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laurore-stormwitch · 4 years ago

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Did someone say Zoya and Genya getting ready for a ball? I had this sitting in my computer for a while. I've written it at the same time of the Nikolai/Genya interaction and went for that instead, leaving this unfinished, so that's the reason why they're similar. But even if this is not wildly original I decided to post it, maybe some of you will enjoy it anyway!

together now - AO3

word count: 2661 (cause I can’t write short fics sorry)

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“Zoya, if you move again, I’m going to turn your hair purple.”

Zoya rolled her eyes. Drama queen. Whoever believed that getting ready for a party with your friends was fun, clearly never had to deal with Genya’s perfectionist and dictatorial tendencies. She purposely shifted in her chair in front of the vanity, making Genya glare at her.

“Do you want me to complete my masterpiece or not?”

No, not really. Nothing about going to Sainkt Nikolai’s ball seemed to be exciting. Dreadful and annoying were the only two terms she could come up with to describe the evening in front of her. Mainly having to do to the fact that she was going to have to watch Nikolai and his future wife simper over courtiers and nobles, with the bride-to-be practically coerced to attend the ball. And she wasn’t even allowed to get drunk; saints forbid someone attempted to murder the king again.

“Do you want your hair up or down?” Asked Genya, moving some strands of her hair over her ears.

“Are you really inquiring for my opinion?” The squaller noted ironically, pouring herself another glass of wine.

“No, of course not. Down is better, they make you seem wilder.”

She winked at her and Zoya huffed again. Genya began braiding some thin locks away from her face, leaving the rest of her mane free on her shoulders. She weaved the fine tresses with silver threads and held them in place with diamonds pins. Zoya relaxed under her delicate touch.

“A bit more practice with breaking Grisha’s orders and I’m going to tailor myself at some point. What are you going to do when the day comes?”

She had meant it as a joke, the tone light. But through the mirror she saw a shadow pass behind Genya’s eyes and immediately regretted her words and lack of tact. They knew only one person who had held as much power as Zoya was wielding now; he was rotting in a cell beneath them, and Genya would forever wear his marks on her skin. Of course her mind would have run to him; she tended to darken whenever they touched the argument surrounding Zoya’s newly acquired abilities.

“I hadn’t meant to make you think about that, Genya. I’m sorry.”

Genya smiled at her, coming back to her delightful self.

“It’s okay. I’m just a bit worried about - well, about everything. How is it going with these powers? I’ve spied on you summoning fire the other day. You were glorious.”

Zoya curled her lips and held up her arm, making the fetter made of dragon scales dangle. Juris rumbled inside her. She had told Genya what happened in the Fold, in broad outline. Zoya knew that even if they didn’t say it, they were all concerned with this. She caught them glancing at her sometimes, as if they were waiting for a ticking bomb to go off. It was unpleasant, but she understood them; after all, she was waiting for herself to go off too.

“I’m managing. I’m still not so sure of what I can or cannot do.”

Genya kept working on her hairstyle thoughtfully, letting the quiet stretch between them. She bit her lower lip before adding something else, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Does it feel good?”

Zoya understood that question too. Power is protection. No matter the cost, it would always hold its appeal for a Grisha. That was the pull they felt towards the Darkling too.

“It feels risky.” She answered after a while, releasing a long breath. It was not like her to betray uncertainty or weakness, but she hadn’t anticipated how both frightening and fascinating it would feel to be in this position. “It’s so much power, Genya. What if I can’t control it?”

“If there’s anyone who can do it, it’s you, Zoya.” There was not hesitation in this answer. Yet, Zoya didn’t feel much reassured. She didn’t have a sense of who – or what – she was becoming.

“What if it’s too much power?” She realized that was not the right question, the one thing she dreaded to come true. She corrected herself. “What if it’s not enough, and I want more?”

At this, Genya paused, avoiding Zoya’s gaze, and fell terribly silent. She looked worried, almost scared. A shiver went through Zoya’s spine at the idea of eliciting something like fear in one of the people she loved most. She felt a stabbing guilt and the sudden realization that she didn’t want to explore this topic more and find out what Genya was thinking. She waved a soothing smile at her friend, hoping to stir this exchange away.

“Enough of this. Don’t you want to show me the dress?”

Genya’s eye lightened up as she was pulled out from her gloom towards a more delightful diversion. She turned to the bed and pulled up Zoya’s gown, handing it to her. As usual, Genya had outdid herself. The gown matched the decor in her hair: Zoya thought of the dark midnight sky over Pachina while looking at it, one of the few memories she held from her childhood. When Genya moved it towards her, a million tiny crystals sparkled like stars against the sheer fabric. Zoya slipped inside it gracefully and turned to her, making the dress shimmer; the red head was gloating.

“I always give you the best dresses. All eyes are going to be stuck on you.”

Zoya doubted it, considering how equally gorgeous the other girl was looking right now, hugged by velvet the colour of blood. Genya made her wirl around on herself while she smoothed the dress; Zoya tried to reach for the wine, but Genya snatched the glass from her hands. She shrugged her shoulders at her outraged look. “What? I’m not going to let you stain this magnificent gown, excuse me.”

“You know, you have David’s adoration all for yourself.” Zoya pointed out, scowling. “Don’t get greedy. Let them admire me instead. If I can’t get drunk, I can at least have a different kind of fun.”

Genya rolled her single eye turning her gaze to Zoya, furrowing a brow at her.

“I do hope that by now you know that you have someone’s adoration all for yourself, too.”

Genya had clearly noticed the subtle shifts in Zoya and Nikolai’s behaviour, since she had been dropping this casual and mildly vague comments for a while now. At first, Zoya just ignored them; but then it occurred to her that denying what was going on was not the way to fight this. That maybe the right angle was to approach it much like a military campaign: know your enemy before you defy it. Which for her, it meant to understand what was happening so that she could crush it. And since feelings were not an area of expertise for Zoya, she had figured Genya could come in handy. So at some point she had just let it become a mutual understanding that this whatever-it-was-thing was out in the open, and she started posing carefully pondered question of her own. Zoya crossed Genya’s eye for an instant, replying with a sceptical click of her tongue.

“Both his adoration and his efforts better be for Ehri, for all our sakes. Much like his gaze better be kept on her all night like she’s the most beautiful creature to ever grace this earth. If he cannot sell it to her, at least he has to sell it for the rest of the world.”

“With you in that dress it’s going to be a challenge to look at anyone else.” Teased Genya, grinning. Zoya glared at her, pushing down the uncomfortable satisfaction this remark brought.

“He seems rather immune to my appearance and my presence.”

A poor and unconvincing objection, to say the least. Genya scoffed, handing her the wine as if she was going to need it to hear what came next. Zoya gladly took the offering.

“You do realize I’m a Corporalki, right?”

“What would that mean, apart from making people faint every now and then?”

“It means he can keep his eyes trained on the ceiling all night for all I care, because I’ll still feel his heartbeat spike up every time you pass beside him.”

Zoya didn’t much like to have this particular piece of information, that stirred some unpleasant feelings in her lungs. She swallowed the rest of the alcohol, her throat burning for something else entirely.

“Do you peer in all your friend’s visceral reaction for fun?”

“Just the two of you. Want to know what happens with you?” Mused Genya, knowing damn well the curiosity that sparkled in Zoya’s eyes and even more well feeling her breath itch. Know your enemy, right? Zoya grunted, not even bothering to try and look unfazed.

“Fine. Rip the band aid off.”

“Your heart usually beats like it’s at war. On the contrary, it slows down when he’s around, like you feel- I don’t know, safer. At home.”

Zoya fell silent, turning the words over in her head. It was always a punch in the gut when she wondered when things have started to turn and understood just how much they had turned. Instead of lingering on this painful realization, she did what she knew best and deflected the conversation again where it hurt most. She had the strange belief that if the heart was indeed a muscle, you had to train it like any other one in your body. The more pressure and blows you would put into it, the less you would feel the pain with time. Yuyeh sesh. Be cruel to your heart.

“How are the preparation for the wedding going?”

“As good as they can be.” Genya’s gaze turned sweet and affectionate, and she went along. “No one would say anything, you know. If you wanted to stay away for a while or get some distance.”

“We both know that a lot of people would say a lot of things.” Zoya held her chin high. “And you know that’s not my way of doing things. This is my place; I’m not going to let anyone take it away.”

I don’t want to live in darkness. She fought and lost and suffered to get to where she was. She was certainly not going to give it up for a bad timed and poorly chosen crush. An idiotic and simple crush. Genya nodded, getting the hint that it was enough for today. She seemed to remember something and got back to her tailoring kit.

“Speaking of Nikolai, there’s one thing missing. He gave them to me before I came here.”

Genya walked towards her and clipped what looked like a pin on her dress. She made her turn around to look herself in the mirror. Zoya felt something warming her from the inside when she looked at it; it was more of a medal than a pin. Ravka’s double eagle was shining on her chest, pleated gold, with Alina’s sun behind it and an Etherealki blue ribbon. It resembled the medals she saw on the supposedly war heroes’ generals that worked with Nikolai, but it was more elegant. She brushed her finger on it, full of pride.

“Me and David have one too.” Genya showed her the other one she was holding before securing it on herself. It was Corporalki red. “David has a Materialki purple ribbon. Nikolai told me people should always know we are his most trusted generals and friends. That we work for Ravka as much as he does, and we are owed the same respect, even at a ball.”

Respect. Recognition. Another time, Nikolai managed to surprise her. Because this wasn’t just a pretty thing, a nice embellishment. And while she had been his general for almost three years, that didn’t mean people had accepted and treated her with the appropriate regard. This was a symbol of the king’s trust, something that would force the nobles and the army to behave accordingly, even at events where it would be so easy to down-play her and treat her like another beautiful hollow courtier. Stupid thoughtful Nikolai. She was torn between wanting to kill him for making her feel like this or kiss him senseless for the same reason. Get a grip, Zoya.

“You’re not going to be like him, Zoya.” Zoya startled at Genya words, confused for a moment. She cleared her throat, shoving the treacherous thoughts she was having away. Genya had moved beside her, taking her hand in her own. Looking at Genya firm and proud gaze, she realized they were not talking about Nikolai anymore, and that she hadn’t dropped the conversation before because she was scared or angry at her. It was because she understood where Zoya’s fears were coming from, and she was facing them head on now.

“The Darkling.” She added to clarify, lingering on his name with a tremor in her voice. “Even with all the power you have, you are nothing like him. You managed to do what he had always claimed he wanted, and he had never done: you are saving Grishas, you are rebuilding the Second Army and you hold a position as the King’s right hand. What drives you is not the hunger for power; is the care you have for Ravka and your people. The Darkling wanted to control them, to own them. You protect them.”

Zoya tightened the hold of her hand, while looking at their reflections in the mirror, in the stunning gowns and the triumvirate’s pins. Two women who had believed in the wrong man and kept paying the price for their ingenuity, who had saved themselves in the end. She sucked in a breath, seeing someone she barely recognized; there was almost nothing left of the scared little girl. With the medal on her chest, diamonds in her hair and a glowing fierce light in her eyes she really looked like the leader she aspired to be. She wondered if she was still pretending, or some of the act was now true.

“Stop me before I can become like him.” Zoya blurted out, the words unsteady and whispered. Genya shook her head, leaning in towards her.

“You are different in every way. And you have something he never had; you have people who love you. Believe me, Nikolai is going to burn down all of Os Alta before he lets anything happen to you. None of us is going to let anything happen to you.”

“I’m not afraid of something happening to me, rather than to others.” What if I hurt Nikolai? What if I hurt anyone of you? Genya lowered her head on her shoulder, still holding her hand.

“We fought our way out of his grip once. We’re not going to let him bring us down. We’re stronger than we were before.”

“And we’re together, now.”

Zoya needed something to anchor herself on; the words felt uncertain, more like a question. Because she knew, deep down she knew she was still somehow living by what he had taught her: love is a weakness. And she knew that while Genya talked of friendship, Zoya herself was distancing from everyone. That she was suffocating her feelings for Nikolai, effectively cutting out the person she had relied on the most. That she didn’t know how to be close to someone. That, like the Darkling, she felt destined to be alone. And yet a part of her still needed to believe that a strand of what she conquered was going to save her, that someone was going to reach for her.

“And we’re together.”

Genya repeated, more firmly. We’re not going to let him bring us down another time. A litany. It was our blood on the skiffs, in the sand, on the rocks of a mountain. I’m nothing like him. An enchantment. And we’re together. He had taught her wrong. One day she would be free of this last cage, too.

#genya and zoya have my heart #i don't know if you can tell but i love genya as much as zoya and nikolai #genya safin #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #zoya and nikolai #zoyalai #mainly genya and zoya friendship #rule of wolves #nikolai duology #post kos #my writing #fan fiction #grishaverse

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lizacstuff · 4 years ago

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Thoughts on the last episode of SCK? I thought it was a vast improvement over the last episodes but still seems like an Edser reunion is super far away.

Hello! I liked this episode, I really loved a lot of the Edser scenes and pretty much enjoyed everything that did not include Selin. (I hate her guts, ya’ll, lmao)

Let’s see, I have a bunch of asks and I have some time today, so I’ll try and answer those in a big post later, but overall I thought it was a solid episode. As far as a reunion being super far away, I don’t know. They are definitely doing what I’ve been saying all along, and that is proving that he would fall in love with her all over again. So that has to be complete before he gets back his memories. And I think they are going to give us a little more of that even after Selin and Deniz are gone. Hopefully we jettison them soon, and then we’ll get to enjoy a few episode of Edser shenanigans as they dance around one another.

(more under the cut)

As for this episode, wow, the spoilers that said there was no Ayfer/Alex in this episode were WRONG, weren’t they? Starting with Ayfer, for the first time she didn’t annoy me with her trying to control Eda’s life. I actually applauded when she gave Eda the time limit for breaking the fake engagement. Good! Girlfriend is allowing Deniz to spin the situation out of control and I’m glad someone is helping her reign it in. Ayfer actually acting in Eda’s best interest for once, let’s hope Ayfer/Aydan plan that dinner with their wayward children soon and without any faux fiancés.

As for the Aydan/Ayfer/Alex of it all, it wasn’t the worst B-plot we’ve ever seen on this show. At least there were some entertaining moments. I liked Aydan/Ayfer getting together to discuss Eda and Serkan, and Alex as a two/three-timer is the least shocking development ever. Aydan is already ruined as a character so she might as well be okay with trying to move in on Alex while Ayfer is still in the picture. As for Alex... is he dead? Surely not... Who knows, but it looks like we may get some more comedy out of the situation in the coming episodes. I did laugh at them moving the body and Ayfer trying to go incognito wearing the sunglasses at night. Neslihan is very good at certain comedic moments.

Even with Alex, Ayfer, Aydan, Selin, Deniz and Ceren running around my nominee for worst character of the week is... Piril. Seriously, fuck her. She’s 100% enabling Selin’s delusions and has totally normalized her buttcrack crazy behavior and apparently cares not at all about Serkan or Eda. Is she high trying to convince Selin that Serkan went off to organize a surprise, can she not read the room at all? She should be staging an intervention with Serkan, not trying to further Selin’s deceitful agenda.

I will say this for the writers, though they have done their best to destroy Aydan and Ceren recently, Piril is staying pretty true to character. She’s the actual emotionless robot of the show and has always been a pretty shrewish, not-great, not-likeable person. It makes me sad that a teddy bear like Engin is shackled to her and honestly I don’t think she has any business having children, she’s not gonna make a great mother.

Melo and Ferit are honestly the only side characters (and Seyfi) that have rights at this point. Thank goodness Eda has Melo! Though I do think that the show purposely has weakened both Eda and Serkan’s support system in order to enable them both in this crazy storyline. If Serkan had real friends, he would have wizened up about Selin by now, and if Ceren hadn’t gone off the deepened, wanting to hurt Eda, she would have provided proof of Selin’s duplicity.

As for Eda and Serkan, so glad their screen time is back on track! I will always, always take more of them, but this felt like a big improvement from the last two weeks. I really loved their scenes together and their dynamic even (especially?) when they’re at odds and arguing, that was always a huge part of their relationship.

Loved their office scenes, the sparing over the client and Eda coming out on top. It was priceless watching her bet with Melo and then counting down until Serkan came to find her in the coffee room. The red hot sexual tension with the “Nobody touches you but me” moments and the “accidental” kiss. I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve worked in offices for many years and shockingly have never had my mouth accidentally come into contact with Gerard from Accounting’s mouth. “Accident” SURE. I guess that’s what happens when you’re drawn to each other like magnets.

I know there’s a lot of vitriol being spit at Serkan for how “cruel” he’s being, and he does need a slap upside the head at times, but mostly I saw this episode how soft he was. Did ya’ll see him sleeping in the office clutching Eda’s wedding invitation? That is SOFT. Or inviting her to sit with him at the coffee shop and saying he felt at peace there? SOFT. Or apologizing after he said harsh words in the office? He said “sorry” he never says that. Or leaving the hotel and heading back to the office because she was having trouble? Picking up coffee at “their” place on the way? Offering to help and calling her boss? Smiling proudly when she closed the deal? Letting her hug him? Soft, soft, soft, soft, soft.

Insisting she go to the hotel? Letting her sleep on him? Smiling about it? Snowball fights? and then finally at the end, taking off to look for her, finding her necklace, finding her, carrying her to shelter, caring for her, being concerned about her injuries, putting her necklace back on her, asking about their past, covering her with a blanket, and falling asleep with her?

IT’S ALL SO SOFT.

This man is already back in love with her, he just doesn’t know how to identify those feelings, process them or what to do with them. They still scare the crap out of him on top of the fact that he thinks she has been able to easily move on from him and their great love, and is sincerely happy and in love with another man. That shit-stain Deniz basically told him he was glad his plane crashed so that Eda could finally be happy! What an awful, heartbreaking thing to hear.

Yes, he said/did some things to hurt Eda, mostly by laying it on thick with Selin at times, but EVERY SINGLE time, it was done in reaction to him having Eda/Deniz thrown in his face and he was absolutely reacting to that. Our Miss Eda is really having to thread the needle when using her fake engagement to push him, and sometimes she went a little too hard and missed the mark. There were times when Serkan needed some hope and she didn’t give it to him. And then we have Deniz the shit-stain interfering. I’ve pretty much given up hope on him playing Selin, he did too much damage this episode, I will never be over his conversation with Serkan. And that conversation is what Serkan was reacting to when he laid it on thick with Selin at the party. It’s not because he actually gave a damn about her, there was nothing sincere about it, it was an act because he had been crushed. Plus the guilt of forgetting her birthday and of knowing the feelings that he was having for Eda.

Selin needs to go. I think the entire audience is feeling the fatigue of her presence in this storyline and she crossed quite a whole new professional line with putting Serkan’s entire company at risk in order to prevent Eda from going to the hotel. This storyline would be so much easier to take without her. I could actually enjoy the slow burn, falling back into love, stops and starts, hurt and angst if she wasn’t always looming, but she casts a pall over everything. I really think the writers miscalculated with this. The amnesia story could have worked fine without her and actually been really enjoyable to watch. At this point I will take her exit however I can get it, even if it means she doesn’t get her comeuppance.

However, how much do we love it on this show when the villains’ machinations backfire!? Sorry Selin, you weren’t banking on Serkan leaving you without a word and running to help Eda, were you? The scene in the office when Serkan arrives to help has catapulted on to my list of favorite scenes of the entire series. I loved every moment of it (and plan to gif pretty much every moment of it). I loved how they finally got to just work together, collaborate, join their talent and get a win for the company. Serkan needed to experience that, needed to see what kind of partners they could be and I’m so glad we got a chance to see it again too. Then the hug. What a relief! The first time since he’s been back where she’s actually gotten to hold him and have a few minutes to just feel his heartbeat and his warmth and take a beat to celebrate the fact that he’s alive. And how cute was he afterwards? All awkward smiles and fidgeting. It felt just as good for him as it did for her.

Another scene that deserves to be called out is the coffee shop. What a delightful surprise, I had no idea that was coming. And to find out Serkan permanently reserved that table for them? Because it was their table on their first real date? MY HEART.

Of course the final scenes in the cabin were beautiful and fraught and made my heart twist. I think this was a moment where Eda should have given up the game and come clean about the fake engagement with Deniz, but then the show couldn’t continue to milk this story. And they’re clearly not done with it yet.

However, I'm hopeful that we’re on the tail end of the engagements and Selin and Deniz will exit soon. So we’ll end with a <prayer circle> for that to happen!

#Sen Çal Kapımı #sen cal kapimi #edser #sck episode discussion #edser discusssion #sck 1x32 #sckask #asklizac #Anonymous

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xlady-saya · 5 years ago

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i’ve had a love of my own [ch 3]

Relationships: andrew/neil

Summary: Despite everything Neil could’ve imagined for his life, he never thought he’d be here, finally giving the world the interview they’ve always wanted.

It’s been decades, but even with his numerous accolades and sports wins, he finds that they’re the least important thing about his life.

Neil can’t help but laugh. Andrew would be so annoyed if he were here.

Of course, Neil only wants to talk about him, and the life they spent together.

Tags: interviews, post canon, major character death but not how u think I swear lol, neil is an old man retelling his memories about andrew, cheesy romance, post retirement, see more tags on ao3

Read on ao3!

He expects pain, he always expects pain.

His head hits the floor and his vision floods with red, the headache spreading like a fog through his skull. For a moment, he's back on a cold basement floor, and his legs won't work, they won't move.

The vision wobbles though, the voices of the past aren't as clear. It's been so long since he's been taken back to that place, to the body of a nineteen year old with nothing to save him. Even now, it's not as strong. The memory fades in and out until the roar of the crowd shatters it completely.

Neil's not on the basement floor, his father is dead. Yes, at the age of thirty-five he's come to accept that, to smile at the thought.

He knows something is wrong, because he does smile in his delirious state, and someone above him makes a choked, sobbing noise. His frown returns. He thinks it sounds like their team captain, and she's calling, yelling for someone...

There's a referee whistle and an uproar that follows. It's probably a few seconds, at most, but his awareness moves at a slug pace. He tastes copper and tries to grip his racquet, but he must've dropped it.

Must've...

Neil tries to move, but when he does his body jolts. Like being next to a speaker blasting sound, his spine vibrates and his cells scream. He thinks they might be breaking apart. Is that possible? He'll have to ask Aaron.

His eardrums ring from the cries of panic around him, but they're not his own. The gasps and screams of fear are not his, though they probably should be. Any other time, he'd be in an anxious stir, wondering if the puppet strings holding him up would finally snap.

He freezes, his body refusing to let him move.

But it's not pain.

If it were pain, he could power through it, he could move with a strain and a groan. If it were pain, he could cry and freak out and wonder what happened.

That's how he knows it's bad. This isn't a normal accident, a typical injury. This is something serious.

All at once it comes crashing down onto him, and he forces his eyes open.

