#its only been a month and a half since the thing that triggered me to actually try to better myself even came out

[vampirecatprince]

I was checking some stuff and realized that I've only been job hunting for about a month now??? I could've sworn it's been longer then that, but my earliest apps on indeed are only mid-June?????

And all of the friend group issues I've been following (the ones that caused me to just... dump Twitter and most of my "friends" entirely) started less then a month ago...

Which means.... wow I've had a hell of a month /neg

[delightfultheoristfox]

In your eyes I saw a longing, while I longed to lift you up

John 'Soap' MacTavish x Reader

Again, crossposting this from AO3.

I'm currently dedicating time to my master's thesis, my English is so clinical and soulless I can only offer things written when life had meaning LMAO Uni's been sucking the will to live out of me with a little straw

The title is long as hell, I apologize (but it's from AURORA's "Conflict of the mind" so it's all good, because we all love Aurora).

18+

CW: smut, tiny angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, deals with medical topics, recovery from injury, mention of depression and struggles related to recovery, cuddles. LOTS OF CUDDLES.

Masterlist 🦊 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Not Johnny.

One hundred and eighty-four days.

One hundred and eighty-four days since Johnny got a bullet in his head. Six months since you saw him flatten against concrete. No lights if not those of the torch tucked in your tac vest.

One hundred and eighty-four days since your own heart stopped beating. More than four thousand hours since the moment you snarled – bellowed. Voice raucous and loud echoing in the tunnel. Raw fire burning your tongue all the way to your fingertips; those that curled around the trigger of your gun.

Makarov on the floor with a hole in his forehead. Mouth-gaped, exhaling his last breaths, mouthing like a fish out of water. Cross-eyed. His lids fluttered, shaking. Pathetic.

Not Johnny.

One hundred and eighty-four days since you pulled the trigger again. And again. And again. And again. To his chest. To his face. To his legs, groin, shoulder.

Since Price hastily got up from where he’d been thrown and grabbed you from behind. Burly arms around your waist lifting you off the ground. Your gun still shooting, bullets now hitting the cinderblock of the walls. The trigger clicked empty, but you still pressed it – autopilot.

The roar that echoed scratched your throat, made you choke. You spluttered and coughed. Tears and spit, foaming at the mouth. A rabid dog. 

Not Johnny.

More gunshots echoed, but they didn’t come from your weapon. Price dropped you, your knees knocked against the floor. Helpless, you folded. You draped your body over Johnny’s. Forehead to his chest, arms limp next to his face – fingers grabbing at his cheeks, enough to indent the skin. Blindly skimming through his features, feeling the slick blood carve its path through the tiny folds in your fingerprints.

Senses dull. Not Johnny.

Cotton in your ears. Each explosion from the guns was nothing more than a muffled thud. Bullets flew past you. Bullets hit you. You felt the familiar blinding pain of mangled flesh in your left arm. It caused your body to flop further – a ragdoll. It burned, yet it was nothing compared to the agony currently disemboweling you.

You were gutted. Much like a knife piercing flesh. Cutting its way through layers of skin, muscle, and fat. Intestines pouring out, blood and water and bile mixing on the floor – cocktail of death. Not yours. Johnny's.

Not Johnny.

He heard. His chest rose under the weight of your head, and life was breathed into you again.

───────────

It was absolutely mind-boggling to you how he’d survived. You saw it; you saw Makarov pull the trigger. You saw the bullet pierce his skull. You saw him crumple on the cement in that underground tunnel. You felt the blood on your hands. You felt how slick it made his skin.

But apparently, it wasn't enough to snatch the life out of him. 

And as you spent the following days sleeping uncomfortably, curled on one of the chairs in the waiting room of the army hospital, doctors came and went to talk to Price. 

Or to Johnny’s ma.  

She’d flown all the way from Glasgow to Hereford in the blink of an eye, bringing with her a goddamn squadronof MacTavishes. Four sisters with his blue eyes, and his dark hair. All of varying ages. Even a little one, half of yours. Her long hair was in a plait that swung behind her back. You watched it – transfixed. Too catatonic and dazed to care that you might have looked like a right weirdo – staring at a kid like that.

