes, asking silently, desperately, if he could touch her, and she had nodded in silence.

Her hand cups her breast, just like Harry did; her hand is less warm than Harry’s had been, but it doesn’t matter. She can reproduce how he’d touched her, carefully as if he thought he could break her - as if he couldn't see the shivers his touch was causing -, before his thumb caressed her nipple; just as before, she lets out a soft moan and the sound excites her now as much as it seemed to excite Harry. Now both of her hands are cupping her breasts, playing with the nipples, letting small waves of excitement flow through her.

She can’t reproduce what Harry did then - how he’d lowered his head until he was kissing her neck, then her collarbone, then the top of her breasts as he’d already done before, enjoying the cleavage of her summer top. But Harry had lowered his head even more, not stopping his kisses, until he’d taken her nipple in his mouth and pleasure had left her out of breath for a few moments, as if there wasn’t anything else in the world but the feeling of his tongue teasing her nipple, his mouth sucking it lightly then harder. She had moaned, not caring of how she had sounded, and Harry seemed to correctly take that as approval; his other hand had gone back to cup her breast, squeezing with the same amount of gentleness and roughness and -

And then they had stopped because there were sounds outside the door and they had thirty seconds - during which Harry thrown his Invisibility Cloak above them - before Filch had opened the door and looked around with mistrust.

But just as Ginny cannot reproduce Harry’s mouth on her nipples, she also doesn’t need to stop now. She wishes there were memories - she certainly tried on his birthday -, but if there aren’t, then she can let her imagination take over of what it would have happened if no one had interrupted.

She lowers her hand, below her waist that Harry had enjoyed holding while they kissed, until her hand slips under her panties. She is not as wet as she can be, but she imagines how Harry would be patient, how he’d be so gentlemanly touching her carefully until he was sure he wasn’t crossing any limits she wasn’t comfortable with.

She touches her more sensible spot, feeling another wave of pleasure, and she wishes it was Harry - with his calloused hands, long Seeker fingers - touching her now, making those gentle circles that make her want more. He wouldn’t know exactly what spot she liked most, but Ginny could show him - and Harry would be an eager student, a fast learner.

If they weren’t interrupted, she thinks she would let him touch her even more; perhaps she would touch him as well, would let him ease the tension and hardness she’d felt during their most passionate make-out sessions. Harry had wanted her, that she knew. She imagines she was still on that table, with Harry standing between her open legs; if she would move her body just a bit forward, she could rub herself on him - Harry would be the one moaning then - and Ginny pretends it’s this she is doing instead of using her fingers.

She slips her finger forward, inside, and now she’s wet, she’s ready for him. She doesn’t think they would go all the way then - Harry would want something far more special than a quickie in an empty classroom -, but she can pretend they are meeting there again, that this is just the umpteenth time that they are doing it, that they can lose themselves in each other. It can be rough, it can be desperate.

She can imagine Harry inside her, how he’d groan and how she’d be moaning with the feeling of him, alive and heart beating and thrusting into her, filling her. She can’t reproduce a feeling she’s only imagining how it would feel, but it doesn’t really matter. She slips out her finger, letting her attention focus on her clit, on that spot where she knows how to touch, how to make her come; for everything else, she and Harry will have time later, and anyway she thinks he wouldn’t mind seeing her giving herself some pleasure. He’d enjoyed it, because that’s who Harry is.

Her fingers move faster in that circle, her breath now coming in short intakes, unstable, and she presses her eyes even more, imagining Harry kissing desperately her lips while he too moves faster, how he’d warn her that he was so close and how she’d kiss him, looking at the desire in his face that matched hers, and say it was okay. She too was close.

For a second Ginny is so fixed on the image of Harry, his brows furrowed while he tries to last a bit longer waiting for her - he’d always wait for her -, that her coming almost surprises her. That final fatal wave of pleasure washes over her and she moans loudly his name - Harry, Harry, Harry - until she feels adrift in the space, as if the only thing connecting her to the world is her finger still touching her clit, pulsing - and Harry, who’d thrust once more and then he’d come, crying her name like a prayer, pleasure and bliss written all over his face.

He’d pressed his lips fervently to hers, unable to properly kiss her; they would hug, hearing each other’s heavy breathes, feeling their racing hearts slowly calming down, and she’d hear Harry whispering to her: Open your eyes, Ginny.

She obeys him without thinking, but all she can see is the canopy of her bed. Harry is not there with her and suddenly everything comes back to her.

She is alone and Harry is just in her imagination. They are even dating anymore. Harry is out there, lost or hurt - never dead, because that is a thought she never lets herself even conjure -, not knowing that Ginny is in Hogwarts dreaming about him, wishing he returns safe, missing him as if he took with him a part of her.

The last bit of that wondrous bliss leaves her and Ginny dries her moist eyes, hating the tears that doesn’t fall. She hugs the pillow with Harry's scarf, closing her eyes and letting herself pretend they are just cuddling, protected in each other's arms.

