#does it matter how camp a man is if straight women want to fuck him. I think not. site of haters we���d be on armand’s side

[laniidae-passerine]

positively obsessed with how Rockstar Lestat is the exact kind of guy one of my friends would show me a picture of and swear he’s really sexy and cool and brilliant. Whole time I’m thinking “oh dear GOD” staring at a trainwreck weirdo and wondering what’s happened to everybody else that is absolutely missing me. jesus christ he’s blond

[tvfangirladdict]

Rant about all the Bi-Buck Arc hate surfacing.

Made the mistake of scrolling through comments on Instagram surrounding 911 and the cast.

I need to blow off steam, so this is gonna probably start harsh.

While there was so much heartfelt appreciation for Buck's storyline, the negative comments kept stealing my attention. I'm so tired of hearing(reading) that people think the whole show is ruined because two grown men kissed. Like, get the fuck over yourselves already. You don't agree with the relationship, you're just gonna have to deal with it the same we've dealt with Buck and Eddie's half-assed, flat, forced heterosexual relationships for the last 7 years, okay?

They all want to justify their biphobia/homophobia by saying that it's "forced" or it "doesn't make sense," or that they "never saw Buck even hint at it and it's just pandering to fans." Like, bitch, welcome to real life. If you're a real fan of this show, and you watched from the beginning, you know Athena and Michael's marriage ended first thing when he came out as gay. A muscular, "straight", black guy with a wife and two kids who'd been in the closet/denial his whole life, came out to his family, and none of them saw it coming, even if they might have suspected "deep down". This shit happens every day, okay? They're all mad cause "if he was gonna be gay, they should have made him gay from the beginning". Why? So you could form your opinion of him based on who he's attracted to? Why does this bother you so much. You were okay with it when it was Michael and Hen cause you knew from the beginning and they were your token gay characters that you've just learned to "put up with" to appease the rainbow crowd.

And it's not even the ones who are just straight up, like "it's wrong"/"it's a sin"/"it's gross", etc. that bother me the most. It's the "I don't care, you do you, but don't shove it down my throat", people that make me mad. Why is simply witnessing a queer person or relationship "shoving it down your throat"? Y'all realize they exist in real life too, right? Like, personally, I have family, friends, co-workers, bosses, who are all apart of the lgbtq+ community, and I'm from a smaller suburban/rural area of Ohio. Those are just the people in my life who are out. Why is seeing them represented in modern media so bad? This isn't covid, it's not fucking contagious. If it was your brother, your cousin, your best friend, would it be okay then? Both of my brothers have only ever dated women, but if one of them came out and said "hey, I think I might like guys too," I'm not gonna throw a fucking fit and invalidate them by telling them it's not possible because they've only ever dated women. No, I'll thank them for trusting me, and gush to them about boys because I never had a sister to do that with.

Every time I read those comments, all I can think is, you just proved that you're not a safe person to be trusted if someone in your life wants to come out.

Just, how do you give up on an entire show after one kiss? And then claim that you don't have a problem with it? You can't have it both ways. If it didn't matter to you, you wouldn't react so strongly and so negatively to it. 911 and ABC's intention isn't to question your sexuality. You don't have to worry that you're suddenly going to have to kiss Buck too, okay? Chill.

The whole "Buck has only ever slept with women" and "suddenly he's gay" responses are exactly why this storyline is so important. So many people to this day refuse to acknowledge sexualities outside of straight and gay. Why is it always, "made gay"? It doesn't have to be one or the other. It can be both, or neither.

I say this with the experience of having a mom who's still in the "I don't care as long as I don't have to see it" camp. If seeing it upsets you, you've got a problem. If it really doesn't matter and you're cool letting everyone be themselves, seeing two men together should be just as accepted as a man and a women together. Unless you're also saying we need to stop portraying men and women in romantic, sexual relationships together with kissing scenes or more graphic ones, then you can't rule with a double standard. Me and my mom loved watching Teen Wolf together, but any time there was a scene with Danny kissing another guy, she'd get uncomfortable. She even told me once, that she didn't think they should show scenes like that but she wasn't sure why when watching het couples together didn't make her feel the same way.

Safe, sane, and consensual. As long as they follow that, and are happy, why can't you just be happy for them?

If you're old enough to have been following along with this show, you're old enough to know that everyone is different. And life as an adult is about opening yourself up to the outside world and learning about what makes people different. From race to religion to sexuality to nationality and beyond. Your views, beliefs, ideologies, etc, are not the only ones that matter. Getting and giving acceptance goes hand in hand.

I get it to a certain extent. Coming from a different time and all that, but it just means you've had more time to learn. Being stubborn and holding onto what you were brought up in doesn't mean a whole lot to me if you refuse to open your mind up as an adult to look beyond yourself.

Okay, I'm done now. That felt chaotic, but I feel better. If you've made it this far, thanks for coming to my TED talk☺️

[likeshipsonthesea]

mianmian gets to the lan sect lectures, discovers very quickly that every one of her peers has decided to use this time to figure out how quickly they can get into bed with someone of the opposite sex, and decides almost immediately that she has to pick a suitably unattainable guy to have a crush on.

the thing is, mianmian is lanling jin’s head disciple. she is capable, intelligent, and very very gay. the last of these things she isn’t exactly keen on telling people yet for a variety of reasons up to and including jin zixuan will be so awkward and stubbornly supportive about it and she doesn’t know how to deal with that yet

so when her friends giggle over the other young masters and finally turn to mianmian-- who’s trying to memorize at least some of the fifty-thousand rules before their quiz tomorrow--and they ask her, “who do you like, mianmian?” she says the name that she carefully picked out of a handful of options.

“lan-er-gongzi,” she says, without looking up from her textbook, and she assumes that will be the end of it. 

lan wangji is both incredibly attractive and unrelentingly resistant to all attempts to flirt with him. she, like half the other female cultivators, can moon over him (or pretend to moon over him) all they want and nothing will come of it. it’s perfect. she’s a genius. the worst she’ll have to do now is pretend to be infatuated with him when her friends start gossiping. it’s fool proof.

spoiler: it’s not

it’s not, no, because her friends are horrible and immediately start gossiping about it to everyone, and usually mianmian wouldn’t care but then jin zixuan finds out. jin zixuan, whose marriage complex is being brought to center stage with the forced proximity to his bride-to-be. jin zixuan, who for some reason decided he has to live his stolen crush-addled youth vicariously through his only real friend that isn’t related to him. jin zixuan, who for some godforsaken reason takes it upon himself to contrive situations for mianmian and lan wangji to be alone together incessantly.

it unfortunately takes mianmian longer than she would like to figure out what’s happening. she’d give herself a break for it-- she was being responsible and studying, thank you very much-- but she doesn’t have much sympathy for her own stupidity seeing as she’s currently locked in a section of the lan library with the second jade of lan

and suddenly, suddenly she’s just so fucking tired. of studying, yeah, the tests here are brutal and there’s no one to bribe to make sure she doesn’t lose points on stupid things, but also tired of lying to the people she loves and tired of training this hard and being an amazing cultivator only for people to care more about her eventual marriage-- to a man of all things!-- and also, let’s be real here, she’s been in lectures with beautiful capable intelligent women for like months and she’s losing her gay ass mind

and so maybe, possibly, as she’s locked in a library with a clearly confused and annoyed second jade of lan she kind of, momentarily, loses it and rants all of this at his steadily widening eyes

at the end of it, she realizes with no small amount of panic that she’s just confessed not only her attraction to women but the fact that she’s been letting wen qing’s ears of all things distract her from her studies. if anything, she’s sure lan wangji will fault her for inattention

but the second jade of lan, after a drawn-out moment filled only with mianmian’s labored breathing and rising panic, simply says, “i understand.”

mianmian stops. she squints. she tilts her head. she squints some more. lan wangji’s ears go pink and just like that she realizes -- “you’re a cut-sleeve.”

lan wangji’s ears go even pinker. he doesn’t nod, or agree, or outwardly react in any way, but mianmian is a capable, intelligent cultivator, and she’s sure of it.

mianmian sighs with a relief she didn’t know she could feel. “thank the gods.”

lan wangji doesn’t seem to know what to make of this response, or mianmian’s increasingly frequent trips to the library following their conversation, or mianmian’s staunch determination to befriend the guy, but that’s alright. mianmian is old hat at befriending awkward sect heirs by this point.

it’s not like lan wangji expressed any desire for her friendship, but the prospect of not being the only one with absolutely no interest in the straight shenanigans happening at gusu lan summer camp is enough to let mianmian ignore his obvious confusion. lan wangji is a great listener and only sometimes blushes when mianmian waxes poetic about the beautiful women she’s forced to surround herself with every day

“no but you don’t understand,” mianmian insists, alone in the library with lan wangji, “jiang-guniang asked me to help her with a sword form. i put my hands on her waist. i said something idiotic bc she was so pretty and right there and then she laughed. lan wangji. i’m in love.”

“yesterday you were in love with wen-guniang,” lan wangji says as he impassively turns a page in his book. “has this changed?”

“no, i’m in love with both of them. all of them. lan wangji. they’re all so pretty all the time. it’s horrible.”

lan wangji presses his lips into a firmer line, which mianmian’s come to understand means he’s repressing a smile. “i’m sorry to hear it brings luo-guniang such trouble.”

mianmian groans, fairly undignified, but that’s a lost cause with lan wangji at this point anyway. “i swear, if jin zixuan says one more bad thing about her i’m going to punch him and marry her myself.”

lan wangji says, “mn,” which mianmian takes to mean that he supports her in this line of thinking, which she finds both quite sweet and ridiculously funny.

grinning, she teases, “lan-er-gongzi, if i do end up marrying jiang-guniang, will you bear witness to our elopement?”

lan wangji’s lips press again, this time in the way that means he’s repressing a frown. “jiang-guniang’s brothers wouldn’t allow for an elopement,” he says.

mianmian huffs. “as if yunmeng or lanling will deign to host our wedding.”

lan wangji appears to ponder this for a moment before he says, “gusu will host it,” and it’s at that moment that mianmian realizes she’s actually gone and fucking befriended the second jade of lan.

what is her life.

of course, it’s not long after that that she goes to find jin zixuan and explain that she can’t make their weekly sparring match today because she has plans with lan wangji (jiang yanli tenderly brushed some of mianmian’s hair away from her forehead while they were working on sword forms and if mianmian doesn’t tell someone about it she’s literally going to explode) and she’s trying to be as polite as possible only for jin zixuan to scoff and pout (”i don’t pout”) and say, “i never took you for one of those women who throw themselves so wantonly at a man”

it’s only for having been friends with this absolutely horrible communicator for most of her life that she doesn’t immediately punch him in the face. “what did you just say to me,” she demands, but jin zixuan just sets his jaw and looks away, flushing down his neck in the way his mother describes as unbecoming and--

and mianmian suddenly realizes that her ridiculous best friend is jealous of lan wangji. 

(in a friend way, of course, he’s like her brother, the one time his mother implied that he ought not get too close to women in case it jeopardizes his betrothal to jiang yanli, he insisted he didn’t have any female friends repeatedly as his mother delicately danced around outright saying mianmian’s name until finally she broke and jin zixuan was basically like huh?? mianmian doesn’t count?? she made me eat dirt like six times when we were kids)

the sheer ridiculousness of jin zixuan, to set her up with a guy and then get jealous when she spends all her time with him

and fuck her, but she loves her stupid awkward ridiculous sect heir best friend and she doesn’t want him to think she’s gone and left him for someone else (gods know jin zixuan’s loyalty complex rivals his marriage one (on second thought the two might be connected)) and so, after making a few quick decisions, mianmian grabs her stupid best friend by the wrist and pulls him to the library

he protests all the way there, but he’s been letting her drag him wherever she wants since they were five and it isn’t as if he’s going to break the pattern now. she drags him to the library and sits him down across a startled lan wangji and then finally breaks and gushes about jiang-guniang’s fingertips brushing her forehead and doesn’t look at jin zixuan once the whole time

lan wangji, on the other hand, sends jin zixuan frequent glances, as if worried on mianmian’s behalf, which is super sweet and also how the fuck did mianmian get two awkward sect heirs to care about her platonically wtf. she spares a thought for her poor auntie, who would’ve loved to have a sect heir care about her niece in much less platonic ways.

at the end of mianmian’s rant, jin zixuan is blinking quite a lot. “you like women?” he asks. he’s always been a bit slow on the uptake. mianmian nods. “you like jiang-guniang?”

mianmian shrugs. “more or less. she’s just really pretty and i’m dying about it. it’s fine.”

lan wangji says, “mn,” sympathetically and jin zixuan continues to gape.

mianmian winces. “you’re not going to be weird about this, are you?”

jin zixuan shakes his head quickly. “no, no-- of course not, i--you know that i--you’re my best friend, i don’t care--what does it matter to me, who you want to--to touch your hair.”

it’s probably the most awkward sentence he’s said to her in years, but possibly more articulate than she’d been expecting. it makes her tear up regardless and she punches him in the shoulder to hide it, and that’s basically how the three of them start hanging out in the library nearly every day after lecture.

sometimes they go to the sparring ground, bc who’s better sparring practice than the second jade of lan? and sometimes (once or twice) mianmian manages to convince lan wangji to join her and jin zixuan for lunch in caiyi town when they don’t have lecture, but mostly they meet in a secluded part of the library where mianmian can rant about how pretty all the women at lectures are, jin zixuan can turn pink whenever she mentions jiang-guniang, and lan wangji can “mn” and nod sympathetically at all the right parts

and mianmian thinks that’s going to be the end of it, they’re just going to be friends now and everything else will move on as usual, bc by some ridiculous trick of fate lan wangji and jin zixuan seem to like each other. which makes sense in hindsight bc they’re both awkward sect heirs who care about cultivation and people a lot even if they’re not great at showing it 

(and he’d never say it but mianmian thinks jin zixuan’s easy acceptance of her liking women is probably the first time lan wangji’s ever seen someone accept that kind of thing before (maybe, possibly, other than his brother, lan xichen seems really cool, even if he does smile kind of intensely at mianmian whenever he happens upon her hanging out with his little brother.))

so they’re friends, they’re unexpected friends, and sometimes lan wangji even makes jokes in that dry deadpan way of his and sometimes jin zixuan doesn’t completely trip over his own words and manages to act like a normal human being and mianmian gets two idiots to care about and a perfect place to vent her womanly frustrations, and she thinks that’s the end of it and then wei wuxian accosts her after lectures one day

“do you like lan zhan?” he asks accusingly, eyes narrowed to slits. “what am i even asking, of course you like lan zhan, but do you like-like him?”

mianmian thinks sadly to herself that she’s much too into women to be dealing with all these men’s emotional problems. “lan wangji is my friend,” she says, carefully sidestepping wei wuxian, who continues to squint at her suspiciously. really, he’d been amusing when he flirted with her, but this? this is just ridiculous.

“does he know that?” wei wuxian asks. “because if he doesn’t, that’s just leading him on, and it’s really not nice to--”

“lan wangji knows we’re friends,” she says, trying to enunciate to get her point across clearly. “you can ask him, if you don’t believe me.”

wei wuxian squints a moment longer before he turns and flounces off. mianmian thinks this is the end of it until she’s accosted again after dinner with, “he said you were friends!”

for some reason, wei wuxian seems even more troubled by this than earlier. mianmian tries to suppress her eyeroll. “i told you he would?”

“but how,” wei wuxian says, suddenly whining. “i’ve been trying to be his friend for months and he refuses to acknowledge me.”

oh, mianmian realizes with a quickly dawning horror. she and lan wangji are not the only cut-sleeves at cloud recesses this summer. (she has suspicions, of course, but no confirmations on any of the others, but this. wow.)

she also realizes, decides really, that she has enough repressed sect heirs in her life and she cannot deal with wei wuxian’s cut-sleeve crisis or his evidently large attachment to lan wangji right now. she turns decisively and walks the fuck away. not her problem.

the lectures end eventually, of course, and mianmian and jin zixuan return to lanling with a horde of golden robed disciples, freshly deflowered and not all together more learned. it’s what, she thinks grimly, their sect leader would want.

the first few weeks go by and she realizes that she’s missed unloading about her frequent and fast falling-in-loves. jin zixuan just doesn’t sympathize right, bless him, and so mianmian takes to writing letters. she sends two without receiving a reply and just starts to write the third when a letter with the gusu symbol is delivered to her room.

she’s almost expecting to find a single mn written on the page-- she would’ve been delighted with just that, actually, the sheer hilarity of such a thing-- but instead she finds several pages filled with lan wangji’s perfect calligraphy.

it’s more than he’s ever spoken out loud, but it seems that propriety dictated that he return mianmian’s extensive letter with one of his own and he’s done so admirably. he responds to the events mianmian detailed in her letters-- most succinctly summarized as, woman are gorgeous and i’m dying-- and then writes about his own life in cloud recesses. apparently, he went on a little night hunt with wei wuxian and also nie huaisang and jiang cheng were involved? seriously, mianmian misses out on all the fun.

he’s also apparently taken in some rabbits, which mianmian immediately decides she needs to see. lan wangji, sitting prim and proper, with a bunch of rabbits in his lap? amazing. wei wuxian would die on sight, she’s sure of it.

he also ends his letter with a warning about qishan wen that has mianmian frowning. she takes it to jin zixuan who reads the paragraph and frowns. “i’ll talk to my father about it,” he says, which she can tell by his hunched shoulders he doesn’t expect to do much.

“talk to your father’s general too,” she suggests, because that man at least thinks with his head and not his dick.

jin zixuan nods but doesn’t hand back the letter. he skims it instead with a barely concealed surprise at lan wangji’s previously hidden expansive vocabulary. mianmian snorts and grabs the letter back. “you can write to him yourself, you know.”

jin zixuan flushes down his neck. “i know!” he insists and then turns and runs away because he’s a coward. mianmian shakes her head, smiling. what an idiot.

still, another week goes by and a letter arrives from gusu and, when mianmian takes it, assuming it’s for her, she finds it addressed to jin zixuan in lan wangji’s impeccable calligraphy and she grins to herself like an idiot. look at jin zixuan, making friends

(she suddenly understands why lan xichen gave her all those intense smiles during the lan lectures)

they go on in this way, writing letters to lan wangji from lanling. sometimes mianmian steals jin zixuan’s letters before he sends them so she can squeeze in some ranting in the post script without wasting a whole second thing of paper, and lan wangji replies dutifully, more verbose than he ever was in person, and it’s nice okay, like. she and jin zixuan have been best friends since they were kids but neither of them has ever been any good at listening and lan wangji is just so honest and earnest in everything, like they didn’t realize that people outside of lanling were actually not always plotting your downfall??? who woulda thunk

and then of course the wens go and ruin everything. they go to the wen lectures bc jin guangshan doesn’t want to “anger our trading partner” like the guy isn’t obviously going to burn carp tower to the ground the first chance he gets, and mostly mianmian and jin zixuan are just vaguely annoyed and put out about it

then lan wangji shows up with a broken leg and a burned sect and they are ready to murder some dudes

after years of breaking in and out of carp tower she and jin zixuan are old hats at this breaking and entering stuff and they manage to sneak into lan wangji’s guest quarters and tend to his wounds, ignoring all his silent glares and ranting furiously about how they’re going to murder wen chao by making him choke on his own dick (mianmian) and how they’re going to war with the wen sect even if he has to threaten his father with acknowledging all of his bastards as proper siblings in public to do it (jin zixuan)

lan wangji just says “mn” and makes various muted, distressed expressions, but mianmian thinks he’s touched.

“are your brother and uncle alright?” she asks, when she’s set his broken leg and forced pain medication down his throat.

“brother escaped with our sacred texts,” lan wangji says. “uncle is... unwell.”

mianmian knows lan wangji hates touch but the way he says it, with this horrible little frown, emoting more than she’s ever seen him, his barely suppressed anger and grief literally making his hands shake into fists, mianmian can’t help it, she hugs him. “we’ll make them pay,” she swears into his shoulder, ruining the lines of his robes with how she clutches at them. “i promise you.”

jin zixuan awkwardly pats lan wangji’s shoulder, which is a lot for him and mianmian spares a moment to be proud of his growth.

unfortunately, wen chao seems to delight in torturing lan wangji on his injured leg and lan wangji refuses to show weakness, which both impresses mianmian and pisses her the fuck off. she approaches wen qing (and her still gorgeous ears, sigh) and asks her to tend to lan wangji, since she’s like actually a doctor. wen qing does bc she’s beautiful, intelligent, and kind and mianmian spends most of that night sighing deeply as she relates this to a significantly drugged lan wangji

the cave of the xuanwu goes about the same as you’d expect. wei wuxian saving her from getting her face branded off is pretty rad of him, though he could’ve just like knocked the brand away instead of throwing himself in front of it but whatever, you do you boo. when lan wangji gets left behind the two of them don’t even have to wait for jiang cheng to grumble and ask for their help, they’re already on their way to carp tower for an army, thank you very much

when they rescue wei wuxian and lan wangji and lan wangji immediately turns to walk back to cloud recesses on a broken leg mianmian says, “fuck no, that’s not happening, you’re getting medical attention and then someone will fly you back home, okay, wtf wangji, sit down.”

and lan wangji is a stubborn bitch so obvs he’s like no but he’s also severely starved, dehydrated, and injured, so it’s not like he can just shake off mianmian holding him down and this goes on long enough for wei wuxian to wake up and see mianmian touching lan wangji, and something in his poor little brain just like breaks and he demands says, “lan zhan, come back to lotus pier with us.”

his argument, as he explains it, is that lotus pier is closer (it’s not; they’re just as close to carp tower as lotus pier) and that it’s closer to gusu for when lan wangji has to return home (it’s not; same deal) but then jiang cheng starts yelling, possibly in support possibly not mianmian’s not sure, and jin zixuan starts getting awkward, probably about the whole golden army behind him bc he’s a nerd and hates being overdressed at functions (this is basically the same thing), and mianmian looks at lan wangji and she sees--

something. she isn’t sure what exactly, but lan wangji looks at wei wuxian as he argues with his brother and he presses his lips into a thin line in the way that means he wants to smile and mianmian thinks, oh. maybe wei wuxian isn’t completely unrequited in his lan wangji obsession.

growing up in lanling, she knows how to use information to her advantage, so she immediately says, “young masters wei and jiang, what a great idea. lanling’s disciples would be pleased to accompany you and second young master lan to lotus pier to ensure everyone’s safe arrival.”

everyone splutters, indignant, confused, awkward (jiang cheng, wei wuxian, and jin zixuan, respectively) but lan wangji narrows his eyes at mianmian and doesn’t try to convince her to let him walk to gusu again, so she counts it as a win.

sect leader jiang and his wife seem surprised and annoyed, respectively, to be taking in so many guests, but sect leader jiang merely smiles pleasantly and directs them to some guest quarters and mianmian and wei wuxian ask, simultaneously, for doctors to tend to lan wangji and wei wuxian makes a face at her and mianmian sighs to herself that she really is too gay to be in the middle of his thing with lan wangji.

turns out, walking a lot and fighting a cannibalistic turtle on a broken leg doesn’t do wonders for healing. lan wangji is also the worst patient ever, he keeps trying to sneak out and get up even though word came from his brother that he’s safe and alright and that cloud recesses is starting to rebuild after qinghe nie and lanling jin came to its aid and pushed out the wen

but with the combined efforts of mianmian, jin zixuan, and wei wuxian (and even jiang yanli at one point, bc who could say no to her soup??) they manage to get lan wangji to just rest for a fucking second, really which results in the jin disciples and lan wangji staying in lotus pier for longer than anyone could’ve expected

mianmian spends most of her time (when she isn’t forcing lan wangji to just fucking stay in bed) working with the jiang disciples, practicing archery, sword forms, and mooning after all the beautiful women here.

(”lan wangji, i know she’s scary, but have you seen madam yu? she could whip me with zidian and i’d thank her” “luo-guniang, please don’t ask madam yu to whip you” OR “lan wangji, i’m almost positive madam yu’s maids are a thing, do you think they’d let me join them just like once” “luo-guniang, could you please pass me my sword?” “why” “i’d like to put myself out of this misery” OR “she made me soup. lan wangji. lan wangji, i know you’re not sleeping, wake up, you have to listen to me, this soup”)

they end up staying so long that when wang lingjiao shows up threatening a child about a kite while sect leader jiang is away, she has a lot more to deal with than madam yu. since none of this had been a “sanctioned visit” no one actually knew that there was nearly an entire troop of jin disciples staying at lotus pier, so when the wens attack they are sorely unprepared for what they’re going to face.

(and ofc lan wangji breaks out of bed heroically and keeps madam yu from whipping wei wuxian, which means they aren’t down one of their most powerful fighters and mianmian has to suffer through the moon eyes they’re making at one another in the middle of a battle no less, she knew wei wuxian had no shame but she’d been hoping lan wangji would have some)

after the wen attack (and defeat) on lotus pier and the jin’s inarguable part in it, the war starts in earnest. lan wangji, after his long rest, heals fine and goes back to gusu to help rebuild his sect and plan for war, and mianmian and jin zixuan return to carp tower to plan as well, ignoring jin guangshan and focusing instead on his general to ensure lanling supplies necessary aid in the war effort

and war is always shitty, of course, and mianmian hates watching her sect family die on the battlefield, hates waiting for updates after every battle to see who’s still alive, hates the politics and jin guangshan trying to wheedle his way out of fighting when there’s fucking lives on the line

(and she could never know, how much easier it is, with yunmeng jiang at its full strength, with one of the brightest minds of their generation there to plot and help, with two of the best fighters not out searching for someone and instead focused on the front)

they reach nightless city after months of fighting and mianmian is ready to just fucking stab wen ruohan herself when they’re suddenly trapped. blocked in on all sides by puppets, their fallen soldiers rising again to turn on them, and it--it looks like they’re gonna die.