But she was the one who looked like him the most. Maybe it was in the tilt of her chin. In the shape of her eyes. In the slight fold of the tips of her ears – God, you weren’t looking like one, you were a proper weirdo. 

Her braid swung like a pendulum, marking the time you spent apart from him.

A guarded prognosis meant that no one aside from close relatives could enter the room. Family only - and the leader of Johnny’s unit. So, you spent your days of medical leave with your ass on those plastic chairs that were made for short sitting sessions, looking at a platoon of women going in with flowers and chocolates and leaving with tears and bloodied gauzes.

Your arm was wrapped in a bandage of its own, the muscle torn at the bicep. The pain was dull, much like the goddamn sight of you. Or the smell, which you reckoned mustn’t have been the most pleasant whiff to catch with one’s nostrils.

Price took pity on you because he knew. He acted like he didn’t for the sake of his team, but he knew. And he conveyed his awareness with lingering, judgmental glances he gave you and Johnny when the Scot let his hand travel a little too low on your back.

You watched them all from afar, perking your ears to catch any news the doctors told Johnny’s family or your Captain. Clawing at the walls for some information. You’d give your right kidney to know something more aside from the sparse words Price told you out of sympathy.

And then, out of nowhere, after tortuously long days spent with stomach and heart utterly empty, a nurse came to you.

She tapped your shoulder and you flinched. Bloodshot eyes swiveled to land on her face. She looked down at you apprehensively, knowing she’d have to tread lightly. A cornered animal, you were. Pitiful thing.

She called your name, and you blinked.

“The lady there said you’ve been here a while,” she spoke oddly soft and yet respectful. Must’ve spotted the pips on the epaulets of your uniform jacket, the one currently draped over you like a blanket.

Your eyes were unfocused and blinky. Lashes fluttering to swipe away the fatigue – a broom against dust. Looking around made your neck tingle, muscles corded, but you did. Your pupils locked with bright blue ones at the other end of the hallway.

Johnny’s ma waved.

Your brain rewired itself from its slumber and you sat upright. Your shoulders popped as you pulled them back at attention. Legs uncurled from where they were tucked underneath your weight, finally stretching out. Palms to your knees. Your jacket fell to the floor, you didn’t mind it.

“She wants to know if she can talk to you,” the nurse prompted.

You nodded eagerly, probably looking a little too desperate. Your leg bounced in anticipation and anxiety, tiny needles piercing the muscle as it awakened.

Gingerly, his mum walked to you. She sat right in the chair at your side. It took nothing but a look for her to understand: the crust in your lashes from the tears you’ve shed, the bandage around your arm gone from white to yellow with a splotch of brown in the middle. Dried blood and pus. The wound festering beneath it.

She hugged you. She didn’t care if you hadn’t washed in days. If your injury was probably infected, or at least smelled as such. You curled your fingers into fists against her back, and you cried.

She did, too.

𓇬

You understood that Johnny took his fire straight from his ma because she was currently bullying the doctor who had been preventing your entrance into her son’s room.

You stood almost embarrassed next to her, feeling like her child yourself.

She had forced you to wash, after all. Took you to one of the washrooms and helped you out of your clothes. Stroked your skin with a sponge when she noticed the weakness of your movements. Washed away the suds with the showerhead. Dried your hair and braided it.

You’d have felt pathetic if she weren’t there, constantly telling you it was alright. You'd have felt guilty that you became an additional burden to her if she weren't continuously whispering that “whoever loves my Johnny like you do, ‘s mine to care for.”

You took a few steps back the more she argued with the doctor, trying to flee from that predicament. Maybe you’d be lucky enough to peer through the cracked door and spot Johnny’s face now that both surgeon and nurse were busy trying to tame (fruitlessly, they’d learn) Mrs. MacTavish.

However, your back hit something. You lifted your arms, elbows out to create more space around you.