[sneezefiction]

embrace

Tsukishima x Reader - Scenario 

@belli-jelly’s event request: “#7 with Tsukki ❤️ thank youu!”

a/n: “embrace” with Tsukishima is such a soft idea. he just needs a hug and to feel loved n supported n stuff, ya know? i hope u enjoy!! <333

warnings: slight language, angst (but barely?)

wc: 1990

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Tsukishima makes his ways through the apartment door, kicking off his shoes a little more forcefully than usual. The thunk of the soles on the tile embodies whatever vexation he’d been simmering in for the duration of the day. A weak, frustration-fueled sigh exits his body.

From the kitchen, you can already tell that something is off. He hasn’t called out to you with his usual, “Hey stupid, I’m home.” You hadn’t even received his typical text telling you he was leaving the gym. The tense silence seeps into the airspace as he makes his way toward you, Tsukki’s feet dragging with every step.

As he turns corner, you’re greeted by features taut with fatigue. It’s as though he’d been running on empty all day, barely making it home with only fumes of energy leftover.

Tsukki’s eyes were undoubtedly strained. The white, intense light of the gym combined with deep concentration kept him on high-alert with eyes wide open at all times.

His shoulders maintained a somewhat slumped position, losing an inch or two of height in the process. The mental weight of handling everything on his own had finally reached him physically.

This hadn’t been a good day, per se.

And if Tsukki had the energy to speak, he would probably tell you how much he would rather be in a month-long coma than experience that level of misery again.

But the hushed air remains and a bizarre staring contest takes place between you two instead of passing words. It’s hard to speak when you know that, deep down, words could never do his terrible days any justice. That even a thoughtful sentence or a well-intended comment would simply drown under Tsukki’s sea of thought, never resurfacing or coming up for air to be heard or understood.

He’s too exhausted to process even the shortest of loving dialogues. And you can tell.

So you sift through other possibilities.

Ways to calm him. To remind him that you care and want to look after him.

Should you make him dinner? He’s probably already eaten. Watch a movie together? No, the light would bother his tired eyes even more. Just go to bed? He would only continue to stir through his disappointments and be kept up by the throbbing of soreness in his legs.

As your eyes trickle down the length of his body, which is now leaning on the countertop as he takes a long sip out of his water bottle, you come to one final alternative…

But it’s always a bit of a gamble. A slight risk.

To touch or not to touch.

Would he lean into it like a self-satisfied, curious cat, tilting his lean body into your affectionate antics? Or would his brittle, biting character and miserable mood cause himself to crumble and fall away from the warmth and comfort of your smaller arms?

On one hand, you might experience your beloved Tsukishima’s gentler side. The one that held you as though he were a mama bird wrapping her wide-spanned wings around your precious form. Instinctively protective. A second-natured response to the way you circled your arms around his torso, tugging him into your field, requesting closeness and vulnerability. It could potentially get his mind off of the day and focus him on the here and now.

But on the other hand, Tsukki had a track record of off days. Jumping away from the soft glide of the pads of your fingertips. On those days, your embrace seemed to resemble that of a thorny, roseless bush to the wavy-haired blonde. The chance of him tugging away, leaving you drained and drooping, was higher than you had ever wanted to bet on. The possibility of him ending up at the opposite side of the bed seemed to increase after experiences like these.

And to be honest, you could never be sure if the touch-deterring wall he built up was to protect himself or you. Yet you always try to find ways to chip away at his salty, skeptical barrier without overstepping any fragile, unspoken boundaries.

It’s a simple concept. However, avoiding his sensitivities is an endless dance and is much harder than it may look. Especially at the end of a long day of pro-league practice, where sweat, sulking, and inferiority complexes don’t usually mix well.

But this was the only viable option left, so you get over your own worries and approach Tsukishima’s weary form. You stop just a few inches before him, his eyes dropping to meet yours. He was even more beaten down up close. The defeated expression he carried in tandem with his worn-out demeanor made you physically ache for him. 

“Tsukki… you’re not lookin’ too hot right now.” You let out a breathy laugh, slowly lifting yourself onto your tiptoes to brush a hand through his messy hair, testing the waters.

He doesn’t flinch away from your movements, so you sink back down onto the soles of your feet, letting your hand run down the side of his face.

“No shit, Sherlock. I don’t exactly feel great either.” He shoots back, but there’s a somber, troubled tinge.

Tsukki inches toward you, looking away as he tilts the side of his head into the palm of your hand. Your fingers cup his cheek.

Everyone knew how Tsukki acted when he was annoyed or angry. Snappy, sarcastic comments would be strewn in an almost poetic manner, kindly crushing those under his scrutiny. Many had seen Tsukishima after a merciless game, beaten and worn out. He would still have a muted fire behind his efforts and would carry himself with dignity, even if he didn’t feel confidence rise inside of him.

But gloominess? It doesn’t suit him. Not now, not ever.