The lights of the stadium are mind-numbingly bright and there's people trying to get his attention, but he doesn't care. Neil pushes the fingers someone is holding up aside, trying to sit up and hating himself when he can't. A few seconds. At most.

He tilts his head towards the goal, because even in his state he knows the Exy court by heart. That's how he's measuring time. It's only been seconds, because there's no way Andrew would take any longer to get to him.

He watches the blond sprint the remaining few feet, brutally shoving anyone out of the way. There's a snarl, and commands being barked.

"Back the fuck off."

"Don't touch him."

"Neil, can you hear me?"

Neil's throat is too dry to respond, but he squints his eyes up at Andrew, scanning his face in that infuriating way he does when he's trying to get a rise out of his boyfriend. Yes I can.

The hands around him grip him harder, probably enough to bruise, but Neil can't feel it at all. Ah, not good. Not good at all.

He expects Andrew's face to morph back into annoyance, or the begrudging amusement he always directs at Neil when he's being a little shit like that. Then he would know it's alright, it's not as bad as everyone is making it out to be.

It does not.

Andrew's expression remains stripped of his calm, of his restraint. All the things Andrew cultivates, the neutral indifference he shows the world...it's all gone.

Once again, because of Neil.

And Neil hates it, he wants to reach up and cradle Andrew's face in his hands and will him back into a sense of peace, into contentment.

Instead, all he sees is panic, a desperation he's familiar with but hoped to never see again. Like if Andrew could, he'd shelter Neil from the entire world, hide him away in his chest until he was all healed.

Neil tries to move again, one fruitless attempt to show Andrew he's alright.

All he gets is a sickening crack.

He doesn’t realize how silent the meeting room has become until he stops speaking.

Neil cuts himself off there, squinting down at the floor as the static buzzes around him and tries to cling to words that are no longer forming.

No, no.

Neil bites his lip.

"Sorry, that's not right," he says, slicing through his recount of Andrew's expression. He recalls the way Andrew’s hands tightened around Neil's trembling form as if he could put him back together all by himself. Neil still feels the light pressure on his skin, and reaches up to graze the back of his neck. He swears there's the slightest dip, another part of his body Andrew left a permanent mark on.

It's not a memory he's afraid of, or one he's sensitive about. It's just—

Neil looks up.

At this point, Blake and Rayah have gotten comfortable. They're sitting, shoes toed off and legs up on the comfy meeting room chairs. Rayah's manicured nails are eating through the thread of her stockings, body tight with nervous energy. They both blink, as if shaken out of some dream. Neil's never prided himself on being a good storyteller, but he guesses with a life as random and convoluted as his sometimes was, it's hard not to be a little interested.

Blake has the most apparent reaction, squinting at Neil before looking at Rayah for confirmation that Neil did indeed stop there. "...what?"

Rayah, forgoing all professionalism at this point, puts her hands in front of her as if to ask: and?

Normally, Neil might smile, but something begins to unfurl in his gut.

Yes, he knows what the problem is, but weighing the risk is a lot harder than he thought.

Can he entrust that kind of knowledge to these people? Is that reckless?

Is it really his life story if it's not at least a little dangerous?

He knows if Aaron were here, he would scoff, though more fondly. 'You always have to get those around you in trouble.'

Perhaps, but he'll be careful. If he relays this right...if he leaves blurry spots...

He can still get the important stuff across.

"I don't want to start there," Neil says, sighing. "Everyone knows what happened, it was all over the news."

Why waste time repeating details that can be viewed online in a video?

Before it was confirmed the injury was condemning Neil to an early retirement, most of the coverage had been about Andrew's severe reaction. His unwillingness to leave Neil's side, the way he shoved people away like they weighed nothing...

It annoyed Neil to no end how people's main reaction had been to finally say 'oh, so he does care.' For so long, that's all Neil wanted; he wanted people to accept Andrew's devotion, to acknowledge other sides of him that disproved the heartless whispers. Though, once that day happened, Neil realized people didn't deserve to see the evidence. Even when provided it, they twisted it and used it as even more of a reason to doubt them. After all, if Andrew cared so much, why didn't he show it more often?

Even now, decades later, Neil has to bite his tongue from going off into a rage fueled rant. He glares down at the floor, like he could burn the world to pieces.

Andrew put himself in such a vulnerable position just for Neil on that day, showing so much. Like Baltimore, his restraint was gone, focus turned entirely on Neil for the full span of his recovery. Andrew never viewed Neil as a weakness, far from it, but that intimacy was not something he readily liked to share.

For good reason, too. It belonged to them only, at least while they both lived. But on that day, it had been on full display for people to pick at, while internally Andrew's entire being probably screamed and twisted itself inside out.

Worried.

If Neil could've gone back in time, he would've been more careful, he would've made sure people didn't get to see Andrew like that and make their foul assumptions. In their years together, they'd made a silent, but unrealistic promise to try and spare each other pain. It was hypocritical of them, two people so familiar with how unforgiving the world could be. Would be. They never fooled themselves into believing things would always work out right away, or at all. Yet...they worked so hard to make sure neither of them had to experience fear.

And that day, Andrew had been terrified.

Neil knew it wasn't his fault, but old habits die hard. He'd been hung up on it for a while, always hellbent on protecting this person of his.

He and Andrew were insufferably the same in that way.

Months and months later, Andrew had flicked him in the forehead and told him to knock it off, that the past couldn't be changed. They could only move forward, and resume their fragile promise. No more martyr cards.

They both were all too familiar with how life could be disrupted, but Neil had still felt petty about it, about how people overlooked this commitment to one another based on a five minute clip. The urge to clear up Andrew's reputation had probably begun there, waiting to be ignited in his old age.

He wanted people to understand Andrew's actions that day weren't out of character in the slightest. They had no right to look on and judge.

Especially not with what happened later, the way they both had to mourn the life they'd built together, for fear it would be snatched away.

Yes, Neil kept those nights close to his heart, locked in his mind for no one else. Too raw, too exposed. Deadly.

But now, well, it's the most important part of this whole question, unavoidable. Andrew's immediate reaction to Neil's injury had been explosive, powerful, but not nearly as telling as what followed.

Rayah stutters, catching up with Neil's meaning. She leans forward, but her pleas fall on deaf ears. "Yes but...Andrew's reaction was so strong--"

"And again, everyone saw," Neil reiterates. He closes his eyes, trying to find patience he no longer has. If he ever did. He sags further into his wheelchair, contemplating it all. How to best go about it. "I just...this was supposed to be about the sides of Andrew people didn't see."

And maybe about sides of him too. Weird, how he tricked himself into that one.

"But it would help people understand your relationship more if you went more into detail about his protective side," Blake tries.

He's right, but that's exactly why Neil can't start there. It barely scratches the surface. He sighs, knowing this is already a stupid idea. Yet, if he's trying to share the true sides of how hard Andrew would've worked to keep him safe, he has no choice.

Neil nods, smile sad. Those hours spent in Andrew's arms, waiting for death, feel so far away now. Back then, his world had been crumbling, and now it's but a piece in the timeline.

He never let himself feel grateful for that, he realizes.

"Yes, but that was just a glimpse of it, albeit a violent one. It makes for something more engaging, climactic, I'll give you that." Neil huffs.

That's what's good for interviews, but Neil's made it clear he doesn't give a damn about that.

"But what I can give you is better, more important," he promises, because it's true. He swallows around the lump in his throat; even now, his mind is not so willing to give away the last of his private moments. But if not now, then when? "Andrew's protectiveness took a lot of forms, and I'm not saying the circumstances surrounding my retirement didn't affect him in the ways seen in the video..."

He knows they did. The panicked expression flashes in his mind once more.

"But I think what happened after that would make more sense," Neil says, and already the potential consequences make him shiver. Force of habit; his blood runs cold whenever he thinks of a black car, a loud cane hitting hardwood. "It would help people understand."

Blake and Rayah exchange a look, feet hitting the floor slowly. Neil assumes at this point they can sense his strain, the foreboding mingling with the air. "You mean...your recovery?"

"No," Neil whispers, and holds off, because Sydney comes in right on cue. Her entrance makes the two journalists jump right out of their seats, but her presence is so standard for Neil. He could hear her footsteps in the dark and immediately know it's her.

"Alright, I'm sure you all must be hun--uh," she stops, jumping a little herself at their reactions, about the air in the room around her. She blinks once, takeout menu in hand. Brown's. The usual, and Neil's favorite. It was Andrew's favorite place to take him on dates when he was retired, according to Andrew 'only old people eat here.'

It never failed to make Neil laugh.

Sydney's smile is cheery at first, especially when her eyes rest on him, but it falls soon after. As Neil grew older, he learned letting people in was actually a good thing most of the time. However, he's still painfully aware of the downsides.

Sydney tenses up from whatever look is on Neil's face. Years of caring for him have made her attuned to his mood, the subtle mannerisms which make up any one of his given reactions.

And she can sense dread like a smell, potent and coppery.

It must be something else that comes with the territory, of years spent at Andrew and Neil's side.

She's there next to him in an instant, checking his pulse and looking around at the table to see if anything's wrong. It makes Neil chuckle when she goes as far as to check his water, like it can be accidentally poisoned right in front of him.

She looks between Neil and his guests, takeout menu clutched in her hand to an almost distorting degree, but Neil reassures her no protection is needed. He touches her wrist as tight as he can, given his lack of grip, and presses down until she lets up on the menu.

She blinks down at where they touch, then back up again, brown eyes squinting in confusion.

As safe as Neil plans to be about this, he doesn't want her anywhere near them.

"Sydney. Brown's is fine. Get our usual okay?" Neil says, and hopes his stare is as piercing as he means it to be. He's never asked her like this; she always knows. They've shared the same lunch together for years, and she probably still knows Andrew's order too. It's deliberate, and while he hates ordering her around in such a way, it's necessary here. He'll make it up to her somehow.

But he needs her to leave.

"Yes, of course, but...is something the matter?" She asks slowly, staring him down.

Ah Sydney, she always knows too much for her own good. Neil can't help but smile at her. Her perceptiveness matches his own at times, and maybe that's why she was so comfortable attending to him. She seems to understand in an instant, so he doesn't baby her with trying to hide the gist of what he's about to get into.

"Go put in the order, close the meeting room door and whatever you do, don't let anyone else come in," Neil instructs, letting go of her with one last imploring squeeze. "Knock when you come back, I shouldn't be long."

He watches her swallow and nod, glancing back at the two reporters. They're sitting up straight again, but not due to any expected politeness. They're more than aware of how in the dark they are, but Neil is guessing they've read up on him well enough too.

They should know they're about to step in a little deeper.

"Okay," Sydney says, veneer of calm back in place. She takes Blake and Rayah's orders and then leaves, not bothering to linger. "Excuse me."

Neil waits until her steps completely fade from the outside hallway before he turns back to his guests, expression grave.

Old threats echo in his mind, reminding him of the old can of worms. He's not even sure if they even apply anymore, but he took them seriously enough when the Moriyamas gave them to him, he still shudders to think about defying them. He's probably been forgotten in that world at this point, but he can never be too safe.

"I'm going to make something clear about this part of the story," He begins, and shakes his head when Rayah grabs her recorder. Nothing recorded for this, only notes. If that's even smart… “For your own safety, you are not to ask too many questions about this particular incident. No names, no affiliations, not even questions about how they looked. You're going to wait until I'm dead and gone before you release it, and edit it so it's as vague as possible. Not the Andrew parts, but the rest. Don't let it fall into anyone else's hands."

He trusts himself to be careful enough where no connections can be made, no assumptions tied back to any one family past or present. But...insurance is paramount.

From the way the reporters look at each other, Neil almost wants to laugh at the assumptions they're making. The mob is in many ways a business; it's built upon negotiations, psychology, and ties. It's not entirely the bloody, underground image the movies portray.

But...it can be.

"Okay...what is this about?" Blake asks,

Neil smiles ruefully. "I'm sure you know all about my father's line of work." He grimaces, and amends: "The Butcher, I mean."

They nod instantly, probably unsure if it was okay to bring it up. In most cases, no, and he won't be doing it again. His father is good for context, nothing else.

"We...we know you gave up a lot to the FBI, that you got out of that life," Rayah says, like she's reading text right off his wiki article.

He guesses that's fair. No one knows much; his father's gang got caught, died, and Neil testified against the rest. Signed, sealed, done.

"That's what the news reports said, easy to spin," he responds, clicking his tongue. "Poor Neil Josten, a victim of one evil man and his gang. But it was never that simple, and I was never free, not for a long time."

He'd viewed it as freedom though. It was the best outcome he could've asked for, given all he'd been prepared for. He'd been given the unlikely chance to cultivate and build his life, but it always felt suspended, and they knew it. One wrong move for any of them, be it himself, Jean, or Kevin, and those chances would be revoked.

It hadn't really occurred to him how suffocating that reality was until his time ran out.

"You were still in the mob?"

Neil shrugs.

"I had some debts that needed to be paid, to people much much more powerful than my father. You would not even begin to understand how deep these organizations run or how influential they are. I was tied up in it for a lot of my career, and it all came to a head when I got hurt."

After the sickening crack, Neil doesn't remember much. But part of him had to know he'd never play again, and for him, that was a death sentence. He'd been prepared to make his case to the Moriyamas when he reached normal retirement age in his forties. He'd studied up on as much as he could, ready to show them how much of an asset he could be. He could still make them money, still be an important public figure. If nothing else, he could do menial tasks so they'd be benefited.

It didn't have to end with Exy, and he'd been hopeful Ichirou would see things his way.

The injury derailed his confidence in those plans, and as much as he'd prepared for that eventual confrontation, he could not ignore the very real threat:

What if Ichirou didn't care? What if he'd decided Neil's purpose had run its course?

It was something Andrew had not been willing to consider, but Neil had.

Neil sighs; he's not afraid of them anymore, whether or not that's a good thing is yet to be seen. Rayah and Blake stare back, not truly comprehending the seriousness. Why should they? They've never been so entrenched in those systems. They haven't seen what Neil has.

That's alright, he'll just have to do what he can and trust they'll take him seriously.

"I need your agreement that you get it, that you'll listen to me," he says, and for dramatic flair, he adds: "This is not a game."

He plays on their fears of movie mafias, and hopes it works. If he's being honest with himself, it's for selfish reasons. Neil would never want this to fall back on Kevin or the remaining Foxes.

"We understand Neil," Rayah states, hand over her heart. As if that means anything to him. "We'll be careful."

And whether or not they actually are, it no longer matters. After all, this is his story. He'll choose what goes into it.

So finally, when the question comes, he's ready.

"What happened?"

The x-rays stare back at him.

Neil's honestly not sure why he's being shown them; he knows what they mean, but he didn't need to see the actual fractures to know the end result.

Neil doesn't move as the doctor finishes reviewing them, stepping back to let Neil process. He wonders if this is where the reaction is supposed to go. If this is where most patients would cry or scream or begin asking their delusional questions.

Maybe that's why the doctor looks so shocked when Neil does nothing. Neil leans back in the hospital bed, aching and unable to move his legs, carefully wrapped in casts. He's a little surprised himself. This is where he should be asking when he'll be able to play Exy again, right?

This is where he begins to panic, where he needs the press of a hand on his neck.

Well, he'd still gladly take that, but more so because he wants it, not because he needs it.

Andrew is a comforting, but imposing presence at his side. He hasn't slept or eaten anything since Neil was admitted, refusing to leave Neil alone for even a moment. His calm facade is back for everyone else, but Neil's been tracing the poorly locked away fear in those eyes for hours.

And now, here is confirmation of what they both already realize. Neil can't bear to look over at Andrew in the moment, but he can sense the tension, the tight coils of reality crashing down on the blond's shoulders.

The doctor looks between the both of them, before dropping what Neil supposes is the final bomb into the quiet air. But he knows.

"I know this is not easy to process," the doctor says, slow and unsure, but Neil only blinks at him. "In time, with the right amount of physical therapy, you'll be up and moving again, but it will be an adjustment. Competitive sports simply...won't be an option."

He stops listening after 'time' comes out of his mouth. Time. How funny.

There will potentially be no time for anything.

Neil wonders if he's being rational or pessimistic. He's always known what this moment could mean, and he's dreaded it. He would spend years with nightmares, flinching at black cars or preparing for how he could persuade. Lie. Anything.

Whatever he could do to keep this, to spare both himself and Andrew the pain.

Now, the life he's developed and the life he loves is being threatened, but the dread has decided to spare him. Maybe that's more of a sign of his final moments than anything else.

He doesn't want to run, or wallow, or waste what little time he might have left.

He only wants...

Neil finally looks over to Andrew, tilting his head just so. It hurts him far more to see the look on Andrew's face. It's expectant, waiting to follow Neil's plan of action. Whether it be to skip town or scream or gear up to fight...

Andrew's looking for something, ready for anything, and Neil can't give it to him.

I just want to be with you.

Andrew's eye twitches at the sigh which leaves Neil's lips, fond and gentle. Neil knows better than to touch him right then, but he wants to. He wants to tell Andrew to let go of all that strain, to just whisk him away and they can go on a date, they can rest or rewatch that one movie that freaks Neil out.

But Andrew only looks like he's fighting back a snarl at Neil's passiveness, and Neil won't waste time explaining. It's not hopelessness he feels, but the weird mixture in its place is no more warm or sweet. It's a different kind of pain, mixed with resignation.

It's so opposite of everything Neil has ever been, but he's not willing to let Andrew help him this time. It's not selfish, it's not the martyr card Andrew will accuse him of.

He's simply at the end of the line, and he's going to spend it how he wants.

Neil turns back to the doctor, just one question on his mind. "Can I go home? We can afford in-home care."

The doctor's jaw drops before he collects himself, not really in the mood to argue with star athletes whose careers just came to a halt. That, or he must know all about Neil Josten, and how he's not prone to listening to anyone's advice.

The doctor is silent for a minute too long, outside the limitations of Andrew's patience, and he flinches at the way the blond's hands tighten on the bed rails. Neil's heart skips a beat at the sound of Andrew's knuckles popping, at the redness of his hands.

The doctor takes the hint. "I'll get the paperwork set and get a wheelchair," he says. "A nurse can escort you--"

"No," Andrew says, the first word he's spoken in hours, and it leaves no room for argument. Neil smiles down at his hands, wrapped in white hospital bands and connected to wires. Yes, that's where he'll be selfish. He'll let Andrew watch out for him, for a little while longer.

Though, Neil is old enough now to know Andrew never minded.

The doctor waits for more, but gets nothing. He takes the x-rays with him when he goes, pity sweeping over them for reasons Neil no longer cares about. "Very well."

The door clicks shut, leaving only the sound of Andrew's harsh breathing mixed with the steady beep of vital monitors. Neil really does hate hospitals, but even more so today.

When they're alone, the roles reverse, and it's Andrew who won't look at him. The blond starts to pace the floor of Neil's private room, wearing the linoleum thin and only stopping to glare out the window. Whenever his phone rings, he silences it, before eventually just turning it off altogether.

And through it all, Neil can't help but smile at him. He doesn't think it's the pain meds; he's aware, clear headed.

There's guilt there too, but he knows Andrew won't have it. Neil once again wishes he could spare Andrew this anxiety, this helplessness. But well, at least Neil is here this time, for however long that is.

Andrew walks forward a little too fast after another sharp turn, and nearly trips. Then, he really does growl, fists shaking with the need to lash out at something. It's been awhile since he's seemed so rage filled, but Neil doesn't bother poking him about it. He's happy it's abnormal now, that he's so used to a calm, content Andrew.

Neil's heart squeezes in sadness unrelated to his career. He watches Andrew stop, the anger shaking him but rendering him unable to do much else but tremble. He stays put in the middle of the room, looking everywhere but at Neil

Neil supposes he expected that.

"Andrew," he tries, a beckoning tone that Andrew is so weak to on most days. He means for it to be playful, but it comes out a small whisper, pleading. It gives too much away, and that's when Neil starts to feel the beginning edges of his own stress.

All he knows is he wants Andrew next to him, he wants to feel Andrew's pulse, his warmth. Right now, he thinks, come here. It's childish and unrealistic, he only just found out about the x-rays. Word wouldn't travel that fast, but to think that any moment could be his last and Andrew wouldn't be touching him.

Andrew tenses instantly, and while he doesn't meet Neil's gaze, he's at his side again just as fast, grip tight and unforgiving on Neil's hand. Never babying, but reminding Neil he's real too. They're together, and nothing will change that until they know Neil’s fate for sure.

Still, they need to address it. They've grown past the days of trying to read each other's minds. Neil can imagine how Andrew is feeling, but he'd rather not. He wants to hear it, he wants to hold all of it like he holds Andrew.

However, he's not surprised when Andrew cuts him off when he tries to open his mouth again. The grip on his hand is bruising now, but not commanding. It's desperate, and it cuts Neil even deeper.

Andrew exhales shakily, holding up their hands as if to speak, before placing them down on the stiff sheets once more. Neil's familiar with all sides of Andrew, even the unsure side, the hesitant one. It doesn't make it easier to process.

He wants to tell Andrew it's okay, they can both look out for one another, even when Neil's the one physically broken, but Andrew shakes his head.

Not yet.

"I don't want to talk about it," Andrew finally admits, voice rough and scratchy, and all Neil can do is nod. He's not trying to fight, not here, so he doesn't dare point out that eventually, they'll have to.

He just sighs, and brings Andrew's hand close to his chest so he can feel it beat, full and proud.

"Let's go home."

Over the next few days, he gets settled in, their bed modified and moved to better accommodate the nursing supplies Neil needs. Andrew still keeps it at the best vantage point, angled so he can watch the door. Andrew tried to make the case for getting a separate cot to allow Neil as much room as possible, but Neil refused.

He's going to have things remain as normal as possible, soaking up Andrew's presence as much as he can. While he can.

For the first time in years, Andrew's perch changes. Instead of having his back pressed to the wall, with Neil protecting him from the open room, he tucks Neil in instead, becoming his shield in yet another way.

It's a small barrier, it would buy Neil maybe...oh, a second of time, if he even could get away. It makes Neil pout; he likes it when he's the one keeping Andrew safe, but he knows he's in no position to physically do so.

Now, his attentiveness has to come in the form of hard conversations and requests, ones Andrew hasn't even let him bring up yet.

Neil tries more than a few times to comment on it, to lead them down the road of conversation Andrew is avoiding, but Andrew just bundles Neil up. More often than not, Andrew moves Neil's arm too, so it's wrapped around the blond's waist.

It's a deadly arrangement, because it's unbearably cozy. As much as he hates it, the medicine makes Neil sleep a lot, and he's always worried he's going to wake up to more than Andrew's attentive face and steady breathing.

Neil doesn't think Andrew has slept more than a few hours, but Neil can't judge. The dread he'd been relieved of at the hospital now sits like a veil, much worse now that he's home. There's more to cherish here, more to miss.

He doesn't want to be anywhere else, but at the same time he doesn't want it taken away.