You looked behind and clocked a girl, and her braid. She was slightly shorter than you, about fifteen. The resemblance with her brother was so striking it caused your breath to hitch.

She looked at you with caution. Assessed you like antiques at an auction. Whether you were worthy of her brother’s affection, or not. And you found yourself thinking you’ve never wanted someone’s approval more than you did at that moment.

It was a game of stares that she was clearly winning.

Comical, really. How your skin had bled because of bullets tearing it apart. Knives had ripped crimson gashes on your flesh. Bombs had gone off in your vicinity. You’ve killed. You’ve seen death and brought it, too – a harbinger.

Yet now you stood stock still in front of a teenager. Eyes locked with the depth of the azure sea hers bore. Frozen in place with your elbows still out and your hands hovering between you two.

It was silent for what felt like hours when in truth only mere, tense minutes had passed. The only sound that of Johnny’s ma giving an earful to the doctor and a very tired nurse.

Your lips parted on their own accord then, and your voice came out wet and strained. “You’re so much like him.”

That girl had tried to crack open your skull with the sheer force of her eyes and somehow managed. Then snuck her fingers in the hollow of your stomach and curled them around the handles of your ribs only to rip them open and take a gander at the battered thing that was your heart.

What she said next made your chest clench to the point of pain. Your heart stomped against the hard bone of your rib cage. Her voice was heavily accented yet softer than her brother's. The meaning behind her words was different from the ones you uttered. They went deeper than mere physical appearance.

The thought that she might have seen something in you that even remotely reminded her of him made your heart ache - feeling undeserving of it.

“You are, too.”

───────────

One hundred and eighty-four days since the incident, you could’ve gotten a goddamn medical degree. You took a long compassionate leave to stay by his side, hastily apologizing to doctors and PTs alike for his behavior because during that time, when they’d show up at your doorstep, he’d bark like a dog for them to leave.

For one-hundred and eighty-four days, the moment he fell asleep, you’d bury your head in medical manuals and books. You had his physical therapist explain to you step by step all the exercises he’d have to do for his limbs, so he’d regain strength and mobility.

The massages. The oils. The meds. How to put an IV in. How to change the bandages of his bedsores. You helped him shower. You helped him dress. You did his beard or his hair, and while he pushed for it to be a bland buzzcut or just let it grow, you always let the airstrip at the center stay – gelling it up sometimes, for good fun.

When you’d place a kiss against his buzzed side, next to the healing scar, he’d find himself giving in more and more. His back would soften against your chest, fingers curling at your forearms wrapped around his front.

By the one hundred and eighty-fourth day since the incident, Johnny still barked like a dog at whoever dared to walk in his flat that wasn’t you or a member of his family. But at least now the rest of the lads had their privileges.

At least now he let you sleep on your side of the bed – sometimes daring to curl his arm around your waist so you’d scoot over to his.

At least now he kissed you again and brushed his fingers along your cheek, or through your hair.

His strength came back at a languid pace, but his hands didn’t tremble anymore when he held a fork, so now he could eat by himself. He could lift small weights, but still couldn’t sit up on his own. That was the next achievement you both were aiming at.

His personality now shone through the fractures of the shell he'd locked himself into. The cheeky grin slowly came back like molten gold mending the fissures. That glint in his eyes - a reminder that he was alive.

You already knew it, but he didn’t – and now, he was on his way to finally realize it.

On the morning of that day, Johnny was lying in bed as you’d just finished helping him wear a pair of grey sweatpants. Your back was to him while you folded clean laundry.

He watched like a hawk each movement you made, no matter how mundane and trivial. Shame and resentment still had a tight grip on his heart, withered his soul, but the sight of you – simply there – was enough to make those feelings hush.

“Can’t believe you bloody stayed.”

You stilled in your motions, and only resumed a moment later, setting down the laundry back in the basket. Then, in your sweats and one of his t-shirts, you moved towards the bed. Sat at the edge. Lingered there for a moment as you took him in.