“this sucks,” she says to lan wangji, stifling her fear and choking it down. “i never even got to kiss a girl.”

lan wangji just says “mn.”

jin zixuan, beside them, says, “i was an idiot about jiang-guniang.”

lan wangji just says, “mn.”

then wei wuxian pulls out a fucking flute and a-- floating piece of metal?  the army of puppets and corpses stops advancing, held in place by-- music, apparently? and wen ruohan emerges from his lair, black energy falling off him in waves, wei wuxian the idiot flies forward to meet him, gets wen ruohan’s hand around his throat for his trouble.

lan wangji yells, “wei ying!” and mianmian thinks, really not fair that lan wangji is gonna get a boyfriend before i get a girlfriend

and then wen ruohan gets stabbed by jin zixuan’s half brother of all people. wen ruohan, along with his puppets and wei wuxian, fall to the ground. lan wangji rushes forward to catch wei wuxian, mianmian runs after him, finds herself in company with jin zixuan and jiang cheng. when they get there, wei wuxian is barely conscious but he’s-- he’s fucking grinning up at lan wangji from the cradle of lan wangji’s arms

“lan zhan,” he says, “you caught me.”

lan wangji nods, says, “mn,” which is basically his equivalent of i’ll always catch you, wei ying.

“really,” mianmian says aloud, “it’s so unfair.”

the aftermath of the war is more annoying than the war itself, what with all the politics and in-fighting and jin guangshan trying to be the biggest dick there ever was. jin guangshan tries to name himself chief cultivator in wen ruohan’s stead but nie mingjue suggests jiang fengmian instead and the lan sect backs him. jin guangshan tries to demonize the wens but at wei wuxian’s loud rebuttal and sect leader jiang’s backing (which is then backed by both gusu lan and qinghe nie) he’s once again shouted down. and then jin guangshan tries to propose to jiang-guniang for his son and the poor woman just seems so awkward and her father doesn’t seem to know what to say and--

mianmian elbows jin zixuan whose eyes widen ridiculously but, after another, harder hit, he suddenly stands. all eyes go to him, which mianmian knows he hates, but he bows to his father, then jiang yanli, and says, “jiang-guniang, forgive my father’s impertinence. this is not the time or place to be making such an offer, but he--” jin zixuan winces visibly. “--he knows of my feelings and wishes to make his foolish son happy. please, do not feel the need to respond.”

then he promptly sits down, flushing down to his neck, and mianmian shares a disbelieving glance with lan wangji from across the horrible nightless city palace room.

she’d really only meant for him to suggest jiang yanli answer privately, at a later time, but wow, jin zixuan really went for it. also no way jin guangshan knows his son has fallen in love with jiang yanli, so nice save face there. maybe he has been paying attention in all of their etiquette and political espionage classes.

jiang yanli flushes way prettier than jin zixuan and nods politely, stands and bows and thanks the jin clan for being considerate in this time of turmoil, perhaps they can discuss this matter at a later date (jin zixuan looks like he nearly faints at this, and mianmian feels vindicated in all her forlorn ranting. overreacting her ass)

when everything has been settled, wen qing has been appointed the new sect leader of qishan wen with promises to return land to those who lost it and pay reparations to the hurt civilians, as well as have the yin iron destroyed for good. during the final ceremony where all the sects have tea and pledge to be loyal to one another (until the next great war, of course) mianmian leans close to lan wangji and sighs, “her ears look even lovelier with her hair tied back by her new sect leader hairpiece.”

lan wangji says “mn” because he’s a cut sleeve in love with wei wuxian and has nothing even closely resembling taste.

mianmian, on her own, decides to make them both happy. before the jin clan departs from nightless city, she goes up to wei wuxian and asks for a moment of his time. wei wuxian seems confused but follows and, once they’re alone, he says, “mianmian, are you about to get me into bed, because i must tell you that i am a respectable young cultivator and you’ll need to marry me before--”

mianmian gives him her best unimpressed look (she’s had much practice with it, thank you jin zixuan) and cuts him off with, “i like women.” 

wei wuxian’s eyes go wide. “but you and lan zhan--”

she cuts him off again before he can say something so stupid she has to stop talking to him to refrain from breaking all laws of propriety. “look,” she says, “you’re friends with wen qing. now that she’s sect leader, your brother can’t go after her. i, on the other hand, very much can. if you promise to figure out a way for me and her to get close, i’ll tell you a secret you’ll like very much.”

wei wuxian seems hesitant for all of half a second before he breaks. “tell me.”

“do you promise?”

wei wuxian raises three fingers. “promise.”

“on your sister’s life?”

begrudgingly, wei wuxian nods.

“on her soup?”

“just get on with it!”

mianmian smirks, pushes onto her tiptoes, and whispers the secret into wei wuxian’s ear. with that, she returns to the pavilion where all the sects mingle as they wait to depart, wei wuxian trailing behind her in a daze, his mouth hanging open.

lan wangji, who had been watching since mianmian asked wei wuxian for a moment to talk, frowns nearly imperceptibly. mianmian grins at him and his frown grows.

ah, whatever. she walks over to him, unbothered by the quickly growing alarm in his eyes. once next to him, she turns around to see wei wuxian staring unabashedly. her smile only widens.

“you’re going to thank me for this,” she says.

wei wuxian shakes himself, his eyes focusing, and immediately starts walking towards them.

lan wangji, voice flat but wavering, asks, “luo-guniang, what did you do?”

mianmian laughs, says, “i get to give a speech at your wedding,” and walks away just as wei wuxian reaches them.

(she does, actually, give a speech at their wedding. she may or may not be drunk during it, jin zixuan gets embarrassed for her, and she starts tearing up and has to hide it in the shoulder of her wife’s lovely well-tailored robes. it’s alright, though, wen qing doesn’t mind)

EDIT: now on AO3 with a real fic version from lwj’s pov!

[ptergwen]

smoke and mirrors

⇢ richkid!tom x richkid!reader ⇠

w/c: 4.1k

warnings: swearing, drinking, light angst, and implied smut

summary: because of your mother’s insistence on a pristine family image and tom’s messy one, you deny your true feelings for him

a/n: ok ok ok the pics of tom in monaco really made me think and i had to get everything out of my system so here we are! thank you and enjoy x

-

your living room is engulfed by a hushed chatter that comes from far too many guests. half the people, you hardly know. it’s overcrowded, superficial, and the last place you want to be. it’s one of your mother’s get-togethers, as she likes to call them. these things are always far from the casual affairs they sound like.

weeks go into planning, caterers and decorators making themselves at home in yours. the family’s image is everything to your mom, so being a good hostess is her top priority. ironically, she’s more concerned with throwing her gatherings than raising you. so much for family, huh?

the only reason you agreed to make an appearance tonight is that tom might do the same. he’s a really good friend, someone you’ve been able to count on through all the mess that is your lives. you met in high school, when he moved from london to the states. his dad was offered a job promotion he couldn’t pass up. plus, tom and his brothers would be receiving a stellar private education here in america.

it was a win for everyone, especially you. the freckle faced boy who got lost on his way to english class became your closest confidant. tom’s company is such a sweet escape. he’s not interested in opera or the stock market like most people you meet are. he sneaks you out to go on walks at dawn and does shots with you until you can’t stand straight.

as you two continue to grow together, revelations about yourselves have come to light. what you want beyond your inheritances, who you want beyond friendship. you figured out the second part on a faithful night recently. tom showed up to your place with a bottle of tequila. after you drank it down through lots of lime chasers and giggles, he kissed you. you didn’t kiss back.

your heart said to go for it, but your mind pulled you back in. you were so shocked and overcome with new feelings, you froze up. that, and you’d infuriate your mother. although she cares about tom a great deal, she loathes his public figure. he’s always getting papped in places and with people he shouldn’t be. the two of you together would just destroy her.

you still want to please your mom at the end of the day, no matter how deep under your skin she gets.

tom immediately apologized and tried play it off as him being drunk. you grew up with him, became part of each other’s families, which means you know him well enough to know he was lying. he meant every second his lips were on yours.

what you need to do now is something you’ve meant to for a while. the only problem is that you’re stuck at your mother’s party, and tom hasn’t shown up yet.

“y/n, darling,” your mom calls for your attention. she’s dragged you into a conversation with some bloggers, but you haven’t spoken a word. “why don’t you tell us about your trip to spain last summer?” she plasters on her award winning grin and squeezes your shoulder. it’s time to play along.

“oh, it was beautiful,” you halfheartedly reply, more to the bloggers than her. they nod in clear interest. one jots down notes. “we went for a few weeks and visited a bunch of different cities. i’d love to go back sometime.” the typical press formatted answer earns your mom’s approval. you’re off the hook. your eyes start to wander around the room, hoping to set on tom.

“we?” the woman taking notes asks. must everyone pry? “my friend and i,” you shortly reply. you’re standing up on your tiptoes to see over the crowd. you’d think six inch heels would do the trick. “i’m actually looking for him right now, so if you’ll excuse me,” you offer a polite smile and silently pray they won’t ask who. unfortunately, your wishes don’t come true.

the other blogger, a short and stubborn man, speaks up. “just a friend you say? come on, tell us. who’s the lucky fella?” he inquires. your mother raises a firm eyebrow, signaling for you not to.

tom has a reputation for his reckless behavior. it’s your mom’s worst nightmare when the media associates your names under most circumstances. you’re representing her, so she does whatever she can to control how you’re seen. you’re constantly in the papers, being a young socialite and all. it sucks.

“he’d like to stay out of the tabloids, sorry,” you cover for tom, on your mom’s behalf. “i should really go. it was nice meeting you.” the bloggers don’t bother to hide their disappointment as you shake their hands. your mother rubs your back in approval. “thank you for doing that. we’ll talk later,” she speaks lowly. “bye, mom!” you practically make a run for it. 

weaving through the sea of people, you end up by the main entrance. it’s hard not to get lost even though it’s your house. the place is packed with girls just a couple years older than you, wearing pearls around their necks. men’s strong colognes flow through the air. you’re in a form fitting red slip dress and louboutins yourself.

smoke and mirrors is what they call it. you show the pretty parts to distract from your ugly ones.

harrison suddenly comes waltzing in with a lady on either of his arms. you’d expect nothing less. he’s tom’s best friend besides you, considering the failed kiss attempt didn’t change that. their parents worked at the london branch of the same company. they each came to the states and met you. you happily introduced them to your world, helping to make it theirs as well.

“haz!” you meet him at the front door. he’s smirking while he leads the women inside. “fancy seeing you here, isn’t it?” he jokes. “very funny. i died laughing,” you deadpan, curiously eyeing harrison’s plus two. they merely giggle. “listen, have you seen tom anywhere? if he’s coming.” you’re fighting back a frown. “why wouldn’t he be?” harrison questions in a more serious tone this time.

“long story. you have guests to entertain, so i won’t get into it now,” you decide and manage a small smile instead. he perks up. “right. i’ll let you know if i see him?” nodding, you give him a wave goodbye. “enjoy yourself.” “you too, love. cheers!” the girls lean into him, harrison wiggling his eyebrows at you. he’s ridiculous.

hours pass by without word of tom. it isn’t like him to miss an event, especially if you’re in attendance. you despise these exhausting nights, and he’s supposed to be your rock during them. he should have his arm draped around your shoulders, whispering silly remarks to you while you hide out somewhere. you miss him more than you thought possible.

you’re just about to give up when you spot nikki ushering her husband inside. behind them follows tom, clad in a grey checkered suit with his locks perfectly tousled. he’s here. you waited the whole night, and he finally came.

tom kisses his mom on the cheek before strutting over to the drink table, not without a few reporters hassling him. they’re probably looking for another holland scandal to break. he declines their requests for comments on this and opinions on that, instead pulling up a chair next to harrison. the two exchange hugs and fix themselves glasses of champagne, you watching their encounter.

harrison fills tom in on the drama he’s missed tonight while they sip their drinks. tom keeps forcing smiles that don’t reach his eyes. he’s fiddling with his fingers, leg bouncing up and down steadily. those are the telltale signs he needs saving. however awkward it may be, you’re going to have to break your silence. it was bound to happen eventually.

“mate, i’m telling you. she fit her entire first right up her-“ “boys,” you cut into harrison’s story, greeting him and tom. his face tints deep pink upon your arrival. “don’t let me stop you. finish your charming anecdote,” you encourage him and subtly glance over at tom. he’s biting back a grin as he sets his elbows on the table.

“not with a lady present. let’s just… pretend you didn’t hear that,” harrison chuckles nervously and hops to his feet. “i’m gonna leave you two to chat.” humming, you move to take his chair. tom sucks in a breath. “what happened to the girls you brought?” you wonder. “they left. said they got bored,” harrison admits, tom stifling laughter. he elbows his friend for that.

“oh, fuck off. i’ll see you later,” he mopes, flicking your arm for good measure. tom salutes him and grabs his nearly empty champagne. “so long, bruv.”

it’s just you and tom now, seated side by side, silently so. he has no intentions of speaking first. he’s too embarrassed, and you don’t blame him. this is on you. you clear your throat before starting the conversation.

“can i top you off?” you tap the bottom of his glass with a tiny smile. tom shakes his head. “i’m alright, thanks.” he finishes the last sip and sets it down, turning to face you. your smile has vanished. “wasn’t sure you were gonna make it. i’m glad you did,” you change the subject. as if he’s considering the sincerity behind your words, tom furrows his eyebrows.

“mum wanted us to. she dragged me and dad straight off the golf course,” he explains and clasps his hands in his lap. his fingers interlock with each other. you fight off the urge to replace them with yours. “we would’ve been here sooner, but the paps are camped outside.” the hint of a smile forms on his lips, at last. “guess it’s not often you get the town’s finest under one roof.”

“you think i’m one of the town’s finest?” you tease, resting your chin in your palm. something flashes behind tom’s eyes. he looks right into yours, scooting closer. “absolutely. you’re the most eligible bachelorette in this whole building.” you allow a toothy grin to spread across your face. “tommy, stop it. you’re too nice to me.”

the nickname is music to his ears. tom looks you up and down, licking his lips simultaneously. “no, seriously. you look gorgeous,” he muses, you pushing at his chest. he exhales a breathy laugh, and you giggle yourself. “red’s definitely your color.” “reverse card. you wear it way better than i do,” you insist. your fingers tug at the collar of his suit. “too bad you didn’t match me.”

you’re relieved you two can talk like you usually do, light flirting and good vibes. it might not be so hard to put the kiss behind you. well, you can’t go on pretending it didn’t happen. you have to at least discuss the fiasco. tom should know why you didn’t reciprocate, then you can take it from there. whether he still has feelings for you, assuming he ever did, will depend on how that turns out.

“not to ruin the fun, but we still have to talk,” you murmur, tom’s body stiffening across from yours. he’s not sure he’s ready to discuss that. “can it wait? we’re at a party,” tom reminds you, running a hand through his styled locks. “yeah, my mother’s. don’t tell me you’re having a good time,” you playfully chastise him. he simply shrugs. “hardly. you’re the best part.”

you ignore the butterflies roaming about your body.

“you won’t mind a quick convo, then. it is with me,” you attempt to persuade him and place a hand on his knee. tom coughs a bit too loudly, the contact surprising him. “you know what? i think i’ll take you up on that drink first,” he decides with a mustered up smile. “coming right up.” you pat his leg before taking his glass. he chews on his lower lip while you poor the bubbling liquid. that was certainly… odd.

you slide tom his champagne back with an exaggerated wink. tom scoffs at this. “mm, thanks. care to join me?” he brings the alcohol to his lips, eyes never leaving yours. your mother specifically said no drinking tonight, since the press would be here. screw your mother, though. “please. could you hand me a glass?” you eagerly grab the champagne bottle. tom searches for an empty cup next to him.

you two are unspoken drinking buddies at this point.

“here you are, darling,” tom drawls, holding out the glass for you. every time he calls you that, you completely melt. “thanks, tommy,” you purr in response. you’re finally pouring your own drink when someone taps you on the shoulder, and hard. you look behind you to find your mother standing with her hands on her hips, less than thrilled. speak of the devil.

“hello, mother. can i help you?” you make sure to ask rudely. she responds with a smile that’s obviously fake. if tom weren’t here, you’d be getting scolded. “yes, my darling. those bloggers from earlier were hoping you’d finish your interview.” your mom shakes your shoulder in a motherly way. you squint up at her. “didn’t they leave hours ago-“ “they’re back,” she sharply informs you.

she’s lying, and you have a hunch as to why.

frowning, you hold tom’s hand in both of yours. “sorry, this won’t take long. why don’t you go find tuwaine?” you suggest instead. “he’s around here somewhere.” tom gives you an understanding nod and laces your fingers together, even if it’s only for a moment. “must be chatting up some producers or whatnot. i’ll see if i can help.” he’s such an incredible friend to everyone. he deserves the same from you.

“thomas, so lovely to see you,” your mom interrupts. tom stands up, kissing both her cheeks out of courtesy. “you, too. what a wonderful party. thank you for having us.” despite what the rest of the world believes, his manners are impeccable. “of course. give nikki my best, will you?” your mom puts her hands on his shoulders. he grins at her. “definitely. take care, mrs. y/l/n.” “always a pleasure,” she states, nudging you to come along with her.

you shoot tom one last apologetic look as your mother pulls you along and towards the crowd.

tom is no idiot. he’s well aware how she really feels about him.

when a swarm of guests is surrounding you, your mom lets go. you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest. “why would you do that? i haven’t seen tom in days.” she sighs without a care. “isn’t it time you branch out? expand your social circle?” her manicured fingers ruffle your hair. you push away her touch. “i’m social enough. we were in the middle of something really important.”

you begin to walk away, but your mother takes your arm. “whatever you’re about to do, it’s a mistake. he’ll make a fool of you,” she practically spits. yanking your arm from her grasp, you laugh bitterly. “of me, or of the family name? look around, mom.” you gesture to the spot beside her where your dad should be. “as far as i’m concerned, i have no family except tom. i’m gonna go check on him.”

you’re gone before your mom can stop you. she simply stands there, utterly mortified by what you said.

you run around the house to find tom, stumbling in your heels and not giving a fuck. you’d truly meant the part about him being your family. all the holland’s, honestly. they’re the most genuine and caring souls, and you don’t want to lose the one you’re closest to because of your mother’s delusions. 

tom is in a circle with harrison and tuwaine, the three of them chuckling amongst themselves. you’d hate to bug him, but this can’t wait anymore.

“uh, tom?” you mumble his name, appearing behind him. he steps away with another quiet laugh. “hey, y/n/n. that was quick, hm?” your face gives away your distress. his whole demeanor shifting, tom reaches for your hands. “what is it, love? is something the matter?” “just… come with me,” you croak out.

you manage to smile at harrison and tuwaine, dropping one of tom’s hands so you can lead him upstairs. they each return the smile and share curious looks.

following behind you, tom keeps your hand tight in his own. he’d thought you were going to grill him about the kiss that barely happened. it seems like this is a much more pressing matter. his outburst of emotions can be discussed another time. now, it’s time to deal with yours.

you drag tom into the first room on the second floor, which is your dad’s study. he’s away on business this weekend, so he luckily couldn’t make the party. tom sits down in the office chair. you sit up on the desk, in front of him. your lip quivers the second his worried features come into view.

“y/n/n, what’s going on? why are we in here?” tom wonders, his tone soft. your heart clenches. “i- i wanted us to have some privacy when i told you this,” you sniffle out and blink back the tears forming. you’re sort of shaken from the conversation with your mother, and mostly because you have no idea how tom will react to your confession.

his hands come to stay on your thighs, right below your dress. they feel warm against your bare skin.

“tell me what? i’m listening, yeah?” tom gazes up at you with so much love. “lay it all out for me.” god, he’s fucking amazing. if only you knew where to start. “do you, um…” you trail off, letting your tears subside and words settle. “do you remember when your family made your big debut in town?”

a grin replaces tom’s frown, painting his beautiful face. “how could i forget? you made it quite memorable.” he traces circles on your thigh and elicits a giggle from you. “i spilled a whole thing of soda on your white fucking button down,” you recount with a lighthearted sigh. “right before your dad was supposed to introduce you to everyone, too.”

tom presses his tongue into his cheek to hold back another grin. “took ages to get it out. dad went mad when i didn’t show.” he cocks his head to the side, you leaning back on your hands. “you held me hostage in the laundry room so you could do that bloody stain stick.” your mouth drops open in mock offense. “i had to clean up my mess! i wasn’t gonna let the world meet you covered in pepsi.”

that was one of your earliest memories together. the holland’s threw a party and invited everyone who was willing to attend. they had been hoping to properly introduce themselves to the town, and this was their way of doing so. although yours and tom’s friendship was fairly new, you spent all night together because you had experience with such events.

tom’s dad was making a speech to thank the guests for coming. you and him listened from the snack table, until his name was called. he rushed to go up there while you were pouring yourself a drink. he’d bumped into you, and the bottle ended up all over him. you snuck tom right off to his laundry room.

you’d felt terrible as he stood there shirtless and blushing, you aggressively swiping his button down with a stain stick.

“why do you bring that up?” tom questions and continues circling your skin. you purse your lips. “i dunno. it was the last party i actually enjoyed,” you admit, putting your hand over his that rests on your thigh. “like to reminisce when i’m suffering through one of my mother’s.” his eyes shift to where your hands are laced. “i see,” he affirms. “so, is that… all you wanted to talk about?” “not even close,” you laugh out.

a burst of courage coursing through your body, you say it. “when you kissed me the other night-“ “i won’t do it again,” tom cuts in, trying to avoid the rejection he thinks you’ll give him. “it was a mistake, and i’m so sorry. our friendship is more important than my feelings.” you seem excited to hear that, though it’s not for the reason tom expects. “you do have feelings for me?”

he’d forgotten about his i was drunk excuse.

“um, yeah. i do,” he admits, cheeks rosy and lip caught in his teeth. “but, i’ll learn to put them aside, if that’s what’s best.” “no, no. it isn’t,” you dismiss him and put your free hand on his chest. “i love you, tom. that’s what i was really trying to tell you.” your words bring an instant grin to his face. he chuckles in disbelief, standing from the chair.

“fuck, thank god. that’s all i’ve ever wanted to hear.” he’s between your legs now, his hands moving up to your hips. you’re beaming at him as your arms snake around his neck. a burning question comes to tom’s mind. “hang on. why didn’t you kiss me back, then?” he almost whispers, thumb brushing over your hipbone. “this is gonna sound weird, but… my mom,” you reluctantly let out.

“you’re gonna have to elaborate,” tom prompts you and raises an eyebrow. you can’t hold back your eye roll. “she’s never been a fan of the person you are in the media.” his lips form a line. “i gathered.” your fingers tangle in his curls at the nape of his neck reassuringly. “i was subconsciously scared i would be letting her down in some way, if we were together.”

tom allows your hands to work their way up to his scalp. he exhales contentedly as you play with his ever so soft hair. “i understand, she’s intimidating. what’s changed that brilliant mind of yours about coming clean?” your nose scrunches up when he pokes one of your temples. “oh, yeah. i yelled at her earlier ‘cuz she stole me away from you.” his face lights up. “sexy.” “shut up,” you groan. “someone had to tell her off.”

“good thing it got to be you,” tom agrees with a squeeze at your hip. “‘m proud of you, y/n/n. it’s not easy, standing up to mummy dearest.” you tug on his hair. “like you’d know. nikki is a saint.” “that’s what she’ll have you believe,” he says under his breath, you gasping. his lips turn up in a smirk. “on that note… i love you, too.”

“would’ve been embarrassing if you didn’t say it back,” you acknowledge with a cheesy smile. tom dips his head down to rest his forehead against yours. “yeah, yeah. save the attitude for your mum.” your legs easily wrap around his waist, tom’s breath hot as it hits your face. “let’s give that kiss another go,” you mewl. he doesn’t hesitate to reply. “with pleasure.”

tom’s lips land on yours, you kissing back right away. he smiles into it as your lips gently move together. “about fucking time,” he grumbles, your hands situating in his chocolate curls once again. he’s savoring every second you touch him, kiss him, love him. the taste of your mouth is one he’s craved for longer than you could imagine.

it doesn’t take long for things to heat up, you messing with tom’s hair and tom rubbing your hips. you lay back on the desk as his tongue enters your mouth. holding you by your waist, tom hovers over you. his tongue tangles with yours in a deep kiss. between that and his fingers beginning to massage your thigh, you’re done for. you’re ready to take this a step further by the time he’s kissing down your neck.

“tommy?” you grab onto his shoulders, your head back. his lips detach from your skin with a grin. “yeah, love? ‘s everything okay?” he coos, pressing a final kiss to your collarbone. “more than.” you tilt his chin up to peck his lips. “you wouldn’t happen to have a condom, would you? just thinking ahead.” he laughs breathlessly, reaching into his suit pocket.

“conveniently enough, i do. not sure your dad would like me fucking you on his desk, though.” tom sets his hand on your leg that’s still hooked around his waist. “my room’s always available. carry me?” you make grabby hands and bat your lashes. he hoists you up by your waist, not lifting you just yet. “that would break the news of us, no? your mum’s gonna go apeshit.” he keeps his arms around you, chuckling.

“let her. besides, i know a couple of bloggers that would love to announce our status update.” you peck tom’s lips, grinning as you do. you’re suddenly in the air and being picked up by tom. the surprise of it makes you squeal, clutching onto his broad shoulders instinctively. he gives you the look of adoration that’s reserved for you only.

“we’ll go pop a few bottles with everyone, then we’re celebrating on our own.”

[thearvariblues]

A Man of Easy Virtues

Just another ‘I’m so sorry but I couldn’t resist’ fics I wrote instead of, you know, doing the important things I should be doing.

This time it’s based on @likecastle‘s post about the kind of pants Jaskier should be wearing (and isn’t wearing, obviously) in the show and all the fanfics.

Warning for almost underage slutty bard (don’t worry, though, he’s eighteen, so definitely not a kid) and no Geralt in sight.

And yes, there will definitely be a part 2.

*

“You don’t understand,” Jaskier sighs and looks down at the tiny, fat tailor in front of him. “I just need a pair of pants that stays up without a hundred tiny ribbons.”

“They aren’t ribbons, young man,” the tailor says. “They are actually called–”

“I don’t care what they’re called. I don’t want them anywhere near me.”

“How would your pants stay up, then?” the tailor frowns.