The cats take to sleeping on his chest or curled into his side, little protectors themselves. Neil wonders if they have a sixth sense, if they can tell something is wrong. If they can, they're a lot more subtle about it than humans are.

The main example of that is Neil's Foxes. They all call, first in a frenzy and then on a strict face time schedule organized by Andrew. It lets Neil sleep, as much as he wishes he could talk to them forever.

Still, he can only take so much of the tension in the air when they do. His Foxes aren't sheltered, nor are they stupid. They're all too aware of Neil's contract and how it's about to run out. If Neil's being honest, he's shocked he's lasted this long with no word from Ichirou, but none of the Foxes dare to bring it up.

When Kevin calls, his face is haggard and eyes wide, but he barely gets a word out before Andrew threatens to hang up. The panic in Kevin's face dissolves into something sad, pitying, and Neil has to grab Andrew's hand to force it away from the button. His hand shakes in warning, but lets Neil guide him.

“Neil…” Kevin says, swallowing down what Neil guesses to be bile, because Kevin has always reacted so strongly to any indication of things going wrong. Neil nearly feels bad. Things haven’t gone wrong for Kevin in a long time, and he’s glad. As if sensing Neil’s guilt-ridden smile, Kevin blinks at him through the screen, fishing for answers he no longer needs. “What am I supposed to…”

Do?

And they say Neil asks stupid questions. He shakes his head fondly. “Nothing. You won’t have to do anything. You’re Kevin Day.”

You’re strong.

It’s something Neil’s known forever, though it took a while for Kevin to start acting like it. With all his progress, Neil can’t imagine this being a setback.

Kevin’s hanging jaw clamps shut.

It's then Neil really looks at Kevin, sees how he's aged. There's some silver that's starting to show in his hair on the side, a fact they all like to poke fun at, but his features are just as young as they ever were. Deep brown eyes locking away a cautious fire, a constant burn. He knows he and Kevin have never been the type to get all emotional with one another, but when he smiles at Kevin's worry, at the fire wanting to be let loose...

Well, he hopes Kevin can tell how much Neil appreciates him, how they don't have to hash out more painful things. Also, he hopes Kevin picks up on the subtle threat in Neil's eyes, a burn all his own. Kevin Day isn't supposed to be controlled by fear anymore, and that's going to be a rule regardless of if Neil is around to enforce it.

He lets them sit in silence like that until Kevin nods, and utters an impossibly small: “I promise.”

And naturally, Neil understands.

They talk about Kevin's game, about Thea, about some docu series Kevin is in love with. All the while, Neil nestles himself into Andrew's warmth, and forgets anything is wrong.

The rest of his team learns fast. Allison takes to scolding him in the way she always does, but meticulously avoids any mention of the future. Instead, she reminisces on the vacations she made him take with her; Rome, Spain, that one random town in Montana.

She gives him a mix of good and bad memories, the places they went, that one rude waiter she almost fought in the parking lot.

It makes him laugh, and he's glad to be able to exchange jabs with her. It's only at the end where her mask cracks and she lingers a bit too long, telling him goodnight one too many times.

The calls blend together, each with their awkward goodbyes.

In another hour, he’s listening to Katelyn’s excessive cheer, overcompensating for the gloom carrying through the phone lines. She’s holding a picture of the four of them, when they went to Alaska. “Remember when we made Andrew get in that plane to fly above the glacier? He was terrified!”

At least Katelyn knows how to get his mind off things: bring up Andrew.

She talks too much, like she always does, but Neil appreciates her stories about bitchy patients and scandalous coworkers when her vacation tales run out.

“What about Sandra? Is she still being an asshole?” He asks, an invitation to talk about anything other than his injury. It’s not that he’s in the mindset to really care, and he suspects Katelyn doesn’t either. She’s on autopilot, in need of direction. Despite every attempt to veer them away, she’s biting her lip raw during her pauses, scanning Neil up and down.

Concerned. Too much so for his liking, and he throws another topic at her.

“O-oh yeah, you won’t believe what she did yesterday Neil! She—”

And Katelyn latches onto whatever prompt he gives her, so unwilling to upset him. No matter how much it’s eating at her to behave so selfishly, she’ll do it for him without question.

It's also a welcome distraction to the way Aaron keeps glancing over at Andrew on their call, gaze strained and worried. Neil is glad he's not the only one thinking of Andrew's feelings, but not even Aaron's prodding gets Andrew to talk to Neil about the elephant in the room.

“Andrew, have you been eating?” Aaron asks, and gets nothing. That’s not exactly common anymore, and Aaron glares at the silent treatment. “Neil’s not a baby, you can leave him for a few—”

“Sweetie,” Katelyn whispers, placing a hand over Aaron’s. Her eyes echo an acceptance that hasn’t processed for Aaron yet. He looks at her in disbelief, and then back at his brother, almost pleading with him.

The call ends quietly, even with Katelyn doing her best to fill the void.

Neil can’t blame Aaron for his denial. Aaron wants to pretend it’s all normal, that Neil will be here day after day, forever. Funny, how he’s just like his brother in that moment, unwilling to swallow reality.

Neil stares at him before they hang up, willing him to see the logic. Neil wants nothing more than for Andrew to take care of himself.

But things are not normal. As long as Aaron frames things from that lens, Andrew will never listen.

Neil tries though, on his end. He tries and tries, and feels his patience running thin. He doesn't want them to be left with anything unsaid. He wants to hear Andrew's voice, even if it trembles.

"If you don't rest, you won't get any better," Andrew says during one call break, trailing off. Neil can only sigh at the tone, throat too closed up to snark. He wants to ask Andrew if he's talking to himself, because obviously he's being the delusional one this time.

Neil wonders if he should consider this a good thing, that Andrew has let himself have hope.

Neil hides his expression in his pillow, unwilling to let Andrew see an ounce of the realization that he can't fulfill it.

The calls pile up, and Andrew's grip on Neil's waist tightens with each passing comment.

Dan and Matt try to fill Neil in on as much of their lives as they can in order to offer him a distraction. They're horrible at avoiding the topic of Exy, fumbling every time they do, but it makes Neil smile each time. He hasn't let it sink in that he'll never play again, but it doesn't hurt as much as he thought. It's more of a dull ache, a yearning to run free and win, but one he can manage. Exy stopped being his entire world some time ago.

Nicky, the one Neil considers responsible for that realization, is all about Neil's recovery. It's almost daunting, since Neil hadn't exactly let himself think about anything past the end of this week.

But Nicky doesn't let Neil or Andrew escape the conversation, and Neil has to fight back his smile.

“Andrew! Don’t ignore me, I want to know that you’re taking care of our boy,” he nags, scrolling through his laptop too fast for him to be able to actually read anything. Neil imagines the cursor bouncing off the sides of the screen. “I’ve been reading some articles…what treatment plan do they have Neil on? Is the hospital even reputable? I’m getting Aaron in on this or so help me—”

Nicky has come to read Andrew well, in his own way; he asks Andrew a plethora of questions because he knows it gives Andrew something to focus on. A task, a purpose. He asks about every mundane detail, from Neil's medication to his sleep schedule, to physical therapy and onward.

“I say you create a color-coded schedule, so you don’t miss appointments. And buy a real calendar for fuck’s sake! We can start planning things to do when you’re better Neil!”

Andrew tenses at that one, but it doesn’t deter Nicky in the slightest.

He doesn't shy away from the idealistic future, because he must sense it's what Andrew needs. Nicky probably needs it too.

"And Neil, no getting into any fights," Nicky scolds, pointing his finger into his phone's camera thirty minutes later. Neil has barely said a word. "We can't have you backsliding."

Neil huffs, nodding along with him. Andrew has relaxed a little bit where Neil is lying on top of him, but not nearly enough for Neil to be satisfied. That's how Neil knows his boyfriend is more than aware of their situation; Andrew's not delusional, only stubborn.

The world will have to pry Neil out of his cold, dead hands, and that's exactly what Neil's afraid of.

"What if I don't start the fight?" Neil asks, against his better judgement. It's supposed to be lighthearted, but it comes out more serious than he'd planned. Shit.

For the first time in hours, Andrew's gaze slides to him and stays there, peeling him back until there's nothing but rawness. Nicky's laughter dissolves slowly, hanging in the air with Neil's words. Neil tries his best to send Nicky an apologetic look for breaking his efforts, for reminding them all of the other possible option. The probable one.

But, Nicky has a reputation as the strong one.

He huffs, throwing Neil a sad smile, like Neil is so stupid and he loves him for it. Nicky's not there, but Neil tenses, like he's being crushed in one of his hugs anyways.

"It's okay," Nicky says, glancing between the two of them. "Andrew will—Andrew will keep you safe."

Nicky swallows, breathing choppy, but nothing compared to Neil's. Neil's might stop altogether, but Nicky doesn't back down until Neil gives him that same, tired smile.

Neil hears his words from years prior, echo in his head.

Andrew will protect you.

Neil's smile quivers at the edges, and for someone who seldom cries, Neil feels like he's been skirting the edge all day. His face hurts like he's been sobbing, muscles pulled taut and eyes red from how much he's had to rub them. His throat is raw from how many times he's choked on every emotion, good and bad, but no tears come to expel the chemicals of rage and despair. It's like he's bottling those up too, savoring them for as long as possible.

"I always do," Andrew eventually comments, the usual deadpan, and Neil's heart nearly bursts in his chest. He can't stand Andrew sometimes, is what he wants to say, but that's not true at all. Instead, Neil burrows into Andrew's chest, uncaring that Nicky can see, and can't bring himself to say anything else.

Nicky signs off cheerily, saying he'll talk to Neil soon, and Neil's body hiccups in response.

He can't anymore.

He just can't avoid it, he won't.

Neil listens to the sound of Andrew placing his phone on the nightstand to charge, and then hears him shake one of the pill bottles, weighing when it'll be best to give Neil the next dose. The sound pisses him off.

He doesn't want medicine, he doesn't want to sleep.

Even as he thinks it, just resting against the pillow makes his limbs feel heavy, dragged underwater by rocks. It's so easy to give into the lull, to the noise around him blending together into blurbs and nonsense. Funny enough, it's Andrew's touch that snaps him out of it.

It's typically the last push Neil needs before falling back under, but this time when Andrew's thumb lingers over Neil's face, tracing the shell of his ear, Neil can't put it off any longer.

Maybe it's how much he loves that touch, how much it means to him. He's not sure. He just knows he has to get a reaction, he wants Andrew to see him.

Neil moves to shift, and the inevitable happens. Andrew's hand darts out to stop him, already beginning the gentle process of rolling Neil over himself. That's when Neil tenses, staring up at Andrew with defiance in his eyes.

The blond is wearing a tank top, muscles on full display, so Neil catches the exact moment Andrew freezes up, shoulders coiled in preparation for a fight. Neil would smirk in any other situation; he'd never hurt Andrew, but his being never ceases to scream: threat.

In Andrew's case, Neil has the power to bare down on his throat, spilling all his emotions onto the clean sheets.

Andrew's eyes, so tired and dark, spark to life. Yes, Neil thinks. That's what I want, come back to me.

But Andrew's expression is one of warning, one that says 'I don't want to talk about it.'

Neil can't hold off anymore.

Without breaking eye contact, Neil moves again, and winces at the pain that shoots up his body. Andrew clamps down on his waist, stopping him, and then pushes down again for extra reinforcement. The gesture yells at Neil to stop, to not do this, but that just makes Neil squirm more.

"Neil," Andrew warns, breaking their eye contact. Neil can't help but glare; he feels like he's been doing almost nothing but staring at Andrew, taking in the contours of his face and the faded freckles leftover from summer. Any little detail, Neil has latched on. His memory is nothing like Andrew's, but he's sure he'd be able to recount every mole and curve if asked. It might mean nothing if he's six feet under. There will be no one in the afterlife for him to tell, to remind, but he's Neil Josten. He's stubborn as all hell, and won't let himself forget even something as minor as the crooked line of Andrew's nose.

Yet, Andrew won't look at him, won't address the hurt bubbling in his chest, just as strong as Neil's. That's not what they do anymore; they've always shared, and this will not be the exception.

Neil pushes Andrew's hands away and moves, but okay...he's not the smartest. That time hurts, and Neil's wince turns into a full-on groan.

But it's fine, he thinks, not laughing at the joke. It's fine, because it's the last straw.

Andrew rips the excess blankets off the bed, kneeling onto the mattress until he's boxing Neil in, but it's less an intimidation tactic than a request. Stay, stay right there. When he speaks, it's a horrible mix of anger and desperation, a calmness cracked clean in half. "Stop trying to move, and stop fucking staring at me," Andrew says, and Neil shakes his head.

"There's no point--" Neil tries, willing Andrew to understand what he's talking about. But oh, from the way the blond flinches, Neil knows he does. "I'm going to try to fight however I can, but—"

A hand claps over his mouth, and Andrew's capacity for gentleness is fraying. Neil knows it's his fault, but he doesn't mind. He wants Andrew to show him whatever he's feeling, even if they both hate it. Andrew looks down at him, and Neil catches the slip up. The way Andrew's gaze traces over the top of Neil's nose, the shape of his brows. Taking everything in, just to make sure his perfect memory got nothing wrong.

Realizing this, Andrew scowls, and buries his face in Neil's neck to stop the urge.

Andrew is careful in his panic regardless, maneuvering so he's not pressing down on Neil too hard. His legs are angled away but unwilling to release Neil completely for fear of him hurting himself more. Neil sighs, relaxing his muscles in a show of surrender.

Okay. He won't move anymore.

"Hey..." Neil whispers into the quiet Andrew leaves in the wake of his smothered rage, raising his hand slowly to card through the blond's hair. It's textured and unkempt, but Neil missed the feel of it. He's no stranger to comforting Andrew, but the blond hasn't let him do as much in the last few days.

Neil presses down on Andrew's neck when his panting starts to dissipate, and counts the cars that pass outside on the street below.

"I can't stand that look on your face," Andrew states eventually, and he turns his head to the side so his voice is clear. Nothing unheard. "Like you're giving up. Like you're trying to take me in for the last time."

Like it's thank you, goodbye.

Andrew would know that look well, Neil supposes.

Neil cannot accept it. The hurt burns through his vocal cords at the vulnerability, apparent even through Andrew's neutral tone; he never wants Andrew to feel like that, but he also wants Andrew to be alive. Prosperous. "You're the one always championing rationality. You know things aren't fair, but now what?" Neil whispers, and his fingers halt in their ministrations, cramping up from the weight of it all. He finally chokes on a sob. "Just because it's me? You can't accept it?"

Andrew surges up, unable to avoid it any longer. His hands come up around Neil's face, digging into old scars. Those problems feel so old now.

"Nothing is going to happen to you," Andrew spits out, and Neil's skull vibrates from the force of the grip.

"You can't promise that anymore," Neil says, but he can't shake his head when Andrew is holding him so tight. Andrew scowls down at him, and a loud noise from outside makes them both jump. Neil's panic filters in, rushed like he's on a countdown all over again. "They're going to come. They're going to take me away."

He bites back adding: 'and you're going to let them.'

He knows that's unrealistic to ask and stupid to assume, but Andrew must hear the insinuation anyways.

There's a long pause, broken up only by Andrew's humorless laugh. It sends shivers down Neil's spine. Dark, lifeless. Neil doesn't miss that sound. He knows what Andrew's real laugh is like.

"Are they?" Andrew asks, tone razor sharp. Despite this, his grip lessens, thumb gently swiping over the nearest burn mark. "Neil, you must not know me as well as I thought."

It's selfish, Neil knows that much. It's selfish to ask Andrew to let him be the sacrificial lamb again. It's not how they do things, it's not what Neil promised. But he doesn't want a world without Andrew, even if he's no longer in it with him.

"Andrew..." He tries, but it's fruitless. Andrew rolls over and adjusts Neil carefully, pulling him up so as to not cause anymore of the mind-numbing pain from earlier. Neil fits so easily against him, and he doesn't fight it this time.

He's so tired of fighting, if it can be called that. In the end it's just the two of them doing what they always do: stubbornly holding onto one another. It's mutual, wanted, and Neil was shortsighted to think Andrew ever saw this gesture as detrimental.

At a certain point...he guesses it's just love.

And that makes him hold on even tighter.

"You're not going anywhere," Andrew reminds, and pries Neil's fingers off his shirt one by one until he can lace their hands together. Neil hadn't realized he'd been physically echoing his wants, stretching out the fabric til it's warped. "Stop it."

Neil laughs at the familiarity of it. It's breathy, and it soon gets swallowed up by the sounds of the covers as he burrows in closer.

This is just how it'll be.

Neil won't convince Andrew to accept it, but that's alright. He'll just have to do what he can when his fate arrives at their door. If he had it his way though, he'd sit like this forever, with Andrew so close and real.

A few more calls pass after Neil naps, and it's Renee who finally stands up to Andrew in her own way. He should've seen that coming. No one else would be quite as acquainted with darkness, with the cruelty of the world.

She's finishing up telling Neil about the book she's been reading, and her goodbye trails off. "Just..." She whispers, smiling in the same old way. Yet, her next words are nothing like the pragmatic Renee he's come to appreciate. He guesses everyone has their limits. "Don't go, Neil."

Neil's face falls, and he says nothing. There's nothing to say, and she nods. Neil doesn't have time to think of anything else though, because Andrew doesn't allow the call to continue.

Stiffly, he leans forward to disconnect the phone. "Goodbye Renee."

The dismissal is firm, but Renee's smile remains until the very last moment.

Neil is grateful, knowing someone will be around who gets it.

Andrew says nothing, busying himself with Neil's blankets, and Neil prods at him until he stops. "You have to forgive her."

"I don't have to do anything," Andrew reminds, fluffing Neil's pillow. Or...more like punching it. Neil sincerely hopes they don't spar anytime in the near future. "She shouldn't have said that."

"She said it because she knew she'd be the only one who could," Neil says, and Andrew's silence is telling.

Because you'll need her.

Renee is too important for Andrew to cut off long term, even if he hates that she can see what he refuses to. She'll be there for him, no matter what.

Thinking he'll get no reply for all his trouble, Neil leans back onto the newly fluffed pillow and startles when Andrew speaks again.

The blond's hand slides over his waist, fitting Neil against him snugly before rolling onto his back again. He's never not watching the door.

"Tell me something," Andrew starts.

"Always."

Andrew rolls his eyes at the sentiment, but meets Neil's gaze. Neil wrinkles his nose in the way that usually makes Andrew kiss him, but no such luck. Ah, so it won't be a fun question.

Andrew searches for a long time, the way he does to make sure Neil won't lie.

Right now, Neil wouldn't dream of it.

"Why now?" Andrew asks, and holds up his finger at Neil's confusion. "My scared little rabbit, always afraid of being caught by the wolf. Death is staring you down, but when you saw those x-rays, there was no panic."

Neil slumps a little more, turning just enough to avoid being scolded; he doesn't need the reminder, he feels the emotions fly back into him. In the moment, he'd simply felt resignation. He recalled his plans of course, as clipped and disorganized as they were given what happened. Ways he can appeal to Ichirou, ways he can prove his worth that don't involve his game.

There was no immediate panic sure, because there's only so many ways this can go.

But there was fear.

He doesn't question why for very long, since the answer is lying right next to him, breath held and waiting.

Slowly, Neil rests his hand over Andrew's heart, and feels the pace pick up almost instantly. Alive, pumping, never stopping. Andrew has been a constant for so many years, and he's a survivor, just like Neil. He has so much to offer, so much Neil appreciates and admires about him. He thinks of every touch and kiss, all the flicks of Andrew's fingers and deliberate presses into his skin.

Neil's hand curls into a fist, and he's fixated even now, right where his skin meets Andrew's. "I'm not scared of dying anymore, about someone chopping me up and ending all my potential."

He'd reached his potential. He'd helped score the winning goal at the Olympics, he was in the hall of fame. He's won countless championships.

"Andrew, I'm just terrified of leaving you here," Neil says with a great amount of strain, face contorting at the thought. An ugly, overprotective snarl, but not nearly as threatening as usual. It dissolves soon into something far more pitiful and packed with yearning. "Of not being with you."

"Stop," Andrew says again, more urgent this time. Neil can't even point out how predictable he's becoming, how his threats mean nothing these days. Andrew is aware, he just can't help it. It's the only way he can fight those thoughts of Neil's, and it's still not enough. Andrew's arms tremble as they wrap around Neil, a fortress. He's in a cocoon, safe from anything the world can throw at him. Andrew's rage is palpable, and once again, there's nothing to take out his helplessness on. So he repeats and repeats: "Just stop."

And there's that unspoken promise Neil can't refute, no matter how many things are trying to prove it otherwise.

"Nothing could ever take you away from me."

And with that ringing in his head, Neil falls under.

#andreil #aftg #all for the game #andrew minyard #neil josten

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ramblinganthropologist · 4 years ago

Text

Writober 2020 Day 3 - Sculpture

Summary: The cast of Champion have arrived in Kirkwall for filming. Costars Briala and Malcolm decide to explore the city and find some less than impressive statues along the way. At least Malcolm knows how to take pictures.

(That Dragon Age Actor AU, DA2.)

---

There was something about on-location filming that made Briala's heart beat a little faster. Or maybe that was the jet lag?

It was overcast in Kirkwall – it often was. Something about the whole damn place being cursed fucked with the weather patterns. Of course the weather man would never say that, but it was something the locals believed. When Anders sent Elthina to hell, he forever angered the weather gods. Apparently, they were Chantry supporters.

Dumbasses.

“Well, here we are in Kirkwall. It's not raining, this is just the perpetual gloom of the city.”

Briala swirled her phone around to catch the view of the city from where she was standing. Once, they called where she was standing Hightown. It had been pretty much burned down after the mages had broken free of the Gallows, so eventually a lot of set design was going to have to happen. Right then, it just looked like a city.

And she looked like a one-armed punk rocker with a purple mohawk, so she couldn't exactly complain about accuracy.

“No wonder your Shadow Empress' lyricist.”

A voice from above boomed out quietly. Briala didn't aim her phone upward as she broke gaze. By now, she had learned better than to catch Malcolm on camera. He wasn't a big fan of social media to say the least, and she could respect that.

She stuck out her pierced tongue anyway though. “I save my best stuff for the band, you're getting my b grade shit.”

“Well, I'm honored.” Malcolm's Antivan accent probably made all the men weak in the knees, but it was doing nothing for Briala's Ferelden sensibilities. “So, we have time before we have to go where we need.”

They did. She had half expected him to wander off once they had gotten to Kirkwall, but for some reason the giant was sticking by his gremlin. They were definitely getting looks and more than a few whispers from the locals as they walked through the remains of Hightown, picking their way through the bleached rib bones of what had once been the city of chains. It was probably the height difference, given the city's history. Once you saw a pairing like that, there wasn't much else it could be.

Briala shrugged her shoulder as she stowed her phone in her pocket. “Want to check out the Hanged Man? I heard they rebuilt it.”