And currently, he’s emanating a dreary, depressing sadness, like being caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella to shield you. It’s helpless and uncontrollable. Utterly humiliating.

You can practically feel the strain of the day radiating off of him. Tsukki had a tendency to wither slowly and cautiously. Not allowing anyone to watch as his snarky comments fizzled out and his sharp gaze gradually dull. By the look in his golden eyes, it was obvious that something in him had already snapped like an old tree branch. Battered and bruised by storm after brutal summer storm, finally shattering under the repetitive pressures of failure and imposter syndrome.

In the past, he had let apathy take over in order to not burden you. Withholding affection, thinking it would keep you safe from his sinking atmosphere when in reality he wished to drink in your tenderness. To fall under your grasp, sinking his head under your chin and lay across your chest.

But maybe it was all too much.

Too much to hold in. To carry alone.

“Kei…” At the use of his first name, he physically softens. Drawing his arms around your middle and clasping his hands behind your back, he gently rests his chin on your head.

“You can always lean on me.” You whisper into the fabric of his shirt.

Your words carry a deeper semblance. That you really are here for him. Physically, mentally, and emotionally ready to lift him up.

You picked a good time for physical touch because he only pulls you in tighter.

He’s pretty warm and smells like sweat mixed with deodorant and his cedar-scented shampoo. You grasp the cloth and squeeze him into you, making sure to keep him steady and balanced. His breathing falls into a gentle rhythm, almost as though he were falling asleep standing up.

“If you weren’t so lanky I would pick you up, but you’re a damn tree.” You sigh, poking fun at him.

The touches were cathartic. Healing. Authentic. Your lighthearted comments kept things comfortable, hindering him from drawing away due to feelings of unworthiness or self-consciousness.

“Wow, okay, bold words for someone who can hardly seem to pick up a bag of flour. You couldn’t hold me even if you were my height.” He snickers, tension releasing and adrenaline wearing off from the high-energy day.

You shift to look up at Tsukki, your chin gently pressing into his chest. He’s already staring down at you. You can’t help that a blush works its way up your neck and onto your cheeks, the warmth from his unusual touch sending you unwarranted fuzzy feelings. As much as you wished this embrace could be all for Tsukki, you’d wanted to hug him with all your might for a while now.

“Y/n… Honest question, so don’t laugh at me. Why are you doing this?” Tsukishima breaks eye contact, arms shifting to lean your chest more on top of his as he sinks a little deeper onto the counter, his back supported by the ledge.

“What do you mean by ‘this’?” You inquire, eyes still fixed on him, searching his expression.

“I mean... You know when things are going to shit. You know when I need something. A back massage, a slap to the face, hell, even a coffee sometimes.” He snorts, trying not to take his own question too seriously.

You’re the one to sigh now. Doesn’t he know how these things work by now? That being in a relationship with him meant more than insulting the daylights out of each other and going out to dinner? Apparently even Tsukishima lacks a lot perspective when it comes to loving another human being.

“You’re stubborn as hell.” You state plainly, your face going blank.

“What?”

“You refuse to see that you need help too sometimes, babe. Hate to break it to ya, but I actually like listening to and hugging you.” You break into a small smile.

“What does that have to do with anything?” He rolls his eyes at your confusing sentence.

“Are you that dense?” You express with mock disdain at his response.

“Tsukki, I’m saying that you don’t burden me! That I want to be there for you even after shitty days like these! You’re an absolute dumbass!” You snicker and your smile reaches your eyes, crinkling and squinting as his meet yours.

Instead of saying anything, Tsukishima rests in place, dumbfounded.

It’s true, you always were there for him.

Cheering at every game. Cooking dinner for him when you knew he would get home way too late and practically starving. Letting him rant relentlessly about losses and seemingly endless practices.

So why was it that only after breaking down in every way possible, he would finally let you see his most vulnerable thoughts and fears. That he would allow you to witness his exhaustion only once it had reached its peak. That it took Tsukki completely collapsing to let you wrap you arms around him.

And you both guess that it’s because old habits die hard.

Tsukki would always be Tsukki. A little too cold and relentlessly set on drenching others in his never-ending supply of sarcasm. Reluctant to accept help until it was already showing through the bleeding cracks of his figure and laced within his pained speech.

Because for someone so good at putting up and breaking through blocks, Tsukishima needed help with the walls that he had built up under his skin over the years. He needed to see that he couldn’t always protect you from his fears, but that you would be there to help him fight them. Or at least hug them away when it all got too much.

And as he presses a gentle kiss onto your forehead, you know it will be okay. Because embraces like these are what chip away at walls of fear. It’s the first step and you can already feel the tension crumble away, allowing warmth to surround the two of you. 

So you begin to remind him more and more that you like hugs. And he lets you hold him far more often, slowly but surely letting you deeper into his mind and into his arms. A much needed and highly welcomed addition to your everyday life.