“I don’t know. You’re the expert!”

The tailor sighs and lifts his hands to fix Jaskier’s partially unbuttoned doublet.

“Young man. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” Jaskier mutters.

“Eighteen,” the man repeats. “Are you aware, young man, that what you’re asking for is very inappropriate?”

“But very practical. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get into appropriate clothes when you’re in a hurry?”

“There are things you cannot hurry up, young man. This is one of them.”

“Have you ever tried telling that to an angry cuckold?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier bites his lower lip. “Could you at least consider–”

“No.”

“I will pay you double–”

“Still no. There,” the man smiles, straightening Jaskier’s collar. “Much better now. Your chemise is meant to be hidden. You wouldn’t want people to think that you are a man of easy virtues, would you?”

“Oh, no,” Jaskier mutters. “That would be horrible…”

*

“Fuck, yes,” Jaskier moans as a pair of eager hands slip into his doublet. “Please.”

“Mhmh,” his lover’s deep voice answers, impatiently tugging at Jaskier’s chemise. “More skin. Right fucking now.”

“I actually don’t think,” Jaskier murmurs between the kisses, “that it will be possible to… Oh, yes.”

The hands slip lower and try to get into Jaskier’s pants. They don’t succeed. The man – the Witcher, for fuck’s sake – growls.

Which is fair, Jaskier assumes, because while the young student’s fingers are roaming freely over the scarred torso and firm buttocks, Jaskier is still fully clothed. And it is going to take forever before he’s naked.

“Drowner’s shrunken ball sack,” the Witcher swears, tugging at one of the points holding Jaskier’s clothes together. “I’d sooner get into a noonwraith’s rotting cunt than your asshole!”

“Yeah, it’s a little complicated, but if you let go for a little while–”

“Oh, fuck off,” the man grunts and before Jaskier even blinks, there’s a long knife in the man’s hand. And before Jaskier manages to open his mouth to protest, the man makes short work of all the points and unceremoniously throws Jaskier onto the bed, grinning.

“Well, fuck me,” Jaskier whispers, feeling his blood rush straight to his crotch (well, at least the tiny amount of blood that wasn’t there already).

“That’s the plan,” the man nods, cutting Jaskier’s chemise open. “The name’s Lambert, in case you forgot. Because I expect you to scream it until your voice is fucking raw.”

“Yes, sir,” Jaskier purrs.

The Witcher smiles.

“Good boy.”

*

“Melitele’s tits!” Jaskier swears, staring at his pants in disbelief.

Lambert lifts his head from the pillow and raises an eyebrow.

“Problem?” he asks.

“There is, actually. You completely ruined them!” Jaskier growls and throws his currently useless pants at him. “How the fuck am I supposed to get back home?”

“Oh, come on. I was careful not to cut anything but those motherfucking tiny ribbons. It’s not the end of the world. What do you need them for, anyway? I mean apart from driving potential lovers insane with lust.”

“Well, for nothing important. Just holding the fucking thing up,” Jaskier sighs and puts on his doublet, which is his only piece of clothing that’s intact. He’s slowly coming to terms with walking home with his ass bare. Again. Third time this week.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Lambert frowns. “Shit. Sorry, I guess. Would you like my spare pair?”

“Does it have the points, or did you cut them off when you urgently needed to take a shit?” Jaskier smirks.

“I honestly don’t know what the fuck are you even talking about.” Lambert gets up and after a few seconds of rummaging through his bag he pulls out a pair of worn-out leather pants and throws them to Jaskier. “Here. Take them. Guess what. They stay up on their own.”

“They… do?” Jaskier whispers, his eyes going comically wide.

“Honey, when werewolves attack your camp while your Cat Witcher boyfriend is balls-deep in your ass, you don’t have time to tie some fucking ribbons.”

“Cat Witcher…” Jaskier blinks.

As if on cue, the room’s door open and a lean, long-haired blond man rushes in, slams the door closed behind him and starts dragging a large chest in front of it.

“Oh, you’re done. Good,” he says to Lambert. “We need to leave. Now.”

“Aiden, I swear by Vesemir’s flaccid cock…” Lambert groans. “What did I ask you – no, beg you not to do tonight?!”

“I swear I didn’t cheat this time!” the man says, leaning with his full weight against the chest just as someone starts to bang on the door. “It’s not my fault I’m so fucking good at gwent, is it?”

“Good at gwent my ass. I could beat you drunk if you didn’t have another whole pack stuffed into your sleeves.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lambert. It’s not a whole pack. Just like… twenty cards or something, usually.” The man grins at Jaskier. The doorknob rattles. “Hey, Lambert’s fuck of the day. I’d suggest you start getting dressed.”

“Just how many did you manage to piss off this time?” Lambert asks, already pulling his shirt over his head.

“Not many. I could deal with them in a matter of seconds, but you always say your brother doesn’t like it when Witchers murder innocent citizens.”

“You mean my brother the fucking Butcher of Blaviken?” Lambert laughs.

Jaskier looks up from fastening his (well, Lambert’s) pants and gapes at the two Witchers.

“Your brother,” he whispers. “Your brother is Geralt of–”

“Not now,” Lambert says. “We’re in a bit of a hurry. Tell me, Jaskier, have you ever jumped out of a window before?”

“Four times just this week. Mostly to escape jealous husbands. A jealous wife, in one case.”

“Good,” Aiden nods, letting go of the chest supporting the door and grabbing his bag. “Let’s jump.”

*

The tiny, fat tailor is staring at the pair of worn-out black leather pants laid out in front of him with polite disgust.

“Not possible,” he says for the fifth time.

“Let’s be absolutely clear here,” Jaskier smiles and his voice holds just a hint of a promise of some very unpleasant things that could hypothetically happen to the tiny man. “Do you know my name?”

“No, young man, and I wouldn’t care even if you were–”

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove,” Jaskier says calmly.

“Oh,” the man replies and he suddenly seems even smaller than before.

“I am willing to pay you twice your usual fee–”

“Sir, what you’re requiring is outrageous–”

“Three times.”

“I couldn’t possibly sully the name of my shop with such an immodest–”

“Four times your usual fee, and an opportunity to start a fashion revolution.”

The man closes his eyes and nods slowly.

“Four times my usual fee. You can keep the revolution. It’s not as if you can find another man willing to wear something so scandalous…”

*

In a month, almost every young man in Oxenfurt (and several young women) wears the same model of pants Jaskier does. It’s much more comfortable, and also much easier to get into if you happen to get caught naked in a bed you shouldn’t be in, making it an instant hit among the students.

When Jaskier jumps, completely dressed, out of yet another window, this time running from a father whose two sons he just fucked into the bed, he thinks that he definitely has to thank Lambert and Aiden properly the next time he sees them.

Or any other Witcher he meets until then.

They basically saved his life, didn’t they?

[neon-junkie]

Vanity is a Sin - Chpt.1

Summary: The last person you expected to fall for is that pretentious man, Javier Escuella, but maybe you're not so different from him after all?

Pairing: f!Reader x Javier Escuella

Word Count: 2709

Rating: SFW

Tags: Enemies to lovers, Slow burn, Arguments, Bickering, Denial of feelings, Reader has a lot of self-doubts.

Notes: I’ve wanted to write a Javier multi-chapter fic for aaaages, but wanted to do something different for it. So, enemies to lovers it is, my fave trope hehe, but we don’t see much of Javiers negative side, so let’s explore that :0

Next Chapter

It's another chilly day at Horseshoe Overlook. Despite your occasional shiver and constant goosebumps, you're thankful that you're still not stuck in Colter, but that still doesn't mean you can't wish to be somewhere warmer. It seems no matter how many layers you put on, you can't quite get warm, and you question how other gang members are walking around in their summer attire, especially Arthur.

You shiver again and accidentally manage to prick your finger with the needle you're using to sew somebody's patchy pants. "Fuck sake," you mutter under your breath, looking at your finger to inspect the damage. It's nothing, and you know it's nothing, but you're in a grumpy mood, so everything feels tenfold, especially the sting to your fingertip.

You sigh, looking up at the sky, questioning why whatever being that lives up there continues to rain on your parade. It's not just you that's in a bad mood, the whole camp seems off, but Dutch continues to attempt giving his many uplifting speeches whilst he poses in his tent with a cigar in hand, not lifting a finger to do even some basic camp chores.

He's doing the same now, and your eyes gaze over him as you stop staring at the sky. There he is, the man himself, the big boss, his voice cracking every so often; that always brings a smile to your face. Your eyes follow around the rest of the camp: Hosea is the only one stood listening to him. Molly's on the other side of her tent staring into her pocket mirror because for some reason, she no longer has to pull her weight. Bill is still asleep. Mary-Beth and Tilly are beside you, still sewing away. The O'Driscoll is still tied to the tree. Strauss is... doing whatever he does. And there's Javier, gussying himself up in Arthurs mirror, no surprise there.

You'll never understand how these boys get away with doing the bare minimum, whilst yourself and the other women are the only thing keeping this camp together. Everybody knows that if the women decided to up and leave in the night, the men would end up setting the camp on fire, probably attempting to cook their own dinner... no offence to Pearson. There's a fair few, such as Arthur and Hosea, who are able to survive on their own, but you've seen Arthur attempt to do tedious jobs before and just like you, he pricks his fingers every time he sews. At least Hosea has an excuse, being in his grey years, his bones not able to move as they used to, but he makes up for it in other ways.

But Javier? What does he do? Apart from prance around the camp in his designer crocodile boots, spending an hour shaving his moustache every morning... why does he even shave his moustache like that? You asked him once, and he replied "It rubs off from all the friction." Sure, Javier, because you're obviously a very wanted man.

Unfortunately, Mary-Beth and Tilly take quite a liking to him. They've confessed what you would view as sins before, saying they both have a soft spot for the man, to which you scoffed then laughed, and ended up choking from laughing too hard.

"Why are you laughing? I don't see why you two don't get along? He's real sweet and..." Mary-Beth had begun droning on, and you eventually interrupted her with a "Where do I start?"

Needless to say, neither of them agreed with any of your opinions of Javier, apart from him not pulling his weight as much as he makes out to. But oh, he plays guitar, so that means he doesn't have to do any chores because he blares out his music all hours of the night. You've told him to quit playing so you can sleep many times, seeing as your tent is right by the campfire, to which he always glares at you and plays louder. He once even had the audacity to wake Uncle up and begin shouting Ring-A-Dang-Do.

You took your revenge by waking up early and pouring water in his boots. He knew it was you the second he put them on, sighing and glaring at you, but not being confrontational for once. At least he started putting a curfew on his music after that.

You've been manifesting in your thoughts for a while now, not realizing your name is being called out. "Huh?" you almost yelp as somebody taps your shoulder.

"Are you alright?" Tilly asks. "You've been staring into the distance again, didn't even hear us callin' your name."

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine. I was just thinking," you explain as you turn your attention to them.

"About what?" Mary-Beth questions.

"Nothing that's worth my time."

"Oh, boys?" Tilly questions, making all three of you laugh.

"Unfortunately."

"Well, Mary-Beth and I are all finished here. We're gonna make ourselves look decent and head into town, you coming?"

"Yeah. Let me finish up this, and I'll meet you by the wagon," you reply.

"Alright."

The pair excuse themselves, heading over to their tents to begin looking 'presentable', even though you would happily argue with them about that. They always look incredible, flawless yet effortless, whereas you constantly feel like a drowned rat...

You watch as they wander off, saying hello to Javier, who's still stood in front of Arthurs mirror. He's not even having a shave, he's just been stood there checking himself out for the last ten minutes, or however long it's been. Your brows furrow and you force yourself to tilt your head down, focusing on your final stretch of sewing, eventually finishing up, so you can put them back on the laundry pile and begin getting ready for your day out.

Going into town with your girl friends is always relaxing, something to get you out of camp, when you're not trailing in and out on your own accord. Yes, you know damn-well how to shoot a gun, along with all your other basic survival skills like hunting and fishing. Dutch was reluctant to take you on heists at first, calling you "another Karen, a woman who wants to get her hands dirty when she's needed here."

Dutch wasn't expecting you to put your money where your mouth is, trailing back into camp a few days later with more than enough cash to keep the camp happy. Only that was somewhat of a waste of time now you look back on it, your share being lost somewhere in Blackwater, along with the rest of the camps hard work and progress. Back to square one, yet again...

The sound of a thud startles you, looking over your shoulder to see that the final crate has been loaded into the wagon. The shop helper gives you a wave, and you beckon him over to tip him; he pours out his thanks before going back inside.

"Back to camp?" you question as you turn your focus to Mary-Beth and Tilly, who nod in agreement.

With a flick of the reigns, the three of you begin leaving Valentine, only popping into town to grab a few camp supplies and treats for yourselves. You've fancied a new outfit for a while, and you're excited to try it on later, maybe make yourself look nice so you can... sit by the campfire...

What else is there to enjoy in camp?

The path you're following leads you straight back to Horseshoe Overlook, and you warn the girls of the bump before crossing over the train tracks. A familiar figure can be seen in the distance, and as they approach, you realize it's Arthur on his new mount. He pulls up beside you as you stop the wagon, tipping his hat to the three of you.

"Where are you going?" you question.

"Just headin' into town. I didn't know you girls had just been there," Arthur explains.

"We only went to pick up supplies. What are you going for?" Tilly questions.

"Javier and Charles wanted to meet me at the Saloon, said I'd drop by this afternoon. They must already be there."

"You should get going then, you know what Javier is like," you complain, the words slipping from your mouth.

Arthur laughs at your statement. "You're right," he agrees. "But you two will learn to get along one day, you've gotta if you're gonna be in the same camp together."

"Arthur, there are plenty of camp members that don't get along. You and Micah, for instance?"

"...Yeah, you're right," Arthur hums in frustration. "Forget I said that then... Well, I best be going."

"See you later," the three of you reply.

Arthur gives another little nod and taps his spurs, heading into town, whilst you whip your reigns again and begin your return to camp. 

 By the time you arrive, it's almost sundown, and your evening is spent unloading the wagon and scoffing down your dinner. The night is free to do as you please, so just like you told yourself earlier, you get changed into your new clothes and make yourself look presentable, taking a seat at the campfire with the others and joining in on their story telling.

The evening is going well, relaxing and peaceful for once, even with Uncles banjo playing. All until the sound of heavy hooves come thudding back into camp; you turn to see a handful of the gang members returning from their night in town, only they don't seem too happy. They're huffing and grumbling, nursing what appear to be wounds, and it's easy to piece everything together and realize that they been in a bar fight.

A few of your fellow camp members get up from their seats at the campfire to go and check on them, and as much as you do care, you don't want to overcrowd them. You get up and make your way over to Pearson's wagon, picking out another bottle to drink. You're spoilt for choice, a nice selection of whiskeys and gins at your service, something different from cheap, warm beer.

You pick up a bottle and begin reading the label, checking the alcohol percentage and debating how drunk you want to get tonight. You don't overhear the sound of footsteps approaching, your mind paying no attention to sounds like that as you hear them all the time, but the sound of somebody speaking directly behind you makes you jump.

"That for me?" they ask. You peer over your shoulder to see Javier standing there, his hand rubbing his chin where a bruise is beginning to form.

"Why would this be for you?" you scoff, turning your body to face him, the bottle in your hands.

"Your poor camp member has just been in a fight, yet you won't help nurse them?" Javier questions with a laugh.

"That's your own fault, plus I ain't your mother."

You begin to walk off, but the comment Javier makes forces you to stop in your tracks. "Mary-Beth and Tilly would."

"Go and ask them then," you roll your eyes, turning to face Javier again. Who does he think you are? He begins to softly laugh and the sound makes you gag, so artificial, just like the rest of him.

"But what if I want you to help me? Surely you don't dislike me that much."

"I do, so I'd suggest you ask them."

You try and walk away yet again, and Javier mutters something under his breath. "You'll learn to like me eventually." Another scoffing sound escapes your lips as you frown at him, leaning against Pearson's table and crossing your arms, your bottle in hand.

"You know, I've never seen you wear purple before. It suits you," you smirk.

"Oh, very funny," Javier says as he raises his eyebrows. He approaches you, his strides small and slow, stopping right before you. His hand moves away from his bruise, his skin turning a deeper purple as every second passes, but your eyes are drawn to his; They're dark and blown, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, staring into yours. He's too close for your liking, you can smell the tobacco in his system with every exhale, his breathing deep, still clearly worn out from the fight.

"What's your issue with me?" Javier asks. "I mean, I've never done anything to upset you, not that I know of, but you've always had something against me."

"I've told you before," you begin as you uncross your arms, placing your bottle down on the table and resting your hands on your hips. "You don't do shit around this camp. You'll drag a sloppy score in here and there, but your vanity distracts you from doing some proper work, chores and what-not."

"Vanity?" Javier repeats the word with a laugh. "There's no harm in looking good, at least you're putting some effort in tonight. Did you buy this today?" Javier asks as he goes to tough the fabric of your blouse, but you swat his hand away.

"You're as bad as Micah," you spit at him.

"Mhmm, we both know that's a lie. For starters, I do a lot more than him around here, and you know it-"

"Please, will the pair of you quit it already?" Dutch calls out as he approaches. He must have noticed the way you two were stood so close, squaring up to each other, both too egotistical to let the other talk them down.

Dutch puts his arm out between your bodies, lightly pushing both of you away, forcing you to take a few small steps back. "I've said before that you don't have to get along, but these pathetic arguments happen far too often. Either you both drop this, or I'll have to find a way to make you get along," Dutch threatens, and you know he'll stay true to his word.

You don't bother saying anything, glaring at Javier once more before turning heel and walking away. "You forgot your drink," Javier calls out to you.

"Seems I've lost my appetite," you call back, and you overhear Dutch sigh at your comment.

Part of you feels sick, and you're unsure if that's from the adrenaline pumping in your veins, or the nerves Javier has shaken into you. Why was he stood so close? Your noses were almost touching, and you wouldn't be surprised if he kissed you just to wind you up even more. You try to keep your mind clear as you enter your enclosed tent, taking off your makeup and getting ready for bed, but you can still feel Javier's hot breaths on your skin.

You debate having a towel bath, wanting to wipe away the sin of being so close to that irritating man, but you're already in bed with no motivation to move. As you roll over, the sound of his guitar grows outside, forcing you to place your head under the pillow in an attempt to drown the music out. He's a good musician, and you're happy to admit that, but why does everything about him have to be so... him?

The perfectly coordinated outfits, the way his steel toe boots are always shining, the effortless yet pristine ponytail he always wears, the confidence and vanity in everything he says. He's like one of those flawless characters you've found in awfully written books, no weaknesses or downfalls, no ugly days, everybody loves him, yet his artificialness makes you sick.

And he knows it makes you sick, and he loves to play on it. Tonight isn't the first time he's got up close and personal with you. You know he studies your every move, watching your body language, checking to see if blush grows on your cheeks, searching for your insecurities. The comment he made earlier is still on repeat in your mind... "at least you're putting some effort in tonight." What a smug bastard. He knows how low your self-esteem is, yet you weren't expecting him to pull a Micah and make a comment like that.

But this is what he wants. He wants it to settle in your brain, to weigh you down and make you feel even worse. You just have to not let that happen, but that's easier said than done...

[flowerflamestars]

I'm in a very angry-with-the-IC-and-Rhys-in-particular mood, and since I'm just rereading Daylight I was wondering, what is going through Rhysand's mind throughout the events of Daylight? Because it's basically his entire life CRUMBLING around him and I'd love to see the mental gymnastics he does to fit it all into his "I'm the good guy, actually" narrative. Or just his general reaction.

this is a FABULOUS question, thank you!

Daylight! Rhys is, in my opinion, the closest to a canonical (pre-acosf) character representation that I go for. He's so SO fucked up, and sublimating and burying all that trauma has, of course, failed, and it's all manifesting, in all these different directions.

To understand the level on which Rhys is losing his shit, it's important to go back to the very beginning: Rhysand, to Rhysand, is always, always the hero of the story. The down on his luck knight with truth in his heart. The struggling, just man.

He CANNOT seeing beyond himself for even a second. He casts himself in the most important role, as the only person whose personal consequences exist.

His mother, at probable great risk, takes him to Illyria to be trained- the precious, first-born, godly son of Night. To learn to fight- to learn, presumably, her culture- to see what that culture is reduced to, a harshness he will on day have the power to change. Rhys had to be, at some point, a great hope for Not High Fae denizens of the Court.

What does Rhysie learn? Illyria is harsh. Illyria is bad. Backwards and cruel.

He hates his father for...presumably, the crime of being a pretty traditional High Lord? Rhys hates the cruelties! the Court of Nightmares! the broken system!

So what does Rhys do when he has power? he fires everyone. He doesn't like them, he doesn't like whatever they did under his father...so instead of hiring new people, he removes himself entirely from a potential role in changing/mitigating those policies. See also: the Court of Nightmares, cowed occasionally, but not in any way governed by Rhys.

But he's the hero! He's destroyed the oppression! His Court of Just his Bros is made of women and Illyrians!

(Rhys removed the terribleness from his direct experience...because only his experiences matter)

So, Rhys in his head: the struggle, the hero, the man just trying to do it right.

Which brings us to Daylight....and Feyre. I know we can attribute the way the characters stop even remotely being sympathetic between acomaf and...everything else...to poor writing, but I also think there's some (maybe accidental but PERFECT) character work there: in acomaf, pre-acknowledged bond, Feyre is an important possession/ally- she's on the same level as the other members of the Court of Dreams, if the jewel of the collection, a high point in the story Rhys tells himself: HE saved the HERO OF PRYTHIAN

(which...let's not even touch on the fact that the deal he makes in acotar is CREEPY and he can only justify it later. she wasn't someone he wanted to work with in acotar- she was a vulnerable, hot young woman he fully took advantage of)

And then they're mates.

And then, slowly but surely, Feyre's personhood disappears. For two reasons: 1) Feyre is on a pedestal so sky-high it blots out everything. Good, pure, true hero Feyre whose adoration Rhysand needs like air. the happy end of his story, the prize and the salvation, the one who sees him.

and 2) ultimately, to Rhys, Feyre is an extension of him. A symbol: his happiness, his peace, his endless power, what he fought to keep.

She's his whole anchor staying sane, which isn't great, considering...ya know, everything. But the Story is Over. They are Happy.

Except- except- nothing is over. Post fifty straight years of torture, a freefall into war and fuckery, teen marriage and literal death, the consequences for all those things AND THE SHIT RHYS WAS PULLING LONG BEFORE AMARANTHA TURNED HIM INTO A CHEW TOY, are still present.

But now, he has something to protect. His golden future. His puppy Mate.

Because Feyre's safety is the safety of his power and vice versa. Anything he does is justifiable because the loss of Feyre is Not an Option. She is Happy. They Are Happy.

It bleeds into everything- and then it intensifies, because this is the breaking point.

The Az/Lucien thing and Feyre incredibly hurtful blindness? No Rhys isn't going to interfere- Az is so private anyway- if Feyre believes its a romantic bond, Feyre is right, she knows her sister, not that it matters because Elain is totally out of her mind.

Sending Cassian to Illyria? Illyria is a backwards shithole right? They're fierce fighters and that's what Rhys values them for- as the hammer of his power- and nothing else? why would there be anything else? Look at them fighting and hurting each other.

Nesta runs and Cassian is left throwing himself in battles actively trying to die and Rhys? Rhys is totally smug. A problem that hurt Feyre and his brother is GONE.

But it's not gone. Az isn't talking to anyone- and Rhys thinks this probably means Lucien is probably, finally fucking him- but even Feyre understands that Azriel knows where Nesta is. When this is proved (when Elain surfaces and they have the very fun kitchen fight) Rhys isn't happy- but he understands. Azriel has always felt responsible for broken things.

But thats not his job, it's Rhysands job, and Rhys has already made that tough choice for the safety of his own: Nesta has no place here. When she resurfaces inevitably, broke and wanting something, Rhys will stop her before she gets close enough to upset (hurt) Feyre. It's his job.

Cassian goes missing, and Rhysand sets upon what will become his eventual move: Illyria's value is strength. (a martial strength that belongs to RHYS). But they think they can take from him? They can destroy their own best chance? (Rhys recognizes Cassian's value to Illyria even while, you know, ordering him to slaughter Illyrians) They would threaten his power? hurt his family?

Rhys will not allow a world to exist where Feyre can be hurt.

If Illyria can't be controlled, Illyria will be put down, like the rabid creatures they are. (They were always backwards, Rhys thinks. Freeing my mother was the one good thing my father ever did)

But Cassian lives.

Rhys asks Azriel if he's been cursed. Az laughs in his face.

And Cassian is a terrible enemy to have. The strategies the loyalists are using? His, filtered through Rhys. The magical contingencies? Cassian and Az, trying to prevent bloodshed.

Feyre thinks, for a long time, that maybe the rebels have Nesta. What else could compel Cassian to even care? these people keep trying to kill him. they want to kill Rhys. the brothers suffered in the frozen mud at the hands of these monsters, what is Cassian doing?

And then the massacre happens.

And Feyre sick to her stomach, cries when she hears. Rhysand thinks about a little hazel eyed boy who'd never had a bed, a present, who'd been nothing until Rhysand plucked him up- a little boy who'd grown into a dangerous man, who'd just killed every person who ever contributed to his pain. Rhys thinks, knowing he'll have to punish Cassian for this, that it's over.

The camp lords are dead, it has to be over.

(Azriel hears and understands- because he knows damn well Cassian was something before Rhysand, and after despite him. That beneath those repeatedly broken ribs is a heart that was once so big so save him, grown strong enough now to save everyone who was like them: forgotten, abandoned, used.)

It's not over. The mountains are burning. Banners fly on northern wind in a language long dead. They're singing, the spies say, they call him dawn. Loyal-heart-as-dawn.

It's Cassians name. Not that Rhys, who never knew more than a few vile insults in the language of his mother's ancient, proud people, understood it then.

Rhysand, the long-suffering hero of his own story, has been betrayed.