He was thinner. However, against all medical logic, his muscles were still there. Definitely less bulging, definitely much less defined, but there. Apparently, it takes a lot more to wear down John fucking MacTavish. However, you’d have to give credit where credit is due, and your relentless insistence in forcing him to do all the exercises as the PT instructed you, even when Johnny all but cursed at you, might have helped his muscles keep their tone.

You lay down in bed next to him, propped on your elbow with your cheek in your palm. You placed your free hand over his chest, his strong heartbeat at your fingertips.

"'cause you're too hot to drop, eh?" You quipped.

He tried to keep up with your joking mood, his lips curving into that trademark smirk he used to don so effortlessly. Differently from before, when life seemed to flow smoothly, it was short-lived. And while his heart felt like it was being torn apart, he lifted his arm and slung it around your waist, bringing you close.

You snuggled in his side for good measure. One leg of yours was draped over his two, palm still flat on his chest, and now your head lay there as well. While he’d almost returned to his usual self, these moments in which he allowed you to touch him were always sparse and rare. You’d take your fix whenever you could.

His chest still felt tight at the sight of you huddling against him. “Why do ye love me?”

His voice rumbled in his ribcage, echoing in your ear pressed against his pectorals. It perfectly scratched an itch in the back of your brain, almost giving you gooseflesh.

"Because you're pure dead brilliant.” You replied quietly, drawing shapes over the fabric of his tee, "You make me laugh, you make me happy."

Absently, you smiled – memories of your relationship even before it bloomed into love came running in front of your eyes. He could only see the top of your head, but he felt the way your cheek lifted against the cotton, somewhat scrunching the fabric.

"Can't imagine a life without you, honestly.” You lifted your head from his chest and placed a chaste kiss over it. Your shoulders shrugged, the answer being simple. "You're my Johnny."

As much as your words served as a balm to his wounds, he felt as if you were describing someone else. Attributes he was undeserving of – ones that described the man he might have been once but didn’t feel like anymore.

His hand lightly gripped your hip. All he could do was tilt his head down and plant a kiss on your forehead, letting his lips linger a tad longer. Savoring your skin and the salt of it.

“’m the luckiest man alive,” he mumbled. The press of his mouth against your flesh slurred his words, but you caught them anyway.

Luckiest for real, you mused but didn't voice it. He didn't need a daily reminder of the sheer miracle his survival had been.

Instead, you only relished the touch of the chapped skin of his lips. Your eyes fluttered closed to block out anything else that didn’t involve that tiny, warm feeling.

"My lucky charm,” was all you could muster up to say.

He huffed. The air escaping his nose was warm as it hit the crown of your head. You could tell by the way he tensed that he was hesitant, still mindful when it came to having you close. Insecure, ashamed. But you'd linger there unless he pushed you away – hoping, deep down, he never would again.

In very Johnny’s fashion, he masked his insecurity with a lighthearted joke. “C’mon, inflate my ego a bit more.”

And you did, despite knowing it was all a façade to hide the inner turmoil he’d been brewing constantly ever since. Despite knowing he silently craved your words of reassurance, because maybe, if you repeated them enough, he’d eventually believe them, too.

A chuckle bubbled up your throat. Johnny felt its gentle rumble in his bones, and it stole a smile from him.

“You’re absolutely hilarious – you crack me up,” you continued like he asked, “Sharper wit than mine – which I thoroughly appreciate.”

You leaned your head back, reluctantly pulling your forehead away from his lips, only to be awarded with the blue of his eyes.

“You’re kind and compassionate," you sighed, "You care ‘bout others even when you shouldn’t. That’s noble.”

But then your mouth pursed, because its corners struggled to keep a smile, "You're also absurdly hot, love.”

He scoffed, giving you a look – shallow. But he couldn't deny the way the last comment made his chest puff a little.

It was unbearably hard not to burst out laughing. Difficult to keep the warmth inside, in the face of the familiarity of it all. You cleared your throat, mustering up the most serious expression you could pull at that moment.

“You’re the strongest man I know.”

And just like that, his smile was gone. The dancing flame he lit in your heart, smothered by ice. Johnny, who’d always been the gasoline to your fire, now felt like freezing water.