---

tags: @cherryonigiri, @yams046, @miss-rin, @shou-kunn, @senkuwu-chan, @super-noya, @stcrryskies, @holaaaf, @sugacookiies

(comment or send an ask to be added to my general tag list) 

[otvlanga]

Rumarin - Interesting NPCs

Okay, so I love Rumarin to death (as does literally everyone else), but if you really peel away at his character, there’s something depressingly dark about him that’s almost entirely invisible otherwise. His deflection, and nihilism, and facade -- the way he uses humor as a stand-in for almost anything that would require expressing sincerity in any capacity; we never really get to learn or know anything about him, really.

He comes off as almost entirely morally-ambiguous and neutral in any situation, and it’s clear that this likely doesn’t reflect who he really is inside. It most likely serves as a front -- something he can hide behind to avoid addressing things that he continuously neglects, or regrets.

He holds strong disdain for any mages you fight against, yet gets so damn hype after he finally manages to cast a small ward spell. This is a man that deeply wants to be good at something, and be capable -- but lacks the emotional capacity to hold onto any of the ambition or determination it takes to pursue the things he doesn’t succeed at. He brushes it off like “It doesn’t matter anyway” and acts self assured and haughty with his bound weapons, but on the inside feels totally inadequate.

I get the feeling that he’s depressed, and angry; self-deprecating, even. He dislike himself, and the direction his life has gone. He has no ulterior motive, or plans, or ambitions. He doesn’t have a character arc, or any form of growth.  When we meet him, he outright mentions that he’s living in the Windhelm stables with his Ulundil and his wife.

He’s so quick to follow around the player after just meeting them because he’s a nihilist, and doesn’t have any reason not to. He doesn’t have a home, or family, or job, or any other commitments that he has to take into account, because he’s kind of just free-loading around; likely just trying to avoid addressing what’s gone wrong with his life, and his underlying flaws and true feelings. That’s why he’s such a sarcastic, humorous person. It’s his entire personality, one that he’s made up to compensate for his depression-driven apathy towards everything, and avoid vulnerability in any forms, because he can’t even open up and be honest with himself.

on the other hand i could be literally 100% wrong, and he just doesnt give a fuck about anything and serves as the comedic relief companion because thats just how he is, and he genuinely sees no point in taking life seriously, and believes people should live in the moment and do fuck-all to make themselves happy, because “why the hell shouldnt they?”

he’s either “nothing matters :-/. lets do cocaine” or “nothing matters! lets do cocaine! :D” 

[free-pancakes]

Kiss the Drummer

Summary: a LeviHan Jazz!AU

Levi, a talented trumpet player famous in the jazz clubs of New York, is struggling with his instrument and feels burnt out—he wonders if he chose the right path in life.

The bassist of his quintet, an old friend named Erwin, invites a quirky new drummer to play with them, who brings a new spark into Levi’s life.

Notes:  Drum "chops” describe a drummer's technical ability, including a large vocabulary of licks, and how freely they express themselves on the instrument. BPM = beats per minute Songs: Giant Steps - John Coltrane

sorry this AU fic is pure self-indulgence and has become much longer than originally intended lol

crossposted to AO3

CHAPTER 1

He licked his lips and pushed them readily against the smooth, silver mouthpiece, ready to hit the first note of the song, Giant Steps. He suppressed his desire to grumble at yet another fast swing tune.

He stared out into the audience, peering at the people sitting around the tables of the club. Their faces were slightly lit from the reflection of the stage lights, wearing expressions of both excitement and anticipation. “Just another night of the same old thing,” Levi thought to himself, letting out a soft, exasperated sigh, one only he could hear. His stance conveyed confidence, but his eyes spelled apathy.

He heard snaps on 2 and 4 marking their starting tempo at 289 bpm and Levi quickly puffed warm air into his trumpet.

“One… two… one two three four—“

——

Levi wiped down his trumpet, carefully cleaning the beautiful brass after yet another great performance. He gently placed it in his case, and looked up at himself in the dressing room mirror. He stared blankly at his reflection, noting the tinge of purple beneath his eyes—he knew his body was aching for sleep. It had been restless upon restless night for the past year or so, and he wasn’t completely sure why. He looked down at his trumpet case with both affection and disdain. Maybe... he just wasn’t meant to do this for this long.

He didn’t hate playing, but the truth was, he had simply been good at it all of his life. Quite gifted at it, one would say, and thus he passively let it lead him to success. It was just what it was. He was good at jazz, he was good at trumpet. Naturally he studied it at a top university for jazz performance and joined this famous quintet, and naturally he worked hard to improve his skills. But as any routine would, practice and rehearsals became monotonous, grunt work.

While lost in thought, his eyes trailed over to his small, neat pile of math textbooks at the edge of the dresser.

If anything, he did enjoy jazz theory. It was just math, anyway—circle of fifths, cadence patterns, fancy scales—it all just added up and broke down for any message or feeling you wanted to convey with a melody for your solo, and those tools were simply available in your brain to make it happen—tools to play some straight dirty solos that make you smirk satisfactorily when listening. To Levi, it just made sense, to a lot of other people, he was called “genius”. But after years and years of this, he was burning out and he was quite aware of that. He felt like he was losing his edge, and he was just a machine clunking out music most nights of the week. Again he thought, maybe he just wasn’t meant to do this forever. But what else would pay the bills?