He can risk no more- it's time to end this madness. It's Feyre's idea to use Elain- it's Feyre who is left crying, a betrayal Rhysand will never forget- when Elain, who they've given everything, Elain, perhaps just as broken and wretched as her eldest sister, refuses to help keep Feyre safe.

(Elain refuses to participate in what she sees as genocide, but as we've established, what consequences exist? the ones Rhys feels right in front of his face)

Azriel, Elain, and Lucien run.

Of course, if both Feyre's sisters are capable of betraying her, of course, both of Rhysand's brothers would as well. They are one in the same, aren't they? Marked by destiny, by fate for this hard and terrible work- of course it hurts. Of course- but Rhysand will stop it from hurting Feyre any more.

There's one force in the world that can stand in truth against Illyria. The Darkbringers- their ancestral, ancient conquers.

(Yes, I do think Rhys knows the shitty, shitty history of his court! He just doesn't care! He didn't do it. He's different. He's in Velaris with the common people. He has wings. He's not his father.)

(He is, in fact, far worse)

When he thinks of it, it seems perfect. Illyria will be destroyed- a loss, but a safe one. Keir, will, almost certainly, also be destroyed or at least critically weakened.

Rhysand will stand alone, the man who was willing to do anything for peace. He will rule over an emptied playing field, secure in a world where Feyre is safe.

The Hewn City empties, the armies march- Rhysand holds tight Feyre's hand, says nothing about the fact that nothing, nothing, will stop Keir from killing anyone in front of him when battle starts, and reaches once more for Cassian's mind.

His brother, his friend, his loyal right hand- he begs him to come back. To come home. That they can put down this rebellion and in his love for Cassian everything can go back to how it is meant to be, all of them together.

It does not occur to him to address the hundreds dead. The system he was complicit in and responsible for that ground a culture to dust and ash- what matters is brother against brother should never have turned, and Rhys, in his kindness, will offer Cassian this last chance for honor.

Rhys doesn't want Cassian to die- he wants Cassian by his side- but he will drown the world in blood before he'll lose his crown and hope and Feyre.

And when Cassian dies, falling to the earth in Rhysand's arms, Rhys thinks of penance.

A circle closed.

But of course- Cassian wakes. Death is not done with her right hand anymore than the contract between Lordship and land in immutable. Cassian brought the magic back, brought Illyria back.

Rhys is fighting for something personal- Cassian is fighting for a whole world and future, with everything in himself.

When the new border is drawn, Rhys doesn't despair- sure he's shaking, he's covered in Cassian's blood, his twelve thousand year old walls are smoking and the whole world smells like fucking Nesta Archeron- he's been the victim of curses before.

He won't let it keep him down. He'll be fine. He has Feyre, they're safe. Illyria is going to implode- and maybe, maybe, he'll save some of those that remain when the violence is too much, when they need a real High Lord.

They'll come home. Just like Feyre's sisters will. Rhysand's brothers. They fought for peace and Velaris has it- it is their home.

It's what they fought for, the happy ending, and it's all worth it.

It has to be worth it.

[variousqueerthings]

Tom Hardy Movies rated least to most queer

I made a list of some Tom Hardy movies and I rated them based on my own, non-specific criteria about what makes a movie queer. Results below the cut.

(Some films not included, because I haven’t watched them yet, because Mr Hardy’s only in them for a few minutes, because the subject matter doesn’t lend itself to this list, or because I just don’t want’em here. TV series also not included. The list is organised into both groups and ratings, because I’m doing The Most.)

Movies are divided into four groups and rated from 0 – 10 on the Queer-Scale, scroll down to the bottom if you want the ratings without the commentary.

Disclaimer: This list is subjective. Don’t come at me because I didn’t rate Inception higher, Nolan himself is as queer as cargo shorts. 

1. This movie would make more sense if it were queer

If this movie were queer it… might not become a perfect film all of a sudden, but it’d make a hell of a lot more sense than what’s actually going on. With an occasional dose of “are the cis-straights okay?”

This Means War (2012): So Chris Pine and Tom Hardy are ostensibly both in love with Reese Witherspoon, but say “I love you” to each other pretty much constantly throughout the movie and their friendship is often presented as a domestic partnership. Cool, cool, cooool.

Queer Rating: 2 out of 10. This movie hate-crimed me by having Tom Hardy literally spell out his relationship with Chris Pine, only for the script to then have him say… “can you imagine all that… but with a woman…” Later on the movie explicitly denies polyamory is possible. Fuck this film.

The Dark Knight Rises (2012): Batman movies should always be queer. Mr. Hardy’s the only one who acceptably camps it up, despite Nolan’s best attempts to make him “acceptably gruff.” No matter what you do, Bane is a massive daddy in a mask and thanks to Mr Hardy’s honestly iconic fucking speech pattern in this film, it goes from pretty atrociously straight to just queer enough to imagine a future where Robert Pattinson plays batman and maybe adopts a bunch of kids.

(the only truly decent mask in this franchise tbh)

Queer Rating: 3 out of 10. Mr Hardy’s back is the one that’s actually broken carrying any semblance of fun in this overly long movie all on his own.

Lawless (2012): Wow, this really was the year of the not-queer-enough, wasn’t it? Look, it’s “based on a real story,” but it’s also a movie and movies don’t need to stick to the truth, and this one certainly doesn’t. Was the guy queer in real life? I don’t know. But that doesn’t matter, what matters is that it’s just kind of an eh movie and maybe being queer would add something to it. One of those “but why make someone queer? because it’s always more interesting to do so,” movies.

Queer Rating: 3 out of 10. It’s just not queer. But Tom Hardy wears cardigans and described his character as a “mother figure,” which adds an interesting dynamic to him.

2. Actually Queer but in a homophobic way

Tom Hardy plays a canonically queer character, yaaay. The whole movie contains a strange sense of the director being too not-queer to actually engage with that and everything around him is almost aggressively straight, noooo.

RocknRolla (2008): Honestly this movie has the funniest coming out scene ever + that familiar undertone of “all these manly men secretly want to fuck each other” is only heightened by one of them actually being gay and in love with his best friend. It’s such a fucking… it’s such a movie. Personally I find Mark Strong, Idris Elba, Thandie Newton, and, of course, Tom Hardy to be really hot in it, so that’s a plus. There’s a scene in which Strong’s character teaches another gangster how to do a proper backhand. It’s really gay of him. Also slow-dancing at a gay club. Butler’s character needs to get himself together, you really don’t think 2008 Tom Hardy is hot? Mate.

(left to right: functional queer, disaster queer, distinguished queer)

Queer Rating: 6 out of 10, for having an actual gay character who is played by Tom Hardy doing a sexy phonecall voice to another guy, but then there’s that feeling you can’t shake that the whole movie is vaguely uncomfortable about it, like a family member awkwardly patting you on the shoulder after they found out you were queer second-hand, but they’ve still got 50 years of bias to unlearn. Also Thandie Newton is killed, fuck that noise. 

Legend (2015): If I had a nickle for the amount of times Tom Hardy’s played a gay gangster, I’d have two nickles. Which isn’t a lot, but weird that it happened twice (looks at Peaky Blinders and thinks it ought to be three times). I’ve watched Legend three times and every time it just… loses me. And because this is a biased list, I’ll only specifically mention that it fails to make Ron’s queerness anything but a way for him to shock others. Gangsters could be gay? Gasp! On the upside Tom Hardy has so much sexual tension with everyone in this movie, including himself (why would you do that? Asks Ron, bemused. Because I can’t kill you, no matter how much I fucking want to, hisses a blood-soaked Reggie right into his ear. It’s hot).

Queer rating: 5 out of 10 because the film is just not very queer for a movie with several queer men in it.

3. Straight as a forced family dinner

It’s straight.

Locke (2013): He’s a married man who had an affair and trying to deal with the fallout of it. This isn’t a spoiler for most of the movie, it’s a pretty neat movie where we look at Tom Hardy having a bit of a mental breakdown and taking lots of phonecalls (my personal hell). Is it queer? Not in the slightest.

Queer Rating: 2 out of 10 for Hardy’s face being in almost every shot.

The Revenant (2015): Yeah, yeah, DeCaprio’s and Hardy’s characters are obsessed with each other, yeah it’s a man’s world where the only women are dead wife, kidnapped sexually assaulted native princess, or background whore, yeah, they fight each other and there’s a ton of grunting, but also… I just fucking don’t like this movie. The thin line where a storyline like this one becomes queer might be crossed for others, but not for me. Fuck these guys and their stupid  bear fights.

Queer rating: 3 out of 10 for it being about dirty men in the middle of nowhere (but you could just watch Brokeback Mountain or The Lighthouse or God’s Own Country or any Mad Max, or, or, or…)

4. Queer? Queer. Queer? … Queer…

The plots, aesthetics and/or characters played by Tom Hardy lend themselves to a queer reading, even if there is no overt intention towards queerness. Often this is because of a deliberate lack of heterosexual and/or cisgender writing, which in this day and age is still pretty uncommon not to include within a plot.

Inception (2010): Okay, I don’t even need to write about the added “darling,” or the “go to sleep Mr Eames.” I don’t need to go on about the absolutely bonkers amount of fanfiction written for Eames and Arthur, based on a few minutes of film and a boatload of chemistry. It’s queer.

Queer Rating: 7 out of 10, because the actual plot of the film isn’t very queer, but between the Arthur/Eames dynamic and Elliot Page, Nolan was really given a gift he didn’t deserve.

Warrior (2011): Okay, so first off, this might be my favourite Tom Hardy film, at least some part of my brain is fixated on it at almost all times and I’m considering watching it for the third time in two weeks. I don’t only consider it queer based on Mr. Hardy’s character, although he has no romantic or sexual interest and could be read as aroace, but because of the themes, especially those surrounding said character, who is coded as a caregiver to women and through close emotional connections to men. It’s got possibly unintentional deconstructions of masculinity and two men (brothers) who need to forgive each other and can only do so through the catharsis of violence. It speaks to me as a transmasc with several cis brothers, struggling with my own masculinity. It’s not at all written for me, but I find myself all over it. I could talk about this movie forever.

Queer Rating: 8 out of 10. I’m not allowed to say any more or I’ll never stop writing about it. I love you Tommy…

The Drop (2014): Bob’s lack of sexual and/or romantic interest in Naomi is so strange to her that she doesn’t know what he would want from her otherwise. Bob really just wants to raise a dog with her (and also forgiveness for past sins). Bob is such a rare ace and possibly aro coded character, it really throws me every time I watch this film how obvious it is. Bonus points for also being autistic-coded and not in the stereotypical ways.

(Tom Hardy’s most challenging role: pretending he doesn’t know dogs)

Queer Rating: 9 out of 10 because it’s so fucking rare to see ace and aro coded characters that aren’t, you know…. serial killers. Also Tom Hardy adopts a puppy and has a very cute, kinda lispy voice. How often does Tom Hardy play softer men like this?

Mad Max: Fury Road (2015): Very deliberately no sexual or romantic writing included in Max’s and Furiosa’s relationship. Sure, there’s not a lot of time for that in the post-apocalyptic wasteland, but it was also done with a purpose! “It was always going to be two warriors on par, starting off with very little respect for each other and ending up with a massive respect for each other.” - Charlize Theron. “So of course they meet, of course there’s a relationship, an unspoken understanding. A recognition.” - Tom Hardy.

Queer Rating: 9 out of 10. It’s not just the characters, but the world and it’s apocalyptic BDSM leather scene, the questions it asks about sustainability and about people as tools, and the found family. It’s about overcoming violence through multiple kinds of love. And it’s about watching a guy playing flame-thrower guitar. What could be queerer?

Venom (2018): Talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same… No, but Eddie is queer. The only question is whether the sequel will acknowledge that aspect or not, but even if not. Even if it manages to straightly bypass the reality of a symbiotic relationship with a genderless? genderfluid? being from another world that is linked to you down to your very cells and understands you more intimately than any other person possibly could… even if all that: Eddie is queer. Venom and Eddie are in a relationship. Any relationship Eddie ever enters into will automatically become a thrupple. He makes out with Venom in the movie! Eddie is queer.

(aw yeah that tongue is going down his throat)

Queer Rating: 9.5 out of 10, because it’s still coded by the creators in the language of bromance (hey, bro, is it gay if we’re physically and emotionally closer than any other people on earth?), but the movie is so, so camp and Mr Hardy’s acting choices are beautiful – the screaming? The lispy soft voice and lack of taking up space? The lobster tank? The only people who don’t know how queer this is are the people making it apparently. Fingers crossed for that sequel!

Hon. mentions:

Star Trek: Nemesis (2002): Star Trek – even at it’s worst (especially at its worst?) – is camp af + Hardy is a straight-up baby in this film.

Bronson (2008): It’s about a real person who’s still alive, so I won’t comment on the actual man. However the film seems to code the character Bronson along an ace line and also has genderqueering Vaudeville. Someone let Tom Hardy do more of whatever was going on in those stage-bits.

(this right here: this the good shit)

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011): Another ensemble piece not massively about Hardy’s character, but it’s a movie that centers around queerness in a strange, depressing way. Tom Hardy’s character isn’t queer. Colin Firth and Mark Strong are though. The book makes me cry.

Peaky Blinders (2013-): Because it’s a TV series I left it out. There’s a lot of straight nonsense going on there, but Alfie Solomens is gay. There’s nothing in the series that disputes that and plenty that lends itself to the reading.

Dunkirk (2017): Tom Hardy plays an RAF pilot in a deep emotional connection with the other main RAF pilot. That’s immediately gay. However he’s not in the movie much because of the way it’s constructed, so I left it off.

Queer Ratings (least to most)

No queer to be found here traveller:

This Means War: 2 out of 10 - illegal movie, Tom Hardy swore he wouldn’t do another rom-com after

Locke: 2 out of 10 - straight Welshman and his straight problems. He pretty though

Lawless: 3 out of 10 - cardigan-Hardy being a mother-hen, but very straight for all that

The Dark Knight Rises: 3 out of 10 - a superhero movie that doesn’t deserve Mr Hardy’s camp talents (unlike Venom)

The Revenant: 3 out of 10 - doesn’t give me what I want out of a movie full of dirty, bearded men

Queer but we deserve more:

Legend: 5 out of 10 - timid homosexuality, considering the source material. 

RocknRolla: 6 out of 10 - hey bro, is it gay if we kill the only female lead in our massive ensemble cast

The queerest of Hardy’s:

Inception: 7 out of 10 - Elliot Page and JGL kissing was an all-around terrible choice that made no sense, we know the truth, Nolan

Warrior: 8 out of 10 - I’m still crying, Edgerton’s crying, Hardy’s crying, we’re all crying, and I think that’s really emotionally healthy and queer of us

Mad Max: Fury Road: 9 out of 10 - non-romantic love in the time of BDSM post-apocalyptic wastelands is something that can actually be so personal

The Drop: 9 out of 10 - “Fucking punk. Go out to dinner dressed like you're still in you living room! You wear those big hippity-hoppity clown shoes! You speak to women terribly! You treat them despicably! You hurt harmless dogs that can't defend themselves! I'm tired of you man. I'm tired of you. You embarrass me!”

Venom: 9.5 out of 10 - Sometimes a relationship is an anxious reporter, the sentient goo inhabiting his body, his kinda-ex-girlfriend and her new doctor boyfriend, and I think that’s beautiful

[eitelle]

Pretty setter squad hcs pt 2

Includes: akaashi, atsumu Miya, and suga

Warnings: none just fluff

Note: idrk atsumu that much but I think I’ve read enough fanfics to get a good enough idea. Pls reblog and comment and like it rly helps me out :)

Pairings (sorta): TIMESKIP akaashi keji x Gn!reader, atsumu Miya x gn!reader, and sugawara koushi x gn!reader

A/n: sorry for the accidental hiatus I just like completely forgot I had to do this 💀💀 anyways can someone explain how to use tags 😀😀😀 ALSO WTF IS WRONG W ME IM WILLINGLY BY CHOICE LEARNING INTRO TO BIO ON KHAN ACADEMY AND IM LOWKEY LIKING IT????? 😀🧍🏻‍♀️ I- anyways on w the headcanons. Oh also idk why but I cant/don’t know how to make like a separation photo thingy but I’ll figure it out ig

(Awooga)

Akaashi Keji:

He’s insecure asf. Like idk why but he just is, so if u date him be prepared to have to reassure him that u love him all the time

He secretly loves being bokutos babysitter

I lowkey get like pan vibes from him?? Like not bi but pan or if he is bi then he isnt just attracted to women and men

He wants you to do his eyeliner

He makes playlists for the two of you 🥺

He doesn’t take no bs and is rly good at reading people

Nerd.

He loves cuddles and needs to be given physical affection but gives verbal affection best

He will give you anything you need if u ask for it

His ideal partner just needs to be energetic enough to keep him on his toes but has smth that grounds them and can stay focused when needed

In hs when going to the training camps, he would sneak into the kitchens at night bc he couldn’t sleep and that’s how he met you

Loves seeing you in his glasses

Touch. Deprived.

WIRED‼️HEADPHONES‼️

He is a pro fort builder

Lowkey he’s a bookworm and loves to read but he got bullied for it (in a loving way) by the volleyball team

In college he still plays a bit of volleyball w the rest of fukurodani at reunions

Def gets high but not often so when he does- 🥵

Donates money to charities that he gets from bonuses at work

When he sees you in his old jersey- ur ability to walk: gone.

I feel like he’s the type of person to chew on the back of pencils and pens when rly deep in thought

Straight a’s bby

Would 100% respect ur pronouns and/or sexuality

He gives me tea lover vibes

He didn’t rly like manga until he was assigned that at his work place but then he fell in love

Protective supportive bby 🥺🥺

Literally mans is so pretty istg- but he finally realized that when y’all started dating 😚😚

His fingers: GORGEOUS. I feel like his fingers are always cold but that might just be me

That’s it for pretty boy 😚😚

Atsumu Miya:

so his OG hair color isn’t his actually yellow since he dyes it and he has like a schedule for it

At the end of the day the most supportive person to osamu is atsumu

He loves to travel

He has an album in his phone just full of photos of people he loves

Is a fuck boy but treats his momma well

I feel like this man watches k dramas in secret 💀💀

He’s a messy roommate and cannot clean for shit

He’s an emotional drunk so when he gets drunk he’s like crying and clingy to you and asking you if u love him all the time

Wants to receive words of affection but actually shows his feelings with physical affection

Has temptations to shave his head fs

I feel like he crosses his legs no matter where he’s sitting he just HAS to cross them

Sits like a frog (SAME BYE-) and def kind L from death note (maybe I’m an atsumu kinnie...)

Has tried to dye his hair other colors. Did not work.

Ok so I feel like he grew up close w other people so he’s very touchy feely yk? So like he will have physical contact no matter what

Speaking on that, he expressed love by physical contact and touch but prefers to get words of affection to receive love bc he feels inferior to osamu sometimes lowkey

I just wanna say that atsumu has a piss kink. I don’t make the rules

LITERALLY COMPETES W EVERYONE LIKE WTF DUDE CHILL. SETTERS, RANDOM PEOPLE, HIS BROTHER, EVEN YOU.

ok anyways he’s def a frat boy or at least used to be one

Gets drunk a lot but like not wasted wasted just tipsy enough to be not safe to drive (it’s never safe to drink and drive tho)

When drunk he is lowkey just a koala and always by you, hanging off ur arm and everything

Loves to do that thing where y’all hold hands in a pocket if u know what I mean?

Will spray his hoodies w his cologne to mark dominance go alpha go ig

Mans is so possesive istfg

Fav color is orange. Idk why I just get those vibes yk?

Ok a lil bit of nsfw ish ones not full out tho

Hardcore dom

I feel like he’s down for anything EXCEPT for u pegging him. (#pegatsumu2021)

Ok that’s all idrk that much ab him tho 😭🤚

Sugawara Koushi:

ALR SUGA LETS GOOOO

chews his nails

He/they tbh

I get pan vibes from him but I feel like he rly won’t talk in love w anyone unless he has an emotional attachment to them so like a biromantic but will be sexually attracted to anyone

Writes poetry and love letters to you ‼️‼️

Has his wedding vows ready already

Gets white girl wasted 💀💀 but he doesn’t rly like getting drunk so it’s fine

Mostly the designated driver

The only one on the pretty setter squad that isn’t touch deprived

Will defend you no matter what. Unless ur in the wrong ofc

Has bailed people out of jail before 😐🧍🏻‍♀️

I feel like he’s a collector. So like he collects idk cards or smth? But he def collects smth

HE LOVES PLUSHIES AND STUFFED ANIMALSSS

he doesn’t wear socks or shoes sometimes to feel more connected to earth

Spirit animal is a koala (just bc they radiate the same vibes in such a good way)

Def believes in the supernatural

K drama watcher and proud of it 😌😌

Also a huge k pop Stan

Ok some nsfw ones now

Has suggested a threesome w u him and daichi

Uses handcuffs sometimes ngl

THIS MAN IS SUCH A SWITCH.

but he’s soft either way

So when he’s dom he’s like akaashi and doesn’t do anything that will hurt you

Boob guy but also likes ur ass? Idk he basically just loves you in general

Will worship ur body

Ok now we done w that

He fts the karasuno team or keeps them all in touch and together over quarantine and in college

Him and akaashi are the second closest in the pretty setter squad (no 1 being Hinata and kenma duh)

Very much so a family man

Gets so protective over the smallest things

Someone laughs at u bc u fell? They’re gonna eat the floor and taste sugas fists

Calls his s/o sugar or honey, you call him glucose as a joke (pls if u don’t get that I AM concerned for ur health.)

Daichi and him still keep in contact

Suga has a gc w all of the simps of the team(s) and adds people whenever they simp for someone so they can all gush ab the person they simp for

Is friends w everyone on every team

LITERALLY THIS MANS SNAP SCORE IS SO HIGH BC HES SUCH A PEOPLE PERSON

Shy when u meet him so loud once ur close to him

Self conscious of his birthmark 😪👊

AKSJJD THATS ITTTT WERE DONE 🥶🥶🥶 ANYWAYS LIKE COMMENT AND REBLOG IF U LIKED IT IT RLY HELPS ME OUT :)

[peachyteabuck]

slaughterhouse // bucky barnes x reader

summary:   “ Slaughter it in the Lord’s presence at the entrance to the tent of meeting. Take some of the bull’s blood and put it on the horns of the altar with your finger, and pour out the rest of it at the base of the altar. Then take all the fat on the internal organs, the long lobe of the liver, and both kidneys with the fat on them, and burn them on the altar. But burn the bull’s flesh and its hide and its intestines outside the camp. It is a sin offering.” - exodus 29:11-14

or, the real story of how the winter soldier lost his arm

pairing: winter soldier!bucky x reader

words: 2,035

trigger warnings: heavy gore, explicit references to propaganda use, smut, snuff films, sub!bucky, use of restraints and suicidal thoughts, extreme dehumanization, allusions to breeding 

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

A woman Soldat had never seen and likely would never see again stood confidently in front of him as she delivered the news. Every member of Hydra (at least, the ones that joined willingly) had the same stance – chest out, shoulders back, face blank. None of them needed emotions because the organization felt for them, so their mouths only twisted themselves into smiles when another pro-America politician ate a bullet.

He listened diligently as he could, watching her with eyes long gone dead. The scientist coat she wore – branded with the Hydra insignia – was freshly laundered, covering most of her shapeless black bodysuit. It was the standard bulletproof one all agents wore, including Soldat.

“If we want to form a successful regime,” she explained, “Propaganda is necessary. Simply relying on the organization itself to crumble is a short-sighted approach. Do you understand?”

Soldat nodded, grumbled something akin to a “yes” as he traced the cracks in the cinderblock wall behind her. He had made them, there was no need to map them out once more, but it gave him something to look at besides the middle-aged scientist in front of him – so he continued.

“And, given you’re the most successful case of bodily rejuvenation with the serum,” she paused for a moment, waiting until Soldat’s eyes met her own. “We need you to step up and help Hydra.”

His brow furrowed. Hadn’t he already done enough? He’d given up his freedom, his life, his will to live…what else would this place possibly take from him!?

The woman shook her head and sighed to herself. “Perhaps I’m not explaining myself correctly…”

The guard, who had been silent enough Soldat had forgotten about him, stepped forward. His finger never left its resting place on his weapon and held it close to him as he spoke. Soldat knew for a fact that the man spoke at least ten languages – but somehow his English remained heavily accented and broken in the typical Eastern European style he’d come to know quite well. “We need common man. Common man watch porn. We make porn. You star in porn. Get it?”

Soldat narrowed and his fingers gripped the steel bedframe he was sitting on. He heard the distinct creak of metal bending as he did so. In his own black bodysuit, he felt his cock hardening at the proposition. It had been, what? Months? Years? Decades? Since he buried himself in a tight, hot cunt. Surely this offer was too good to be true – they wouldn’t just film him fucking some snatch and leave it at that…

But he knew, even if there was some weird catch, he wouldn’t have a say in whether or not he had to abide.

So Soldat – all 200 pounds of him – gives a small shrug. The woman seemed relieved. The guard seemed to not care very much either way.

“Good,” the woman says with bated breath, turning to her colleagues. She addresses them with the same tentative, small voice, as if she’s ashamed of what she’s saying. “Go prep the room, I’ll meet you there once it’s done.”

The rest of them, all except the guard, give her a single nod as she exits, waiting for her footsteps to fall out of earshot before they leave. Soldat and the single man are left alone, then, staring at each other with equally bored expressions.

It’s a while – an hour or so, maybe – when the guard gets a radio transmission, a crackly voice speaking Russian requesting for “the transfer of the Soldat to room 4527BW.” The Soldat has never heard of the room – the letters indicating its location in the west wing of the basement with numbers telling him it’s in the part of the Hydra base even the Soldat hasn’t been to. He’s heard murmurings of it, of words like Americans and genes and perfect human male. He remembers overhearing two younger, female scientists giggling about what he was packing, which didn’t make much sense to him. He never had to pack anything, he wore the same clothes the entire mission and guns were either strapped to him or handed to him by a Hydra operative.