“Can you handle yourself in-” He stopped. Smart move – she had played in more than a few dive bars since she had started running with Shadow Empress. “No. We'll be there soon enough for shots with Varric anyway.”

Well, boo. Wasn't like she wanted a drink or anything anyway.

Briala fell into step behind Malcolm as they threaded their way through the streets. It certainly didn't feel like they were in Kirkwall, but it wasn't like she knew what it was supposed to be like anyway. Even with the gloom, it just seemed like a regular city. Maybe she had expected abominations or something, or the ghost of Meredith herself to wander the streets at night, still glowing from corrupted lyrium. Kirkwall was supposed to just be... something... and to actually be standing there was kind of a let down.

Ok, maybe she had built it up a little in her mind, but whatever.

“Blooming Rose then?”

“No.”

Briala snickered as she threaded her arm behind her head – the gesture would have been cooler with two, but she didn't exactly have a leg to stand on there. “I was kidding, Malcolm. But since you're shooting me down, how about you make a suggestion?”

“There.”

He had stopped moving, and was pointing a finger towards where the courtyard of the Gallows had once stood. Here, if history served her right, had been where the Hawkes had watched as the Chantry blew sky high on one of Kirkwall's darkest days. Now it was just a plaza, with benches and shit, but there was still the sculptures someone had erected there.

That's when she got the feeling in her gut.

“Yeah... let's go there.”

Together, Briala and Malcolm made their way to the plaza. Here, tourists were gathered with their cameras to take pictures of the statues erected by the city to tell the story of how the Mage Rebellion had gotten its start – you know, besides when Head Enchanter Fiona actually set the whole thing off. Excuse her for being a little sensitive towards elven accomplishments, thank you very much. Still, Anders was important too... though not as much as Fiona was in her mind. Again, see above.

The statues were cast in bronze and stood in battle poses. Each one had a plaque at the base of the podium explaining who they were and why they were so important. The one that represented Meredith was particularly fierce, though Briala half wish they had embedded some LEDs in. The red spotlight was nice, but it would've been better if the damn thing glowed like she had. Still, no doubt it was spooky during Halloween.

“Look, it's you.”

Malcolm was pointing at the second shortest figure in the garden. Briala walked over to it without thinking, stopping at the podium. Cast in bronze and with her sword raised was the likeness of Avery Hawke. Her mouth was open, showing off a pretty impressive fanged grin. That came from the reaver blood, or so the stories said. Her sword should have been glowing too, but apparently bronze wasn't the best medium for that.

They were close to the same height. Maybe the famous hero had a bit more height on her, but everything else was pretty close. If Avery hadn't been wearing her armor, they probably would have had similar builds as well. She had seen plenty of pictures of the woman, but standing next to a sculpture of her was something else altogether.

She brought her phone out without thinking and tossed it to Malcolm. “Can you get our picture? You just have to hit the button in the middle when you've got it all lined up.”

He caught it – no surprises there – and she got into position. Avery's posture was a little hard, given she had two arms in it. Still, Briala did her best as she mimicked the shot and expression. No doubt with her bright purple mohawk and facial piercings she looked a little silly, but it didn't matter. She was there, that was enough.

Malcolm didn't take long to take the picture. Once he was done, she relaxed and hopped down. At least they hadn't attracted much attention – the tourists were still doing their thing, the locals were giving people the stink eye. All in all, it was a normal day in the former city of chains as people went about their day, no doubt preparing for when traffic was going to be fucked up during filming.

She felt like she should have apologized for that, but it wasn't exactly her fault. She hadn't been the one to decide on on-location filming anyway.

“Thanks, man.” Briala grinned as she inspected the image. “Nice. That one's going on Instagram for sure.”

Honestly, she wasn't sure if he even knew what it was. He was kind of a hipster that way, but she wasn't about to call him out on it. If he wanted to run without social media, that was his choice. Actors were weird like that.

Briala hummed to herself as she fell behind Malcolm – he had said something about a museum to visit. She was working on posting the picture to her social media after doing some mild editing. A few more clicks, and everything was up.

And then she felt the tug on her vest.

There was a tiny hand there, attached to a kid that couldn't have been more than 5. Their little baby horns hadn't even erupted yet – they were just little nubs waiting to become impressive one day if their parent was anything to go by. Either way, they were looking at her with big purple eyes that made her long dead antinatalist heart flutter a little.

“What's up, big guy?”

They let go of her vest and stepped back to a respectful distance. Maybe they were thinking of retreating behind mom's skirt. Said parent had a camera, so they were probably tourists too. What a lovely vacation – come see the city of chains where qunari got their shit rocked by Hawke.

Sounds like the shit her parents would've dragged her to, and that was why they didn't get holiday cards anymore.

“Why aren't you riding on Moses?”

The little one pointed a chubby finger towards Malcolm, his hood still drawn up as he tried to look inconspicuous. The math was floating above Briala's head as she started to put the pieces together. Even she knew she didn't look like Avery just yet, but apparently that didn't matter to the kid. See a tiny gremlin, see a fucking giant human, and presto. You got Hawke.

Well, shit.

Her brain whirred through possible responses as she grinned at them and ruffled their hair. “I gotta stretch my legs, you know. Can't have you outgrowing me before you're 6.”

“I'm 4!” They giggled as she messed with their hair. “Is there metal in your tongue?”

Briala stuck her tongue out for emphasis. “That's why you don't bite down too hard on your fork when you're eating. The doctor said he could get it out, but I would've had to keep my mouth shut for a couple months and I couldn't even make a day.”

Their eyes went wide as if she had just told them the secret to everlasting life. Mom on the other hand held a chuckle behind her sleeve. Briala mentally sighed in relief at the reaction. For some reason, parents had strange reactions to her tongue piercing.

“Daddy's waiting for us, Adan. Let's leave the nice lady alone.”

The little qunari nodded their big head and turned back to her. “Bye-bye, Hawke!”

They were waving as their mother took their other hand and guided them away. Briala's hand went up without thinking as she also waved goodbye. Then they were gone, and her shoulders slumped in relief. Talk about on the spot acting. Wouldn't Shadow Empress be proud?

“Maybe you should switch to chopsticks.”

Malcolm's deep voice rumbled across the open space as she returned to the fact he was still here. His face was blank, but she knew that tone anywhere. Her smirk gave way to a loud laugh as she fell into step behind him once more.

He had jokes, alright. And that was better than a smart phone any day.

“What, I was working on my feet. Couldn't actually tell the kid I keep fucking beefing it.” The bruises on her ass were proof of that. “Come on, we got museums to look at. First one who finds the best dick pic wins!”

“You're on.”

And then they were off with time still to kill before their next meeting. Briala had a spring in her step as the likes already started to roll in from Instagram, but that was besides the point. Maybe the gloomy city wasn't so bad after all.

She would probably change her mind about that in a few weeks, but hey. Let her live in her delusion a bit longer.

#ramblinganthropologist's writing #That Dragon Age Actor AU

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smoljoelito · 6 years ago

Text

piece by piece || joel pimentel

word count: 2,411

request/requested by: anon || possible request: the reader's not very good at communicating and having troubles to open up, with Chris or Joel A/N: I took this story to a whole nother level since I’ve been wanting to write something like this for a while. Let me know if you want me to write something different.

description: You’ve been keeping a huge secret from Joel from far too long.

warnings: fluff, language, but also TRIGGER WARNING FOR ANYONE THAT HAS BEEN ABUSED WHETHER ITS SEXUAL, EMOTIONAL, VERBAL, OR PHYSICAL ABUSE BE CAREFUL.

masterlist

tags: @quierick @mepuserojito @ericks-mala-actitud@woowoodaaboo @ella-se-vuelve-loca @joelsaww @honeyzhong @sarswilltakeyouout @pimentelssmile @hardtoadore @whippedforcnco @notsoteenagegirl@richukisbb @besosdecnco

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Piece by piece, day by day, stone by stone.

This is all Joel has been repeating in his head since he started a relationship with you. You’ve always been incredibly private, harboring hidden things from your past behind walls you’ve built, which Joel doesn’t mind. It isn’t his business, and he knows it, he just wishes you’d actually tell him and trust him enough to let him in fully.

While being a closed book, you’re also incredibly bold and brave to Joel. As soon as you started your relationship, you let him know exactly what kind of person you were and what he was getting himself into. You told him it was hard for you to let people in, yet you also said for some reason, telling things to Joel was much easier than anyone you’ve ever met before him and you would tell him things as you went along. You told him your trust has to be earned, yet you also said he’s earning it as we speak. And you also told him he has to be patient with you, yet you said he was the most gentle man you’ve ever met, and you already know it won’t be an issue.

Before you said all these things though, Joel already knew them. It was as if he could sense exactly what you needed at any moment, whether it be a specific reaction or touching/ not touching, he knows. It comes as easily as performing for him.

You kept true to your word, letting him in and allowing him to chip at your walls, piece by piece, day by day, stone by stone. As much as you tell him about your past, there are plot holes as if it were a movie. He knows you’re keeping something big from him, something that would thread all the stories together and make a tapestry, so he could see all your memories and have them make sense.

The only thing right now that makes sense is how much he adores you. You’ve been together merely six months and he literally cannot imagine his life without you, and if he tries, his heart physically hurts in his chest. Little does he know, you feel the same exact way.

Keeping everything from him physically hurts you. Every time you curve the answer to one of his questions, it’s like your heart gets a kink in it, but every time you decide today is going to be the day you tell him everything, your gut gets a kink in it, to the point where you’ve actually thrown up before he’s come over. He knows you’re very broken, and he’s made it his duty to try and fix you, but you won’t let him. Fixing one person, putting all your time and energy into them, leaves you being the broken one in the end, and you love him too much to allow him to give himself up for you in that way.

As soon as you realized you loved him, you decided you needed to fix yourself for him before there were two broken members in the relationship, not just one. It wasn’t fair to him to have to carry your baggage when you were willing and able. So, you went to therapy, and you haven’t told him yet since you don’t want him to get offended that you’re talking to a therapist and not him. Within the first two weeks of visits, after a lot of vomiting and migraines before the visits, your therapist knew more about you than anyone in your entire life did.

And then, you were able to build yourself back up. Your past made you feel unworthy and undeserving of any form of love and happiness the world had to offer, which came in the form of Joel. This boy makes electricity run through your veins, fireworks dance across your eyelids when you kiss, and your heart leaps whenever he beams at you as if you are the only one in the room. Your first thought when you wake up is of him along with your last when you go to sleep. Whenever something good happens, he’s the first one you call. You see the sun in his smile, hear melodies in his laughter, and see galaxies behind his eyes. Every good thing in the world you correlate to Joel, even small things like finding a penny on the ground since it’s your lucky day, but the real luck you’ve had comes in the form of your boyfriend.

And to make sure he knew that you weren’t leading him on, you were the first one to say I love you. You never admit anything to him willingly, but you wanted him to know he had made so much progress with you, and he really is and was changing you for the better. Your walls are falling, piece by piece, day by day, stone by stone. It shocked him to his core, physically making him tear up. He never thought you'd say the words, much less, be the first to say them. You’ll never know how much it meant to him. He felt fire run through his veins, felt his heart start beating so fast, he thought for a second it might burst out of his rib cage. It made him feel so overjoyed, yet so emotional at the same time that he couldn’t form any words, so he just kissed you and hopefully conveyed all of the fire, the butterflies, and emotions into it before he actually said the words out loud. Little does he know, you got the message.

After three more months of work, your therapist recommended you tell Joel exactly what your past was like, which was a week ago. Now, you’re sitting in his bed, cuddled up under the covers and finishing up the last few minutes of Toy Story 3 in preparation for Toy Story 4, but with everything circulating your mind, you’re hardly focused on the movie.

At this moment, it feels right to tell him, and you’re oddly calm about it. Everything in your body feels settled and at peace with the idea. Now, you’re not afraid he will leave you for it or that he will judge you immensely and shame you, now, you’re both ready for your shit show.

“Joel?” You squeak out, causing him to glance down at you.

“Yeah?”

“I have to tell you something.” You can feel everything in Joel’s body physically still as his breath hitches in his throat, causing your heart to break. Before you can hear or feel anything else, you sit up in the bed, leaning up against the headboard. After a moment, he follows you in suit.

As soon as you lifted your head off his chest, his heart started to pound wildly against his ribcage. He knew what you were going to tell him, and he has been ready for it. His support, kindness, and love are ready, you just have to say the words. Piece by piece, day by day, stone by stone, your final wall is falling.

“So... um... to start off I’ve been going to therapy for three months to try to sort all my feelings out. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but I didn’t want you to get offended that I was talking to someone else and not you. It’s not that I didn’t trust you, I needed to sort out my own insecurities that I was bringing into our relationship that didn’t have any business being there. I was afraid once I told you what I’m about to tell you that you’d leave me or shame me for it, but that was my own insecurity talking. Also, I felt undeserving of your love or happiness, but that’s also not true. I’m not your mess to fix, I’m my own mess to fix, and it wouldn’t have been right or healthy for you to take that all on yourself, so I got professional help. I’m sorry for not telling you.” Part of the weight that was on your chest is removed as you meet his eyes, which hold only gentleness, trust, and patience from you, the three things you originally asked for from him, but also love, an unexpected pleasure. To your surprise, he takes your hand, lacing your fingers together.

“You can tell me anything, Y/N. I’m absolutely, totally in love with you. I’m not leaving you anytime soon, or ever. Thank you for being so concerned with me. It really means a lot that you went and sought out professional help so you could keep this relationship healthy. You’re so brave it amazes me sometimes.” Instantly, your face is completely red making Joel giggle, which in turn causes your heart to skip a few beats in your chest. A smile breaks out on your face even in the seriousness of the moment thanks to your cheeky boyfriend as you lean over and smack his leg jokingly.

“Let me tell you!” You beg, causing him to laugh yet again, but then he calms down, still smiling, but nodding at you to go on.

“Okay so, you know how I grew up in an orphanage and in different foster homes? Well... um... some of them weren’t so... nice. Before I found my home when I was fifteen, I went to three different foster homes before that. The first foster home I went too was awful. They only fostered kids for the extra money, not for any other reason, like love or wanting to help. The man there used to starve us when we didn’t behave and tie us to a post in the basement, sometimes for hours or a day, but one time, he left me there for four days, starved and dehydrated with fresh bruises from when he uh... hit me. When I finally came back to school and the teacher saw me, she called CPS right away and all of the kids were sent to their original orphanages, like me, or to other foster homes.

“The second home I went to just wanted the money too, but they didn’t abuse any of us. In reality, they really didn’t care about any of us, but they weren’t evil and wanted to hurt us. It was just a place to live that wasn’t the orphanage, but soon I got sent to my third foster home.

“The parents at the third foster home were wonderful, but their own children were not. They had 4 boys, all ranging from ages ten to sixteen. I was fourteen at the time and they would all try and mess with me. When I walked home from school or was at school with them, they’d trip me, slap me, push me, or just verbally abuse me. At night when I was asleep, they’d sneak into my room and try to... touch me. They never were successful, I’d always fight them off, but most of the time, I’d sit up the whole night and wait for my door to crack open since I was absolutely terrified. When I did sleep, it was from exhaustion. I never told my foster parents about it either, since they thought their boys were perfect angels. Later on, though, someone finally wanted to adopt me so I got taken from the shitty house.

“The two homes made me not trust any men in my life. Pretty much besides you and my dad, I thought every man was out to get me. When I first moved into my house, I wouldn’t even look at my dad when I talked to him. It took him almost a year of working with me for me to trust him. My mom earned my trust instantly, we just connected, but I never told either of them about my past foster homes. You’re the first to know. I’m sorry I never told you, I... I just couldn’t.” The tears that you held in the whole speech come pouring out as soon as you finish, leaving you clasping a hand over your mouth as you choke on a sob. Before you can even move to Joel, he’s grabbing your waist and pulling you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you so tight you wonder whether it’s hit grip or your sobs keeping your chest from expanding to let air in. Your arms are wrapped around him just as tightly though, holding onto him for dear life as you let out every last emotion you’ve bottled up for years. He’s your rock, you everything, and there’s still a slight fear that if you loosen your grip just a tad, you’ll lose him.

Once your sobs quiet down, you can hear another set of sobs coming from Joel causing you to pull your face from his chest. There, you find his sparkly eyes a bit extra sparkly as the excess tears catch the light before they cascade down his face. A hiccup escapes you causing a small smile to break out on his face. Your hands gently clasp his cheeks before you run your thumbs under his eyes to collect the wetness there.

“Why a-are you c-crying?” You stutter out, thanks to the sobbing from before.

“Because people hurt my baby and that hurts me.” His answer makes your chest crack open as a few fresh tears roll down your cheeks. This time, his hands come up, gently holding your face, before running his thumbs underneath your eyes, then falling back down to hold your waist. You can’t help but crack a small grin as you playfully punch him in the shoulder.

“I’m supposed to be the one crying doofus!” You call out causing him to burst out laughing as a few fresh tears roll down his cheeks. Your fingers are there again to quickly catch them before they can make it too far. A sniffle leaves you causing his grip on you to tighten.

“Amor, it means more to me than I can say that you told me all that about your past. I will always be here to support you through anything you need. I swear on my life that I won’t treat you like those men did. The rest of my life I’m going to spend loving and taking care of you so much that you’ll never, ever feel like you were mistreated again. I’m going to marry you one day, nena, you just wait and see.”

#cnco #cnco imagines #joel pimentel #joel imagines #joel imagine #joel pimentel imagines #joel pimentel imagine #my imagines #my one shots #joel one shot #joel one shots #cnco one shots

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monarchofsnails · 6 years ago

Text

By Fires Light

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith

Tags: Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Campfireside Blowjobs, and handjobs, Reunion Sex, kind of, its only been a few days, Teasing, does this count as semi-public sex, idk maybe, Semi-Public Sex, tagging it cause why not, two idiots in love, No Plot/Plotless, Making Out, look it's just soft good things okay, Outdoor Sex, y'all I don't know what happened but it got so s o f t

Edit: made a few little changes and corrected some spelling fuck ups and continuity errors that were bugging me because I can't leave that shit alone.

( Read on Ao3 )

Arthur makes it back to camp just as the sun finishes setting, the dying rays lingering for a moment warm and dappled on his back as he makes his way through the trees. He’s been gone for nearly five days, both his obligations and the running tension that permeates the once tranquil clearing by the water keeping him from returning sooner. It’s going to come to a head soon he can feel it but he’s content to let things lie for the moment and it seems that right now the camp is actually coming along just fine. The only real issue he can see or more accurately hear as he hitches Brighid by his wagon and tends to her is the heated argument that Molly and Dutch are having.

He bites back a sigh, already weary of this despite only just returning. Molly’s a good lass, a little stuck up sometimes maybe but good nonetheless, loyal too. Not for the first time he thinks Dutch a fool for treating her the way he does. At least she has Hosea to lean on and he supposes that’ll have to be enough for now.

Their incessant rowing washes over him as they seem to get closer and he knows this situation well enough to know he’ll be dragged into it somehow as a buffer between the two if he doesn’t move, so with a final soft pat against Brig’s neck he turns and slinks away, because even though he is weary down to his bones he refuses to sleep until he’s found the real reason he finally came back home. He makes his way up the hill to one of the outlying watch campfires on the edge of camp, hidden from the main area by a generous outcropping of trees and affording a fair amount of privacy, but also an excellent vantage point.

Had anyone been watching him, they’d have seen the almost unconscious and entirely immediate slouch of relief in Arthur’s shoulders and the soft smile tugging at his lips as he sets eyes on the familiar form settled by the merrily crackling fire. Charles often liked to take watch up here at night to get away from the evening tensions in camp and Arthur can certainly relate to that. Making as little noise as he can but fully aware that Charles’ probably heard him coming the second his boots hit the incline he makes his way over to the other man.

“Hiya stranger” he hums as he comes to settle behind Charles his limbs aching in protest as he arranges himself, his legs pressed against the small of Charles’ back and his thigh respectively.

There is a deep chuckle that reverberates through him pleasantly as his companion leans back into him and sighs “Hiya back” the amount of affection in his tone warms Arthur’s insides and he responds with a chuckle of his own, studying Charles’ side profile now that he’s reclined against him. He’s watching him out of the corner of his eye his expression open with a tiny little smile quirking up the sides of his lips and christ, Arthur thinks, if I’m not the luckiest son of a bitch alive to have this beautiful man look at me like that.

“So what’ve you been up to out there, Cowboy?” Charles hums the question, Arthur lets his forehead rest against the other man’s temple with a soft sigh.

“Been runnin’ a few errands, nothin’ all that interestin’ but it had t’ be done. Took longer than I wanted it to” he pauses, breathing in the scent that clings to Charles; leather and wood smoke and something sweet he can never quite put his finger on but inherently reminds him of home now “Missed you. A heck of a lot.”

“Oh did you now?” Charles questions with a rumbling chuckle and a spark of anticipation lights in Arthur’s gut as he shifts against him again, tilting his head fully so he can catch Arthur's eagerly awaiting lips in a tender kiss. And just like that what little restraint he had been holding onto is gone and he's clutching tightly at Charles’ sleeves with a quiet kind of desperation that makes it evident just how much he needs this.

Charles for his part is just as insistent, turning fully in Arthur's arms so he can change the angle of the kiss. It's soft and demanding all at once in a way that makes Arthur chuckle against him,

“Someone's eager” he teases breathlessly, his low laugh choking off into a moan as Charles nips his bottom lip and gives him a pointed look.

“You're one to talk” he grumbles and Arthur gives a soft hiss of appreciation as Charles’ hand presses with purpose against the crotch of Arthur’s well worn jeans. The amused chuckle Charles gives in response makes Arthur's entire body shudder with anticipation.

“Fuck - ha, ya got me” he pants, lifting his head a little to throw Charles a lopsided grin to which he is rewarded with another searing kiss

“C’mon Cowboy, show me just how much you missed me” he murmurs and Arthur does not need to be told twice, with a soft snort of amusement he lays back, pulling Charles with him so his lover is hovering over him and supporting himself with his hands either side of Arthur's head.

The grin he gives him could only be described as devilish as he shifts, pushing one of his thighs up between Arthur's legs to provide just a little taste of the friction he was desperate for.

“Tease” he growls playfully, dragging him down into a heated kiss and canting his hips up in a bid to chase the feeling.

“Gotta keep quiet hmm? Camp’s still winding down” Charles snickers and grins when Arthur shoots him a dark look “As if I don’t know that you-” he cuts himself off with a hiss, biting his lip as one of Charles’ hands begins to roam down his chest with purpose until he reaches his belt and makes quick work of the buckle with a practised hand. Arthur's not quite lost enough in this teasing dance yet that he doesn’t move to return the favour, his calloused fingers sliding under Charles’ shirt to ghost along the coarse trail of hair that leads downwards. The man above him jerks a little at the sensation and he grins

“Now who’s the tease?” Charles admonishes, but there’s laughter in his tone as he leans down to press kisses to Arthur’s stubbled jaw.