He shook his head, trying to hide the unease. “My strength is long gone, love.”

And even if your blood was struggling to boil against the ice he instilled, you decide you wouldn’t have that. Not in a thousand years.

Your eyes welled up with tears, as much as you tried to fight it. He sounded so tormented - you craved to take it away from him. Your fingers curled at his jaw, gently. Tilting his head, you forced his eyes to lock with yours – making sure to keep him there, focused on you.

"You, my love," you repeated, voice wavering but filled with resolve, "are the strongest man I've ever met."

Yet your words only fueled the self-hatred. He failed to see the determination in your eyes because the wounds in his brain, both emotional and whatnot, only made him perceive pity.

“I hate this,” he growled. While your fire had been smothered, his only grew. His eyes held defiance and fight, unfortunately against all the wrong things. “I hate this so damn much. I – I struggle to live, darling. I can’t even fucking stand. I’m like a useless sack of sh-”

"None of tha'." You interrupted him. This time, you sounded angry.

Hell, you understood. You were a special forces operator, too. You were in his same team. You fucking got it. The pain, the worthlessness after having been fully independent and, at least on his part, generously strong for most of his adult life.

But you weren't having it.

Your fingers held his face in place, curled at his cheeks. Not too tight, always gentle and mindful of his head injury, but firm enough to indent in the plush of his skin.

"You are Sergeant John – fucking Soap - MacTavish." You stated firmly, and while your eyes were glossy, your voice didn't hesitate this time. "You are a sniper and demolitions specialist. The best out there."

Your pupils sailed the storm in his eyes with unparalleled skill. "You've survived a gunshot to the head. You fought to live, and I swear 'ere and now, John, I'll make fucking sure you will."

Johnny found himself fighting a war he couldn’t win. And while he wasn’t used to it, he realized he didn't mind losing. He had been biting each hand that tried to feed him, to nurse him back to health.

Even yours.

He failed to see, however, that you came back each time – mangled fingers, bite marks and all.

He hated being the reason you cried, even if it was for the sheer amount of feelings that had been brewing all at once, threatening to spill over.

Without warning, he put his hands against the mattress and sat up. And because it wasn’t enough for him apparently, he grabbed awestruck-you by the hips, pulling you on top of him –  with no little effort – to straddle his lap. That was the achievement of the week, he thought, and with an exhausted sigh, he flopped with his back against the headboard.

He used to be able to absolutely manhandle you and place you wherever he wanted, once. Now, his chest heaved as a result of barely lifting you an inch. The concept was still hard to grasp for him, but he realized how proud he felt when his eyes landed on yours, when your gasp reached his eardrums.

And he understood, then. He might have thought that he was a useless sack of shit, but you weren’t, and steaming Jesus, he’d do it. For you, he’d take the fucking praise of having lifted a spoon without dropping the stupid golf ball you placed on it. He’d take the kisses you’d pepper his face with each time he’d bend his knee to his chest without your hands helping him fold it.

He’d take that look you were donning right there on his lap, your eyes going from heated to watery. Brows pinched. Mouth-gaped.

He’d take it like a fucking champ, and he’d be proud of it.

"Johnny,” you breathed, steadying yourself with your palms on his shoulder.

The bastard smirked; lips parted as he caught his breath.

He brought his hands up to cup your cheek. His thumb rubbed at your jawline and his fingers threaded through your hair. “How are ye so bloody beautiful, eh?”

You almost melted right then and there.

You huffed. Breathless and shaky. You leaned your cheek against his palm – perfect fit. One could hear the clicking sound it would’ve made as it fell into place.

“Gonna have to cross tha' from our achievements list." You slurred, your words as wobbly as your lips.

He hated your bloody achievements list, but he’d take that one, too.

His voice was raspy. Scratched you in all the right places. “We should put a reward for each one you tick off, mh?”

You blushed.

You did, and you weren't even ashamed of it. How many people could say that their significant other made them flush even after years together? You bet very fucking few.