No matter his confusion, the Soldat follows the guards to the room previously mentioned on the radio, obediently laying down on a medical table that was slightly wider than what he was used to. He lays there, silently, as he’s strapped down with the special material Hydra had made specially for him. An IV is attached to his left arm by a nurse he’d never seen before, the fluid flowing into his veins soon making everything below his shoulder feel…heavy, somehow.

The same nurse takes out a pen, moves it close to him, and asks him if he can feel that.

Soldat shakes his head once. Then the nurse disappears, and all the ceiling lights go off except one; one single, bright bulb that illuminates the doorway he had walked through just a few minutes prior.

Someone yells “актион!,” and then someone else walks through the door.

He’d seen you before, Soldat realizes as you step into the low lighting. You were, are, a scientist – the one who checks him out every so often after a particularly hard mission. Each visit was never as bad as he’d come to expect from the others; you and your clipboard and your perfectly sharpened pencil were somehow kinder to him in the minutes it took to jot down any external injuries that the others subjected to the serum could suffer. The healing process was documented thoroughly as well, his bruises and broken bones and stab wounds measured and noted on a chart he assumed you had stacks of copies of in your office. He imagines you pulling one off of the large pile each time you were notified he had returned from his “danger-cations,” as you called them. You always said it with a small smile, one Soldat always attempted to mimic once he had left.

The large men, the even larger guns, the numerous cameras and the noises all the objects quickly turn into background noise as you step closer, clad in a skintight dress that makes Soldat’s mouth go dry.

If this was many, many years ago (how many, exactly, he couldn’t tell) he might’ve delivered some smooth line about wanting to take you out on a date, maybe ask you what a good dame like you was doing in a place like this. Maybe he���d give you a nice half-smile and lean against the wall, do something else smooth and flirty.

It’s been a long time since Soldat was like that, since he had that instinct that made him so good with women. All of that melted away the first time he was thawed, revealing some bare canvas for Hydra to paint whatever it is they wanted him to be over his cold, hard skin.

So now he was laid bare, his legs spread out and his arms tied straight out, kept in place by the mythical metal everyone keeps talking about – the thing that makes that dastardly Captain America’s shield so legendary. You clicked them into place just before he was given the cue to keep quiet, shoving a single thin finger between his wrist and the slowly warming material. For a moment, Soldat did not understand why you were doing it and tensed with the anticipation of what was he thought would be a sedative or worse. None of the millions of scenarios that ran through his head included you looking down at him with wide, attentive eyes and asking if the cuffs were too tight.

Soldat just laughed dryly. “What would you do if they were?”

You didn’t respond, just turned back to ask something from a superior that Soldat didn’t bother listening to.

Somewhere between you walking away (and his eyes flitting down to the short hemline of that black dress) and you returning (and his eyes flitting up to the deep neckline of that black dress), you had discarded the matching lace panties that dropped them onto the center of Soldat’s face.

The fabric is soft, softer than anything Soldat had felt in years. He can smell you, too, the deep, heady scent snapping him back to the reality he had been attempting to distance himself from.

“You like that?” you coo, nails now painted some deep red as they trail across his chest. All Soldat does is gulp, his nonverbal actions met by a slap and you grabbing his jaw and forcing his eyes to meet yours. “Answer me.”

“Yes!” He gasps out, voice thick and broken from lack of use.

“Yes, what?” you scream, your face so close to his he can feel the fake rage that settles over your skin.

It takes all of Soldat’s power not to lean forward and kiss you – using all his willpower to keep his body flat on the table instead of wrapping himself around you. “Yes, Mistress!”

You smile and the Soldat swears he feels proud of himself for the first time he can remember.

“Now stay perfectly still, and only speak when spoken to, and maybe I’ll reward you…” your words feel like silk against the man’s skin, soft against his scars and burns and marred flesh.

He nods and keeps himself static, watching as you hike your dress up just enough to reveal your bare pussy. If the Soldat was given permission he’d moan and tell you it’s the most beautiful cunt he’s ever seen; but he wasn’t, so he just watches you with desperate, wide eyes as you climb onto the table he’s strapped to, and then onto him.

You mount him with a look of disgust painted on your face – a single raised brow and bared teeth making Soldat’s cock jump inside of you.

“It’s always a dirty Russian,” you hiss as you slap him again. “Poking around in places you know you shouldn’t be.”

“I-I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I’m so sorry!”

A smirk paints itself across your face. “You want to impregnant me, don’t you? You want to pump me full of you, want to make me round with your children?”

The Soldat, finally, moans out a “Yes! Mistress, yes!” as you tighten around him, the feeling making his head spin.

“But first,” you reach down while the Soldat’s eyes remain trained on your hands. A large knife – one larger than the one he carries but the same shape – is pulled from the holster on your thigh, previously covered by the fabric of your dress. “We need to get you into proper form.”

Still inside of you, the Soldat is too focused on the feeling of you around him to notice the blood dripping down from the table, or the cuff’s heavy metal latch being undone, or the loud THUD of something hitting the cement ground. He feels none of it – too pumped full of hormones and whatever else Hydra mixed into the clear bang hanging from the pole next to him to care at all about that you were doing. As long as he could feel your velvet walls around his aching cock…you could do anything to him, and he’d thank you profusely.

“You going to cum in me, Russian?” your voice is breathy, satisfied. “You going to fill me up with your dirty Russian cum?”

It doesn’t take much longer before the Soldat comes the hardest he ever has, screaming louder than an airplane at takeoff as his thrusts become harder, deeper before he stills at his very peak.

“Oh, Иисус Христос,” he moans, the arm that’s left moving to cup your face. His thumb moves to swipe at your bottom lip and you leave a kiss there, smiling blissfully. Soldat’s vision darkens just as he finds the energy to smile back.

“I love you,” he whispers, knowing he’s fading fast. It’ll be his last words – and he’s okay with that.

“I love you, too,” you tell him in an equally low voice, the reply music to his ears as the world falls apart around him. It’s the first time he’s felt at peace for years, he quickly realizes. Somehow, it’s not as pathetic as he thinks it should be.

[letterboxd]

Savage Cinema.

From anarchists and adultery to milk baths and massacres, Matthew Turner shares five of the weirdest and wildest highlights of Hollywood’s pre-Code era, as #PreCodeApril comes to a close.

Pre-Code April was directly inspired by Noirvember, a month-long celebration of noir cinema instigated by Marya Gates (Oldfilmsflicker). I did Noirvember for the first time in November 2019, really enjoyed it, and thought it would be great to do the same thing for pre-Code movies. Although I’ve watched most of the classic 1930s films, I realised there were a huge number of pre-Code films I’d never seen (of my Letterboxd list of over 900 Pre-Code films, I have only seen 200).

As a sucker for a bit of wordplay, no matter how tenuous, I picked April partly because it’s six months away from Noirvember and partly because of the shared “pr” sound in April and Pre-Code. I’ve been absolutely delighted by the response—the #PreCodeApril hashtag on Twitter is a daily treasure trove of pre-Code-related joy, but I was genuinely thrilled to see the response on Letterboxd (here is my watchlist for the month). It’s been a real pleasure to see pre-Code movies constantly popping up in my ‘new from friends’ feed. My hope is that it’ll be even bigger next year—and that maybe TCM will want to get involved, the way they do with Noirvember.

Produced between 1929 and 1934, pre-Code cinema refers to films made in a brief period between the silent era, and Hollywood beginning to enforce the Motion Picture Production Code censorship guidelines (mandatory enforcement came in from July 1934). The “Code” in question was popularly known as the Hays Code, after then MPPDA president Will H. Hays. As the depression set in and box office declined, theater owners needed fare that would drive cinema-goers to the movies. It was a wild time to be a scriptwriter; they threw everything at the page, designers added even more, and actors played out the kinds of scenes, from the suggestive to the overt, that would otherwise be banned for decades to come.

The following five films demonstrate some of Hollywood’s craziest pre-Code excesses. They’re still jaw-dropping, even by today’s standards, and notably give female characters an agency that would be later denied as the Christian morals of the Code overruled writers’ kinks.

Madam Satan (1930) Directed by Cecil B. DeMille, written by Elsie Janis, Jeanie Macpherson and Gladys Unger

A critical and commercial flop in 1930, Cecil B. DeMille’s utterly insane musical comedy stars Kay Johnson as a straight-laced wife who plots to win back her unfaithful husband (Reginald Denny) by seducing him at a costume party, disguised as a mysterious devil woman. The location of this party? Oh, nothing too fancy, just on board a giant zeppelin. (“Madam Satan or: How the Film gets Fucking Crazy on the Blimp,” as Ryan reviewed it.)

Madam Satan is not by any stretch of the imagination a good movie (the editing alone is laughably bad), but as a piece of pre-Code craziness, it really has to be seen to be believed. Co-written by a trio of women and set in just three locations, it goes from racy bedroom farce to avant-garde musical to full-on disaster movie after a bolt of lightning hits the blimp.

The film is justly celebrated (in camp classic circles, at least) for the wildly over-the-top costumes paraded in the masquerade ball sequence, but there’s weird outfit joy everywhere you look. Keep an eye out for an enterprising extra who’s come dressed as a set of triplets.

Call Her Savage (1932) Directed by John Francis Dillon, written by Tiffany Thayer and Edwin J. Burke

Adapted from a salacious novel by Tiffany Thayer, Call Her Savage was former silent star Clara Bow’s second-to-last film before her retirement at the age of 28. She plays Texas gal Nasa Springer, who’s always had a “savage” temper she can’t explain. In the space of 88 minutes she goes from wild teenager to jilted newlywed to young mother to prostitute to wealthy society girl to alcoholic before finally (it’s implied) settling down with her Native-American friend after discovering that she’s half-Native-American, something the audience has known all along.

Bow’s performance is frankly astonishing, to the point where you simply can’t believe what you’re seeing from one moment to the next. Sample scenes see her savagely whipping both a snake and her Indian friend, smashing a guitar over a musician’s head and violently wrestling her Great Dane… and that’s all in the first five minutes. She’s also frequently in a state of near undress throughout—one funny scene has her maids chasing her with a dressing gown because they’re afraid she’ll run down the street in her négligée.

The rest of the film includes alcohol, adultery, strong violence, attempted rape, murder, syphilis (not named, but heavily implied) and baby death. It’s a veritable smorgasbord of outrageous content and Bow is pure dynamite throughout. The film is also noted for being one of the first on-screen portrayals of homosexuality, when Nasa visits a gay bar in the Village frequented by “wild poets and anarchists”.

Smarty (1934) Directed by Robert Florey, written by Carl Erickson and F. Hugh Herbert

This deeply problematic sex comedy features pre-Code stars Joan Blondell and Warren William (often nicknamed ‘The King of Pre-Code’) at their absolute filthiest. Blondell plays Vicki, a capricious, happily married wife who gets an obvious kick out of taunting her husband, Tony (William). When he cracks and slaps her at a party, she divorces him and marries her lawyer, Vernon (Edward Everett Horton), whom she also goads into slapping her in a deliberate ploy to win back Tony.

Essentially, Smarty hinges on Vicki liking rough sex and it’s completely blatant about it, ending with her sighing “Hit me again” (the film’s UK title!) as they sink into a clinch on a couch, a rapturous expression on her face. It’s a controversial film because on the surface it looks like it’s condoning domestic violence, but it’s very clearly about Vicki’s openly expressed sexual desires—she wants to be punished and dominated, she just has a rather dodgy way of getting what she wants.

It might be unsophisticated, but in some ways Smarty is remarkably ahead of its time and ripe for rediscovery. To that end, it would make a fascinating double bill with Stephen Shainberg’s Secretary (2002). Oh, and it’s also chock-full of lingerie scenes (like most pre-Code films), if you like that sort of thing.

Massacre (1934) Directed by Alan Crosland, written by Sheridan Gibney, Ralph Block and Robert Gessner

Several pre-Code films (notably those made by Warner Bros) took a no-punches-pulled approach to their depiction of social issues, and star Richard Barthelmess actively sought out such projects. Here he plays Joe Thunderhorse, a Native American who’s become famous on the rodeo circuit. When he returns to his tribe to bury his father, he ends up fighting for their rights, taking on corrupt government officials and religious authorities.

Massacre is fascinating because on the one hand it’s wildly insensitive—Barthelmess and co-star Ann Dvorak are both cast as Native Americans—but on the other, it burns with a righteous fury and does more than any other Hollywood film (before or since) to champion the rights and highlight the injustices dealt out to Native Americans. That fury is encapsulated in a horrifying and rightly upsetting rape scene (it happens off-screen, but the cuts leave you in no doubt) that the film handles with surprising sensitivity.

In addition to being a passionate fight against racism and social injustice, the film also has some genuinely shocking sexual content. Most notably, Joe is seen making love to a rich white woman (Claire Dodd, who’s also in Smarty) who has an obvious sexual fetish, flaunting him in front of her friends and making a shrine in her room with Native-American paraphernalia.

The Sign of the Cross (1932) Directed by Cecil B. DeMille, written by Waldemar Young and Sidney Buchman

Yes, this is Cecil B. DeMille again, but no list of weird and wild pre-Code films would be complete without the jaw-dropping ancient Rome epic, The Sign of the Cross. Adapted from an 1895 play by Wilson Barrett, it stars Frederic March as Marcus Superbus (stop sniggering at the back there), who’s torn between his loyalty to Emperor Nero (Charles Laughton) and his love for a Christian woman (Elissa Landi), while also fending off the advances of the Emperor’s wife, Poppaea (Claudette Colbert).

The film is racy enough in its sexual content alone: highlights include the famous scene of Claudette Colbert taking a nude milk bath and an erotic “lesbian” dance sequence, where Joyzelle Joyner’s “most wicked and talented woman in Rome” does ‘The Dance of the Naked Moon’ at Frederic March’s orgy, trying to tempt Landi’s virtuous Christian, to the obvious arousal of the gathered guests.

However, it’s the climactic gladiatorial-arena sequence that will leave your jaw on the floor. Lasting around twelve minutes, it includes: someone getting eaten by a tiger, a tied-up, naked women being approached by hungry crocodiles, pygmies getting chopped up by female barbarians, elephants stomping on heads, a gorilla approaching a naked woman tied to a stake, a man getting gored by a bull, and gladiators fighting to the death, complete with blood and gory injury detail.

The whole thing is genuinely horrifying, even for 2021. Best of all, DeMille pointedly critiques the audience (ourselves included), by showing a series of reaction shots ranging from intense enjoyment to abject seen-it-all-before boredom.

Matthew Turner (FilmFan1971) is a critic, author, podcaster and lifelong film fanatic. His favorite film is ‘Vertigo’. The films in this article are also listed here: Five of the Pre-Code Era’s Most Outrageous Films.

[fanfiction-inc]

If you are still doing the Ns/fw alphabet thing would I be able to request one of Higgs Monaghan?

Oh, but of course! Now I must apologize to you and everyone else for the delay! I have finally been able to finish up some things for college and have a slow period to get some stuff done! I hope you enjoy this!

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

It all depends on the relationship he is having with the one he’s fucking. If it’s a one night stand, he has no obligation to clean up the other party, much less show them kindness or deliver niceties on his way out. He simply will redress, and leave whoever they are. Something more than a fling, like a friends/enemies with benefits or standard relationship warrants far more sweetness from the terrorist. He’ll wipe you down, clean you up of any mess and offer the sweetest praises. Now this man, despite all the terrible shit he has done, is the sweetest pillow talker, holding you as if he’ll never see you again and reminding you of what you mean to him. He hardly has quality relationships, so having you as a friend (or enemy with benefits) or partner is what he values most.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite part is of course that damn silver tongue he uses to charm you like always and the mouth it resides in. Be it the nicest words you’ll ever hear or the filthiest, he savors how it makes you react. The stammering or stern and silent look away when you blush. The subtle press of thighs or move of an object to cover a ‘growing’ problem. He loves it all. He also loves what he can do with that mouth and tongue that could get you going. Licking along a hot shaft with kitten like flicks of his tongue, or along folds that hold the honey pot he wishes to steal from.

It doesn’t matter the shape, size, or prominence, but Higgs will always be an ass man. Be it cupping it, squeezing it, using it to get a rise or having his cock buried deep, he will always love a good ass. He tends to be more sexual with asses when his partner is male (or presenting male), often finding moments like those intimate in the guy category. The ass on a woman (or presenting woman) is often more for holding, especially for stability when his tongue is buried deep in them.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Anywhere. Literally fucking anywhere. You want it inside you? Done! Want it down your throat? He’ll go right ahead! Want it covering your face or body? He’ll do his damnedest! He loves the sensation of filling you, but fucking hell does he love how it looks on your body and how it decorates you. Of course he finds humor if it gets in your hair or misses you from a wrong angle, but that’s the playfulness in him talking.

Now him taking any form of cum? That’s a different story. He is absolutely okay with cum inside him or down his throat, but he despises spitting it out or having it leak from him. It’s an intimate act to take such from his partner, so he’ll practically beg for it as long as you’re willing to give it!

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

This Particle of God who permeates all existence is by simple definition, a slut. Now, I say slut with all the love I have for him in the world, but it is quite true. Higgs is by far the biggest example of ‘switch’ energy. He wants to be used like a toy, wants to be used for the sake of giving others pleasure. Tie him up, decorate him in leather. Give him a few healthy smacks to the ass, but just know if he’s the dominating force in the relationship, he may never admit such. It’s something he prefers to keep to himself until he finds the perfect partner to open up to about it, so it remains his dirty secret.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Higgs has had some good flings in his time, allowing experience with both men and women alike and giving him a rather good sense of what he’s doing. He’s learned just what his tongue can do, how his words can make the body react. And when he rolls his hips just the right way, oh, he gets the idea and knows how to manipulate it.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

Oh, he could never start off without without a good bit of foreplay. Typically with any partner, Higgs prefers a good bit of face sitting or ‘69’ play, though his main objective is to focus on his partner's pleasure. Anything he can do to get his partner off first, he will attempt to do.

When it comes to his partners, the positions vary. Up against a wall, he’d have their legs wrapped around him and fucking up into them. Don’t forget the wandering fingers to a sensitive clit or hand to a weeping dick. Laying down, it’s a toss up between missionary or spooning. Missionary is often used when he wants to keep his gaze locked with his partner's own, where as spooning is for those moments where he wants to hold his partner close. When he’s spooning, this can be for intimacy purposes where he goes slow and deep, keeping the moment drawn on to savor you or your body. But in other times, it’s the moment to jackhammer his hips into you until you’re a shaking mess. On your knees, and he has you in doggy. This position is also used more often for flings where no eye contact has to be made and is quick enough to be over and done with.

Now for himself, especially if it’s with a male/male presenting partner or during an intense pegging session, he’ll be begging for a form of missionary. He much prefers holding his legs up towards himself so his bum is presented to his partner. If you include a nice hand job while fucking him, then he’s done for in that position.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

This man is not only a switch in the dom/sub realm, but he also is in the serious/humorous realm as well. Higgs is often very humorous when it comes to sex, finding ways to make it fun and carefree. He’ll crack jokes, chuckle if something doesn’t go quite right, but above all, he’ll find it fucking hilarious if you joke back. Playful banter is all part of the fun, but sometimes the moment deserves some serious focuses. If his partner is ever down on themselves or their bodies, he’s serious in the moment. He will make fucking sure that they know what they do to him, but also how beautiful/handsome their body is. All encouragement and softness, but lacking the humorous tone. Then, there is the time were the two collide, where pleasure is the main goal.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Grooming isn’t usually a big concern to him, but he does do it here or there. Just like the stubble that grows on his chin, he sometimes just lets it go until it’s so long and thick that it must be taken care of, just like the onsets of a beard. The color is just as dark as his hair, but a little curled as compared to the well kept nature of his hair on top of his head.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

It truly depends on the partner. If this is a one night stand, Higgs won’t hesitate to call it a quick fuck and move on. He’s not going to give his attention or devotion to a person who doesn’t deserve the full on ‘Higgs Monaghan experience’, but if he feels it may be going somewhere, then expect some kisses or sweet words. Maybe even expect a bit of his strong façade to slip in the process.

Now, if you’re his friend/enemy with benefits, or his partner, then here comes the fucking romance train. Sweet, lingering kisses. Gentle brushes along one's skin followed by an unlimited amount of devotion and praise. He will worship the very ground you walk on as long as he gets a piece of you in some way, shape, or aspect. His love will show in every act, even if it’s a quickie or just a straight up fucking session. He may not be too brash, but his reminders will come at a constant, mixed in with lewd conversation and grunted notions.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Being in his clothes, be it his mask or just his cloak, is the best material he can go to for jacking off. Be it imagining you on your back, hands going to work on whatever gets you off while the fabric bunches beneath you, or the idea of you being in control, being ‘him’. Fuck, does it get his mind going and hand going even faster. The easiest thing to do in those moments is to call you up for some straight up dirty talk. If he’s going to be going after release, he wants you to do the same too (or tease the hell out of you until you’re on the brim and need him, because the cocky bastard loves that shit.)

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

BDSM (Bondage, Masochism, and Sadism mostly), Breath Play, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Face Sitting (partner and him), Impact Play, Knife/Weapon Play, Odaxelagnia, Orgasm Denial/ Control, Pegging/Anal, Praise Kink, Strap-on Play (to him), Teasing, Voyeurism, and Worship Kink.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

ANYWHERE. Literally fucking anywhere. He will do it at the Homo Demens base camp, right outside of a Bridges delivery location, or even in the middle of timefall (of course with proper coverage. He would never want you to get hurt by the timefall, nor the BT’s, but it does make it interesting to see how quiet you can stay when they begin to move about. It’s always with an underlying sense of danger or excitement of getting caught that fuels him. But this doesn't stop him when it comes to being home.

When with the Homo Demens, his room at base camp is an often place as well as the community showers. The bunker of Peter Englert, though smaller than a whole base, offers many places as well. These stationary places are his favorite for privacy and intimacy.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Your body, no matter what, is always an automatic turn on. Especially if there is exposed skin involved that he can hold onto or kiss at. He is a total ass man, always loving to grab at it or just keep his hand there when talking. Your ass, watching it as you walk or beneath him sends blood rushing down below and he may as well cum in his pants at this rate because holy fuck, is that ass perfection. He will worship that ass, constantly wanting to caress it or have a handful if you’re on his lap. Your hands are the next thing. Be them wrapped around his cock, grabbing at the sheets beneath you, or simply cupping his cheek in the afterglow, your hands are always the sweetest thing because they can do so many things that can make him fall apart at the seams.

What REALLY gets him going is being taken care of. Higgs is touch starved all to hell, and when he gets any sign of affection or sweetness from you, be it cuddling or kind words, he feels like he’s floating on a damn cloud. When he is being submissive, or is the bottom in the relationship, It’s especially a turn on when being taken care of leads to praise in the bedroom.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He will ABSOLUTELY refuse to involve any form of piss or scat in your play. It is an automatic turn off and he may as well be the cause of another voidout just from the mere recommendation of it. He can’t stand the idea of it. Higgs is into a lot of things, but those two will never fall under his category of things that get him going and needy.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

BOTH! BOTH! BOTH! He is an absolute lover of giving and receiving oral! And he isn’t too shabby at it once he gets used to how your body reacts.

When it comes to giving oral, he goes between a mixture of teasing and driving you mad with that damn tongue. Depending on the relationship you share with him, he either dives right in or takes his time with it. If he wants to, he’ll map out your sex, taking in how hard/wet you are, finding what bits make you mewl the loudest or give him the desired effect. He’ll go slow with his tongue, dragging it until you’re trying to get your cock either inside his mouth or his tongue on your clit (either way, he’ll leave you squirming). When he finally gives you what you want, being lavishing your core or sucking you off, he’s at it and he will go until you’re trembling and begging for no more, to which he’ll get one or more out of you just to prove the point that he can.

When it comes to receiving, he is always down for such, but he is more likely to be down for it if he's the submissive partner in the relationship. He would rather worship and tease when in a dominant position. Taking care of you is the best thing in his mind. But being taken care of? Now that is what drives him absolutely wild. He is sensitive when it comes to the tip of his cock being played with, and will fall apart if it's played with.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

It really depends on his mood. If he is wanting to be in a kind and sweet mood, he’s slow and passionate, He’ll take his time to make sure you feel nice and good. Keeping eye contact and sweet praising as he takes you, gentle kisses followed by accented thrust that go just deep enough but not too fast to make it fucking. No, that in his mind is perfect for something he isn’t used to, which is love making. If it needs to be quick, or in his mind it’s a sexual punishment, he will be rougher, or faster with you. He’ll fuck you raw and leave you a mess. Either way you’ll be a mess when you’re with Higgs.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He usually has more time for quickies, as he is the entity trying to bring on the next mass human extinction. Of course he loves a good session of proper sex, being able to take his time with you or give you a chance to properly take him. But sometimes those are short lived moments, interrupted halfway through or being stopped before being able to bask in the afterglow because he has to leave. Duty calls, after all. His favorite places for them are generally at the Homo Demens camp, or on the go in some risky area that could accidentally get you guys caught.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

This fucker practically screams risk. Be it public excursions or a new tactic in the bedroom, he’s game. If you want to try something a little more dangerous with him, or something far more kinky then you two already do, he is down. He will always give you a chance to try things with him, and sometimes he’ll see what he can do to help expand your comfort zones by suggesting new situations or experiences. Maybe trying more intensive bondage would be the step up he would try with you from the light bondage you two may already do. Maybe he wants you to try choking him, or maybe YOU want to try choking him. Either way, he is always up for experimentation.

This man, being the exhibitionist he is, is obsessed with the thrill of potentially or actually being caught in the act. It’s something that he would GLADLY introduce you to if he had the chance, wanting that to be the first big experiment if you aren’t already into it. Now mind you, he will respect (generally) your boundaries on most things, but this is one thing that absolutely screams fun in his mind, and it’s so damn risky because you never know who is gonna see!

“Oops, didn’t see ya there Sammy! We’ll just finish up here.”

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

It really depends on the play and the partner. Higgs is a man who can go perhaps three or four rounds at the most, having stamina like a beast if he’s really hyped up for it. Usually this happens when he is in the domineering position, having full control over himself, and whatever control you’ll allow over you, be it full or less than full control.