“Still you darlin, I’m just returnin’ the favour” he goads only for his breath to hitch as Charles seemingly loses patience with his jeans and simply yanks them open enough to expose him. He can’t help but laugh even as Charles takes him in hand, giving him a couple of firm strokes to test the waters before he gets to work, leaning down to nip at Arthur’s jaw and revel in the soft whimpers and moans he is drawing from him. Desperate to silence himself Arthur uses his free hand to thread into Charles’ hair and tug him down into a heated open mouthed kiss, the other man only too obligingly swallowing the sounds he’s making.

His hips buck and stutter helplessly along with Charles’ unpredictable strokes. The other man speaks to him softly, sweet encouragements and praise and Arthur practically sobs his name when Charles runs the calloused pad of his thumb over the weeping head of Arthur’s cock, pressing into the slit slightly and smearing the precum down to offer a little more leverage. Arthur is panting hard, whimpering against Charles’ smiling lips as he kisses him desperately again, worrying at the other man's bottom lip with his teeth and dragging a groan from him in response. He picks up the pace of his movements after this, revelling in how Arthur is falling apart beneath him, so wholly responsive and yearning for his touch that it makes Charles ache.

“That’s it sweetheart, come for me” he hums against the shell of Arthur’s ear and really that’s all it takes to push him over the edge, coming with a soft pitched cry quickly stifled as he buries his face into the crook of Charles’ neck. It takes him a long few moments to recover, Charles’ gentle coaxing strokes through the aftershocks borders on over-stimulation and his leg twitches as he gives a breathless laugh and swats his hand away, paying no mind to the mess that’s been made as he tugs on the other man’s hair and demands more kisses, much to Charles’ amusement. He takes a moment to slide Arthur back into his pants whilst the other man is gathering his bearings.

“I thought I was supposed to be takin’ care of you?” Arthur nudges his companion, looking up at him with bright cerulean eyes that sparkle with a depthless affection that momentarily steals Charles’ breath.

“What can I say, I’ve been waiting to do that for days” the response makes Arthur chuckle, he’s certainly not complaining, but he certainly is looking to return the favour. Carefully, given that he is still shaky from the post orgasm high, he draws Charles to him in an intimate embrace and then proceeds to reverse their positions in a single roll. The surprised grunt Charles lets out pulls a chuckle from him as he presses kisses along his partners jaw.

“S’my turn right? Lemme take care o’ you Charles” he murmurs softly. Charles gives an approving hum, offering a soft little smirk that makes Arthur’s belly flip flop pleasantly. With a roguish grin he shuffles back so he’s on his knees, Charles’ thighs dropped open before him. He runs his hands along them reverently, enjoying the shudder of anticipation it elicits as he ducks down to give the weeping head of Charles’ cock a delicate lick.

The reaction is instantaneous, a stuttered curse and a narrowing of Charles’ eyes at him have Arthur grinning cheekily and offering an unrepentant wink before swallowing Charles down with practised ease, his sheer size makes it a little tricky but he’s long since perfected his technique. He grins when Charles curses again, fingers reaching out to thread through Arthur’s hair and tug on it sharply. The action elicits a soft moan from Arthur in response and he hums in retaliation which only serves to make the tugging at his hair all the more insistent. Arthur rolls with the movement, allowing Charles’ hips some leverage as they rise and fall in time with his the rhythm they set. He looks up at his lover through half lidded eyes something tight twisting in his gut when he finds Charles watching him, eyes dark and pupils blown wide with desire set in an expression that could only be described as adoration, as love. It’s damn near palpable.

It steals his breath for a moment, that look. He knows it’s one he shares, their love is quiet and steady and constant and it always will be of that Arthur has no doubt, but in these moments when it really shines he struggles to do anything but be in awe of this man and the fact that he’s chosen this, chosen him. A smile curves at the edges of his mouth as he lifts his head up, enjoying the whine of protest the absence of his mouth elicits before it is choked off as he licks a slow stripe from base to tip then lets his tongue curl circles around the sensitive head. He hums softly again, grinning now “Enjoyin’ yourself sugar?” he asks, tone hushed because really they are still trying to avoid detection after all. Charles shoots him a dirty look and his laughter is silent at the other man tugs at his hair with clear intent “You’re a menace” he whispers, his voice a little cracked sounding and Arthur can’t stop the little swell of pride there because he was the reason for that.

“Takes one t’ know one, love” he winks then dips his head and takes Charles into his mouth again cheeks hollowing as he resumes his previous pace with renewed vigor. A strangled and quickly muffled cry is his reward and he revels in it as he pushes his lover over to the edge. Arthur tilts his head just so, allowing Charles cock to slide against the back of his throat a few times and Charles’ hips jerk and spasm abruptly, enough so that Arthur has to move back a little to avoid choking as he swallows Charles’ release without complaint, looking extremely pleased with himself.

He eases back and presses a final gentle kiss to Charles rapidly softening length before he tucks him neatly back into his britches. The hand in his hair has not left it but it is no longer tight, instead there is a very gently push against the back of his head and he looks up to see Charles watching him expectantly. With a soft laugh he allows himself to be guided up and into a slow, tender kiss as Charles rides out the lingering aftershocks of his orgasm and Arthur simply revels in their reunion. He knows that another errand will take him away from camp again soon but for now, for at least a few days, he’s planning to stay and spend as much of that time with Charles as he can. It settles the tangled web his mind has become in recent days, Charles’ presence brings a clarity with it Arthur honestly didn’t know he could have.

They break the kiss on a sigh and Arthur rolls away so he’s laying beside Charles and staring up at the sky “Well” he murmurs, the post orgasmic haze starting to wear off now and the tell tale stickiness on his belly is starting to become uncomfortable “That was one hell of a welcome home” there is a huff of laughter beside him and he turns his head to grin at the other man as Charles rolls his eyes and reaches out to shove at him gently.

“Idiot” it is spoken with such naked affection that no one could ever mistake it for an insult between them and Arthur grins wider, rolling so he’s on his side and can watch Charles try and fix himself up to be at least a little bit presentable “Your idiot” he insists and Charles snorts but doesn’t contest.

They fall into a routine after that, Charles quietly helps Arthur clean himself up using water from his canteen and a handkerchief Arthur had stuffed in his back pocket before they set about making themselves comfortable again by the fire, no one else any the wiser to their private moment together.

It turns out to be good timing on their part as Sean turns up not much later, looking mightily irked by something but it quickly morphs into a beaming smile when he catches sight of them both settled by the campfire, Arthur’s arm slung lazily over Charles’ shoulder and Charles leaning into Arthur like he belongs in his space. They don’t break apart at his sudden appearance and it makes his heart melt a little, that they trust him enough to be open with their obvious affection for one another around him.

“Thought I saw you sneakin’ off earlier Morgan, not gonna say hello to the rest’ve us?” he greets jovially as he moves over to sit to their left beside the campfire, offering Charles the bottle of whiskey he has carried up here in the hopes of sharing with the two, though he’d never admit that.

“Nah, wasn’t feelin like dealin’ with yer yappin, Sean” Arthur jabs back playfully, the smile on his face making it very clear he is teasing and Sean laughs “Really feelin’ the love here Arthur” he grins when Charles rolls his eyes and takes the bottle Sean is still holding out to him.

“Good thing I know this is how you show affection” he pauses, then grins wickedly “Well, unless it’s Charles ey?” the canteen that is thrown at his head is so absolutely worth it as he cackles loudly and scrambles away from the half hearted kick Arthur sends his way. He watches as Charles wordlessly hands the bottle of whiskey to Arthur and the man takes a sip before giving Sean a glare.

“Fuck off MacGuire” there’s no heat in the words as Arthur says them, trying to look annoyed but mostly just fighting the smile on his face, it honestly warms Sean's heart to see him this happy, it feels like an eternity since he’s seen the other man smile so genuinely.

“Nah, think I’ll stay if it’s all the same to yas” he grins “Besides, it’s nearly time fer a shift change anyway. Was comin’ t’ relieve Charles o’ his duty. Though I’m sure you did that just fine on yer own” he leers at them jokingly and gets flipped off by both in quick succession, making him laugh.

“He’s right though, my shift should’ve been over a half hour ago” Charles hums, voice a little sleep slurred and Sean sees Arthur’s playfulness instantly replaced with something exponentially softer, it’s so intimate he almost has to look away, feeling like he’s intruding on their privacy.

“Hmm, ‘spose you’re right. Thanks then, Sean. Good to know you’ve got our backs” Arthur hums, shooting the redhead a meaningful look that has Sean smiling, more sedate than usual but no less genuine.

“Ah don’t be goin soft on me now Morgan, I might have t’ come over there ‘n hug ya” he wiggles his eyebrows teasingly and the moment is broken by a roll of Arthur’s eyes and a barely suppressed smile. Arthur stands on slightly wobbly legs and Sean would make a comment but he sees Arthur wince and favour his left leg and thinks better of it, the man has been running himself ragged lately trying to do everything he can for the gang, Sean knows it’s no time for inappropriate jokes for once. He holds down a hand for Charles who gladly takes it and allows himself to be pulled up, swaying a little as he finally admits to himself quite how tired he is but Arthur is there with a hand to his chest to steady him.

They move around the fire and head towards the path down the hill back to camp, but not before Arthur sets the whiskey beside Sean and nudges him gently with his leg, offering him another sincere smile.

“Thanks Sean, ‘preciate it” he chuckles when the Irishman waves him away with a snort and a roll of his eyes

“Yeah yeah, just doin’ my part” he hums, turning back to the fire and leaving the two men to their own devices.

The short walk back to camp is a quiet one, broken only by the sound of their footsteps on the undergrowth, Arthur’s hand has slipped into Charles’ as naturally as breathing and neither of them are inclined to move apart as they make their way down the hill and back into camp proper. Most everyone is asleep at this point, the light from the lamp on Arthur’s wagon is dim but provides enough luminescence to guide their way to it, Brig’s bulky outline and soft snorts as she sleeps are also a fairly helpful indicator.

When they reach it Charles hesitates, like he isn’t entirely sure where to go or what to do with himself for a fraction of a second, should he move on to his own bedroll or assume an invitation. He doesn’t have to wonder for long as a split second later Arthur is pulling him gently into the nook and sitting him on the bed still silent as he reaches around and over to tug at something just out of view on the wagon and suddenly cloth is folding down around them and the little nook is fully concealed. He gives Arthur a look and Arthur hums, smiling sheepishly “I was gettin’ sick and tired of sleepin’ in the open, paid for this outta my own pocket” he answers Charles’ silent question then he grins and crooks a finger under Charles’ chin raising his head a little so he can duck down and seal their lips in a soft kiss “‘Sides, it has its perks” her rumbles, amusement clear in his tone.

Charles snorts and catches him in another kiss before pushing him away “I take it that’s my invitation to stay then?” he murmurs softly, not because he has to ask but because he enjoys watching Arthur huff and roll his eyes “Obviously, now c’mon, I don’t know about you but I’m bone tired” He makes a point of stepping forward into Charles’ space and the other man snickers softly, taking the hint and scooting back so he’s laying with his back pressed against the wagon as far as he can to give Arthur enough room.

It’s a little bit of a tight squeeze, they’re both big men and they have to shift around a bit, tangle themselves together to fit comfortably but they manage it and Arthur sighs in contentment and rests his head on Charles’ chest letting the steady beating of his lovers heart lull him into a sleepy haze. Before he truly drops off though he musters up enough strength to turn his head and press a kiss over Charles’ heart “Love you… didn’t say it earlier. Meant to” Charles hums sleepily in response, the sound reverberating through both of them pleasantly

“Didn't need to, saw it easy enough” a kiss pressed to his hair has Arthur’s lips curling into a sleepy smile

“Still wanna say it. Wanna tell you every day, till the day I die. I love you”

There is a rumbling chuckle and Arthur nuzzles in close as the arms around him tighten a little “Go to sleep, Arthur” the brunette grunts softly in acceptance and begins to allow himself to do just that, though as he is drifting off he hears a soft shaky sigh,

“I love you too, idiot” despite his half asleep state he can hear the smile in Charles’ voice and the feeling of utter joy it brings is welcomed wholeheartedly as he slips off into a hopefully dreamless sleep.

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption fanfiction #rdr2 fanficion #charthur #lemon #here there be citrus #nateobite #kawaiibooker #becka writes #another fun oneshot #super late valentines day gift wooo #ejnjoy my guys #feel free to reblog if you feel like it

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lanamemories · 5 years ago

Text

scapegoat | self para

Lana hadn’t spoken to her brother Caleb for almost three months.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying, though. She’d easily called him over a hundred times, in the span of that duration. Sent quadruple that, in texts.

She’d even tried to email him, once or twice, feeling a little like she was stuck inside of a time warp, materialised in the dingy office cubicle of a tall building in the noughties.

That was why, seeing him trudge up the Alpha Nu driveway after he’d sent her a lone sentence stating he was coming to visit, out of the blue, she couldn’t even wait until he reached the front door to run out and throw her arms around him.

“God, I missed you. I missed you, I missed you, I missed you. Missed you so much,” she got out in a pathetic choke against his shoulder, fingers scrunching up whatever fabric they could into fistfuls, clutching so tight she was almost straining the seams. Coaxing out rips.

His arms remained limp for almost a whole minute until a hand came up to offer a hesitant pat to the back of her head, eyes slipping shut for only a second before he promptly cleared his throat.

“Strangling me, a bit.”

“Sorry,” Lana practically gasped out, short for oxygen like the sight of him alone had winded her. When she pulled back, she had to tug up the cuff of her sleeve and blearily swipe along her lower lashes, spluttering out an embarrassed laugh at the fact she’d managed to well up that much, that fast. “Sorry, I just... Let’s go inside, okay? Let’s go inside.”

He let her lead him by the hand up the stairs -- hers clutching tight, his completely lax -- until she could click her bedroom door shut, letting go of him and gesturing a hand out like a tour guide.

“Voila! This is, um...” A sniff, to subtly compose herself. “This is my room.”

With iridescent pink netting strung up above her bed like a canopy, cushions everywhere, and window panes covered in personally cut strips of cellophane, all a different colour to emulate a cathedral’s stained glass, it looked like somebody had taken a bucket full of Lana and drenched the room in it, dripping from ceiling to carpet.

Caleb gave a brief glance around, eyes lingering on a framed photo of her and Tommy crouching and holding up peace signs besides a drunkenly comatose Caleb, before nodding once.

“It’s nice.”

Wordlessly, he moved towards the window. Bowed his head a little, to glance through a gap in her self made rainbow.

Padding to her bed, Lana leapt up to take a seat on the velvet throw on top.

“Where’ve, um...” trailed off, nerves ramping up until it felt like her heart was a fist in her throat. She studied the back of him. The broad slouch of his shoulders, like he couldn’t find the energy to pick them back up again. “Where’ve you been, Caleb? I tried--... I called, like, a bunch of times. Kind of... an insane amount, you know?” Wetting her lips as he didn’t move a muscle, she shifted slightly. It felt like she was doing something wrong, somehow, by bringing it up. Invalidating a sacred treaty they’d signed with quills dipped in blood. An ancient bind, not meant for breaking. “The... police, um... They said they called, too. From the hospital.”

“Did they find him?”

His voice sounded disconnected. The dial tone after the line goes dead.

Lana’s eyes dropped to her hands, thumbs fretting over a thread unravelling from her blanket. She started weaving it around her index finger.

“Yeah. Yeah, they found Danny. Our, um--... His friend Trent turned him in. He was staying at his parent’s townhouse, upstate, or something. Think they were away. But he’s--... He’s out, now, so.” Offering a nonsensical smile, tight at the edges, Lana’s gaze remained averted in spite of the fact he’d turned to face her. “So, yeah. He’s out on bail.”

“Well, that’s fucking bullshit,” Caleb stated, as blunt as a hammer to a nail. She could feel his eyes on her, drilling holes. Gauging her reaction. “He’s not allowed on campus, is he? Cops got measures in place?”

Nodding instantly, she continued her fidgeting.

“Yeah, he’s not. He’s, um... A lot of his friends are, though, so it’s kind of...” Gulping, she attempted to let out a laugh to diffuse the tension in her voice. “It’s been a lot, I guess. It’s just been kind of a lot.”

“I’m sorry,” he stated after a long pause, arms uncrossing so he could itch at the inner crevice of his elbow. “For not... being here.”

“It’s okay,” Lana insisted, eyes flying to study his face for the guilt she could easily spot on it, hiding in all of the nooks and crannies that he thought nobody else knew about. “It’s okay, you’re here, now.” A smile tugged on her lips at the corners, gentle and unassuming. The innocent kind, that could only be born from loving somebody that much. “That’s all that really matters.”

Nodding slightly, Caleb forced down a hard swallow before pushing up from the window ledge he’d been leaning against. “Lana, that’s... I have to... ask you something, actually. That’s why I’m....” trailed off, voice oddly vacant, almost as if he was steeling himself for something. Working up the nerve. “Have to ask something.”

Eyebrows pinching, Lana tilted her head like a dog that had just caught wind of a foreign screech at the back of the garden. Her concern was instant.

“What is it? Is everything okay? Do you want... Do you want to sit?” Bouncing lightly in a bid to create enough room, Lana patted a couple of times at her covers. “You can sit, if you need to. Come sit.”

“No, I don’t--... I don’t want to sit.” Dropping his eyes to his shoes with a sniff, Caleb shrugged. Couldn’t meet her gaze. Couldn’t look at how much admiration she had on her face, even now. “Look, I know this is fucking... weird, to ask, but I need to borrow some stuff. Some cash.”

A bewildered expression dawned on her face. She opened her mouth, then shut it again.

An awful feeling had started to twist in her gut. Slow realisation.

“You want... to borrow cash?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed quickly, still staring at a fixed point of the carpet. “Yeah, just a little. Just, erm... Two hundred, maybe? Do you have two hundred? I wouldn’t ask, but it’s rent, you know? It’s rent.”

Swallowing around a soft knot in her throat, Lana carried on staring at him.

Almost a minute passed before he lifted his chin, shot her a questioning look.

“What?”

“You need rent?” Voice small, she did her best not to let her disappointment show. “You came here for, um... You came here for rent?”

Silence.

“After, like... It’s been months. It’s been months, and you came here to ask me for rent?”

Letting out a breath he’d been holding at the sight of her lower lip trembling, Caleb shook his head.

“No, I came... Lana, I wanted to see you, this is just... I just needed to ask this, too. It’s a favour, you know? Help me get back on my fee--”

“Rent,” Lana repeated, cutting him off, throat strained with the effort it took to enunciate. “Caleb, I know where you’ve been staying. I know you’re crashing with Holden, and the other guys, at the warehouse. I know where you go to group. I know--... Do you think I’ve just, like... not thought about you? Not even--... Not checked up on you, at all? You don’t pay rent. You don’t pay rent, so what’s--...” trailed off, mouth gaping before she slipped up off the bed and rose to her feet.

Stepped closer.

Studied his face, for the Caleb she knew in it.

Something clicked.

“Caleb, roll--... Can you roll up your sleeves?”

“What?” Exasperated exhale splitting his lips, he pulled a face and wafted a hand. “Lana, forget it. Fucking forget it, alright? Forget I asked.”

“No. No, roll up your sleeves.” She took another step. “Can you just do it? Can you just roll up your--”

He swat her hand away when it encroached upon his forearm, even just the lightest sift of her fingertips inciting some animal instinct to back into a corner.

“I said just fucking leave it, Lana. Fucking--”

In a scrabble to yank up the material for herself, she almost lost her footing in his shove that followed. Knocked her tailbone against the edge of her bed. Pushed up to her feet, chest rising fast with adrenaline as she closed back in.

“You’re using.” It came out more like a fact than a question, eyes flitting frantically between his. “Caleb, you’re using? You’re--... God. God,” she exhaled, so harsh and fast that it made something sting. “How long? How long have--... And you came here to--... You came here to borrow money? For what? Do you owe something?”

He was adamantly avoiding her gaze, busy smoothing his sleeve back into place after the scuffle. By the way he straightened to his feet, it seemed like he was planning on leaving. Fleeing the aftermath post detonation, to avoid any pieces of shrapnel.

“Do you owe someone something? Is it--... Are you in trouble?”

“It’s fucking fine, Lana. It’s fine, I’ve got it under control.”

“You don’t. You don’t have it under control, you look--... Caleb, you look so tired.” Her voice wobbled slightly. “You look really, really tired.”

“Gee, thanks. Great for my ego, that.”

“It’s not funny! It’s not funny, Caleb!” The volume had soared with how adamantly she was insisting it, voice feeling like a piece of paper violently balled up and tossed inside a trash can, torn and creased beyond comprehension. Maybe she was tired, too. “You’re not--... God, you’re not okay. You’re--... Can you stay? You can stay, for the night, or something. Please, Caleb. You can stay.”

“Fucking--... Lana, I’m not your fucking kid. You don’t have to baby me, all the time. This is--... This is the shit I was sick of, you know? This is why I didn’t call. I’m sick of you acting like you have to take care of me, all the time. You don’t.” In a blink, he’d closed their distance. Grit the next part out, into her face. “I’m the big brother, remember? I’m the one that--”

“The one that what?” Blinking profusely, Lana’s feet felt rooted in place. Encased in cement. “The one that what? I don’t--... I’m not trying to baby you, okay? I’m just worried. I haven’t heard from you in months, and now--... You’ve lost weight,” she realised, hand reaching up with the aim of cupping his cheek, feeling the shallow sink beneath the bone there that was usually padded out slightly, cushioned by a reluctant smile in childhood. Her voice went small, afraid of his inevitable answer. “Please stay. We can work it out, okay? We can fix it, I promise.”

“Fix it?” He managed, delirious laugh coughed out as it caught him off guard. He shrank from her touch, hand performing another swat. “You think you can fix this, Lana? You think--... You think there’s anything left to fix? Fucking--... Look at me.” His jaw was trembling. “Look at me. Would you fucking look at me?”

“You’re still you. Caleb, you’re still--... Please,” she insisted, not even sure what it was that she was begging for, at this point. “Please, Caleb, I want you to stay.”

“What about what I want? What about what I fucking--... Shit, Lana, do you even get it? Do you even fucking get it, at all? I can’t do this. I can’t be whatever fucked up idea you have in your head, of who I’m meant to be. I can’t come running, when things happen. I can’t be that for you.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that?” Anger was such a foreign emotion to Lana that it took time to realise that was what was bubbling up inside her, a dam burst open after years of stuffing corks in every breach. “I’m not asking you to be anything. I never ask you to be--... I never ask for anything, Caleb. For years, I haven’t--... I don’t ask. I don’t ask, I just want you to be okay. I really just want you to be okay. And you can’t--... You’re not angry at me, okay? You’re not, so don’t. Don’t take it out on me. It isn’t... It isn’t fair.”