Because Johnny made your heart stutter like the first time although it had been years you two shared the same bed. Johnny made your chest swell, your cheeks pink, and your panties wet even after he'd seen you naked and bent however he pleased – and he could do that with a very visible craniotomy scar on the side of his head.

You gave him a knowing look, though.

"Just a kiss," you replied, sounding a little too patronizing. Almost as if you were scolding him. "The doc said no sex, Johnny."

Indeed, now he almost looked like a child who just had his favorite new toy snatched away. A feigned pout, his bottom lip jutting out slightly. “Not even a tiny bit?”

He looked utterly gorgeous, even when he acted like this – normally, it would’ve driven you up a wall.

The blue of his irises was now a mere halo around widened, dark pupils. He took a greedy handful of the meaty part of your hip. His other hand journeyed from your jawline to your bum, and he wasn’t parsimonious there either, as he curled his fingers around the plush skin.

"What even is a tiny bit of sex, Johnny?” You huffed. Before he could reply, because you saw that cheek in his eyes, “And for the love of Christ – Don't say just the tip.”

He grinned, caught red-handed.

You fixed him with a blank stare.

And then, you spouted all the knowledge you had acquired during these months while he slept away. You went full medical encyclopedia on him. "Sex increases blood pressure, which might cause weakened blood vessels in your brain to burst, potentially leading to a hemorrhagic stroke. You could -”

Johnny barked a laugh. You ended your lecture by pursing your mouth in a tight line; rolled your lips between your teeth to hide how much the sound of his genuine chuckle had affected your heart.

He absolutely demolished you with a sentence only.

“But I sat up today, sweetheart.”

Your shoulders deflated. Utterly powerless.

He pinched the air between thumb and forefinger in the space between your faces, “Just a glimpse, yeah?”

You scoffed and briefly looked down at the spot where he’d placed you in. All by himself, no help from you whatsoever. You were so fucking proud it made you arrhythmic.

You settled on a glimpse.

Gingerly, you grasped the hem of your (his) tee and pulled it off your head. You tossed it in a vague direction behind you, eyes focused on his. Deft fingers went to unhook your own bra, and you let it fall.

Sitting up on your knees, which gave him a very nice close-up of your breasts (the lad went cross-eyed at the sight), you hooked your fingers at the waistband of your sweatpants. With one motion, you took down both pants and underwear, which pooled at your knees.

You leaned back, sitting on your rear, and pulled them both off your ankles. Much like your sorry t-shirt, they landed somewhere on the bedroom floor.

Planting your feet on each side of his thighs, you kept your knees spread and leaned back on your palms, as if to say There, enjoy.

"Better?"

Johnny’s eyes darkened instantly at the sight before him. You looked wet already for reasons unknown to him. Poor man couldn't grasp the idea that no matter how he looked, he'd always make your heart race and your cunt glisten.

Johnny slowly rubbed the back of his fingers against his lips.

“Better,” you heard him rasp.

You nodded imperceptibly, eyes never leaving his. You raised a hand and drew a map of your body with your finger, tracing a path he’d hopefully follow again, one day.

It started from your mouth, fingertip tugging at your lower lip until it bounced back into place. Then down your chin, down the curve of your throat, traveling in the valley of your breasts.

"You behave, Johnny," you breathed, letting your own hand grab a handful of your breast and squeeze. The fat bulged between the grooves of your fingers.

"Follow PT.” You pulled at your nipple, "Take your meds, do as the doctors say."

Your palm snaked down your belly until it reached your core. You spread your lips for him with your fingers, "And I'll be your first meal after recovery."

Johnny’s eyes followed your hand, hypnotized. He swore his mouth watered and he thought this wasn’t much of a reward as it was torture.

His heart throbbed against his ribs, and his eyes clocked yours once more.

“I’ll behave,” he promised, his voice thick with an unspoken need – and he would.

Johnny decided that he’d take this, too. Fucking hell he would.