When he is the bottom, taking whatever is being given to him, he’ll last two rounds at the most because let's face it, Higgs can become overstimulated quickly if the right touches and praises are given. Use the right sensation or hammer down on him when you fuck, and he’ll be a puddle of incoherent speech and needy rambling. Now this doesn't mean you can’t get more out of him, but he’ll be less likely to be as coherent as if he is in full control of the situation.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Oh he most certainly owns them, and he most certainly uses them when he wants to. He’s the kind of guy that if he doesn’t have a partner close by, and he wants to spice up a dirty call or get himself off quicker than he can with his hand, toys are the way to go. Be it dildos, vibrators, anything of the likes, he uses them and he will gladly use them on you or let you use them on him.

He doesn’t usually like using toys in every session, though. Sometimes feeling skin instead of whatever material the toy is is sooooo much better to him because he issued you and he wants to fuck properly. Now if you’re a person who requires the extra stimulation from a toy while you’re enjoying each other, then by all means, he’ll incorporate it somehow so that you get exactly what you need. Some people just need that extra push, and he is happy to supply!

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Excuse me, have you met this man? He is the ultimate tease! Especially publicly. He loves to get you hot and bothered or embarrassed and riled up when he’s around. Sinfully delicious comments against your ear or tracing motions through your clothes until you’re needy and he leaves you like that until you’re alone. In the bedroom, he will do whatever it takes to have his partner either be a begging mess or be so fed up with him that he gets exactly what he wants.

For a submissive partner, he likes to use his tongue the most to tease. Trailing along your chest, or over sensitive nipples. Light flicks to extra sensitive areas below the belt, be it the tip or sweet spot on a cock or the bundle of nerves between a woman's legs. Light kisses or nips to the inner thighs just to get you squirming, that man will do so until you get a bite to your voice or just needy enough to give you what you want. Then again, sometimes he likes the torture of continuing the teasing until you’re vision is blurry with tears and you can’t utter any other word than ‘please’.

With dominant partners, he will make every move or command he gets into a tease. Taking his clothing off too slowly, tracing his tongue too long or not putting enough pressure. Sometimes his kisses will pull away too quickly as to tease you. But that teasing is gone the moment you put him in his place, then he is the most compliant creature ever.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make

He is like a fucking air raid siren when he’s being taken, but his volume isn’t nearly as when he’s doing the taking over having someone on top of him in the form of riding. He’ll moan, that is for sure, but the most common noises are the high pitched hitches in his breathing or the grunts that come when he’s pistoning his hips to bring you over the edge. He may give a growl if the fucking is more aggressive, or he may release and airy chuckle from time to time if you two are having more fun than seriousness.

W = Wild Card (Random Headcanon)

He is more than happy to dress in some kind of outfit for your sexual encounters. Be it a Bridges outfit because he knows you get off from him playing as the unknown stranger at Bridges, Peter Englert, or a Fragile uniform because fuck do you love leather, he’s down. He’ll happily wear panties if you like him in feminine undergarments, happily dress with cock cages and leather straps if you want to see him in such. He’ll even stay in the mask if you ask, but when it comes to dressing up, he isn’t limited to dressing himself. He absolutely adores when you wear his mask, or wearing his cloak to cover your nude form.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

He may not be the longest or the girthiest, but Higgs has a nice package. He’s about six inches long when fully erect, so about average (in American standards). He can go from well trimmed to near unmanageable depending on his mood, and also the partner. Some prefer hairless, some don’t mind the all natural look.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Pfft. Have you met this needy man? I mean seriously? He is OBSESSED with sex. Borderline nymphomaniac if you must, Higgs is constantly down for a good time as long as he has time. His big plans for the end of existence come first, but he will gladly give you his all or take whatever is given as long as he gets to enjoy it. He may ask for company more often than once a day given the day, or sometimes he’ll wait till it’s a time restrained time for you and get as much as he can until you just HAVE to do whatever it is you do. He can wait, but it only gets him more hyped for whatever will happen next, and sometimes it’s torture to him with waiting too long.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

Out like a fucking lightbulb. He may stay up for a few for some aftercare either giving or receiving, maybe even some light banter, but generally he’s so worn out that he is O.U.T out! That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like to stay up and chat the night away. Sometimes he does, sometimes he falls asleep like a light sleeping rock, and other times he’s having to redress to start whatever is next in his grand plan.

[hexalt]

CW for discussion of suicide

- She's the crazy ex-girlfriend - What? No, I'm not. - She's the crazy ex-girlfriend - That's a sexist term! - She's the crazy ex-girlfriend - Can you guys stop singing for just a second? - She's so broken insiiiiiide! - The situation's a lot more nuanced than that!

There’s the essay! You get it now. JK.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the culmination of Rachel Bloom’s YouTube channel (and the song “Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury” in particular where she combined her lifelong obsession with musical theatre and sketch comedy and Aline Brosh McKenna stumbling onto Bloom’s channel one night while having an idea for a television show that subverted the tropes in scripts she’d been writing like The Devil Wears Prada and 27 Dresses.

The show begins with a flashback to teenage Rebecca Bunch (played by Bloom) at summer camp performing in South Pacific. She leaves summer camp gushing about the performance, holding hands with the guy she spent all summer with, Josh Chan. He says it was fun for the time, but it’s time to get back to real life. We flash forward to the present in New York, Rebecca’s world muted in greys and blues with clothing as conservative as her hair.

She’s become a top tier lawyer, a career that she doesn’t enjoy but was pushed into by her overprotective, controlling mother. She’s just found out she’s being promoted to junior partner, and that’s just objectively, on paper fantastic, right?! ...So why isn’t she happy? She goes out onto the streets in the midst of a panic attack, spilling her pills all over the ground, and suddenly sees an ad for butter asking, “When was the last time you were truly happy?” A literal arrow and beam of sunlight then point to none other than Josh Chan. She strikes up a conversation with him where he tells her he’s been trying to make it in New York but doesn’t like it, so he’s moving back to his hometown, West Covina, California, where everyone is just...happy.

The word echoes in her mind, and she absorbs it like a pill. She decides to break free of the hold others have had over her life and turns down the promotion of her mother’s dreams. I didn’t realize the show was a musical when I started it, and it’s at this point that Rebecca is breaking out into its first song, “West Covina”. It’s a parody of the extravagant, classic Broadway numbers filled with a children’s marching band whose funding gets cut, locals joining Rebecca in synchronized song and dance, and finishing with her being lifted into the sky while sitting on a giant pretzel. This was the moment I realized there was something special here.

With this introduction, the stage has been set for the premise of the show. Each season was planned with an overall theme. Season one is all about denial, season two is about being obsessed with love and losing yourself in it, season three is about the spiral and hitting rock bottom, and season four is about renewal and starting from scratch. You can see this from how the theme songs change every year, each being the musical thesis for that season.

We start the show with a bunch of cliché characters: the crazy ex-girlfriend; her quirky sidekick; the hot love interest; his bitchy girlfriend; and his sarcastic best friend who’s clearly a much better match for the heroine. The magic of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is that no one in West Covina is the sum of their tropes. As Rachel says herself, “People aren’t badly written, people are made of specificities.”

The show is revolutionary for the authenticity with which it explores various topics but for the sake of this piece, we’ll discuss mental health, gender, Jewish identity, and sexuality. All topics that Bloom has dug into in her previous works but none better than here.

Simply from the title, many may be put off, but this is a story that has always been about deconstructing stereotypes. Rather than being called The Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, where the story would be from an outsider’s perspective, this story is from that woman’s point of view because the point isn’t to demonize Rebecca, it’s to understand her. Even if you hate her for all the awful things she’s doing.

The musical numbers are shown to be in Rebecca’s imagination, and she tells us they’re how she processes the world, but as she starts healing in the final season, she isn’t the lead singer so often anymore and other characters get to have their own problems and starring roles. When she does have a song, it’s because she’s backsliding into her former patterns.

While a lot of media will have characters that seem to have some sort of vague disorder, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend goes a step further and actually diagnoses Rebecca with Borderline Personality Disorder, while giving her an earnest, soaring anthem. She’s excited and relieved to finally have words for what’s plagued her whole life.

When diagnosing Rebecca, the show’s team consulted with doctors and psychiatrists to give her a proper diagnosis that ended up resonating with many who share it. BPD is a demonized and misunderstood disorder, and I’ve heard that for many, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the first honest and kind depiction they’ve seen of it in media. Where the taboo of mental illness often leads people to not get any help, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend says there is freedom and healing in identifying and sharing these parts of yourself with others.

Media often uses suicide for comedy or romanticizes it, but Crazy Ex-Girlfriend explored what’s going through someone’s mind to reach that bottomless pit. Its climactic episode is written by Jack Dolgen (Bloom’s long-time musical collaborator, co-songwriter and writer for the show) who’s dealt with suicidal ideation. Many misunderstood suicide as the person simply wanting to die for no reason, but Rebecca tells her best friend, “I didn’t even want to die. I just wanted the pain to stop. It’s like I was out of stories to tell myself that things would be okay.”

Bloom has never shied away from heavy topics. The show discusses in song the horrors of what women do to their bodies and self-esteem to conform to beauty standards, the contradiction of girl power songs that tell you to “Put Yourself First” but make sure you look good for men while doing it, and the importance of women bonding over how terrible straight men are are near and dear to her heart. This is a show that centers marginalized women, pokes fun at the misogyny they go through, and ultimately tells us the love story we thought was going to happen wasn’t between a woman and some guy but between her and her best friend.

I probably haven’t watched enough Jewish TV or film, but to me, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the most unapologetic and relatable Jewish portrayal I’ve seen overall. From Rebecca’s relationship with her toxic, controlling mother (if anyone ever wants to know what my mother’s like, I send them “Where’s the Bathroom”) to Patti Lupone’s Rabbi Shari answering a Rebecca that doesn’t believe in God, “Always questioning! That is the true spirit of the Jewish people,” the Jewish voices behind the show are clear.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend continues to challenge our perceptions when a middle-aged man with an ex-wife and daughter realizes he’s bisexual and comes out in a Huey Lewis saxophone reverie. The hyper-feminine mean girl breaks up with her boyfriend and realizes the reason she was so obsessed with getting him to commit to her is the same reason she’s so scared to have female friends. She was suffering under the weight of compulsory heterosexuality, but thanks to Rebecca, she eventually finds love and friendship with women.

This thread is woven throughout the show. Many of the characters tell Rebecca when she’s at her lowest of how their lives would’ve never changed for the better if it wasn’t for her. She was a tornado that blew through West Covina, but instead of leaving destruction in her wake, she blew apart their façades, forcing true introspection into what made them happy too.

Rebecca’s story is that of a woman who felt hopeless, who felt no love or happiness in her life, when that’s all she’s ever wanted. She tried desperately to fill that void through validation from her parents and random men, things romantic comedies had taught her matter most but came up empty. She tried on a multitude of identities through the musical numbers in her mind, seeing herself as the hero and villain of the story, and eventually realized she’s neither because life doesn’t make narrative sense.

It takes her a long time but eventually she sees that all the things she thought would solve her problems can’t actually bring her happiness. What does is the real family she finds in West Covina, the town she moved to on a whim, and finally having agency over herself to use her own voice and tell her story through music.

The first words spoken by Rebecca are, “When I sang my solo, I felt, like, a really palpable connection with the audience.” Her last words are, “This is a song I wrote.” This connection with the audience that brought her such joy is something she finally gets when she gets to perform her story not to us, the TV audience, but to her loved ones in West Covina. Rebecca (and Rachel) always felt like an outcast, West Covina (and creating the show) showed her how cathartic it is to find others who understand you.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the prologue to Rebecca’s life and the radical story of someone getting better. She didn’t need to change her entire being to find acceptance and happiness, she needed to embrace herself and accept love and help from others who truly cared for her. Community is what she always needed and community is what ultimately saved her.

*

P.S. If you have Spotify... I also process life through music, so I made some playlists related to the show because what better way to express my deep affection for it than through song?

CXG parodies, references, and is inspired by a lot of music from all kinds of genres, musicals, and musicians. Same goes for the videos themselves. I gathered all of them into one giant playlist along with the show’s songs.

A Rebecca Bunch mix that goes through her character arc from season 1 to 4.

I’m shamelessly a fan of Greg x Rebecca, so this is a mega mix of themselves and their relationship throughout the show.

*

I’m in a TV group where we wrote essays on our favorite shows of the 2010s, so here is mine on Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, I realized I forgot to ever post it. Also wrote one for Schitt’s Creek.

[kenzieam]

Us This Way - Oneshot

Rating: M

Warnings: Angst, heartache, some language ****TRIGGER WARNINGS****

Word Count: 4417

Tags: @jewels2876​  @moonbeambucky​  @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​  @iammarylastar​ @captstefanbrandt​  @badassbaker​  @pinknerdpanda​  @oliviastan17​ @mizzzpink​​

***************************************************************

Okay, so this frickin’ song gets me every time.

Kudos to the beautiful Lady Gaga for this hauntingly beautiful gem.

**************************************************************

Lev swallowed past the lump in her throat, skimmed the note in her hand one last time. She’d wrote and rewrote the words so often in her head she knew them by heart, but it didn’t make reading them any easier.

James,

By the time you sober up and read this, I’ll be gone.

I can’t do this anymore, the drinking, the fights, the lies.

You aren’t the same man I fell in love with, and I can’t say anymore that I’m the same girl you knew either.

When we started this journey, you told me things would never change; that it would be just the two of us, against the world, travelling and sharing your music and voice and I, naively I guess, believed it.

But everything is different. You’re drunk all the time, drinking to excess and its only going to be a matter of time before your followers see it too, there’s already gossip on the fan sites about your behaviour.

And I’m not leaving because of that, I could deal with the alcohol if it weren’t for the craziness that comes with it.

These women aren’t here for you, they’re here for the idea of you, the Rockstar, and I can’t watch you take them into your hotel rooms anymore, I can’t hear you through the walls with them.

I deserve better and, to be honest, so do you but I can’t help you anymore.

God knows I’ve tried.

I hope one day you find peace and closure from whatever haunts you so badly and discover your voice again.

I love you; I always have.

I always will,

Levi

A tear burned hot down her cheek, but she wiped it away absently, clearing her throat. She’d already wasted so many tears, she couldn’t spare any more.

Laying the note silently on the bedside table, Lev took one last lingering glance at the man, her former lover and friend, current rockstar touring and conquering the world, now passed out face down in the hotel bed, back scratched and red from his latest groupie foursome she’d chased out just minutes ago, two or three empty liquor bottles visible among the tangled sheets, then turned and left the room.

*******************************************************************************

A throbbing headache dragged him from oblivion later and, for a time, James just lay there, eyes half-open, trying to piece together the last hours.

He remembered two, or was it three? Groupies: giggling girls with fake tits and trout pouts, wearing little more than ace bandages and laughing at his every word like he was the most charming asshole on Earth and everything that fell out of his mouth was pure gold.

Lev had never put up with his shit. She’d always set him straight with a few well-chosen words, a sharp glare with her hypnotizing violet eyes.

Come to think of it, where was Lev? Usually she was prodding him awake by now, pushing coffee into his face, talking about getting up, getting showered and getting on the damn bus.

Bottles clinked as he moved, struggled in the tangled sheet to push himself upright. His back stung and faint memories surfaced, one of the harpies scratching him, moaning theatrically as he fucked her, wishing it were Levi beneath him still instead of this random stranger.

God, he hoped he’d worn a condom, not that it stopped theses psychos; Christ, every week there was a new accusation, a new girl stepping forward claiming he’d impregnated her.

Thank fuck for his lawyer, Sam Wilson; the man was a gem, with the retainer bills to prove it.

“Lev?” He croaked, wincing as fresh pain shot through his skull.

No answer.

“Lev!” He chanced a shout, growling and grabbing his throbbing temples. “Fuck, where are you?”  

He turned his head, squinting before freezing as his glare landed on the letter.

***********************************************************************************

“So, you just left, huh?” Steve asked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, and staring at it contemplatively.

“Yeah, same as you.” There was a hint of venom in Lev’s voice and the blond man smirked.

“Yeah, same as me. Got tired of the shit.”

“Everyday.”

Steve sighed, staring out at nothing, thoughts a thousand miles away. “Remember when we first started out?”

“You, me and James in that old van? Driving from bar to bar and playing for peanuts?”

“You’d go up on stage when he reached for you, join him for a few songs?”

Lev sighed sadly. “Long time ago, man. We were just fucking kids.”

“Yep, but you two? Timeless. I remember when I first saw you. First day of grade three in Ms. Hawthorn’s class; James elbowed me and said, ‘that’s the girl I’m going to marry’.”

“He did not!” Lev fought a smile, she’d heard this story so many times, her reaction varying from honest disbelief to warm-hearted nostalgia depending on how fresh her latest pain was.

“He did.” Steve replied, smiling fondly. “Couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

“Yeah, well… something else has caught his eye now.”

“You can’t save him, Lev. He has to want to save himself.”

“I know… it just hurts.”

“I know.” Steve murmured quietly. “I know.”

*****************************************************************************************

‘Rockstar James Barnes’ newest run-in with the paparazzi, next on TMZ’

Lev groaned and turned off the TV, throwing the remote onto the scarred coffee table.      

Obviously, he was perfectly capable of carrying on with his shenanigans without her, not that her pleas for him to stop had ever fallen on anything but deaf ears.

She glanced at her cell phone, then cursed and purposefully looked away. Every day for years she’d seen his name come up on her display, multiple times a day, through the night and she’d come to expect it.

The calls after she’d left had come heavy and hot, barely a pause in between except for increasingly abusive texts and voicemail messages. When they had changed to broken, mournful, pleading messages she’d thrown her cell away, smashed it for good measure.

It was just habit to look for his name now, a useless throwback.

She had left a month ago and James’ spiral of self-destruction was becoming a nightly news story.

She didn’t envy Pepper, his long-suffering publicist, nor Nick, the rep from Fury Records; word was both were close to dropping him soon, if he didn’t get his act together.

Cursing herself afresh, Lev reached for the remote and flicked the set back on. She was a fucked up as him sometimes, intent on making it hurt.

James’ face appeared on the screen and Lev was shocked at how haggard he now looked, pale and drawn. His hair was lanky, in his face, clothes wrinkled. As the paparazzi swarmed him, leaving the latest club, he glanced up at the cameras and Lev was struck dumb by the utter misery on his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, either from sleep problems (something he’d had more than his share of in the time Lev had known him) or he’d taken up hard drugs.

The pap screamed questions at him, jostling each other and him as he struggled through the mob, the slightly shell-shocked bottle-blonde woman on his arm being all but dragged behind. What security James hadn’t chased off was all but overwhelmed by the reporters and fans, light flashes strobing the scene.

“Just leave me the FUCK alone!” James roared, pushing hard at one spectacled paparazzi, knocking him to the ground and only inflaming the mob more.

Lev felt a surge of fear, mixed in with a healthy dose of rage at the sight. Someone could easily get hurt tonight, lines could be crossed that would never be forgotten. James was juggling with the remains of his career right now and he had the shakes.

“Are the rumors true?” One pap screeched.

“Where’s Lev?” Another yelled and Lev winced. They were still asking him, four weeks into her departure.

“Is the picture of you snorting a white substance outside The Down Low real?”    

Shit.

James didn’t answer beyond a wild-eyed sneer then he was scrambling into a large black SUV, the confused milling of his few remaining security guards telling Lev they hadn’t expected him to drive; then the SUV was screeching away, paparazzi and security scattering like flies, their shouted questions turning into screams of shock and fear and Lev clapped her hands to her mouth, biting back her own scream.

He had totally gone crazy; without Lev there to anchor him, he was dangerously adrift.

The clip ended and the TMZ crew started rehashing it, some expressing sympathy for James and others outright condemning him for losing his shit so badly.

“Does anyone know where she went?” Harvey asked, sipping on his trademark straw.

“Who, Levi Riel?” One the lackeys frowned in confusion.

“Who else?” Harvey laughed. “I mean, James Barnes was a wild man before but now he’s completely off the rails. Something’s happened there but his camp won’t comment. Any luck on contacting Lev herself?”

They’d tried, endlessly, until Lev had smashed her phone and gotten a new number; so far, that hadn’t been leaked but the pap was sneaky and resourceful, Lev had been in the spotlight long enough as James’ gal Friday to know how it worked and she didn’t expect to remain incommunicado forever. Besides, she was already fielding calls from other musicians, hearing she was free and desperate for her services. So far, she’d said no, it was still too raw for her to go back into the industry, but her savings wouldn’t last forever.

Would she be alright? Running into James at an award show somewhere, contracted to another singer, seeing him with some other woman (not that that was in any way new), or perhaps worse, doing just fine now without her? How long would he last like this? There were plenty of examples out there of musicians who’d self-destructed, died by suicide or misadventure, and if James had been spotted snorting white powder already, he was well on his way to joining the club.

Her phone rang and Lev almost dropped her glass, despite staring at the damned thing almost compulsively looking for James’ name, the sound still made her heart race.

“Hey, Steve.”

“You saw that?” His voice was resigned. “TMZ?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Every miserable second.”

“You going to tell me to go back to him?” A part of Lev wanted Steve to say no, but a larger part wanted to hear yes.

“No. I was going to tell you to make sure you stay the hell away. This isn’t your mess anymore, hon.”

“But… my leaving-”

“Didn’t do anything, he was already circling the drain, you were right to get yourself out when you did.”

Lev blinked back tears, wiped them angrily away. “When did it all go so wrong, Steve?”

He exhaled sadly. “Who knows? After Clint overdosed?”

“After my miscarriage?” Lev whispered, the memory of James holding her, crying with her on that hotel bathroom floor, blood smeared on her inner thighs rushed back into her mind’s eye.

They… he’d wanted a child so badly, back in the good years, when they’d lay sated and exhausted in bed together, murmuring softly before sleep claimed them both.

“I want a baby,” he’d whisper, eyes searching hers. “You’d be such a good mama.”

“Not right now,” she’d always answer, although the thought of growing round with his seed sparked heat low in her belly. “It’s not the right time, you’ve had five consecutive number one hits, you’re on top of the world.”

“We are.” He’d reply, reaching up and stroking his calloused thumb over her bottom lip.

“Maybe.” Steve replied softly. “It’s still not your fault, Lev.”

She couldn’t hear anymore; the memories were rushing back too hard and too fast. “Goodbye, Steve.”

********************************************************************************

A part of her expected the call, and she reached for the phone, half-awake, when it rang sometime after two a few nights later.

“Miss Riel?” A clipped, professional voice. “This is Dr. Keening from the UCLA Medical Center, I'm calling about your husband, James.”

********************************************************************************

Lev wouldn’t let herself examine the reasons why she dropped everything and booked the next flight to Los Angeles, maybe it was seeing him so distraught on TV, maybe it was thinking about their past; the way he’d held her so tightly, so lovingly, even as he cried so hard with her that night, the realization so fresh that their child, almost too early to even be called a baby yet, had left them already.

She gave the Uber driver directions then leaned back in the seat, staring out the window without really seeing and, all too soon, the car was pulling to a stop in front of the hospital.

The sterile smell inside made her stomach roil and she almost turned around and left, then squared her shoulders and pressed the elevator button for the right floor.

A nurse directed her to the correct room then had the grace to leave her alone. Lev milled around the hallway for a beat, chewing on her lip and struggling to find a reason, any reason, why she should walk through that door.

This…. He wasn’t her problem anymore, she’d left.

But they could both use some closure.

He was asleep when she entered the room but before she could turn around and leave his eyelids fluttered. He’d always been able to sense when she was near, and that connection apparently hadn’t faded in their separation. The instant his gaze landed on her the cloudiness vanished and a desperate, clinging hope took its place.

“Lev?” His voice cracked with exhaustion, his hand shaking as he reached for her and Lev was surprised by how hard it was to not step forwards and take it, smooth back the dark hair plastered on his sweaty forehead. He’d lost weight, dark rings under his eyes, the muscles that always flexed so deliciously as he moved fading away.

She squeezed her fist around the handle of her bag and waited, not moving forwards.

His fingers twitched, confusion joining the hope. “Levi?” His voice was plaintive.

“What are you doing, James?” She clipped.

“What?” His brow furrowed, his breathing beginning to speed up. Finally, he dropped his hand, pulling it back into his lap, fingers clenching.

“Acting like this? Getting caught by the gossip rags snorting coke? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He’d obviously not expected to be chastised and wasn’t that the heart of the issue; he’d always gotten his way before, the coddled rockstar, no one calling him out with any degree of seriousness, no one but Lev anyway and she’d always caved before laying out any real boundaries, never done something so extreme as leave before.

Was that why she’d come back then, because she felt responsible for this?

The furrow in his brow deepened, the simple hope in his face vanishing. Now came the temper, the short bursts of fury meant to force his will, likening him to a spoiled child, an attitude that Lev regretted not shutting down years ago when it first started raising it’s ugly head.

He stared at her, eyes dark and wounded, “you left,” he hissed.

“I couldn’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” A compulsive snap, he knew exactly what she was talking about, but he’d never owned up to it, never, not once.

“Watch you with all those girls, see you take them into your room, hear you fuck them through the walls, chase their skanky asses out the next morning so I could get you out of your drunken stupor and looking like a human being only to have you treat me like a piece of shit by doing it all over again the next night!” Lev hissed, enraged to feel the prick of tears in her eyes.

For a moment she was surprised to see betrayal flash through his eyes. “They don’t mean anything. They’re just groupies-”

“So that makes it alright? And telling people I’m your wife? What the fuck, James?!”

“Well, you should be!” He snarled. His arm snapped out, sweeping across the rolling table hovering over his bed, loud crashes sounding as everything on it hit the floor. “I fucking asked you enough times!”

He had. So many times, and every time she’d said ‘no’. What had held her back?

“Grow up.” Lev snapped, her face heating. How many times had they argued like this? How many times had they danced this twisted dance?

Too many fucking times.                    

“Fuck you.”