Shaking his head, he let his jumbled thoughts fall away momentarily. He picked up a textbook, and leafed through the pages. He clicked open a ballpoint pen and began adding to his lesson plan for one of his students, a young girl named Sasha. Honestly, she seemed utterly hopeless with math at times, but he was determined to help her at least pass her algebra class. Her little friend Connie on the other hand…well that’s a story for another day, he thought, and chuckled softly to himself. If anything, he did enjoy his side job as a math tutor for the local school system. He didn’t really need the extra pocket money, but something compelled him to keep up with it.

As he jotted down notes, muffled noise of cheering and commotion rocked against the door. Tonight’s gig was Nile’s last performance with them, as he was moving out to the west coast to play with another group and accept a teaching position somewhere out there. Levi didn’t care much for his drumming or his personality for that matter, so he wasn’t particularly sad to see him go, nor was he keen on joining the celebration out in the bar. He yawned and continued finish up writing his lesson plan, as he knew he’d probably have to drive his drunk colleagues home.

——

“Levi! I’m gonna miss you buddy!” Nile exclaimed as he aggressively ruffled Levi’s hair, causing the cowlick he spent every morning trying to gel down to stick straight up embarrassingly at the top of his head. “Yeah, yeah, yeah… good luck Nile.” He shoved him and Mike into a cab, as they lived in the same apartment complex. He turned back into the bar to Erwin smiling drunkenly and Nanaba knocked out cold, sleeping soundly as she sat with her head down on a table. Levi grumbled and picked up Nanaba’s saxophone case to haul into the trunk of his car. He returned to pick up Nanaba and carried her on his back, and Erwin walked with them to Levi’s car.

“Hey Levi, Our new drummer is flying in tomorrow. I told her I’d come and pick her up from the airport at 7am.”

Levi looked Erwin up and down with a look of disgust. “In that sorry state, Eyebrows? Tch, go sleep off the hangover tonight, I can go to the airport. What’s her name and what does she look like?”

“Her name’s Hange. She has messy brown hair usually worn up in a ponytail, wears tortoise clubmaster glasses and well… honestly you can’t miss her, I’m sure you’ll find her right away.”

“Okay. So why’d we need to bring in a completely new drummer anyway? Couldn’t we have just brought in Moblit?”

“Ah you know his style doesn’t fit ours as well, plus he’s doing well with his band right now. Don’t worry, Hange and I played together all 4 years of college together, she’s got chops. Plus, I think Hange will probably bring in the change we need. Your playing’s gone a bit stale... hasn’t it, Levi?”

“Stale?! Pfft you’re just drunk,” Levi muttered, irritated as Erwin raised his eyebrows at him. They arrived at their apartment complex and Levi begrudgingly unlocked the car doors, gently woke Nanaba, and the three of them walked up to their floor. Erwin fumbled with his keys, and Levi snatched it out of his hands, frustrated at how long it was taking him. Erwin chuckled, and Levi scrunched up his nose at the stench of alcohol in his breath. As soon as the door opened, Nanaba immediately ran to the bathroom, retching into the toilet.

“I got her,” Erwin laughed. “Go to bed, Levi, you’re the one getting up early. Flight info’s next to the door.”

Levi nodded, turned into his room, and plopped down on the bed. He stared at the ceiling, and wondered how much longer he’d keep playing, or more like, how soon he’d quit. If this Hange person was as annoying as Nile, well… he probably wouldn’t hold out much longer.

——

Levi stood with his hands in his pockets, eyes peeled for this Hange person. He looked at his watch—“Maybe she was still waiting on her luggage,” he thought. He walked over to the small cafe to his left, and waited in line, squinting for any decent teas on the menu. Before he could decide, he suddenly heard a small yelp, and something shoved right into his chest, feeling piping hot coffee running down his white, longsleeve shirt. Before he could yell obscenities at the moron who just ruined one of his favorite shirts, he was met with frantic apologizes.

“I’m so so sorry! Oh my goodness it was a complete accident, can I get you a drink to make up for it? Man I am so clumsy...oh! Maybe you can wear one of my shirts I have here, free of charge! Or I could just—“

He looked up in the middle of incessant rambling to see the culprit—a tall brunette, hair messily tied up in a bun, wearing tortoise clubmaster glasses, and a bright yellow coat.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Levi thought to himself. He looked down to see a large black cymbal case and a stick bag with yarn mallets and drumsticks poking out of it.

—I could just buy you a new shirt! Oh, how bout—“

Levi was livid—this clown was potentially going to be playing gigs with them over the next year? The coffee stained fabric was sticking uncomfortably to his skin and he felt the biggest headache coming on—all this pain just from one person. He reached up and gently placed his hand over her mouth to physically stop her chattering.