“I’m not angry at you? I’m not fucking--...” His voice fell short, eyes snapping up to meet hers as his voice trembled to an excruciating volume. “I’m angry at everything, Lana. I’m fucking angry, all the time! I’m fucking angry! At. Everything. All the time. All the fucking--... You don’t think I’m angry at you?” he questioned, stare hard. “You don’t think I’m fucking exhausted, from all the times--... I slept at the bottom of your bed, Lana. I slept with my eyes fucking open. You remember that? You remember getting to sleep, getting to fucking dream away, while I was up all night, watching the door? Do you fucking remember?”

“...I, um--... No,” fell below her breath, knees threatening to tremor. “Sometimes, yeah, but--... No.”

“No, and you know why? Because you got to fucking sleep. You got to sleep, while I watched the door. While I made sure those fucking pricks didn’t--... I’m exhausted. I’m fucking exhausted, and I can’t always be sleeping at the end of your bed. I can’t fucking look after you, all the fucking time.”

“I’m not asking for that. I never--...” Swallowing, Lana forced her chin to lift. Shoulders to tense, like she had any modicum of courage at all in the face of a Caleb so cold, she almost didn’t recognise him. “I was--... I was in that house, too. It was you and me. You and me,” she insisted, like if she kept repeating the phrase, she’d make a break through, somehow. Excavate the part of him that wasn’t so scary. “It was always you and me, don’t you get it? I didn’t--... I didn’t ask for them to--... I didn’t want to live there, either. I was scared, too.”

His expression stilled, slightly. Chapped lips were left damp by the irritable press of his tongue, as his head shook.

“It’s not the same. You don’t fucking get it, alright?”

“I don’t get it?” she repeated, voice incredulous. “I don’t... get it? I--...” Falling silent, Lana had to swallow twice in order to compose enough to speak. “What do you think happened when you left, Caleb? Where do you think I lived? A cave, somewhere? What, you think I just... Just turned into a bird, and flew away? I was there. I was right there. I didn’t have you. I didn’t have Tommy. I had--... I had that house, and empty rooms, and mom, and dad, and--...” She swallowed again. A third time.

“And that’s my fault, is it? That’s my fault, for wanting to get the fuck out of there?”

“No,” Lana said, resisting the urge to rectify the blur to her vision. Smear a sleeve over her eyes, again. “No, because I don’t blame you. I could never--... God, I could never blame you, and that’s the difference. You weren’t a burden, to me. You’ve never been a burden, to me.”

The quiet in the room spoke volumes.

“But I guess that’s not--... I guess that’s why we’re different. Because I don’t blame you, for leaving. But you--... You blame me, right? For needing--... Because you had to look after me? You blame me?”

Caleb shook his head in disagreement, but the fact that he didn’t pipe up with anything hardly provided a believable objection.

“Right,” Lana broke the silence after what felt like an eternity, inhaling sharply. Her chest felt tight. “Right, um... Right, well. It was nice of you to--... It was nice of you to come check on me. Really nice of you to--... Cool that you care, I guess. That’s really cool.”

“You know that’s not...” trailed off, Caleb’s hands stiff as they stuffed into his pockets. “You know I care about you, Lana. That’s not what I’m fucking trying to say.”

“You have, like... You have a really weird way of showing it. You know that?” came accompanied by a nod, gloss in her eyes more obvious with every slightest jostle. “You have a really weird way of showing it.”

“Yeah.” Bowing his head, he stared at the carpet for a few seconds before righting his posture. “I should... go.”

“No, you don’t--... You don’t have to. You don’t--... You don’t have to go, Caleb. Please. You don’t.”

Floorboard creaking as he plotted his next step, he gently coaxed her head close so that he could press a fleeting kiss to the top of her head, lips clenched still as they mussed against all of that auburn.

He was already by the door again by the time her head snapped up, eyes desperate as they watched him reach a hand to the door knob. At her voice, he froze.

“I was just a kid, you know? I never meant for you to--... I was just... a kid. I didn’t mean to be--... I was a kid.”

“Yeah,” he replied, eyes flitting up to catch hers in a split second blur. Probably the last time she’d see him again, for a long time, if he had any say about it. “I was, too.”

Wrenching the door open, he was halfway down the staircase before she appeared at the banister, clutching onto the wood as she dangled over, far, to catch enough of a glimpse of him.

“I’ll send you the money. I’ll send it, if you stay.”

Looking up at her with a strained sigh, paused four steps from finding his exit, Caleb simply shook his head and then carried on walking.

The door clicked shut, but she didn’t budge a muscle. She stared at the place he’d been standing for the longest time.

When she got back into her room, she opened her banking app and sent him the cash.

#self para #drugs tw #addiction tw #abuse tw #jst implied frm... tlk abt their childhood n stuff #sighs.... forlornly.....at this #its quite long bt jst. had muse to explain where her brothers been fr all these months

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oodlyenough · 7 years ago

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finished teen lesbian simulator 2

more thoughts to come maybe but here’s my very initial gut reaction post-credits

i was bored for like 80% of this because the stakes were low. rachel’s not gonna die from this arm wound, because i already know how rachel dies. mikey and steph are nice but do i want another half hour D&D session rn? why is rachel’s parentage suddenly the main focus of a life is strange game? etc

my major complaint with this game can be boiled down to “not enough chloe”. i didn’t feel like most of episode 3 was about CHLOE in the way that i would have wanted it to be, i think. it’s a shame because i felt like episode 1 chloe’s character was the thing they nailed most, and by episode 3 i felt like she was just kind of a passenger in the amber family drama, and occasionally the drew family drama. so i was disappointed by that.

however i did think the game succeeded at doing something i didn’t think it would, which was giving me a difficult final choice that i actually deliberated over a lot. in the end, i decided to tell rachel the truth. the game did set this theme up relatively well, with various options being “tell the truth and hurt someone’s feelings” or “lie and smooth things over”. most notably with joyce.

i told rachel the truth because i wasn’t really behind the game’s attempted message of “sometimes lies are necessary” when the lie was “your dad literally paid someone to try and assassinate your birth mother” what the absolute FUCK james amber. also, i felt like rachel knowing that truth led better into Life is Strange and the rachel we know from that game (and the shitass parents who don’t look for their missing daughter after six months). i didn’t like the insinuation that the hypothetical scenario of william having lied to chloe maybe is totally equivalent to ATTEMPTED MURDER from james amber.

despite giving me the option to kiss rachel in ep 2, i noticed that they aren’t shown kissing in any other scene, aside from on the cheek. that was... interesting. deliberate vagueness as to the nature of their relationship is an odd choice NOW, but would have made sense to me if that had been consistent throughout the game. it felt almost like they were walking back from it. having said that, i always thought rachel and chloe having a nebulous relationship made more sense with the established canon than being outright girlfriends, so i guess i appreciated that.

i don’t, overall, thing this was a particularly tight narrative. it had moments of greatness but a lot of noise in the middle. a lot of the voice acting was bad, aside from kylie & rhianna, who were decent enough. i think there were threads and storylines that didn’t really tie up, foreshadowing that went nowhere as far as i could tell, confusing symbolism, etc. a lot of that can be said for LIS as well, but while LIS gets routinely lambasted for it, i’ve mostly seen BTS heralded as perfect writing. also, i feel a prequel should tell inform and set up and bolster its original narrative, and i don’t feel BTS does that for LIS in many ways. it was nice to meet rachel, yes, but i feel i have more questions now than i did before.

by far the most effective stuff in this episode for me was actually the epilogue montages, of chloe and rachel’s relationship leading up to LIS, the photobooth photoshoot!!!, and the gut-punch after the choice screen that was rachel’s phone ringing in the dark room. even as someone who hasn’t super enjoyed before the storm that hit home, and i appreciated it for that. ouch.

#life is strange #before the storm #lis spoilers #bts spoilers

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scuttleboat · 8 years ago

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so i finally watched the 100 and just got done with season 3. i expected lexa's death to be unnecessary because of how everyone responded to it, but it seemed kind of necessary to the plot. it's not like they killed her for no damn reason, though i think they could have done something a little better with how she actually dies. why did everyone have such an extreme reaction to it? if anyone it's lincoln everyone should have been getting this upset over. his death felt unnecessary and unfair

First, I’m glad you watched the show and enjoyed it! Welcome to the land of despair and apocalypti.

You’re stepping into a bit of a beehive with that question, lol, but I’ll do the best to lay it out for you. I can see how, coming into the show and bingeing it, a lot of things may feel different as a viewer than when you’re watching week to week with everyone else. That’s probably the most crucial thing you have to understand about how The 100 fandom went so extreme for a year and a half–when you’re in it, sometimes it can feel like the biggest thing in the world. There was an incredible amount of emotional investment in her character, specifically because her archetype (apocalyptic warlord love interest) is rarely a queer female character. Usually it’s a strapping het guy like Khal Drogo on GoT.

Through most of season 2, the fanbase around Lexa as a guest character ballooned up in what I’m gonna equate (don’t hate me, fandom, I’m sorry) to a housing bubble. If you’re by chance too young to know what a housing bubble is, then be glad you didn’t own property in 2008. Anyway, the bubble grew all through season 2 and the 9 month hiatus afterwards, as more fans of f/f pairings found the show, or were actively recruited to watch the show on what the CL fans presented as being an “endgame” pairing that they had always dreamed of seeing play out on an US Top 5 Network science fiction show. The fact that Clarke is bisexual is a strident step forward on its own, and it’s something that (from what I’ve seen) all sides of the fandom have embraced. The thing is, this is where we get into the problem of the vanishing 4th wall between fans and content creators (writers room, exec producer, actors, marketing), who I’m going to blanketly call the producers. (dig in, I’ve got another 1000 words below the cut…)

So the fans of Clarke and Lexa got excited to see a real f/f love story become canon on a major network show, and closely following that is the dream that it could have a happy ending (or at least a neutral one). The producers didn’t contradict this assumption (from their POV, why would they spoil their show?).

Although they never directly promised that Lexa would live and she and Clarke would end happily, they did certain things on social media that encouraged this idea. That includes some shady stuff like having a staff writer visit shipper messageboards, and posting pics from the s3 finale with Lexa’s actress on set. The producers fanned the flames of CL fandom excitement, meanwhile the show itself put down an enormous, almost overbearing amount of foreshadowing that Lexa would die. This dissonance–not wanting to see the story content for what it is because you desperately want to believe otherwise–I think that’s the suckerpunch that was the worst for shippers. The bubble broke in 307, and the feeling of betrayal was staggering for a lot of fans. If you consume endless amounts of storytelling media and you never get to fully identify with the leading romance, until finally a story comes along where you do, and in fact you’re encouraged to invest in it, AND THEN it’s snatched away from you, that’s a gut-wrenching feeling. For a lot of people it was like they’d been instantly invalidated, as if their personal story (and it had become personal) wasn’t worthy of a happy ending.

Is it fair to put all that expectation on one character, on one show? No of course not, but it happened anyway. That’s what happens with feelings and emotions. And it wasn’t just about the end of the CL love story, because the manner of her death compounded the anger. She was killed by a stray projectile instead of in battle, and that evokes the death of other queer women in media history. Her death was framed as a byproduct of her romantic relationship with another woman, making it seem to be about her sexuality, instead of it being a result of her character as a leader or a warrior. It sent the unintended message of a condemnation against having hope for a f/f romance.

Broadly, I agree with you that her death did make sense within the plot, and it gave the producers a way to tie their disparate story threads together and give Lexa’s legacy a symbolic meaning that lasted past her death. I thought it was clear since s2 that the romantic storyline was always going to be short-term, because there’s no plausible world where Lexa gives up her divine throne to hang out with the sky kids in their dingy Arkadia cafeteria. Likewise, Clarke could only hang out in Polis for a while, no matter her romantic longing, because she loves her people and Clarke Griffin’s story is bigger than being a princess on a shelf for Lexa to protect (which is why Clarke had already decided to leave in 307.) I thought that ADC did a beautiful performance in her death scene, and Eliza Taylor did some of her finest acting for the entire show. It was a gorgeously shot, loving tribute to a character that was so beloved by audiences.

But that’s all ash in the mouth if you believed, to your heart, that it wouldn’t happen, and if it happening feels like a personal judgment of your romantic identity. The reason fandom was so explosive on this topic is that rarely had a screen romance been embraced so profoundly as part of fandom’s identity politics. And when you incorporate something into your identity, your self-image… then hurting that thing feels like hurting you. It’s not just like Hermione choosing Ron over Harry, or like Bella choosing Edward. It’s so much bigger than that when your sense of self, your dreams, your heart are involved.

That’s the core of why The 100 fandom went insane for a year and a half. Everything that came after–the good and the bad and the tragic and the heinous, the things done by CL fandom and by Bellarke fandom and by trolls aggravating both–that was the fallout from this.

If there were more hollywood shows with queer characters as leads, if some of them were able to have a f/f or m/m endgame romance, then Clexa ending as a tragedy wouldn’t have been the fiasco that it turned out to be. Ironically, The 100 brought that future one step closer: Clarke Griffin is a bisexual woman, and she’s the lead protagonist on a US Top 5 Network science fiction show. She’ll still be a queer wlw even if she dates a man. She didn’t die with Lexa. She’s alive and beautiful and she’s going to love other women and men before the end of her story.

I want to wrap this up so I’m sorry I didn’t leave much time for your last comment, but I agree with you on that as well: Lincoln’s death was not given an equivalent backlash from fandom, nor was it given as full due within the show itself. He was a series regular from season 1, and he felt severely underwritten in s3. There’s a lot of great writing that’s out there about this, but if it feels to you like an imbalance for the two characters, well–you’re right. Two major characters died in season 3, and the internet only moved mountains for one. Ultimately, and even more depressing, Lincoln’s death was subsumed into the backlash after Lexa’s death, and the racially upsetting optics of his murder scene was used as a talking point after Lexa’s to emphasise how the series is terrible, evil, and should be shut down. At the end of the day, the loudest outragers in fandom made Lincoln’s death part of Lexa’s. The show didn’t do that–fandom did. His squashed storyline in the show was mirrored in how he was squashed in fandom politics. That right there is fucking irony. Hell, I’m probably doing the same thing in this write up. These avenues of thinking are endemic to fandom.

Anyway, this is the most insane, borderline monstrous fandom I’ve ever been in. Doxxing the showrunner, harassing cast members, driving numerous production people off of social media, online bullying, fear-mongering, and a whole lot of people who absolutely know better regularly choosing to make use of racist, homophobic, sexist, and antisemitic messages to harangue the cast, the writers, and the rest of fandom. It’s nowhere near as bad this year as last year, but man…

Still, if we all learned anything from this mess, I hope it’s that people’s feelings are real, even on the other side of a digital sceen, and playing carelessly with them has consequences. Bad ones. So, I don’t know… writers should write more queer characters, fandoms should keep their distance from writers instead of thinking they can influence the story, and if you’re an executive producer and you plan to use a trope that people are gonna hate, better be prepared to hide in a bunker for 6-12 months.

#the 100 #the 100 fandom #fandom #the 100 writers #fandom wank #clarke griffin #commander lexa #clexa #racism in fandom #women in media #sexism in fandom #violence against women #ask #Anonymous #homophobia

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spamzineglasgow · 5 years ago

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SWAT SIGHT: An Interview with Nasim Luczaj

In this interview, Glasgow-based writer, dj and multidisciplinary artist Nasim Luczaj talks to SPAM editor Maria Sledmere about her recent publication, SWAT SIGHT: a hybrid essay and artist’s book that weaves modalities of lyric, photography and online dialogue to explore Luczaj’s experience of aphantasia and its implications for aesthetics, perception and philosophical enquiry.

Can you explain what aphantasia is, and how did you discover this was something you experienced?

Aphantasia is the inability to form mental imagery. To have aphantasia is to not be able to ‘see in your head’ – not the characters of a book you are reading, not the faces of your loved ones, not a random object you’ve been asked to visualise, not the sheep you may or may not be counting. It seems there is a spectrum in people’s ability to do any of these things. Roughly, those without it have aphantasia, while those who are extremely good at visualising have hyperphantasia. Most people fall somewhere in between. I get something imagelike appear when I’m falling asleep or really really tired, and once in my life I visualised while reading (about the Quidditch World Cup – I saw Viktor Krum flying about the stadium!) – but I had a fever at the time and as soon as I noticed what was going on and got excited about it, I was unable to keep the imaging up. I think I mentioned my imageless way of reading to a friend, probably one of the times we were watching a film (again, probably Harry Potter) and she complained that the character doesn’t look like they’re ‘supposed to’. What did they mean, supposed to? I remember talking to them, shocked at how they claimed to have something like a film unfolding in their head. They were as shocked as I was to find that I didn’t have one, especially since I was a full-on bookworm, and they didn’t understand why I’d ever want to read if it wasn’t a filmlike experience (guess what: I was reading for the words!). I accepted these differences and didn’t think too much about which of us was normal, or whether either of us were not. Then, a couple of years ago, another friend discovered the term and asked me whether I have it – reading my work gave her the feeling I might. I started reading and found out what I have is a rare disorder. I’m still not so sure it is. I don’t think the samples studied so far are big enough for us to come to that kind of conclusion.

Maybe a cheeky question, but what does the SWAT in the title stand for?

Swatting sight is partly a play on catching sight. I can’t do justice to what sight is but trust that I’ve caught something, an angle, a thing among many. It’s also a bit like ‘shot’ in ‘screenshot’ (at first the title was actually going to be SIGHT SWAT), but ‘swat’ is more organic, and invokes a kind of slaughtering of something that’s necessary in order to study it. I wanted a title that sounded nice, compact, yet violent nevertheless, because as I wrote I became aware I was feeling angry at the misjustice being done to people who are called abnormal or disordered without careful consideration. Only writing fully enabled the sensation to emerge out of a plethora of ambivalent strands to my experience. And then the insect-connotations of swatting work nicely with one of the central metaphors I consider in the work, that is, Wittgenstein’s beetle in the box. I guess all of the above considerations, the rational reasons, were hovering somewhere in the background of my choice, but here’s a short and honest answer: it just came to me once I got to the I-need-a-title-stage. And I felt it fit, although – bad pun – I hadn’t seen it coming.

I’m interested in the mode of address that opens SWAT SIGHT, which features a sequence of questions. It’s unclear whether the speaker is speaking to the reader, or having a dialogue with herself. So many times in your poetry I get to a point where I think I know what’s happening, but then a few lines come and totally throw me off my assumptions. It’s poetry that keeps you dancing through metaphysics, for sure. Can you talk a bit about how asking questions of yourself, of the world, of the reader, is a process or form of poetics for you—and perhaps to what end?

I guess I’ve always been inquisitive but have felt increasingly answerless. I love the questioning stage, and the addressal that it often entails, for its own sake. I’ve kind of given up on answers, I don’t trust them, don’t feel as comfortable in them as I do in the mode of questioning. What I want to be expressing, in perhaps every piece I ever write, is roughly: wow, all this exists and we don’t really know anything, or if we do we can’t confirm whether we do or fit it into a whole that would really be the whole thing. Answering has never seemed as doable, as satisfying to me, as asking. The best poems distil the poise of a question. It’s a shame questions are often rashly associated with despair.

You recently graduated with a degree in English Literature and Philosophy (congrats!), which I know included elements of creative writing. What do you see as the relation between the two, and how has each fed or diverged from the other?

I used both to access a kind of metaphysical vertigo of not knowing what the hell’s going on, as explained above. At first I approached the ‘content’ of this vertigo as a philosophical one. I think I’ve been able to address similar things to myself in a ‘creative’ way and in a ‘philosophical’ way, but I no longer believe that the hard work of philosophical answers is worth anything to me personally. I’m chasing a connection with a feeling partly composed of not accepting answers. I believe in attentiveness and possibilities for elaborate playfulness that do arise in philosophy and always appreciate willingness to take on difficult and deep questions. But I cannot feel devoted to this field, while I can be attentive, elaborately playful, and ‘deep’ through writing, I hope. It’s easier to find works of literature of this kind than philosophy that is honest about its inability to actually answer as much as it claims to.

Poetry seems a totally embodied thing for you, ‘a pinch in relation to the tongue’. Where do you see the body in your poems? Does poetry need more body?

I don’t see it anywhere, ha! But I try to be in the moment, and poetry can very much be the art of the moment, the linguistic equivalent of some alarming glimpse. I like how you can – though maybe not always should – read a poem in a short unit of time, one in which you have not yet disconnected from the physical motions that brought you to this page, because you haven’t and will not repeat it in quite the same way as when reading gripping prose. If something odd happens in the language, as I like it to, I want to be there to feel it ‘oddening’ the body, for it to all amount to a flash, an enacting of the gut that leaves space for me to feel all of these effects.

It strikes me that a lot of this book is about the possibilities of attunement, for instance: ‘a sense of the circuit run through / worldly activity’. What poets for you manage to supplement, enhance, expose or skew particular senses?

This is hard for me to answer. I read in quite a scattered way and try not to distinguish much between the senses, to read in undistinguished frenzy and love for what’s going on in the words without categorising what’s happening on a ‘sensual’ level. Without having any synesthetic tendencies whatsoever, I still struggle with things that are grouped into categories: 5 senses and then their subdomains, such as types of taste. I’m more than a little obsessed with how anything is partly something else, how things affect one another in a way that makes it unhelpful to present things as belonging to clear-cut types. So I don’t seem to fall into noticing what’s going on on the level of the 5 separate senses, but yes, some poetry and some work in other art forms have indeed enhanced and skewed and supplemented my perception, I think increasingly. They make me notice a word, an object, an emotion I may have neglected. I’ve recently been excited by Nasser Hussain’s airport poems. Hussain wrote a whole collection (SKY WRI TEI NGS) of poems written using only existing airport codes. I’m pretty sure I’m going to see the airport world through them for years to come. More than for a synesthetic image, that’s what I’m looking out for: works that change the structuring of my experience, that alter noticing, that leave me interested in some phenomenon.

This is probably the first poetry book I’ve seen (outside of SPAM!) that replicates the architectures of Facebook discussion, including groups, comment threads and private messages. Without quibbling over the term ‘post-internet’, what do you think happens when these kinds of archives are translated onto the printed page? I’m interested in your decision to reproduce the discussions as screenshots rather than, say, collage select quotes in a more traditional poem. What’s the importance of including the context, the avatars, the reactions?