“No, James. Fuck you. I’m done. I don’t know why I came here anyway… I’m, I’m done. Have a nice life, what’s left of it anyway.” She turned to leave before the fury she was feeling was overwhelmed by the hurt and disappointment; what had she expected? Why did she always do this? Hadn’t she learned yet that he would never grow up and be the man she saw deep inside him? When would she stop hurting herself trying to draw that out?

She needed to stop trying.

“Hey. What are you doing?” James demanded but Lev ignored him, marching back out the door she’d just entered moments ago. “Hey!”

Lev stopped and took a deep breath, collecting her words. Without turning she swiveled her head enough to look at him.

“I’m done, James. I can’t watch you self-destruct anymore. I tried for years to be there for you, because I love you… but I can’t do this anymore, I need to live my own life.” Without waiting for an answer, she swiveled back, let her feet carry her away even as she felt her heart break anew in her chest.

If this was the right thing, why did it hurt so bad, why did she feel like she was abandoning him just when he needed her the most?

“Levi!” His voice broke on the scream, reverberating around her in the hallway but she didn’t turn back.

******************************************************************************

Ten Months Later

Lev sorted through her mail, separating the junk from the real then paused, lifting a large, cream coloured envelope from the pile.

Who sent letters anymore?

Splitting the seal, Lev pulled out folded sheets of thick paper, the same colour of the envelope, definitely expensive. As it opened, another smaller piece of paper fell out and Lev reached for it, brows drawn in confusion.

JAMES BARNES – STRIPPED BARE

A SPECIAL EXCLUSIVE, ACCOUSTIC ONLY ENGAGEMENT

She stopped reading, dropping the ticket to the table, and focussed on the letter instead.

Levka.

It’s been a while since we spoke, but I wanted to send you this anyway.

I understand why you left, and I applaud you for having the strength to do it. It seems to be the kick he finally needed.

James took a break from music, as you may or may not have realized but has recently decided to return, albeit in a much different capacity from before.

He has done away with the show, or ‘bullshit’ as he so eloquently puts it. No more pyrotechnics, no more lightshows and theatrics; he said he wants to return to the way he started, just him and his guitar, the band behind him.

Enclosed is a ticket to his first show and a plane ticket, first class, to reach it. The seat is in the back, where James won't be able to see you, if that is your wish.

I leave it up to you whether you attend but understand that James has not asked me to do this, and I have not told him I have.

Regards, Pepper

Lev stared at the letter for a full minute, marveling despite herself at the publicist’s flowing handwriting, her graceful hand.

She had stayed with James after all, even when Lev had left.

The second sheet was a printed plane ticket, leaving the next morning. Lev, if she took it, would land in mid-afternoon, giving her a few hours to gird herself before going to the show.

She recognized the venue listed; James had played it in his earlier years, just as he was starting to become famous and it was smaller, intimate, suited to an unplugged show. The seat shown was in the back, just as Pepper said; Lev could attend the show and leave again without James ever seeing her.

But did she want to?

What would it feel like to see him again, to hear him sing again the way he used to, his voice clear and full? When he’d reach his hand out to her, pull her onstage and sing with her, gaze at her so lovingly as they shared a microphone, voices melding and complimenting each other so beautifully?

Could she handle seeing him again?

She hardly knew.

*************************************************************************

Taking a deep breath, Lev opened the door and stepped inside. Other ticket holders milled around, no one paying her any mind. She prayed no one would recognize her, going so far as to dye her auburn hair a lustrous blue-black, switch out her contacts for the thick wayfarer frames she usually only wore in quiet moments spent relaxing or working from home.

The show was going to start in only a few minutes, but Lev resisted the urge to find her seat just yet, drifting until she gathered the will to enter the main area.

Finding her seat, Lev stared at the stage, hardly noticing as others shuffled to find their own places. Although small, the venue appeared to be sold out. Scott sat at the drums; Thor held an acoustic bass and James sat on a stool at the front, head bent over his favourite redwood acoustic guitar, the one he’d always said reminded him of Lev’s hair.

One jean-clad leg bent, worn biker boot on the footrest, he looked better than Lev remembered. Some of his physique had come back, thigh straining the jean’s stitching, biceps visible through the t-shirt he wore as he plucked the strings slowly, listening for the sound.

He looked good. He looked healthy again, his hair lustrous under the light, cheeks dark with just the right amount of stubble, fingers strong and sure, the boot flat on the stage floor tapping slowly to the beat in his head.

Lev felt a riot of emotions swell in her chest. This was the James she’d fallen in love with, the man she’d spent their early years with, before the vampire of fame began to bleed him dry.

He lifted his head, flashed a gorgeous smile at the audience and the show began.

It was beautiful, James’ voice strong and clear; the audience sat spellbound, hypnotized and Lev knew he’d made the right decision; to go back to his roots, let his talent speak for itself. He would enjoy a long career like this, unplugged and real.

Time passed like the blink of an eye and suddenly, too suddenly, James was standing, setting his guitar in its rest and stepping to the side of the stage. The spotlight followed, leaving Thor and Scott in the dark and illuminating a gleaming grand piano. The audience cheered in building excitement as he sat, adjusted the microphone.

He had not played piano is one of his shows for years, Lev wasn’t even sure he knew how to anymore.

The din died down, waiting and James looked out over them as he began to speak, a small, sad smile pulling at his lips.

“A while ago my life fell apart,” he stated simply. “I got tangled up in fame and being a rockstar and pushed away everyone that cared. Even Lev, the most important person in the world to me.”

Lev felt her cheeks warm, edginess creeping into her limbs. Was he about to blast her? Was she about to get her proverbial ass handed to her? Did he know she was here?

“She left,” he continued. “And I crashed. The only woman I’ve ever loved, and I hurt her everyday until she couldn’t take my bullshit anymore.” He swiped at a tear and Lev bit her lip.

“I hit rock bottom and Lev came to see me one more time. But instead of being grateful, of begging her for another chance, I acted like a total asshole and pushed her away again. And that was finally it, Lev leaving me like that was the push I needed to get my life together. I haven’t seen Lev since, I don’t deserve to…. but I owe everything to her.”

Lev heard sniffles around her.

“A while ago I heard this song for the first time. It made me cry like a baby and I listened to it for hours, until I couldn’t cry anymore. It brought about this idea I had about ‘stripping bare’ and starting over again…. This song is for you, Lev. I love you, baby.”

He focussed on the keys and a haunting melody began. Lev recognized it immediately, for it too had provoked her own tears the first time she’d heard it.

That Arizona sky burnin’ in your eyes.

You look at me and, babe, I wanna catch on fire.

It’s buried in my soul, like California gold.

You found the light in me that I couldn’t find.

His voice was heart-breaking, emotion pouring through as he sang, the piano a poignant, moving accompaniment, his fingers sure on the keys.

So when I’m all choked up,

But I can’t find the words.

His voice broke, but he pushed through.

Every time we say goodbye baby, it hurts.

When the sun goes down

And the band won’t play,

I’ll always remember us this way.

The band joined in quietly and Lev was lost in the sound, swaying slightly to his beautiful voice as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Too soon, the song ended, James’ head bowing as he breathed the last words, the last notes fading and the audience sat still, stunned silent for a beat before exploding.

Lev exhaled raggedly, wiping at her tears. As she watched, James tipped his head back, tears shining on his face and swallowed hard, seeming to gather himself before returning to the show.

The crowd continued to scream and cheer as James nodded once in acknowledgement, the smile on his lips tempered by the pain in his eyes.

He was open and vulnerable, stripped bare and he’d never been more beautiful in Lev’s eyes.

God, she still loved him, but was that enough?

Was she the key to his success, or the poison?

Should she go to him, step through the crowd and join him onstage, forgive him and start their next chapter together?

Or leave, let them both live their lives and follow the song, simply ‘remember us this way’?

She decided.

[whirlybirbs]

--- tenderly feral. 

summary: you’re used to being alone. daryl, somehow, changes that. rating: t for violence, references to murder/assault/loss, s5 spoilers, if that matters. word count: 3.7k a/n: this is set mid-season 5. right before alexandria. listen, i know, i’m catching up, okay???? anyways, i wrote for daryl when i was literally in high-school and i think this is very fitting. it all comes full circle. this will, no doubt, be a series.                                             ✘      next chapter.      ✘

You’re quiet. Mean lookin’ and awfully quiet.

Daryl Dixon reasons you’re a little bit like a feral cat - used to bein’ outdoors and used to bein’ mean, mean as can be. You’re not used to havin’ others around. It shows.

You don’t trust easy.

And that’s fine, because neither does he.

You’re with the group a little over a week when you finally speak more than a word -- it’s to Rick, saying you saw some formula and diapers and baby blankets in one of the neighborhoods South of Atlanta. It’s a metaphorical olive branch; offered in favor for the next-to-nothing meals and for the church roof over your head...

For saving your skin.

Your voice is a rasp, sounds like you haven’t used it in months. The words fall past your lips slow and sluggish.

(Daryl wonders if it’s from the bruises around your neck, from the hands that had been strangling you into the pavement with no remorse when he found you.)

You’re trying to say thank you. The words don’t want come out just yet. Daryl knows how that feels. So you offer a supply run instead. Risk your neck. Show your thanks.

You figure you won’t be around for long. Might as well make it worth it.

The archer squints into the evening sky as a sunset flare draws a halo around your head.

“Didn’t think t’ grab it, then,” you mutter, lips ghosting over the words as your worried eyes bounce to the cooing infant in the officer’s arms. You toe the dirt, “But, I could grab it now. She’s gotta eat.”

Rick doesn’t trust easy anymore -- not to say he ever really did before.

His eyes narrow, a blink of a microexpression that’s laced with skepticism and curiosity and a vague sense of doubt. Despite it, you stand unwavered as Daryl watches through the mousy strands of his hair from the front steps of the church. After a moment, Rick nods.

His eyes dart across the wooded horizon.

“Tomorrow,” Rick says finally, “Sun’s gonna set soon.”

Daryl watches as you nod, shuffle past, and retreat to the church. His stare follows the steps of your well-worn boots, blue eyes watching as you weave through the open doors to the Lord’s home silently.

You’re a feral cat tryna be an indoor cat.

But you’re tryin’.

Daryl guesses that’s all that matters.

✘ 

You prefer being alone.

It’s just... better that way.

You leave before sun-up and come back that afternoon with a carload of supplies -- Daryl isn’t sure how you managed to swing it, heading out to the ‘burbs with the van alone like that, but you do and there’s grub in everyone’s belly at the end of the night because of it.

It’s either sheer stupidity or pure survival and Daryl isn’t sure which one.

That night, he watches from a few pews back as you fork a can of brown bread into your mouth while you shake a bottle of formula.

In the lights of the candles, you seem softer -- maybe not so mean.

You present the bottle to Carl, lips quirked up into a ghost of a smile as the boy thanks you and bounces his sister on his hip.

(The boy reminds you of someone you knew once, then, and the formula hangs between your hand and his as a memory punches you in the gut -- you remember Boston, and Pennsylvania, and every loss along the way and Carl sees it before you can wipe it away. You try your best to distract from your gaping wound with a tight-lipped smile, but the burn of tears unfallen paint the boy’s face all sorts of guilty.)

“You okay?” he asks, eyeing the bottle.

“Yeah,” you whisper, ducking to the ground, “M’ fine.”

You ain’t. Daryl sees that.

The pew creaks as Rick settles beside the archer.

Silence runs like a river between the two men as you cross the church and settle back against the wall by the altar. They’re both watching, like wolves protecting their pack, and you avoid the weight of their gazes in favor of your canned bread and the small comfort of your corner.

You swipe angrily at the tears streaking your cheeks.

Daryl sees it. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he sees it.

This is why it’s better to be alone.

“If we’re gonna move soon, after we get Beth,” says Rick after a few beats of breath, “We need more supplies. Somethin’ t’ last us more than a few days.”

Daryl blinks into his can of beans, knee bouncing.

“Yeah.”

“She offered to show us the spot. Go with her tomorrow.”

Daryl nods, tipping back the can into his mouth as Rick pats his knee.

✘

“I’m comin’ with you.”

You go rigid, stiff as a board, when Daryl’s voice passes behind you. Swallowing, you bend at the knee and move to finish shoving a few balled up bags and some water into your camping pack -- when you stay silent, his boots carry him closer, and you’re left to eye the lopsided laces staring back at you.

“Y’ alright with that?”

“Don’t matter,” you say, words biting a bit more than you mean for them to; you’re quick to stand, hauling your pack onto your back, “... Does it?”

Suddenly, the world swings on a hinge and like a screen door slamming open, you’re locked in the orbit of Daryl Dixon. The shiner around his eye makes him look meaner than he is. Blue eyes are soft, betraying him even more. You stand straight, unwavering, as the archer wets his lips and breaks away. He toes the ground and swings his crossbow over his left shoulder as he squints along the tree line.

Mean, mean, mean. Ain’t you?

“No,” he breathes, “It don’t.”

✘

The ride to the South End ‘burbs is quiet.

You forfeited the keys without a fight, swinging yourself into the passagender side of the van -- your fingers had clawed at grime and scum lining the windshield only to yield nothing but smears. So, as the van rolls on, you opt to look out the window.

The view, however desolate and broken, is nice.

After a long stretch of road and a longer stretch of silence, Daryl finally speaks. Blue eyes dart to the curve of your face. They linger, following the column of your throat.

“... Those bruises are healin’ up good.”

He eyes the road with a noted sense of worry.

Again, you seem to stiffen and turn inward. Your hands fly to your neck, pushing the collar of your worn flannel up. The brush of your fingers spurs a wince that flashes into a snarl. Daryl sees it.

Mean.

You plant a boot on the dashboard and cross your arms.

And that’s that.

✘

You manage to stock up three bags of cans, water, and medical supplies.

It’s not much but it’s something, and as you drag yourself up into the van, you catch Daryl’s figure in the rearview. There’s a cigarette hanging between his lips, fingers prying at a bag in the trunk -- the smell of nicotine is better than that of the upholstery which has seemingly soaked up all the residue from it’s previous owner.

The stain in the carpet is big.

Your eyes fleet up from aforementioned stain, connecting with Daryl’s like keys fitting a lock.

He’s always watching.

You reason Daryl Dixon is a bit like a fighting dog -- nasty when he needs to be and fiercely protective. It shows.

He doesn’t trust easy.

And that’s fine, because neither do you.

(Even when if he is the man who’d saved your fucking life. Even if Daryl Dixon is the man who’d pried another living being off you -- even if he’d tackled that fuck to the ground while you gasped for air and stars swam in your eyes. Bloodied fingers clawed at the hot pavement and the world swayed, but you could breathe and you were alive, even if the sound of a tinkering belt and violent threats still sat in your ears.)

Trustin’ ain’t easy now-a-days.

✘

The dance of candlelight carves his face into something softer -- you swear you can see the play of a smile there when Carol talks; as the grey-haired women waves her spoon and shrugs, you find yourself missing conversation for the first time in a long time.

Maybe you have been alone for too long. It shows in moments like these.

You tuck your knees closer and fork the peaches in the tin can with an edge of frustration. In your corner, you sit, far from the lull of the group’s conversation.

But, it’s Tyreese who drags you up from the bottom of that pit of loneliness -- the deep baritone of his voice rouses your attention.

“... Where are you from, newbie?” he asks, words weighted with sincerity, “Where’s home?”

(You’re not a newbie. Maybe that lanky boy Noah is, but you’re not -- this is just something temporary between the running. This group... well, nothing is ever permanent anymore. Especially with the current state of things.)

The conversation holds itself still the lungs of those around you, stuck in their throats as Tyreese drives apart the sea and welcomes you in with a kindness unfounded.

Your eyes hit the bottom of your can. The sugar sweet peaches glisten like tears.

“Boston,” you muster finally, exhaling.

“Christ.”

A sea of murmurs. You can feel the distrust of Rick and Michonne in the tempered reactions -- as Rick bounces a cooing Judith, you’re suddenly feeling like the flame the moths flock to. You feel obligated to share this part of your story, after all isn’t that what people do?

You’re not sure. When you’re alone, you avoid the living like the plague.

But, despite your hang-up’s and hesitation, you nod again, move forward and sit up. You swallow and wet your lips.

“Been on the road for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Since it started.”

Daryl’s face flinches. You see it. He knows.

“Why?” asks Michonne with a pointed edge, “Why not... settle?”

“I did,” you say, “Tried to, at least. Then people died, shit fell apart, and... I kept moving. I had to.”

“Alone?” asks Rick, eyes narrowed.

You nod. Shame weighs your shoulders.

“Seemed like I was bad luck,” you chirp, “Real bad.”

“Well, you’re here now,” says Tyreese, “And we’re glad.”

You wonder if that’s a good thing, after all.

✘

“Here.”

You narrow your eyes.

In his hands hangs a tube. The label is faded.

You squint up at Daryl Dixon from your spot on the church’s steps as a mid-day sunray curls right around his head like a halo. His face is set in something awfully serious. Fiercely protective. Like a damn fightin’ dog. 

(You wonder who holds the choke chain, who yanks the leash.

Is it Rick?)

You take it, confusion flying across your face.

“It’s some cream,” he says, “Carol found it. Said it’s good for bruises.”

You see the way his eyes fall on your throat.

“M’ fine,” you croak, “It... It don’t even hurt.”

“Bullshit.”

“How would you know, huh?” you bite, lips snarling, “I’m fine.”

“‘Cuz I been choked out before,” Daryl snaps back, looming closer, “Take th’ damn cream.”

You do, only with a lasting look of irritation. The moment the tube leaves his hands, he relaxes.

Like that, the air dissipates into stillness.

Daryl’s eyes roam the steeple. When you speak, it catches him by surprise.

“... Thanks.”

You’re still feral. But you’re tryin’.

✘

You stay back -- you don’t know much about this mission to save one of their own, but you know you want nothin’ to do with the pigs in that hospital. You’ve met them before, out on the streets of Atlanta, and you have no intention of meeting them again.

The thought leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

And when there’s trouble with the walkers that crawl to the church, following the hysterical father, you barricade them in alongside Michonne without second thought -- but this turn of fate dredges up this gut-churning feeling of bad luck.

Bad, bad luck.

And then, a fire truck full of friendly faces plow into your concept of bad luck and compounds it with a lie about a cure for all this and a busted trip to Washington.

And then, when you all drag yourselves to Grady Memorial and Daryl Dixon hauls a dead Beth Hershel out those back doors in his arms? When Maggie, the kind woman with the kind drawl crumples at the sight? When Daryl wails and Carol tries -- god she tries --  to calm them both down?

You’re left to wonder if you’re better off alone.

If you and your bad luck is better off in the streets.

Mean and awfully quiet.

✘

The group finds two cars.

They park in the woods and bury Beth at sun-down under a sky of red.

You pass dirt along the grave and remember a prayer from long ago. It’s a croak on your lips but it means something to Maggie, who reaches for your hand and thanks you after it’s all said and done.

Grief sits heavy in Daryl’s gut.

He’s at the edge of the makeshift camp, nothing but a shadow. But, you find him.

In your hands is a can of beans.

You settle next to him on the log. The wood groans but Daryl doesn’t flinch -- his eyes art trained on the low fire that glows before his boots. The embers crackle. He inhales, sharp and fast, and you don’t need to see his face to know he’s been crying.

So, you pull your knife from your boot and crack the top of the can open. You gesture it towards him.

“Eat.”

“I ain’t hungry.”

Your jaw tightens.

Silence draws itself up between you and Daryl and dances in the flames of the campfire. You bounce your knee and clutch the can. That suffocating silence swells there, finally bursting when you turn to eye him with a careful amount of worry.

“... Who was she?”

You see his mouth move. His brows knot, then his face falls.

“A friend,” he whispers, “Family.”

You wonder what that’s like -- to have both of those with the current state of things.

(You had it once -- before things fell apart and you started moving on your own. You had a sister and friends and people who had killed for you by your side. You’d killed for them, too. You would, again. Maybe you’d kill for Daryl, too. A part of you already feels like you owe him.)

“I know it’s not my place,” you say slowly, “But she’d want you t’ eat.”

Daryl’s eyes rocket upwards, catching your expression.

He knows your right.

He takes the can and your fingers brush.

“... Thanks.”

And that’s that.

✘

Tyreese.

You liked him.

You forgot how this felt. Loss. Grief. Death.

You stand shoulder to shoulder beside Daryl over a shallow grave.

And you cry.

✘

It’s bad.

You’re bad -- you’re nothing but bad luck and all this? This is how it’s gonna end.

A thousand miles, and for what? To starve on a Georgia highway?

Behind you, like a ball and chain, is a horde of walkers that snarl and gasp and trudge along, waiting for one of you to drop. You wonder if you’ll go first -- if your last meal will really be peaches. Canned fuckin’ peaches.

You swallow, swipe at your clammy skin, and keep moving.

For the first time in a long time, you’re tired of moving. Tired of running. Of being alone.

For the first time in a long time, you glad you’re not alone.

Daryl is lingering behind you. His steps are sluggish and his crossbow is slung across his waist, posed and ready. The vest around his shoulders is soaked, tattered shirt darkened with sweat. You’re no better. The hair along your neck clings with reckless abandon. You spare him a glance, then slow up to match his pace.

You’re quiet for a while, steps falling in with his.

And then you speak.

“I never said thanks.”

Daryl’s face gives nothing away. HIs eyes, though, dart to you for a moment. When you speak, your eyes are off on the horizon.

“That guy was gonna kill me over a can of soup,” you speak slowly, ignoring the garrish flashes of the scene that unfolds behind your eyes every-night, “And you stopped him.”

“... Had to.”

“No,” you shake your head, finally breaking to look at him, “You didn’t.”

He’s quiet for a few feet, then he sighs. “Jus’ ‘cause things have got t’ shit don’t mean people don’t matter.”

Your mouth goes dry. “I’m bad luck.”

“You’re not.”

“Ever since I joined up,” you drawl, movements sluggish as the horizon glimmers, “I... People have --”

“It ain’t your fault.”

His words are firm, backed by a rush of anger that knocks you for a loop. Daryl staggers along, face set in some unreadable way that leaves you wondering what he really thinks -- he’s like Rick and Michonne. Pointed and distrusting, but there’s something else there.

“Tell the others I’m goin’ t’ look for water.”

He dips into the woods and disappears.

Mean and awfully quiet.

✘

He doesn’t find water.

But when the skies split open and pour rivers of rain down on you all, you find yourself not caring. You lay in the street beside Tara and Rosita and you laugh -- peels of joyous sounds that mesh as the group scrambles to grab bags and bottles.

And when the sky roars, you and the group hole up in that barn down off the beaten path.

You curl up in a corner, far from the fire, as the come-down of the day seeps into your bones with the rain.

It’s Daryl who approaches, rousing you from a half-sleep.

He plops down against the hay bail, prompting you to stir.

You inhale and shift, rubbing your eyes. You blink at him, caught in the tired look on his face and the cut of his cheeks. He looks rough -- you haven’t known him long but you know this isn’t him. He’s a ghost of himself. Between grief and starvation, Daryl Dixon looks nothing like the man you’d watched nights ago back in the church, glowing in the light of prayer candles and good grub.

“You okay?” you ask softly, voice nothing more than a mere wisp.

“I wasn’t gonna save you at first,” he blurts, “Wasn’t gonna fight that guy, wasn’t gonna... stop him. Things have been bad and... I don’t --...”

His words die. Your chin drops.

“All this?” he gestures suddenly, “All this is just remindin’ me I’m alive, y’know?”

You turn to eye him, then nod. “Yeah.”

His fiddles with his fingers. Silence creeps between you two and your chest aches with some sort of feeling you’re not too sure of. Maybe it’s dread? Maybe it’s regret or... distrust. You don’t know. But it’s not nice.

“I’d do it again,” he leans, “If I had to.”

“Do what?”

“Kill someone,” Daryl mumbles, “If it meant savin’ you. I don’t regret that.”

You think of the sound the crossbow bolt made when it passed through that man’s skull. You think of Daryl, scrambling to help you up as a group of walkers creep in -- you think of him and Carol, prying you out of the thick of it and saving your fucking life.

“You don’t know me,” you say slowly, “What if I’m not who you think I am?”

“I’d know,” he watches you and you feel like you’re stuck in cement, “Everyone would know. But you ain’t bad. You know that.”

Maybe you do.

Again, the quiet rolls in like mist in the morning. You’ve started to realize it’s a part of Daryl -- he isn’t a talker, not like Glenn or Eugene. He’s quiet and reserved and he picks his words; there’s nothing that doesn’t matter in the way he speaks. It’s all him.

He spins a piece of grain between his fingers.

Your head rolls. You trace his profile with your eyes.

“M’ sorry about Beth.”

“Yeah,” he breathes as he drops his head back, “Me too.”

“... Think we’ll survive this?”

“We always do.”

✘

His name is Aaron.

And you don’t trust him.

You wonder if it’s because you’ve met men like him before -- promising a safe place to rest your head. Promising safety and a future. Those men have all been liars, thieves, murderers.

(You wonder if this is how Rick felt about you. If welcoming you in with Daryl’s blessing was met with the same hesitation? Were you once nothing more than another Aaron?)

But... he’s not lying.

Rick notes your discomfort. He needs that. He needs the good and the bad and the ugly, the trusting and the distrusting. He’s a good leader -- you’re seeing that now in the ex-cop. 

That’s how you get shouldered in between Aaron and Michonne in the backseat of that shit-box Lincoln. That’s how you plow through the dead at 45 MPH, heart dropping into the pit of your gut as you haul ass out of the car and plunge your hunting knife into as many heads as you can. Your survival instinct is feverish and terrified and full of desperation; as you roar, Rick watches.

In a flash, something settles between you both.

You book it through the woods and hit Route 16 with no RV in sight.

No Carl, no Judith... No Daryl.

The moon casts inky shadows in your wake.

No time to stop. You all keep moving.

✘

Rick whistles. He gives a call.

There’s a response.

You carry yourself into a collision of an embrace -- Daryl curses, quietly, as he sways on his feet and grips your shoulders tightly. In the light of the alleyway, it’s just the two of you; the moment passes like a ship in the night and peel yourself away with a broken laugh.