“Is your name, Hange?”

She nodded, Levi’s hand still covering her mouth.

“You’re Erwin’s friend?”

She nodded again, her eyes lighting up at the name, Levi feeling her lips forming a smile under his palm.

“Okay, I’m taking you back to our apartment.”

Levi reached for her bags to carry them, but was interrupted.

“Wait—the least I can do is give you the extra shirt I have in my backpack so you can change out of your soiled one,” she said softly. She reached in her bag, and pulled out the shirt and Levi felt his eye twitch in annoyance at the words printed on its front. He sighed, and debated sitting in his wet shirt, but it seemed like he didn’t have much choice—he’d have to wear it.

——

Levi blinked his eyes open. He felt oddly rested, but one thing was strange—he was sitting up, and he felt something unusually heavy on his shoulder.

“What the—“

He looked to the side and saw a mess of brown hair immediately to his right, heard the soft sound of snoring, and felt… something wet on his arm? He looked down and grimaced. “Drool. She’s drooling. On my goddamn arm.”

He looked around for some kind of napkin. He didn’t remember falling asleep, let alone letting this absolute stranger curl up against him. How in the world did he let his guard down this far?

He stared blankly at Hange and thought, “What a mess—what was Erwin thinking? We’ve known each other for less than 5 hours, and she seems to have already made herself right at home. I haven’t even confirmed whether she was good enough to play with us, yet.” He tried to shift out from underneath Hange, but before he could wriggle is way out—

“Kiss the drummer?”

Erwin and Nanaba stood before Levi, both with hair in a complete mess, having just woken up from sleeping off their hangovers. Smirking and holding back laughter, they stared at the scene—Levi wearing an oversized t-shirt with the words “Kiss the Drummer” in bold letters plastered across his chest, along with Hange sleeping quite cozily on his shoulder, her glasses held gently between his fingers. Levi tried covering up the words and scowled at his two friends.

“Laugh it up,” he muttered. “What is this, Erwin? She’s clearly made herself at home already—and we haven’t even gotten to play together yet.”

“Relax, Levi, she’s a great musician. And look, she likes you!”

Levi grimaced at Hange draped over his shoulder.

“Hmph, I still have to hear her play and have my opinion considered. We all get a vote yknow…”

Over their hushed voices, Hange shifted groggily towards all of them and rubbed her eyes. “Erwin?”

Hange’s eyes lit up immediately in recognition, shoving Levi back further into the couch as she jumped up to wrap Erwin in her embrace, excited to finally be reunited with her friend after so many years.

After a few minutes of catching up, Erwin smiled brightly. “Yes, we can take you around the city a bit. Rehearsal’s not til this evening anyway—we did have a gig lined up last minute for the middle of this week if you were comfortable with that, Hange.”

“Of course I’d be down to do that! I—“

“Oi. Like I said, we still vote if you get to play with our group officially. Don’t be late to rehearsal tonight.” Levi then slowly stood up and walked quietly towards his room.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just being strict about our technical audition policy,’ Erwin reassured. He and Nanaba quickly darted for their rooms to ready themselves to take Hange sightseeing for a little while and introduce her to the city, leaving her standing alone in the middle of their living room. Her eyes trailed after Levi, curious about his calm yet sad energy. She felt that she saw through that aura, noticing every little kind gesture he made towards her from the time they met at the airport to the moment they fell asleep on the couch. Hange was determined to get him to show that side of himself a little more. As he turned to grab the door behind him, she smiled at him, and was quickly met with a scowl and the slam of his bedroom door in her face. Seemed it might take some more effort to get through to him than she originally thought.

[ploffskinpluffskin]

so. uh. since no one said they’d be Against me also occasionally adding majora to the rambles here, this is some self-indulgent writing regarding him and an AU i had planned for him i never did actually get to explore rip

a friend i had in the dbs rpc drew a picture of their kai OC as supreme kai with majora as their connected god of destruction and i’ve been Attached to the idea ever since lmao like i know majora is probably nowhere near strong enough in canon to be a legit candidate for the position but i can dream ok. so sometimes i’ve just drabbled tiny pieces of what i imagine his tenure as destroyer might be like

also for context, cognac is the name of the angel attendant of universe 4, which means he’d be the one looking after majora and also handling his ongoing training

....for more context, bc i honestly don’t know how much anyone here knows about it hhh the way canon is set up is that each universe has its own pair of god of destruction and angel, and then there’s a supreme kai (god of creation) set opposite of the god of destruction, and the two opposing sides ideally work together to keep the balance of destruction and creation in their universe. some universes are better at it than others rip

"The seventh universe is requesting a meeting," Cognac says one morning as they are nearing the end of breakfast.

Majora stills in the midst of feeling for his cup of tea; when his right index finger brushes against the ceramic anyway, he sees fit to continue his motions, now cradling both of his thin hands around its warmth. When he speaks, it's with the bone-deep, retiring apathy he's adopted over the past several centuries.