The only one? That’s surprising! I remember wanting to write a detective novel in chatroom form as a child, and the reader would only have these online conversations to go by and figure the truth out (one of the messagers was guilty). Now I’m quite dedicated to my phone notes, in which I mainly write down dreams, funny things people say, and passing thoughts (without ever making note of which category a note belongs or who is its author). I proudly show them to people when we’re killing time. As they are one of the ways in which I feedback loop with my surroundings, one of the things that shape my cognition, I always wanted to use them in my work, and knew they belonged in SWAT SIGHT as soon as I decided to write it. Then I started messaging people about the fact I’m writing something and wanted to engage them somehow, so I ended up embedding what they say in their own words, partly because of how seriously I treat the beetle in the box problem. I thought that maybe you’ll understand what they’re telling me better than what I tell you they told me, even if you don’t know these people as the reader, and I (think!) I do. I’ll give you exactly what they said and what the context of the words were (by context I mean, in large part, the interface that always affects the way they say it), and you can have fun figuring it out or leave it if it’s not your thing. The chats, forums, websites are a habitat I’m in, the form of communication I am immersed in as I do my thinking, the way I arrive at knowledge, arrangements, humour. They have a massive effect on the way my mind and, I presume, your mind works, for better or for worse, and I want to convey that, even if the craft lies in what the disembodied, timeless-y voice has to say and how. As for screenshotting rather than quoting, I’m also really interested in signs I see in the streets and how they operate linguistically, but that’s also something I’d take a picture of and think of including in a text – something I’m rarely tempted to take out and play with without its context, the pole it’s fitted to, the road it’s next to, the weeds that grow at the bottom of it. The way things are framed is partly responsible for their juice. I really want people to communicate about this in whatever way that is natural to them – so giving this much space to the discussion is a way of counterbalancing the strength of the ‘literary’ voice, of saying: it’s equally important to use language in all sorts of other ways and places.

What was the most surprising thing you encountered within the aphantasia ‘community’ online?

Nothing, really. There’s a divide between people who are genuinely upset about not being able to visualise and those who are extremely affirmative of the way they are, but I expected as much.

I’d love to hear more about your decisions around the book’s design. What’s especially unique, of course, is the palimpsest effect whereby text printed on clear acetate is layered over content printed on white pages. As readers, we can lift the acetate with all its textual clutter to ‘cleaner’ pages underneath. I’m struck in particular with the page of Aphantasia Awareness Group content, lifted to reveal a short passage underneath: ‘research on aphantasia is sparse. my looking into it decorated with a pang. […] what keeps me out and makes me look like this is apparently a lack’. Can you talk a bit more about this lack and how it relates to the play between white space, acetate, page and text?

The lack I’m mostly on about here is a lack of seeing – and then of course there’s a play there. On another page, one full of messages, thanks to the lack in the acetate page I can see the text on paper (as ‘i hope for darkness’ in the passage itself). I can tell myself that I’m missing something, that I don’t have an ability, but it’s not like someone cutting the content of a text box – it’s a reshuffling and change of the relationship of everything else that is giving me this different outcome, and to think of myself as ‘deficient’ is not to think about my cognition as play. Quirks are, to an extent, enabling. The form mimics this. Also emptiness can be good, so I wanted places where a condition for arriving at some sentence is the empty space that allows it to be seen. Sometimes I imagine daydreaming as if it were a film, which apparently people do, and I wonder how that would affect my peace of mind, my mental clutter, my voice. You know the truism: less is more. It’s unverifiable what I’d be up to if my mental processes were different, but I have a feeling that I am gifted with a space that could have been cluttered beyond my control.

I’m also interested in how the book’s design goes some way to dramatising Marshall McLuhan’s point about us directing towards acoustic civilisation, as you put it, civilisation ‘infused with simultaneity’. Lifting a page is a bit like opening or closing a window, and the size of the book replicates that sense of screen. Sometimes light catches the plastic acetate and I’m tricked into thinking someone’s left their iPad on my desk. I also think of screening as in brain-scan. What is the work of ‘screening’ in poetry?

I’ve mentioned this already, but what I like about poetry is containment. I often encounter longer poems with confusion and laziness, at first, which ceases if the work is still at the pitch/intensity of a shorter poem, except, hurrah, longer (as is the work of Anne Carson). Good poetry brings me straight into a space of simultaneity. It gets at something that’s both a detail and sort of everything at once. It makes you look at everything like that. Screening is also a kind of framing. You need something brisk to catch and then place just right on the screen, let it replay.

In a message you include to your mum, you write ‘aphantasia is horizontal again but with a margin that makes it a different kind of rectangle’. For me this speaks, quite beautifully, to the book as a whole. What or where is your sense of geometry in writing, and how does this relate to aphantasia and maybe even the structure of the book?

I love flippability. And maybe it’s in poetry that I get to have a sense of order I’m probably lacking elsewhere. But then most poems are like something that intended to be rectangular and then persists in trailing off. Of course there are all sorts of ways of trailing, many of them elegant. Here I wasn’t really writing poems, but a piece that was self-consciously scattered. Intuitively I picked up the shapes, the widths for each part. Maybe I use a similar intuition to drive and park my car – if you asked me, I’m not actually sure how much or what sort of space I have, I can’t see it, but I can do what I have to do just right. The shapes make or dictate themselves in a similar way.

In being orientated landscape, SWAT SIGHT also has the satisfying feel of a guestbook or ledger. Which feels appropriate, given that you include song lyrics, text conversations, comments, quotes and cross-references from philosophy, poetry (even William Blake is in there!) and what looks like Yahoo! Answers. I see SWAT SIGHT as a kind of experimental archive, or revisionist provocation of the-archive-as-such in the time of social media alongside the ‘traditional’ book. I think within this what you’ve done is quite remarkable: established a vernacular compendium of feedback, testimony and reflection on a condition that is not only rarely heard of but seems (at least until very recently) also to lack research or medical recognition. Do you see SWAT SIGHT as a counter-text to this discursive absence? Who should be reading this book?

Yeah, I guess it’s a form of affirmation – I want to encourage conversation about aphantasia in any way possible, and all sorts seem fit. But I need fun. I need to draw attention in some other way than linking to a BBC article on Facebook, which really doesn’t feel like engagement. I guess I’m also implying: I’m engaged with my environment and its diversity of mediums/registers, even of matter (different kinds of pages, B/W and colour images, shots from classic cinema, scans of my clothes and of plants, memes), as I seek to be engaged with people and their diverse ways of functioning. People work in mysterious ways, like poems – they might ‘work’ for you and one could assume that means there’s something similar about you, you could be part of one book. But it turns out you’re doing (even similar) things really really differently. I want to get some kind of rush from that. As for who should read it – whoever also might get a rush from what I give them.

In this discussion around the book’s holding together of analogue and digital, I was reminded of visual snow: a neurological ‘disorder’ characterised by continuous visual disturbance, often described as miniscule dots that flicker like the noise of a detuned analogue telly. It’s interesting how these conditions ‘glitch’ or interrupt the representations of visual perfection or clarity which culture and technology pushes towards with retina displays, Blu-ray etc. I wonder if you’d come across any other under-studied neurological conditions (especially those of the senses) in your research? Are there any famous poets or musicians who’ve ‘come out’ as aphantasic?

No - I guess that’s the problem with the under-studied! There’s Aldous Huxley, whom I quote in the book. My mum is also an aphantasiac poet. It’s more of a thing that visual artists tend to ‘come out’ with, because it can be counterintuitive and shocking. The conversation comes more naturally than in the case of writing, which doesn’t seem necessarily tied to any traditional sense (one kind of archetypical writer is cut off from the sensual world in a dusty study with just enough lamplight to keep to their lines). An interesting example in the visual domain has resurfaced recently, via the BBC. One of Disney’s most important animators had aphantasia, while his collaborator who worked the identical job was on the opposite end of the visualising spectrum.

Is neurodivergent poetics a term you recognise or identify with? Do you think we’re moving towards recognising the role of neuroscience more in understanding poetry as also a kind of cognitive manifestation or aesthetics?

I’ve never looked into it much. What I’ve been coming to terms with is how much of what I’d consider normal might be identified as ‘divergent’ – it’s interesting that different people might have differing tendencies here, some to distinguish differences and others to widen what the norm might be. I am interested in making people pay attention to difference and to question whether there is not so much of it that it collapses back into a kind of sameness. I guess that’s my poetics. I’m not sure what you mean by ‘cognitive aesthetics’, but the term sparked a thought in me: people find very different kinds of poetry (if any) pleasing, and I wonder about the neurological basis of this. How does a combination of words ‘hit the spot’? If language can get to our emotions even when it’s not someone we are closed to addressing themselves to us specifically, it must do so on the basis of connections that will vary from person to person, and are to do with a multitude of factors, maybe even a kind of genetic memory for the ways their ancestors used language. There’s certainly a lot to investigate and, at the same time, a lot that will resist investigation.

I’m struck by the book’s illumined confusion of paratextual, marginalia, annotation, footnotes or poetic content. At the same time, there’s often a lyric voice weaving through, synthesising things, moving between exemplary media, linking anecdote with theory. There’s a drive towards turning the page, even as each page is also a ‘field’ in its own right. So in a sense I’d say SWAT SIGHT is maybe actually a lyric essay remixed with its paratextual materials. An essay that stages its own research process? What’s the value in this ‘transparency’, did any particular text inspire you to take that risk of reflexivity and assemblage?

Yeah, that’s what I’d say it is. I wanted to write a lyric essay and wasn’t sure how to start. As soon as I did, the voice started pushing me. It had a lot to say and I think it still does. To me of course the voice is the most important part, it’s most akin to my ‘core’ that all the rest branches from, is light that my leaves pick up and comes back to the trunk. But as for all the staging – my voice does that. Another thing I wanted to stage was my need for props, my love for images, designs, the ways of working of different websites, which I find inextricable from my lack of ‘invention’. I look at things out there, I get excited about things out there, and what’s going on in my head is either a tic, or something not quite surfaced, or, at best, that voice of the lyric essay. So the book ends up being my mental process and the world that it takes from, that it reacts to, that it is shocked and moved by and tries, in turn, to shock and move (more feedback loop!).

The whole book, of course, is about ‘vision’. I found that line, ‘to have a song stuck in your head, for some reason, is harder to treat as a metaphor than an image being stuck. […] rain on the trees as jewels. I couldn’t, I can’t’, really emotional. Throughout SWAT SIGHT, you recalibrate what ‘imagination’ is -- in both form and content. How can poetry intervene in what we consider ‘sight’, to be less ocular-centric? Do we need new tropes and metaphors, or more a kind of visual refusal?

I love the phrase ‘visual refusal’! It’s right up my street and I don’t think it’s occurred to me before. Poetry brings awareness to language, and so an awareness of the baggage, the loadedness of any word. If sight has to be visual, and we have words like ‘foresight’, that does subtly hint at how we imagine the future. So maybe we can work on other terms. But I think what is best to do is to remind yourself of your other senses and how much it means to you to smell/taste/hear/feel/pull something sensual from the world, categorised or not. If you pay attention to that, you’ll write differently, thus enhancing others’ attention to those things.

But as you put it, ‘no-one’s looked in anyone else’s box. language doesn’t quite do inner life’. We can’t expect SWAT SIGHT to provide an actual snapshot of the aphantasic experience, any more than we can expect reading Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time to somehow allow us to comprehensively ‘enter’ an autistic mind. I think the fact that you weave personal perspective alongside many other voices and representations (including an art exhibition) makes that clear. I’m interested, then, in what you might want readers to take away from this book in terms of empathy, awareness but also potentially recalibrating their own neurological sensitivities?

I would like us all to be aware of unnamed, unsaid, unprovable diversity. To approach it as a gift, with childish glee, and to know that it cannot be unwrapped. To ask each other questions and listen in to the way we describe each other’s mental processes, and to be aware of the fact that even when we think we agree or disagree there aren’t ‘samples’ of experience we can put next to each other to confirm or disconfirm anything. Also to be aware of the fact that our culture is skewed towards the visual, that it privileges it partly arbitrarily.

Can you talk about the images you chose for SWAT SIGHT, which include a lovely full-colour photo of you lying on a bed of coastal heather, as well as many representations of abstracted or glitched scenes/textures which must’ve taken a toll on your printer’s black ink cartridge. How do you see the relationship between image and text in this work, and are there any other writers who use images in an interesting way who you might’ve taken inspiration from?

The glitchy toner-heavy images are scanned objects from around my room – a top, a leaf, a headline, a daffodil. I really enjoyed their textures, the kind of nightscape of a piece of fabric that barely stands out of the uniform black. I’d achieve the glitches by moving the objects around while they were being scanned just the right amount, at the right time. I was intentionally confusing the printer but not quite in control either. It was both a hectic and repetitive process. It had in it excitement and tediousness – like writing. The images show the world as processed by a kind of system – a printer – thus running parallel to my verbal processing.

In SWAT SIGHT, the relationship between image and text is of course crucial. At first, I was tempted to completely do away with seeing, adornment – to have a kind of unity between sign and signified. Then I started adding the black scanned images as something along the lines of, but never really, illustrations. As soon as I did that, I started craving contrast and thought, to hell with that, I love the visual world and don’t want to be misunderstood as someone who doesn’t, just because I’m making a kind of cultural critique of vision-centricity. I am engaged in the visual world, and this lack of ‘inner’ will not take it away from me, and it does work for my way of perceiving the world, too. The images dispel inner and outer.

I really like W. G. Sebald’s use of photographs as strange hinges on oneiric texts. They complicate the voice by putting pressure on the distance we make for speaker from author, without ever allowing us to identify that voice with the author.

You also run a radio show for subcity, [underthunder]. Can you talk about the ethos behind the show. How important is music to your writing process, and do you think your experience of music has changed or intensified since you recognise your (visual) aphantasia?

At some point I realised that I love contrasting interactions between tones, mediums, textures. I like profound-grumpy-metaphysical things being read out loud and I also like ‘tribal’ energy. I was once editing a poem while listening to some Detroit techno and it struck me that these two things really fit together, that the words are energised, driven, dipped in densely and magnetically. I became increasingly curious about how best to combine these and whether others do it. I started paying attention to uses of language in electronic music, where words have diverse but recognisable, categorisable roles, but are not what you’d call ‘lyrics’. Now my experience of music is changing and intensifying by the day. This happened partly through that discovery, and so through poetry. I felt that it gave me an entry point into music, because I knew I was good at words and started copy-pasting them into other people’s tracks – otherwise I would never have felt entitled to ‘touch’ music. I always feel a bit guilty when I do that copy-pasting, a tad unsatisfied, hungry for something I’ve made from scratch. I’ve not got there at all yet, but it’s poetry that got me to focus on music in its own right. And my being drawn to poetry must stand in some relationship to aphantasia. I think I’m more at ease with oddness, a kind of casual surrealism, because of it, and that’s what often keeps my work going. When I feel I’ve written something good, it’s always because I’ve flexed the world without some specific message or thing in mind.

You write that ‘bliss’ is ‘a current […] i obsess over’. Your website says you are ‘here to make bliss’. What does bliss mean to you, or better still, what’s giving you bliss right now?

I just love the word. I think I fell in love about two years ago, and I’m not sure how, but it happened to me and my mum more or less simultaneously. She also puts that word everywhere; although I don’t know what’s in anyone’s box, including I think the most similar box to mine in this world, it does feel like a shared entity. Bliss is a short word that echoes out, like most poems – present, compact, extending its arm to everyone. A really small thing giving everything else a hug. And it seems like a half-place, a spacious state, not something like ‘joy’ which is much more identifiable with the springing up of some happy hormone, much more bound up with a person and nothing else. ‘Bliss’ is halfway between ‘joy’ and ‘paradise’. It’s something you can have next to you, or visit, or, as my mum says, ‘plug into’.

What’s giving me bliss now? Apricots, speeding tracks up as I DJ, ferry red.

Anything else you’d like to say about the publication, or what you’re currently working on?

I’m working on how to have a lot of time + space. Then full-blown bliss is gonna move in and we’ll split the bills.

SWAT SIGHT is out now. To order a copy, drop an email to nasimluczaj[at]gmail.com.

Images by Nasim Luczaj and Maria Sledmere, all taken from the publication.

Published 8/9/19

#interview #poetry #poetry interview #Nasim Luczaj #Maria Sledmere #SPAM poetry #bliss #poetry conversations #dj #music #aphantasia #neurodivergent #poetics #lyric essay #SWAT SIGHT

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adoredykelano · 8 years ago

Text

Where She Went (Part 2)

[PART ONE]

pairing: daveed diggs x reader

summary: daveed and reader were high school sweethearts who had a bad breakup, fate (and a well-timed cello concert) brought them together in NYC. they had a lot of catching up to do.

warnings: swearing, mentions of car wrecks and death, smut at the end because i’m still me after all.

word count: 6,459

a/n: ayyy it’s day five of the @hamwriters write-a-thon which is reverse POV day. this is a continuation of my lit day fic, linked at the top of this post, and i can’t tell u how to live ur life but it really would make more sense if you read that first. love u!!!!!!!! hope it was worth the wait!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Daveed,” you breathe. “Hi- I, um…I hadn’t really figured you’d come backstage.”

Daveed shifts uncomfortably, looking around the room.

“Yeah, well…I almost didn’t,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

You stand from the chair in front of the vanity, taking a few cautious steps toward him. You’re staring at him like he might run away or disappear.

“I would’ve understood if you hadn’t,” you center yourself in front of him. “Dale? Can we have a moment?”

“Of course, my love,” Dale obliges, kissing your cheek before pulling the door shut behind him. So you’re with Dale, then. Daveed refuses to let the disappointment show on his face.

It’s a bit unprofessional, he thinks, dating your client. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? As far as everyone knows, he’s dating Emmy anyway. So no, it doesn’t really matter if you’re seeing Dale.

Though now he’s wondering if you actually know about Emmy. You’ve been out of his life for four years, he doubts you’ve been keeping tabs on him. Especially after the way you left things.

The two of you stand there, waiting for the other to say something. Daveed fiddles uncomfortably with the hem of his sleeve. Why did he agree to come back here, again?

“How did you find out about my concert? I didn’t think you were still in contact with anyone from home,” you finally break the silence.

“Yeah, I’m not really. Besides the band and my parents and stuff,” Daveed shrugs. “I actually was in some café and there was a poster? And I debated with myself over whether or not I should come, and then when I got here and the only ticket left was in the third row I debated again if I should leave but…”

You move to the small couch pressed against the wall and sit down, tucking your legs under yourself. He can remember many nights that you’d sat just like that on his parents’ sofa, eyes glued to the Law & Order SVU marathon on the television. “But what?”

“But I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see you play, I’ve never been able to,” Daveed gazes cautiously at the open spot on the couch next to you. He’s about to go sit there, but at the last minute he changes course and sits in the chair across from you.

“I don’t bite,” you say softly, taking in the distance between you.

Daveed hears your stomach growl, punctuating your sentence for you. He laughs lightly, “Your stomach doesn’t seem to agree with that sentiment.”

“Ha,” you guffaw. “My stomach can deal with it for a few more minutes. I’m sure you have important places to be soon. What brings you to the city, though? You’re living in LA still, right?”

“I actually don’t have anywhere to be until my flight at noon tomorrow,” he’s not sure why he mentioned it. He’s pretty sure you don’t care anyway. “I lived here for a while, actually, while I was on Broadway, but I’m back on the West Coast now. I was actually here today for…an interview.”

He thinks back on this morning and wishes he had come up with a different story. He’s terrified you’re going to ask how-

“Oh, really? What magazine? How did that go?” Your fingers tug at a loose thread on the arm of the sofa.

Well fuck. He really didn’t think that one through.

“It was- um…Interview magazine? It went well,” he lies. He has to. “The photographer had a cool concept for the shoot.”

“Very nice,” you smile easily. “What was it? Of course, only if you’re allowed to say. I’m not trying to get you in trouble or anything.”

“It was supposed to be a commentary on masculinity? He put me in a traditionally feminine pose,” Daveed tells you.

Your stomach growls loudly again and Daveed lifts a brow at you.

“If you’re starving, I can leave. I know you don’t- or, well, you didn’t used to eat before a big show.”

Daveed stumbles over the words. He has to keep reminding himself that he doesn’t know you anymore, no matter how familiar it feels to sit and talk with you.

“Actually, if you don’t have any plans…” You trail off.

“Hm?” Daveed hums, gazing at you intently.

“There’s this Italian restaurant down the street? I was going to go by myself, but I know that lasagna is your favorite so…I figured I’d ask if you wanted to come too?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod at him. “It’s been…a really long time. I want to hear about the band and stuff. And Broadway, of course. But I understand if you don’t want to.”

Daveed glances at the clock on the wall. 8:45 PM. He’s starving, and he can’t pretend he doesn’t want to hear about your time at Juilliard.

He can’t pretend he doesn’t want to keep listening to your voice.

“Sure,” he relents. “That sounds nice.”

“Perfect,” you grin, standing up. Rather abruptly, you begin to remove your robe.

“I can leave the room,” he interjects quickly, cheeks burning. He shouldn’t be here while you’re changing, right?

“Daveed,” you say coolly. “You’ve seen me naked. Probably more times than anyone else has. I know it’s been a while, but things haven’t changed that much.”

He shifts a bit, studying the grey carpet of the dressing room. He knows you mean your body hasn’t changed, but the double meaning of your statement sits like a lead ball in the pit of his stomach. He wishes that were true, that things hadn’t changed much. He wishes that he hadn’t missed out on four years of your life.

He hears, rather than sees, your robe fall to the ground and the zipping of a garment.

“Okay, Pope Francis,” you laugh. “I’m decent.”

Daveed looks back up at you, eyes scanning over your body. He takes in the yellow sundress and his eyes meet yours.

“Is that-”

“The dress I wore to my Juilliard audition? Yeah,” you blush. “It’s kind of become my good luck charm. I wear it to every important audition or recital, even if I can’t wear it on stage.”

Daveed smiles softly, rising from his chair. “That’s amazing. God, I can still remember how nervous you were for that audition.”

“Who wouldn’t be nervous?” You defend, slipping on a cardigan and your shoes.

“Fair point.”

“You were really great about it, though,” you look up at Daveed. “The way you found pictures of the artwork on the ceiling where I’d be auditioning, and then printed them out. You spent the entire afternoon taping them up just right in my bedroom so I’d be able to look at the ceiling while I practiced. You always did everything you could to soothe my nerves.”

“I was just trying to be supportive,” Daveed says quietly. He doesn’t really want to talk about this. Not about your audition. Not about anything that happened that summer.

“Anyway, let’s get you some lasagna,” you laugh, heading out the door.

—

You finish dinner hours later, having covered every topic from your professors at Juilliard to Daveed’s Broadway stint. Daveed insists on paying, though you express your disdain at the act, and with your guidance the two of you head out to the Queensboro Bridge.

By the time you’re standing near the center of the bridge together, looking out over the water, Daveed is running through what a typical day on tour is like.

“And Jerry usually yells at us to get some sleep at around two in the morning,” he chuckles.

“So you party a lot, then,” you mumble with a hint of…something Daveed can’t place.

“Not all the time,” Daveed scans your face to gauge your reaction. “And it’s mostly just a couple drinks at the bar, maybe a little weed, and some dancing.”

“Right,” you clear your throat and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “It sounds nice. I just didn’t think you’d be…never mind.”

“Think I’d be what?” He tries not to get upset at your tone, but the thought that you might be judging him has him on edge.