“You okay?” he asks, stepping back and gauging you. The touch makes his skin hot.

“Fine,” you croak, “You?”

“Never better.”

✘

Alexandria is what they call it.

In the cramped back of the RV, you spare Daryl a look as the vehicle rolls to a stop and Abrahram announces the arrival with a measured level of reservation.

You can’t remember the last time you stopped running.

No better time than the present.

After all, you’re just a feral cat, tryin’ its best to be indoors.

[problems-turn-fics]

Caleb goes to a Molly House but little does he know that Ben followed him. Now Ben has to deal with the fact that his best friend is gay and that while Ben isn’t usually bothered by how or with who any of his fellow soldiers spend their time he’s really interested is how well Caleb knows the blonde stranger that he saw him with. Period typical homophobia. Words: 5814

Ben trusted Caleb completely. He trusted few things the way he trusted Caleb, mostly just gravity and that the sun always rose. Everything else tended to change when Ben least expected it.

Which was why Ben felt sick at the very idea of what he was doing. Maybe it was just the job that was filling his head with suspicion but Caleb had been acting...inconsistently for months and it was about time that Ben got to the bottom of it. So he’d decided to follow Caleb on his most recent retrieval.

Ben prayed that it was just a woman that made some of his rides back take half a day longer than others. That he could understand, that he could accept, but a part of him that he hated worried that just maybe someone had turned Caleb against him. It should have been laughable, but Ben knew his own shortcomings and how much pain he had caused  Caleb in particular. He worried that maybe with a few well-timed and carefully worded conversations someone had managed to reverse gravity.

But now he’d followed Caleb to Setauket and they were halfway back without anything happening. He was probably just being paranoid and with each minute they got closer to camp Ben felt guiltier and more relieved. Caleb slowed as they got near the edge of a town that they’d rode straight through on the way to Setauket. Through the trees Ben watched him hand off his horse to the young boy outside of some stables next to an inn before he went into the inn itself.

Ben’s breath caught and he forced away the tightness to focus. He tied his horse to the nearest tree and went to a window. He saw Caleb get ale from the bar before he went to a door and went downstairs. Ben ran around until he found a small window at ground level that was covered except for a small sliver that looked into the top of the basement.

The room was filled with men at tables like any other drinking room and Ben had to move his head around to look around the room and try to spot Caleb. As he did his eyes caught on another table where two men were leaning across the table locked in an intense conversation only to close the gap between them a second later and kiss. Ben waited for anyone to notice but nothing happened and as he continued to look around he realized what it was he was looking into.

Finally, he spotted Caleb come to the bottom of the stairs, his hat off and hair ruffled up and pushed to the side the way he did whenever he was trying to look a little more respectable. He was smiling softly and his whole posture was relaxed in a way that Ben wasn’t sure he had ever seen before. Caleb must have recognized someone because he waved and his grin got wider as another man with short cut blonde hair came up and wrapped him in a hug. Ben watched with a sick feeling as Caleb hugged him back and then ran his fingers through the man’s hair softly. Ben couldn't see his face anymore but he could imagine the soft smile and Ben couldn't watch any more.

He stood from his crouching position and went back to the horse. He could barely get back on the road before his mind replayed Caleb running his fingers through the man’s hair, the easy affection with someone that Ben would never know. It made him feel hot and angry and confused. That wasn’t the Caleb he knew. The Caleb he knew never shut up about the women he’d had. With a gut-wrenching twist, Ben realized just how little he knew the man he trusted implicitly. He’d made sure that Ben would never suspect what he really was with stories that had just enough detail to be true. Maybe there was truth in them. Maybe it was names and certain anatomy that was different and nothing else. Ben wondered if he’d always known and that was why he’d always hated those stories.

He rode back hard and snuck back into camp without anyone spotting him. He changed into his uniform and sat at his desk and tried to focus on anything that wasn’t Caleb and what he was doing at that moment.

It was late and Ben had finally been able to focus for a few hours when Caleb strode into his tent and tossed the letter onto the edge of the desk. “Mr. Culper sends his regards,” Caleb said, sitting down on the edge of the cot.

“Uh,” Ben said, as he grabbed the letter. They did this all the time, there was practically a script but now that he was near Caleb he could only think of short blonde hair and gentle fingers running through it. “Anything interesting?”

Caleb didn’t move, the sounds from the other side of the tent were suspiciously quiet actually. Usually, he was fiddling with something, making some noise, the man found it near impossible to sit still. “Not really. Few conversations, a few guesses. Nothing to wake the general over.”

“Right. Well, thank you.” Ben didn’t mean the words to come out as a dismissal but they did and Caleb only hesitated for a moment before he got up.

“You alright, Tallboy? You’re lookin’ a little rough,” Caleb asked from somewhere near the entrance of the tent.

Ben forced himself to look up at him. The difference between the easy smile and relaxed posture in the basement and the man standing in front of him couldn’t be clearer. Ben wondered how he’d ever missed how on guard his best friend was around him.

“I’m fine. Just a little tired. Goodnight, Brewster.”

Caleb nodded once and left.

Ben sighed and tried to remind himself that even if he never got the image of Caleb with that man out of his head again it was a good thing. At least Caleb wasn’t a spy.

**

Things did not get easier. All he thought about was Caleb with that man, what they were to each other to have such easy intimacy. Who was he? What was his name? What did Caleb like about him? Was he a Tory? Was he a Patriot? Was he a spy? Was he nice to Caleb? Was he married? Did he have kids? What had he done to earn that smile Caleb gave him?

He could barely look Caleb in the face anymore. He couldn't stand to be alone with him anymore either, every time there was a silence the same questions came to his lips and they were questions that could never be asked. The fewer people who knew a secret the safer the secret was and this was a secret Ben was never supposed to know. If he said one word when they were in camp there was no telling how many people would overhear it. It wasn’t safe and Caleb was still the most important person in Ben’s world. He didn’t care that Caleb had been lying to him, he’d had to and Ben had forced himself to accept that.

But weeks went by and Ben couldn’t stop the questions that were spinning in his head and he worried. If he and his “friend” were already entrusting their most precious secret to each other then other secrets might seem small. As the head of Intelligence, Ben needed to know what those might have been. He needed to find out what might have slipped out during private moments that he never wanted to know happened.

It was dark out, well past when most of the camp had gone to sleep, but Ben had decided that that night was the night to get it over with. He stepped out of his tent and walked through camp until he found Caleb joking with a few other men around a fire. He caught his eye and nodded towards the woods and continued on without stopping. Caleb would follow in a few minutes and no matter where Ben went inside the treeline Caleb could find him, he was the better tracker of the two.

He stopped walking about ten minutes outside of the camp line and leaned against a tree as he tried to relax. It would be fine, Caleb would be upset that Ben hadn’t told him he knew but Caleb knew Ben would never report him so after a few minutes they’d both relax and they could talk about the quality of the people Caleb was spending his time with and then they could finally move on. Maybe Ben would finally be able to think clearly again.  

Small beams of moonlight through the canopy of branches above them lit Caleb as he came up to him, his back straight and his jaw set.

“Thank you,” Ben started but Caleb didn’t seem interested in what he had to say.

“Listen, Tallboy, you don’t have to say it. I know it’s been tearin’ you up, but I’m beggin’ ya just give me a day. I’ll be gone by tomorrow night and you’ll never have to see me again,” Caleb said, eyes fixed firmly on Ben’s face.

The words knocked Ben back. Just the thought of never seeing Caleb again made his throat close up and his eyes burn. “That— that’s not what I want.” It was clear that Caleb had been expecting some talk about Ben reporting him and Ben’s words did nothing to change his mind because Caleb stood up a little taller and his eyes got a little harder. “I’m not going to tell anyone and I don’t want you to leave. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Really? Then why are we here and not in camp?”

“I wanted to say.” He cut himself off. He didn't know how to finish the sentence, Caleb had thrown everything off. Ben couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that Caleb genuinely thought that Ben would betray him. His concerns about the man Caleb had smiled at seemed small compared to that. “Do you love...them?” he finally asked, having to force the last word out. Saying “him” was dangerous just in case anyone was out where they weren't supposed to be.

Caleb cocked his head to the side and his cold, distant mask slipped for just a moment as he looked genuinely confused by the question. “Who?”

“The m-person...the person you were there to see.”

Caleb just looked more confused before he shook his head. “No. I’m not in love with whoever you think you saw.”

Ben ignored the relief that crashed over him. “Then why?”

“Why what?”

“You could be executed. If you don’t love them then-”

“For fuck’s sake, not everyone is the perfect son of a preacher,” Caleb said, rolling his eyes and running his hands over his face the way he did whenever he was at a loss.

Ben’s face got hot. This wasn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. “There are other-”

“It’s not just that!” Caleb yelled. He took a deep breath and a step back away from Ben, shaking his head. He stepped back in close, his finger pointing in Ben’s chest. “How do you not get it?” he hissed. Ben tried not to show his relief. A red hot angry Caleb he could handle, a cold distant one he could not. “I can be all of myself there; I can’t here. I can’t anywhere. So no, I don’t need to be in love with one of them to want to be around them.”

Ben looked down at Caleb who was glaring up at him and realized that it might have been the first time that Caleb had been completely honest with him in years. He’d craved that honestly ever since he’d seen the difference between the Caleb he knew and the one that walked confidently into the room in the basement. He couldn't let go of it now. “Fine. If you won’t stop just...be careful. Don’t tell them what you’re doing going through town.”

“Funny, those kinds of questions don’t usually come up.”

“And don’t fall for any Tories,” Ben finished, ignoring Caleb’s comment. He didn’t want to think about what did come up. He didn’t want to think about any of it.

“Not a problem.”

Ben rolled his eyes at Caleb’s disregard for his worrying. Still, it was welcome after everything Ben had just put them through. He turned towards camp. “Come on. I think I owe you a drink.”

“Or five,” Caleb said as he fell into step next to him.

Ben clapped him on the back the way he’d done a thousand times after a thousand arguments and ignored the shot of lightning that ran through him for the first time at the contact. “Or five.”

**

In camp, Caleb and Ben were rarely alone, or alone enough that Ben felt it was safe to ask the question that was burning a hole in his mind ever since their talk in the woods. But now they were in the middle of the woods on their way to see Abe and not a single soul around for miles.

He’d been trying for hours, ever since they had set out that morning at dawn, to find the right words that wouldn’t just turn it into another argument. He’d found none.

“Out with it,” Caleb said. He wasn’t even looking at Ben, he was carving someone on a stick as they sat next to their small fire for the night.

 “What?”

Caleb looked up at him with a smile like he was on the verge of laughing at Ben’s poor deflections. “You’re only ever this quiet when you think ya got somethin’ important to say. Just say it.”

Ben stayed quiet for a moment just to be stubborn but his curiosity won out. “I just wondered when you said you didn’t love him were you lying?”

Caleb went back to carving. “Why would I lie about that?”

“You weren’t sure of my reaction yet. You might have thought you needed to protect him.” Ben picked up a stick next to him and started to peel the bark off. His hands were nowhere near as steady as Caleb’s on a good day and he could feel himself shaking just a little. He needed to know if that smile had been the one Caleb gave to the people he was in love with.

“I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

Ben released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding before he realized that it was a deflection and not one of Caleb’s best. “People fall in love during war all the time.”

Caleb sighed, rotated the stick a little, and continued to carve. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“But-”

“Leave it,” Caleb said, sharp and cold. Ben looked up to see Caleb staring at him, clearly ready for a fight. Ben wondered why he couldn't stop pushing Caleb to that point. It seemed like they were always on the edge of a fight.

A second later a thought hit Ben and his blood went cold. “Are you in love with Abe?”

Caleb must not have been expecting that because he burst out laughing, throwing his head back as he did. “What?” he asked when he calmed enough to form actual words. He just dissolved into more laughter before Ben could respond though.

Ben could breathe again as he watched Caleb laugh and after a second he started to laugh too. It was ridiculous to think that for even the split second that he did. Maybe Caleb wasn’t in love with anyone. Ben felt lighter than air.

“Now you’re jus’ tryin’ to hurt my feelings,” Caleb said when their laughter had settled down into the odd giggle or chuckle. “I have standards.”

“Oh, do you?” Ben asked, still smiling. He wondered what those were, he hoped Caleb would tell him.

“I do. They’re not high but I can do better than Abe,” Caleb said with another laugh. This time though his eyes were fixed on Ben’s face. Ben couldn’t look away.

“Sure,” Ben said even though he wanted to agree. Caleb could have anyone he wanted. He deserved as much.

“Shut up. They’ve worked out for me so far,” Caleb said with a crooked smile and the fire reflecting in his eyes to make them shine even more than usual. For one wild second, Ben thought he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Yeah?”

Caleb’s smile dimmed for just a second as he got more serious. “Yeah.”

Ben’s breath caught in his throat and he feels like a deer that just spotted a hunter. He didn’t know why but he knew the moment was dangerous.

But then Caleb laughed and threw this stick he was carving into the fire and just like that the moment was gone. Ben didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed.

**

The thing about Caleb was that he only projected the image of being a loose cannon and a reckless idiot. In reality, he was the person Ben relied on to keep him steady and make sure he didn’t run off with half-formed plans. Part of that was just Caleb’s natural ability to make up a plan on the spot and have it usually work and part of it was that he never hesitated to tell Ben he was wrong. He never hesitated to tell anyone they were wrong.

But he’d been taken and it had sent Ben into a bit of a spiral. For the first few minutes after finding out he’d been captured Ben could barely breathe, let alone think. Even after he got himself together it felt wrong; like he was missing a part of himself. Still, he pressed on because more importantly than his need for Caleb, was that Caleb needed him.

So he kept himself together through his trip to the Woodhulls and then through the “kidnapping” and the ride to Connecticut with the singular thought that soon Caleb would be safe and sound again. But then he saw him, the top of his shirt open and showing his bloodied chest and he stumbled forward.

Ben didn’t even have the good grace to be relieved that Caleb was alive. He was too angry at what they’d done and too worried about whether Caleb would heal and too hell-bent on killing whoever it was that had done it. But then everything had gone to shit and he’d had to reprioritize.

When Caleb gave him a tired smile and pointed at the two corpses on the ground Ben allowed himself to feel one fleeting moment of relief. His Caleb was back, sharp as ever.

It wasn’t until they were back on the road, Abe passed out next to his father’s corpse and Caleb sitting next to him, did Ben allow himself to breathe. It had gone bad but it had been worth it in the end. He had Caleb back and any cost would be worth that.

He turned back just to look at him and reaffirm that he was still there and saw that Caleb was already watching him. His head was tilted back against the side of the cart but Ben could see him watching him through his barely open eyes.

Ben turned back to the road. “Get some rest. We have a long way to go before we get to camp.” He resisted the part of him that wanted to stop the cart and tear open Caleb’s shirt to check the wounds even though Caleb swore they were fine. They clearly weren’t fine.

Caleb slipped his hand onto the seat of the cart next to Ben. “It’s good to see you, Tallboy,” Caleb said, his voice was rough and his smile was pained.

Ben couldn't breathe again and dug around for his waterskin to distract himself. He opened the lid before he handed it to Caleb who took it with his other hand even though the movement seemed to hurt. “Drink. You sound like shit.”

“And you sound worried.” Caleb drank a little as he drummed his fingers on the seat and Ben felt the urge to take his hand and keep him still for once; to keep him where Ben could always know that he was safe. “I’m gonna be fine.” He gave the water back to Ben who closed it and tossed it back into his bag.

With one more glance back at Abe who was still unconscious and at Caleb who was smiling up at him Ben gave in and put his hand over Caleb’s and intertwined their fingers. For the moment that Ben allowed himself to look at Caleb before turning back to the road, he looked confused, even if he did squeeze Ben’s hand back.

“You’d better be,” Ben said, not caring that his voice cracked.

**

Ben was writing at the small desk in his tent while Caleb played solitaire on his cot. Caleb spent more time with Ben these days, though all of it was in near dead silence. They’d always been near inseparable but since they’d gotten Caleb back the way they spent their time together had changed. Instead of Ben finding Caleb or them happening upon each other in camp and then deciding to head the same way Caleb would show up and join Ben in what he was doing. Or if Ben had to work on something he’d sit quietly, meditating on something or other. Ben often wondered what it was that kept his friend’s focus, but he also had the feeling he didn’t want the answer.

That night, though he’d been particularly quiet. Ben understood why when Caleb broke the silence. “I need you to make me a promise,” he said suddenly, not even looking away from the cards when Ben turned around to look at him.

“What?”

Caleb took a deep breath and moved a stack of cards. “If someone finds out, if someone reports me, do it before they can.”

Ben’s chest got tight. “Do what?”

Caleb laid down another card. “Kill me. Back of the head, preferably, so I don’t have to watch you. But you can choose as long as you don’t let them do it.”

Ben felt the world fall out from under him. He’d thought that was where Caleb had been going but he hadn’t been prepared to hear it. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't speak, he couldn’t think. Caleb plus Dead did not make sense. “Why wouldn’t I just break you out?” he asked when he could finally get air in his lungs.

Caleb shrugged, gathering up the cards and flipping them around so that he could shuffle them. “Principles. They’d know it was you and you won’t - you can’t leave the army. They’d still know it was you who put me out of my misery but they’d probably forgive you for that.” He started to lay down another game.

“Why?”

“All sorts of reasons. They’d want me dead but they’d understand you not wanting more people than necessary to know why. And Washington likes you.” Ben didn’t like the hollow ring to Caleb’s voice. It was the same one he had whenever he talked about anything terrible he’d learned to accept. Ben didn’t want him to have accepted this.

“No. Why do you think I wouldn’t leave if they were going to execute you?”

Caleb laughed, but it was grating and empty and bitter the way all of his laughs had been since they’d brought him back. What had once been a precious sound to Ben’s ears now made his skin crawl. Another reminder of what Simcoe had done to him. “Because I know you. You won’t leave for anything. You won't even leave if we lose, you’d swing next to Washington before that.”

“For you, I would.” Ben turned back around to find a scrap of paper he could spare to make a note on. “We could go west, try to go somewhere they couldn't reach us. We might have to find somewhere to hide if it happened in the winter, but if we go southwest we would have more time before it got too cold to travel. I should get a map just in case.”

Caleb laughed behind him again. It was that same awful empty sound and it made Ben’s hands freeze. “Sweet thought, Tallboy, but we both know that’s not how it’d go down. It’s not who you are.”

“It’s who I’m willing to become if it means saving you,” Ben snapped, going back to his note to himself, just a small list of absolute essentials that he should prepare just in case the worst should happen.

“Don’t say things you can’t mean,” Caleb said before he walked out of the tent.

Ben watched the tent flaps for a minute to see if Caleb was coming back. When he didn’t Ben went back to making his list.

**

It was three days before Ben saw Caleb again. Ben came out of his tent in the morning while Caleb was standing at Anna’s cart, tossing something into the air and smiling. The smile was more convincing than his laugh but not by much.

Caleb spotted him and nearly dropped whenever it was that he’d been throwing. He tossed it back to Anna, turned sharply, and walked in the opposite direction. Anna turned to see Ben who threw up his hands with a sigh and followed Caleb. Anna yelled something after him but he ignored her, he had more pressing issues.

Caleb was better at hiding and slipping through crowds than Ben would ever be, but Ben was tired of not talking to his best friend and had little shame in yelling “Brewster” after him, and going wherever the turned heads pointed him.

Ben caught up to him at the treeline before he was able to slip away and pretend not to be hiding. “Why are you avoiding me?” Ben asked, as he grabbed Caleb’s wrist and turned him around to face him.

“You want that list chronologically or alphabetically?” Caleb asked with another harsh laugh. He jerked his wrist out of Ben’s grip.

“If this is about Sim-”

“Christ, Bennyboy. Not everything is about fuckin’ Simcoe,” Caleb said, rolling his eyes.

Ben frowned and raised a brow.

“Fine. It’s not-not about him but it’s about other stuff too. I’m complicated like that,” Caleb said with another sharp smile.

“That I know.”

Caleb didn’t laugh that time, he just kept staring up at Ben.

“Then what?” Ben finally asked. He looked around carefully to make sure that no one was close enough to hear them. “Is this about what I said about going west?”

“Like I said: complicated.”

Ben sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t want to leave...them but it’s not like they’re the only people in the world like you,” Ben said. The I’m like you threatened to spill out but he bit it back. Caleb didn’t need a confession right then, he needed Ben to make things right between them.

“It’s not just that,” Caleb said, looking directly over Ben’s shoulder.

“Then wha-”

“The mill. A’ight? I don’t ever ever want ya to look at me like that again. I was broken and I needed saving and I couldn’t do anything and.” Caleb screwed his eyes shut and thrust his hands into his pockets. “You are not supposed to save me. That’s not how this works." He looked back up at Ben with a glare. "So no, I don’t want you to plan a trip out west or buy a map or to do anything else your overly loyal brain told you to do. I just want you to make me a promise.”

“You’ve saved me from-”

“Don’t matter. That’s different.”

“How?”

Caleb held his stare for a minute before he shook his head and turned away. He started walking towards camp when he said, “Because it is,” quiet and tired.

Ben watched him go, frozen in place, his mind spinning over the same thing and never understanding. If it had come out of anyone else’s mouth; if it had been said by Anna or Mary about Abe, Ben would have known exactly what was meant. It coming from Caleb about him of all people only confused him.

 There was a part of him that jumped to the same conclusion, but it was the small hopeful part of him that Ben had learned not to trust. Instead, maybe they weren’t romantic feelings, maybe Caleb felt responsible for him the way a brother might be. He’d been friends with Sam too, maybe there had been a promise about protecting Ben that he’d never known about.

Ben shook his head and sighed before he started back towards his tent. He had reports to finish for Washington by the morning and he’d been so distracted he’d barely started them. Anna made a face at him as he passed but he just waved her off. It wasn’t something he could talk to her about and considering her own track record he wasn’t sure her advice was worth taking anyway.

Ben sat at his desk, opened the ink, and began work. He only moved to light a candle when the shadows made it too difficult to make out the words and then went back to decoding the messages.

“Now who’s avoiding who?” Caleb asked as he came into the tent. Ben looked up and realized that the reason the tent had been dark wasn’t a cloud in front of the sun but because night had come. He’d been working for hours without so much as a pause for a drink. Caleb was holding a plate and set it down at the corner of the desk before he sat down on the edge of the cot. “Doesn't mean you can go around skippin’ meals.”

Ben picked up the slice of bread and tore a bite off. His fingertips were covered in ink, he observed distantly. He was usually so careful. “I was focused.”

“Course.” Caleb stared up at the ceiling as Ben continued to eat. He was ravenous, having not eaten since breakfast. “It’s not a problem. I’ve handled it.”

“What are you talking about?” Ben asked, unsure of which problem it was that Caleb had handled. They seemed to have more problems every day and Ben was struggling to keep track.

“Me. I just needed to get a handle on it again and now it’s taken care of,” Caleb said with a shrug.

Ben hummed. “Good.” He finished the bread, but eating the rest of the food would mean turning away from Caleb and that was unthinkable. He needed to see his reaction, at least for the next few seconds. “I can’t make the promise.”

Caleb just shrugged and kept looking up like he was counting the threads in the canvas. “Shoulda figured.”

“But-” The words caught in his throat. He had to tell him, he had to know, but saying it out loud scared Ben more than anything he’d ever had to do before.

“What?”

“I want you to promise me even though I can’t make that promise.”

That got Caleb to look at him. “Whadaya talking about?”

“If someone were to find out that I’m like you-”

“You're not though.”

Ben looked down at his hands and picked his stained nails. “In certain Brewster-specific cases, I am.”

Caleb was silent for a long time, but at least he didn’t get up or laugh. Ben wasn’t sure he could handle hearing that laugh at that moment.

“I know it doesn’t matter,” Ben started but his throat at closed up at the thought of what would happen to either of them if anyone ever found out. “And just because you…” Ben was very conscious of how thin canvas was and that anyone could be standing outside his tent. He looked up and saw Caleb watching him carefully. “have a type doesn’t mean everyone,” Ben put a hand on his chest to show that he meant himself. “Fits into that type.”

Caleb laughed, though it was shorter and quieter and more genuine than Ben had heard in ages. It was almost like the one Ben knew and loved. He leaned forward on the cot toward Ben so his elbows were resting on his knees. Ben leaned forward so that he could hear him when Caleb whispered, “Have ya always been this stupid?”

Ben snapped back and turned away, his eyes burning.

Caleb scoffed and bent himself to the side to try to put himself back in Ben’s line of sight. “I’m trying to tell you what my “type” is.”

Ben turned to glare at him, but Caleb just grinned at him and made a sweeping motion at Ben.

All the air was knocked out of him as he realized that maybe that hopeful part of him he’d tried to smother had been right. “Really?”

Caleb leaned back on his hands. “I know. Shocked me too. But what can I say? I’m a goner for a pretty blonde.”

Ben remembered the blonde in the basement with the short hair and he was a little less sure. “With short hair?”

Caleb sighed. “God, you saw that too?”

Ben hummed.

“Well, let's say I liked them because they reminded me of someone else,” Caleb said with a grin. “Someone I’ve been gone on for a long, long time. Since we were kids, in fact.”

Ben smiled again, feeling light as air until he remembered exactly what they were saying. “But still-”

“We never have ta talk about it again,” Caleb said, putting his hands up. “But I ain’t ever been the only one in this camp. There are ways. Always have been.”

“If something were to happen to you-”

“Let me worry 'bout me. You worry 'bout how I’m gonna kick your arse at draughts,” Caleb said with a wave as he got up. He started to dig through Ben’s things until he found the board and the small bag of pieces.

Ben looked at the reports and his food that had gone cold while they were talking and sighed. He put away the papers and closed the ink. By the time everything was in its proper place Caleb had set up the board and made the first move, sitting on the cot again with his legs kicked out on either side of the small table.

Ben picked a piece and made his move, his leg resting up against Caleb as he did. The shadows from canvas wouldn’t look odd and a slight roll of his ankle and they wouldn't be touching at all. It was safe enough.

Caleb looked up at him with a bright smile and just a little bit of hope. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”