"Oh? Still..?"

The smile in Cognac's voice can not be mistaken. "Still."

Majora lets his thoughts drift from there, as if they were afloat on the gentle breeze which ruffles his fur. Distantly, he catches the telltale sweet scent of the blossoms which flower about his present home. Cognac has told him they are colored green, not unlike Majora's pelt, and grow in tight clusters of tiny florets. They bloom just as it begins to grow cold and last throughout much of the winter, an oddity the new god still finds faintly bemusing.

That he has long since lost the ability to conjure up the color (indeed, any color) in his memory does little to dampen his curiosity, and he often requests that Cognac describe their surroundings in such detail. Though, the angel has taken to preemptively doing so for some time now, and something about that strikes a peculiar ache within Majora.

"Will we indulge them this time?"

"...which is the seventh again..?"

"Lord Beerus and Whis. A mortal of theirs was indirectly responsible for the tournament back then. I imagine you still remember."

Majora gives an acknowledging noise, though it contains an edge of uncertainty, discomfort. The Tournament of Power exists only remotely these days, yet its impact on Majora's own existence still perturbs him, although he can not articulate why.

With a sigh, he picks up his teacup and responds, "I suppose we ought to, else they might become irritated," with as much disdainful resignation as he can manage, all too aware that the gods of Universe Seven are far from the only ones to be irritated with his infamous reclusiveness, and not altogether mildly, at that. Then, lowly, just before taking a sip, "Wouldn't want that."

[chipped-dt]

Chipped AU Scenario: Cellmates

I wrote a little drabble about if Catra and Double Trouble got imprisoned together after getting captured by Horde Prime. Enjoy!

Catra sat alone in her cell, running her hand over the back of her freshly shaved head. It was cold and drafty without her thick hair to cover her neck. She kept expecting to feel it between her fingers, to comb out the tangles with her claws, but there was nothing. No solace. He had taken that from her.

The cell was barren, much less comfortable than the one Glimmer had been given. There was no bed, no table or chair, just a steel bench Catra was curled up on. It wasn’t much different than the cells in the Fright Zone, which she had grown all too familiar with. The difference was the lighting. It was bright, invasive, stark. It would be impossible to sleep. The only thing separating her from the outside was a force field of green energy, the same one she had often watched Glimmer through. And in this tiny room, her loneliness was all-encompassing.

The silence was broken by footsteps. Catra suddenly darted to the corner of the room, her eyes focused on the force field. Her fur prickled, standing on end. On the other side of the force field, she saw the silhouette of a hand slide up against it, and the energy parted like a door. And through it, someone in white was thrown in.

Catra hissed instinctively as the figure hit the floor. The person quickly turned around to glare at the clone that had escorted them.

“Hey, that’s no way to treat a—“ they snapped, but the force field closed in their face. “—guest,” they grumbled sarcastically.

Catra froze. They wore the same white Horde uniform as her, and their hair had also been cut short, but it was them. Double Trouble.

Hearing her breath catch, Double Trouble turned, their perturbed gaze turning to one of surprise when they saw her. Catra felt a knot clog her throat, and flashed back to when she’d last seen them. The Fright Zone. After picking her apart and breaking her down, they had left her with that same feeling. That knot that threatened to suffocate her. The betrayal. The loneliness. The hopelessness. It all came flooding back, leaving her in silence.

“Kitten?” Double Trouble spoke up, getting to their feet. They fixated on her eyes, trying to decipher the complex emotions they could see swimming inside of her. They had truly intended to leave her behind, but when they discovered she was with Horde Prime, they couldn’t ignore their curiosity. Their eyelids lowered in disdain. “Did he toss you in the trash too?”

Finally, Catra found her voice, as broken as it was. “Wh...what are you doing here...?”

“Same as you. I tried my luck with Horde Prime and came up short.” Double Trouble’s hand went to the back of their own neck to play with their long hair, but remembering there was none, they just let their hand fall back to their side. They had lost that luxury too.

“But how—why—“ She barely got the words out. So many questions, and none of them coherent.

“Didn’t I tell you that survival was about picking the winning side?” Double Trouble said, putting a hand on their hip. They saw another flash of pain in her eyes and sighed. They walked over to her and extended a hand. “Come on, the floor is filthy.”

Catra hesitated, looking at Double Trouble’s hand, then at their face, trying to read them like they could read her. Could a look be hard, but warm at the same time? What was it? Contempt? Apathy? Pity? Maybe sympathy? She clenched her fist and ignored their hand, standing up. She pushed past them and sat on the bench, silently cursing herself for even considering they’d regret what they’d said. She could feel their eyes following her. Judging her. As always.

When Double Trouble spoke again, their voice was unexpectedly soft. “Look, I’m not going to apologize for what I said. It was something you needed to hear to move on.” They leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “But I am sorry it landed you here. Would you believe me if I said I didn’t want to hurt you?”

“Then why did you do it?” Catra said, her back to them. There was an edge to her voice now.