“Just…such a guy,” you say after a brief moment of deliberation.

To anyone passing by, it’s a throwaway comment. But to Daveed, it’s a low blow. A sucker punch right to the gut.

Because Daveed recalls a long late-night conversation with you, one where you underlined your belief that there was a difference between being a “guy” and being a “man.” You had described “guys” as carefree, immature, and irresponsible. Someone with a lack of discipline and a lack of fundamental knowledge of how life works. A “man” was someone trustworthy, dependable, and cultured. Someone who treated others with respect and took responsibility for his own actions, took control of his own life.

“You’re kidding,” he blanches, staring directly into your eyes.

“What? I’m not,” you shake your head, confused.

“That’s really fucking unfair,” he takes a small step back from the rail of the bridge to turn to face you. It might be a bit of an overreaction, but he has four years worth of hurt and anger built up inside of him.

“How is that unfair? I just didn’t think you’d become so careless. I mean, I always knew you would be famous,” you shift, angling your body toward him. “I just never thought you’d become one of those stars in cheap tabloids that we always used to laugh at.”

Daveed chuckles darkly, gazing out over the swirling fog collected on top of the river. “You don’t get to do that, you know.”

“Do what?” You huff, crossing your arms in front of you.

“You don’t get to do what you did and then judge me!” He bellows. “You don’t get to walk away from me like I’m nothing, you don’t get to take my heart with you, leave me with nothing but my memories and a bleeding chest- you don’t get to do that and then stand here and tell me the way I handled my heartbreak is wrong.”

“I didn’t-” you try to defend, but Daveed cuts you off.

“No, I’m not done. I’ve been bottling this shit up for way too long. You left,” he points an accusatory finger at you. “I know you went through something, but I was there, too, [Y/N]. I needed you, and you left. And now you think you get to look at what I’ve done to put myself back together and tell me that I’m a joke?”

“Daveed,” your voice wavers. “You’re the one who told me I could leave.”

Daveed’s heart stops beating at your words. No. There’s no way.

“What?” He whispers.

“In the hospital?” You relax your arms from their position in front of your chest, letting them drop down to your sides. “My parents died in that crash. My little brother, too, and I was lying in that hospital bed in a coma. And you took my hand and you said-”

“You could hear me?” Daveed’s face twists in confusion. This can’t be possible. It doesn’t make any sense. You had been asleep, unconscious; he knows because he had been terrified you’d never wake up.

“I heard everything,” you confess. “Gramps came in before you did, by just a couple hours. He held my hand, and he told me that he understood that I had lost so much. He told me that it was okay if I wanted to stop fighting, if I wanted to let go. And I thought about doing it.”

Daveed’s blood runs cold. Even if you can’t be in his life, he hates imagining a world where you don’t exist.

“But then you came in, so I waited. I listened to what you had to say. And you took my hand and said ‘if you stay, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll quit the band, go with you to New York. But if you need me to go away, I’ll do that, too. Maybe coming back to your old life would be too painful, maybe it’d be easier for you to erase me. And that would suck, but I’d do it. I can lose you like that if I don’t lose you today. I’ll let you go. If you stay.’”

He closes his eyes, swallowing hard. He’s transported back to that day, back to seeing you in that hospital bed. You had looked so frail, so breakable and lifeless. Tubes and tape and gauze. You hardly looked human.

He had wanted to run. He hates to admit it, even to himself, but he had wanted to run away.

But he couldn’t do that, he realized. He wouldn’t. So, instead of running, he held your hands. It was the only part of you that still looked like it belonged to you.

They were calloused, and freezing like always. He had rubbed them gently between his own hands, blowing warm air across them like he always did.

He remembers thinking it was lucky your hands were okay, because without your hands there’d be no music. You had lost so much already, both your parents and your brother. You were so close to your family, he knew the loss would be absolutely devastating. But your music is so fundamental to who you are, and he knew that if you had lost your music, you would have lost everything.

He thought that somehow, wherever you were, you had to realize that, too.

So as he sat in the ICU, warming your fingers, he thought about your music. He thought about the life you might lead, the things you might do, if you just stayed.

Going to Juilliard, becoming an even better cellist, he thought a lot about your career goals. What your professional future might look like. But he also thought about you, walking down the aisle, having kids, going to PTA meetings, building a life. And he realized that it didn’t matter if it was with him- though he wanted it to be, God did he want it to be with him. He knew that he could live in a world where you weren’t his anymore, as long as you were still yours. As long as you were alive.

And that’s when he made his promise. The promise you had remembered, held onto, for the past four years.

Daveed opens his teary eyes and his gaze meets yours.

He’d do it over again, he knows that now. He’d lose you, watch you walk away a thousand times over to have heard you play tonight. Even without that. He’d do it over again just to know that somewhere, even if it isn’t with him, you exist.

Daveed begins to cry, not realizing he’s doing it at first. He just dissolves into tears, trails blazing down his cheeks while you watch what you must perceive as grief.

But he’s not grieving a loss, not anymore. He had lamented the loss of you for far too long. What he had asked of you that day was incredibly selfish, he can realize now, even if it had turned out to be the most unselfish thing he’d ever done.

No, he’s not crying from a sense of grief. He’s crying in gratitude to a universe that still holds you, the you that he has always known and loved.

The entire night, your conversation and his thoughts had only been focused on what had changed. It isn’t until right now that he’s able to see what hasn’t.

“Hey,” you say softly, putting a hand on Daveed’s cheek and brushing tears away with your thumb. Daveed holds his breath. It’s the first time you’ve touched him in four years.

“My apartment is just over the bridge, if you want some tea- or maybe wine,” you smile gently at him.

He sniffles, hand rising to wipe the wetness from the cheek you weren’t touching. “That sounds nice.”

At some point on the journey to your apartment, his fingers wind up tangled with yours. Neither of you even thinks about it until you try to grab your key out of your bag.

“Oh,” Daveed flushes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“It’s okay,” you reply faintly. You open the door and lead him inside.

Walking into your tiny studio apartment, it feels like a dream. Like Daveed’s plunged too far into the fog and he can’t get out- but he doesn’t mind, he doesn’t want to.

As he surveys your apartment, he notices little touches of your life in Oakland. A board of pictures of your high school best friend, the young cello students you had helped tutor, and your family. Dozens of pictures of your mom and dad and brother.

“I miss them, too, you know,” he lets slip.

“You do?” You don’t have to ask who he means. He had been nearly as close to them as you had been, so it really shouldn’t come as a shock.

“Every time I get a new record,” he smiles faintly, recalling days spent with you and your father at record shops. “Or visit a farmer’s market,” he recalls Saturday mornings buying an absurd amount of heirloom tomatoes and locally harvested honey with your mother.

“And every time I pass a park with a merry-go-round,” he finishes quietly. The two of you had often taken your brother to the park near Daveed’s house, and Daveed had been the one to spin you and your brother around. Your brother would giggle and shout for Daveed to go faster, spin faster, always faster. And Daveed, a grin so wide it threatened to split his face, never denied him.

You nod, closing the door gently and sliding the chain into the lock.

“There’s a moment every morning,” you confess, “right after I wake up, when I’m so sure it never happened. I think I’ll walk into the kitchen and my mom will be there scrambling a half dozen eggs for everyone at the stove, even though no one but her will eat them. And my dad will walk in and pour a cup of coffee and ask her why she makes eggs every morning, and her eyes will crinkle at the edges when she smiles and says ‘Maybe [Y/N] woke up this morning and decided she liked eggs.’ My brother will shuffle down the stairs in his fire truck pajamas, hair sticking up all over the place, and wrap his arms around my hips and beg me to take him to the park after school.”

Daveed slides the hand that had been holding yours into his back pocket to replace the warmth in the absence of your touch. He’s not sure what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

“And then I remember that there’s no eggs cooking, no coffee to be poured, no reason to go to the park. I remember every morning that they’re gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Daveed whispers. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s okay,” you smile, a bit of amusement dancing behind your eyes. “Do you really think if you don’t talk about them I’ll somehow forget?”

“Well, no,” he admits.

“It’s really okay,” you assure him, a hand briefly touching his shoulder. “It’s gotten to the point where it doesn’t hurt. They’re not ghosts anymore.”

His thoughts briefly flicker to Emmy. She’d always been so insecure about you, about the parts of Daveed that you had taken with you. It hadn’t started as a publicity relationship, she had really wanted Daveed. He knows that she still does. But when she learned about you, she had given up. There wasn’t anything left in Daveed for her anymore, there was no part of him that could grow to love her. There was no part of him left to love her because you had taken his heart with you- and though he hadn’t told her that, she had figured it out anyway.

There had been a huge fight when she confronted Daveed about it. He swore that he could love her if she just gave him time, but she knew better. It had been almost a year, if he didn’t have feelings for her she knew that he never would. He can hear Emmy’s voice in his head now, telling him to go back to you. Go back to your ghost.

But she was wrong, Daveed knows that now. Emmy had been the one living with a ghost. A hollow shell of a man who couldn’t stop loving someone else.

“So, did you want tea or wine?” You say from the kitchen, having slipped your shoes off.

“Wine would be nice, please,” Daveed decides. He follows your lead and steps out of his shoes, moving to examine the frames hanging behind your couch.

“Your dad’s albums?” He asks quietly.

You pad out from behind the kitchen island, two wine glasses in one hand and an open bottle of Pinot Grigio in the other.

“Yeah,” you step up next to him. “His bandmates gave them to me just before I moved here and I had them framed- I don’t have a record player anymore, Grandma and I went through and gave most of my parents’ collection to charity shops. And I wouldn’t want to damage them by playing them too often, anyway.”

“That’s fair,” he nods, sitting down on the sofa.

“I hope white wine is still okay for you,” you step the glasses down on the coffee table and begin to pour. “I had a Lambrusco, but I finished that last night.”

“I’m not particular,” Daveed reassures, sipping as you hand him his glass.

You settle into the cushions of the couch, tucking one leg under yourself.

“So…” you begin.

Daveed looks at you, an eyebrow raised. “So?”

“You’re seeing Emmy, right?” You sip at your wine nonchalantly, but Daveed can see the curiosity lighting up your eyes.

“Um, right,” he mutters. He tips his head back, draining the rest of his glass and reaches forward to pour himself another. “And you’re seeing Dale?”

“Dale?”

“The kiss? He called you his love?” Daveed tries to keep the bitterness from seeping into his tone, but he can’t.

“Dale is my manager,” you furrow your brow. “And he’s married. But even if he weren’t, you’ve got Emmy, so why do you care?”

“There would’ve never been an Emmy if you hadn’t decided that you hated me,” Daveed says defensively.

He watches the hurt flash across your face.

“I don’t hate you,” you confide. “I don’t think I ever did.”

“You told me you hated me, [Y/N]. You looked me right in the eye before you got on the plane to your audition and told me that you hated me,” he can feels his ears starting to burn with anger.

“But I didn’t. I wanted to- God, I wanted to. I told myself that I hated you, because I needed to hate someone. I needed to hate someone, and you’re the person I love the most, so the burden fell on you.”

Daveed doesn’t say anything. He can’t.

“At first I told myself it was okay,” you continue, taking his silence as an invitation to explain yourself. “I told myself that it was what was best for both of us. But once I confronted the issue head-on, I knew I had messed up. I had messed up monumentally. And I knew I owed you an apology. I’ve been trying to get it out all night, actually,” you admit, leaning forward to set your glass on the table.

“But the word sorry is too small for what you deserve. What I did to you was so wrong, but it felt so necessary at the time, like the world would cave in on the both of us if I didn’t leave you behind. I don’t know if it’s possible that both of those things could be true, but that was the way I thought it had to be. If it’s any consolation,” you fiddle with the hem of your dress, not meeting his eyes. “After a while, after there was some distance between me and that summer, it didn’t feel necessary anymore. The only feeling I had left was regret, the realization of just how hugely I had made a mess of things. Left with nothing but missing you. And I had to watch from afar as you thrived, as you surpassed every one of your dreams, as you lived this seemingly perfect life-”

“It wasn’t perfect,” Daveed interjects.

“I can understand that now, but watching you from so far away- how was I supposed to know that? I watched as you lived the life you had always wanted, and I just accepted that the distance between us was…was the punishment that I deserved for what I had done to you,” you sighed. “My penance for disappearing from your life. But then…” you trail off.

“But then what?” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“But then tonight, the biggest night of my career, I see you standing in the third row. God, I thought you were a hallucination at first,” you huff a laugh. “Some figment of my imagination, some ghost of my past that I had placed in the crowd. When I realized that you were really standing there, it felt like-” you choke up, swallowing hard.

“Felt like what?” Daveed leans forward, placing his hand gently on your thigh.

“It felt like a gift. It had to be more than a coincidence.”

He just looks at you. He had felt the same way the moment he saw the poster in the café. Like there was some cosmic force at work.

“A gift from them,” you explain. “For my first recital, they gave me my own cello. And for this, they brought me you.”

Daveed’s hand squeezes your thigh lightly, neither one of you saying anything for a while. You don’t have to.

At some point, Daveed glances out the window at the rising morning light.

“Hey,” you say unexpectedly, as if you’re just remembering something. “I’ve actually got something of yours.” You stand, going over to your dresser.

Something of his? Daveed runs through the memory of that summer in his mind, searching for what it might be. He’s at a loss, he distinctly remembers you leaving the box full of his stuff on your doorstep the day you left.

You root around in the bottom drawer and come back over, grasping something behind your back.

Daveed’s jaw drops as you unfurl the Golden State Warriors jersey out in front of you. He remembers donating the jersey to the Broadway Cares Flea Market & Grand Auction. The winners of the auction were anonymous, but he remembers being told someone had paid top dollar for his jersey.

“You?”

“Me,” you smile sheepishly. “Who else?”

Daveed shakes his head, standing and holding the material between his fingers. “But why?”

You bite your lip before responding. “I had lost every piece of you. It’s selfish, but this was a way to get a part of you back without crashing back into your life like I was entitled to be there.”

“You could’ve crashed back in,” he admits. “You could’ve come back to me at any time, with any excuse, and I would’ve taken you back without a single thought.”

“Part of me knew that,” you look down at your feet. “I knew that and I didn’t think I deserved to. I had hurt you so badly, and I thought coming back would only make that worse.”

Daveed realizes then that you had stayed away not because you hate him, but because you love him. You hadn’t come back, not because you didn’t want to, but because you couldn’t stand the thought of hurting him more.

He can’t wait any longer. He leans forward, for once in his life not thinking, and smashes his lips to yours.

The jersey falls from your hands, blue polyester pooling between your feet on the floor, and you wrap your arms behind his neck. You kiss him back hungrily, desperately.

His hands find the small of your waist, pulling your body against his. The sensation of his lips against yours feels both familiar and foreign at the same time. He remembers every kiss you had shared in the past, and your lips feel like his home, like they always have, but this kiss is somehow different. There’s an urgency, a recklessness, but also a sense of serenity. Like he’s been drowning for years and he just learned how to float.

“Daveed,” you break apart from him, panting. “I know I don’t-”

“Don’t,” he responds, shaking his head. “If you’re about to say you don’t deserve this, don’t you dare.” His eyes are serious as he gazes into yours.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“[Y/N],” he whispers. He needs you so badly it feels like his heart is going to split in two. “If you don’t want this, I’ll stop right now, but I’ve never needed anything as much as I need you right now.”

“God, yes,” one of your hands reaches up to thread into his wild locks. “I need you just as badly.”

Your lips connect again, the two of you maneuvering toward the bed.

It feels like a dream. Daveed has dreamed of you so often, for so long, that he started to be able to tell when he was still asleep that they weren’t real. He began to anticipate the alarm blaring into his ears, disturbing his slumber.

He’s grounded when your fingers slip under his shirt, your skin pressing against his. He knows it isn’t a dream. There won’t be an alarm to rip him away from you.

Your fingers deftly unbutton his shirt and he drops it to the floor, breaking apart to pull your dress over your head. His mouth quickly returns to yours and he steps forward, making the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress.

The two of you settle on the bed, tongues coalescing and hands wandering. You hadn’t been wearing a bra under your sundress, so you’re left in just your panties underneath him. His fingers trail up your thighs and hips, and over your ribcage, before kneading gently at your breasts. You let out a soft moan and he smiles into the kiss.

“I haven’t heard that sound in so long,” he murmurs as he kisses down your neck. His teeth graze your pulse point and you moan again.

“Well get used to it,” you laugh breathlessly. “You’ve gotten even better at kissing, which is supremely unfair.”

“I could say the same for you,” he mumbles into the skin of your chest. His hand reaches between your legs and rubs over your underwear, feeling your wetness.

He takes his time, kissing, touching, memorizing every curve, every freckle. His fingers gather your hair, tugging your head to the side to ravish your neck. He trails open mouthed kisses down the valley between your breasts, over your stomach, and to the top of your panties.

Daveed peeks up at you, eyes seeking consent.

“Please,” you whine, a hand dropping to tangle into his hair. “Anything you want tonight, I need anything you’re willing to give me.” His fingers hook into the sides of the lace fabric and pull it off, exposing you fully. He nudges your knees apart and kisses over your inner thighs, a finger ghosting in a circle around your clit teasingly. He sucks a hickey into the flesh of your thigh and you groan, moving your hips down.

“Daveed, please,” you tug at his hair lightly.

He runs two fingers over your entrance before easing them in, his tongue finding your clit. He laps at your bundle of nerves and begins to thrust his digits in and out of you at an achingly slow pace.

Daveed pulls his fingers out of you and quickly replaces them with his tongue, his facial hair rubbing against your inner thighs. Both of your hands grip tightly at his hair and you whimper, urging him on. As he plunges his tongue into you repeatedly, the tip pressing against your walls, his nose bumps against your clit. You hold his head against you and roll your hips, and Daveed knows by your reaction that he hasn’t forgotten how to make you feel good. It’s one of his favorite things in the world, so forgetting would be pretty difficult, but it had been a long time.

He replaces his tongue with his fingers again, wrapping his lips around your clit. He remembers something that used to drive you wild, and wonders if it still does. He sucks gently before grazing his teeth, just barely, over your swollen clit.

“Daveed,” you gasp, your back arching off of the mattress.

That’s a yes, then.

He scissors his fingers inside of you before twisting them, crooking them to coax along your inner walls. You come undone quickly and unexpectedly, your orgasm making your legs quiver, a gasp ripping from your lungs as your fingers tug harder at the root of his hair.

He groans against you, vibrations traveling up through your core. He kisses his way back up your stomach when your orgasm subsides, lips meeting yours eagerly.

“Condom,” you mumble against his lips. He pulls back, looking around the room. “Top drawer,” you point to the point to the bedside table.

He reaches over, rooting around for the foil packet. When he finds one, he rolls back to you and passes it into your outstretched hand, scrambling to remove his jeans.

He’s fully naked by the time you’ve got the condom open, the wrapper lying discarded on the floor.

You slide it over him slowly, capturing his lips as you do so.

Daveed doesn’t hesitate once the condom is in place, sinking into you slowly. Your head tilts back, hair fanning out across the pillows.

He feels your hand tap against his shoulder blade lightly and meets your gaze.

“Ready,” you confirm, rolling your hips slightly.

He begins driving himself into your warmth, eliciting moans from both of you. He picks up the speed a bit and you move your hips down in time with him, the two of you setting a rhythm.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, dropping his head to pepper kisses over your chest. “God, you feel so good.”

“Oh,” you gasp as his lips wrap around your nipple. “I’ve needed you so badly, so so badly.”

Daveed kisses you again, moving in and out with a bit more force. His thumb brushes your clit, prompting a mewl from you.

Daveed changes the angle, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. Your mouth falls open, an airy whimper escaping it as he thrusts deeper into you, his tip brushing your g-spot.

It isn’t long before Daveed can tell you’re close again, your walls beginning to clench around him. He picks up the speed again, the music of your moans ringing out to his ears. He’s close, too, but he needs you to come first, needs to hear more of your sounds.

When your second orgasm overtakes you, you whine his name, nails scraping down his back. He continues pumping into you through your climax, coming himself with a low groan just as your muscles begin to relax again.

He collapses onto the bed next to you, tying off the condom and tossing it into the trash bin next to your bed.

“I love you.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. At first, Daveed’s not sure he heard you right. He rolls back over, eyes searching your face.

“I love you,” he whispers back.

A grin spreads over your face, and it feels like the entire universe has opened up in front of Daveed. The moon, the sun, and every star shine out of you, and he can’t resist being completely captivated. He doesn’t want to.

You settle against his side with a yawn and he draws the blankets up over you. The two of your drift to sleep quickly, your head nestled into the crook of his neck and his arms around your waist.

When Daveed’s eyes open back up again, he takes in his surroundings. He looks down and sees you still pressed against him, breathing evenly. He smiles softly, ghosting his fingertips over your spine.

All at once, the weight of the world comes crashing back down on him.

“Shit,” he murmurs. He looks at his watch and realizes it’s nearly eleven. His mind flashes to Jerry, probably pacing back and forth in the Delta SkyClub lounge wondering where the hell he is.

You shift, squinting up at him. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” he sighs.

“You’re going to miss your flight,” you sit up quickly. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry, I should’ve-”

He cuts you off with a kiss.

“It’ll be fine,” he says evenly. “I just- can I borrow your phone? I left mine at my hotel.”

You nod, rolling over to fish your phone from your purse.

Daveed takes the phone, shuffling out of bed and back into his boxers before walking toward the kitchen.

“Hey, Jerry,” He greets when he’s finally connected to him.

“Where the hell are you?” Jerry is frazzled. Daveed can’t blame him.

“I’m at [Y/N]’s, actually. I’m not going to be able to make the flight. I can get one later tonight-”

“Daveed, you have rehearsal today,” Jerry reminds him. “In fact, it’s only shortly after we’re supposed to get off the plane at LAX.”

“Well, it’s not going to happen,” Daveed asserts. “I can’t get there in time. Plus I’ve been working non-stop for the past year, Jerry. Between writing and recording the album, rehearsals, and shows, I know those songs inside and out. I’ll meet you tomorrow night at LAX. In time for our flight to Germany for the first show of the tour.”

“Daveed,” Jerry squawks, clearly panicking.

“Bye, Jerry,” Daveed leans one hand against the counter. “Oh, and by the way,” he adds as he glances over to you. “I’m going to need a little break after this tour is over.”

Daveed hangs up the phone before Jerry has time to reply. He would never pull out of a tour unless circumstances beyond his control forced him to, but he needs to set aside some time.

He’s just gotten you back. He isn’t willing to let go so soon.

You make your way toward him, a sheet wrapped around you and dragging along the floor in your wake.

“A break?” You loop your arms easily around his waist, leaning into his chest.

“Yeah,” he smirks. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” He slides one hand to the back of your neck and presses his lips to yours lovingly.

#daveed x reader #daveed diggs imagine #daveed diggs x reader #daveed diggs smut #daveed diggs fic #hamilcast x reader #hamilcast reader insert

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