“Because I couldn’t just let you keep wandering lost through life,” Double Trouble replied. “You—“

“Yes, you could have!” Catra snapped, turning to them with a tormented expression. “You didn’t have to betray me! We were winning! We were taking over Etheria, and you could have been a part of that!”

“And how do you think you would have felt if you had won? If She-Ra—Adora—was dead?” They looked at her. Catra’s breath hitched, but she didn’t look away, her eyes still frantic. “Don’t you get it?” Double Trouble asked. “You were crashing and burning. Hard. I couldn’t keep watching that. Someone had to make you face reality.”

“Oh yeah? And what reality was that?” Catra snapped, but her voice cracked at the end.

Finally, the coldness left Double Trouble’s expression. “I think you know.”

Only then did Catra look away, staring at some spot on the floor where the tiles met. She said nothing. Double Trouble walked over to her and sat on the other end of the bench, sitting next to her while giving her space. “I heard about what you did. You helped Glimmer escape.” Still no answer. “I can tell; some small part of you is actually relieved.”

“What does it matter?” Catra asked, pulling her knees to her chest, her tail wrapping around her. “I’m never going to see her again.”

“Do you honestly believe that?” Double Trouble asked.

“We don’t have time. You need to get to these coordinates now. DON’T come here, no matter what.” A lie. Even now, she was secretly hoping Adora could read between the lines. She always could when they were kids; she could always tell exactly what Catra was feeling, no matter how much she denied it. “Just listen! Adora, I’m sorry! For everything!” That might be the last thing Adora would ever hear from her.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Catra said quietly. “After everything I did, there’s no way she’s coming for me.” She hugged her knees a little bit tighter. It felt so selfish, desperately wanting Adora to save her. To put her life on the line to save someone who had done nothing but hurt her. But yet, she could not quell that feeling. That annoying glimmer of hope in her chest.

“But yet, with what little power you have, you used it to try and prove yourself to her,” Double Trouble said. “To say that you are worth saving. Plus, she’s the hero type. If you think for even a second she would turn her back on you after saving Glimmer, then you really are the worst at judging people’s characters.” They leaned back, resting their head against the wall. Then, as a quiet afterthought, “At least you have that hope.”

Catra looked at them. This was the first time she sensed a lot more hidden behind their words. A door cracked open. “What do you mean?”

The door shut again. “Oh, nothing.” Double Trouble got up and cracked their back. “Jeez, Brightmoon really spoils their ‘prisoners.’ What I wouldn’t give to be sitting in a magic containment circle over this dump...”

“No, you don’t get to do that,” Catra said. They looked over their shoulder at her, surprised by her sudden boldness. “You don’t get to analyze me and pretend like you know me better than I do, and then not tell me a thing about you.”

“I mean, there’s not much to tell,” Double Trouble said.

“Give me a break. All this time and I barely know you,” Catra glared at them. “You still haven’t answered me. Why did you decide to do what you did? And don’t give me that ‘it was for your own good’ crap. We didn’t work together all that time for nothing. You threw it away. Not me. So why?”

Now, Double Trouble fell quiet. They usually had an answer for everything, but not this time.

“You were the one who said that people kept leaving me, that I was pushing them away,” Catra continued, her voice getting desperate. “And then you left. I actually decided to trust you! I thought maybe, this time, it could be different, that I actually had a friend, but you just decided to take that and crush it under your heel! Why?! Was I not good enough for you?!” By now, she was shouting. Double Trouble could feel her eyes boring holes into their back, pleading for answers. She had finally given up hiding her feelings from them, begging them to open up. And so, finally, they caved.

“...I spent most of my life in the Crimson Waste. And there, friends and connections were a weakness,” Double Trouble said. “You make a lot of enemies, and they will use those connections as leverage. It can get you killed.” They rubbed the back of their neck. “So you keep your distance. From everyone. I guess that’s just a habit I picked up.”

Finally, the door was open again. They sigh, dropping their hand. “And look where that got me. Trapped in a spaceship lightyears away from home!” They spread their arms, tilting their head back to stare at the fluorescent lights. “You? At least you have people who are on their way here. Me?” Their hands dropped. “Not a single person knows or cares that I’m gone.”

Catra stood up. “You’re getting out of here too.” Double Trouble just scoffed. She walked over to them, but paused, hesitating. Their shoulders were usually so broad, confident. But now they were slumped in defeat. She slowly put her arms around them. She felt them stiffen and suck in their breath in surprise. She rested her forehead on their shoulder. They were so much shorter without their heels.

“If I’m getting out of here, you’re getting out of here too,” Catra said. “Unlike you, I’m not leaving.”

Nothing at first, then she felt the light brush of their claws against the fur on her arm.

“I’m sorry,” Double Trouble said. “For everything.”

A smile breached Catra’s lips. “No. Thank you.”

Whatever happened next, whether Adora came to save her or if Horde Prime punished her, at least she knew she finally had one person on her side.