Your lips quirked to the side, trying to hide the small smile of delight. The only thing you wanted was for him to get better. Small steps: he had already managed to sit up in bed by himself, so maybe the next step would be to stand up on his own, one day.

Then walk. Then run. Then train at the gym, or take you out for dinner. Fuck you senseless into the mattress. Get on his knees to make a meal out of you. Or get on one knee, holding out a ring.

And by God, if what he needed was a reward – he'd get it. Honestly, if it would help him improve, you'd give it to him every bloody day. You’d bend, break, turn, and fucking dance if he asked. As long as he stayed here, alive.

You were unabashedly wet, so there was barely any friction as you plunged middle and forefinger inside your core. You hissed at the sensation – pleasure and pain. You let out a shuddering breath, eyes closing just briefly.

You should've been embarrassed about the sound your own cunt made when you slid them out, but the way Johnny's eyes widened made you anything but. His hand dropped from his mouth onto his thigh, limp.

Utterly disarmed himself.

Sticky and wet with arousal, you placed your fingers on his lips, gently pushing them inside to rest on his tongue.

"Good man, Johnny," you breathed, your own heart thrumming, "So fucking proud of you.”

Johnny’s chest warmed and his eyes flickered between your own, his tongue automatically coming forward to taste you on your fingers. His cheek hollowed as he sucked, which did absolutely nothing to the already dripping state of you.

You scissored your fingers against his tongue, “Take it.”

His eyes fluttered closed. Sweet and salty, ambrosia on his tastebuds. The tang of you, forever impressed in his mind – a man parched of what he used to drink almost daily and had been denied for months. He thought it had been criminal of you to take it away from him for so long.

And while this totally wasn’t the most appropriate moment to think about it, he realized that you never denied him anything that wasn’t for his own good.

He did it to himself.

Which made him angry. Which prompted his hand to flit up and wrap around your wrist to keep your fingers there, snug in the cavity of his mouth – wishing he could never part from them.

The humming sound of pleasure vibrated through your hand, and you shivered in response. He grunted in a low, husky murmur – words barely muffled by your fingers, “I want my reward, pet.”

Your own eyes were hooded and heavy. He looked perfect, despite that thick scar on the side of his head. Actually, the fact that he was still here, in this plane of existence, with his brain injury - somehow alive, by sheer miracle - made him even more perfect.

You took your fingers out of his mouth. Johnny begrudgingly released them with a pop. He looked flushed and ravenous. It would’ve scared you, the voracity in his eyes, if you weren’t already accustomed to it – known it like your own, same hunger that’d been festering in your lower stomach for months.

You helped him lay back down again, making sure his head would fall softly against the pillow, back flat on the mattress. You stretched out like a cat, settling yourself on your knees between his legs.

Resting your palms against his thighs, feeling the taut muscle underneath, your fingers gently scraped over the fabric of his sweatpants. The obvious tent he sported imperceptibly twitched in reflex.

You grazed the bulge with your nails. Johnny shuddered.

Only then, you curled your fingers at the waistband of his sweats and slowly pulled down, exposing him. His cock bounced back against his abdomen once it unhooked from the elastic of his boxers.

It was your mouth’s turn to water. You’d seen him naked several times in the past one hundred and eighty-four days, but the purposes were very much different. Of course, it wasn’t only him that had to refrain from intimacy. While you could, well, DIY your way to bliss, it clearly wasn’t enough, because your body was reacting dramatically at the mere sight.

Your hand almost darted at the base. Johnny’s hips gave a tiny jerk, and you could hear the lack of sounds coming from him. He was holding his breath, almost in anticipation of what he knew would happen.

Thankfully he’d always been vocal, and when you gave the first stroke, Johnny absolutely melted. Quite literally, you saw him deflate against the pillows as if he were made of wax and your hand was fire. His lips parted in a whine you hadn’t heard in ages. Or maybe never. At all.

You decided you wanted to hear that again. Fucking pronto.

You started slowly, stroking up and down the way you knew he liked. Dragging the skin over the tip, using the honestly baffling amount of precum as lube.

You couldn’t take your eyes off of him. Johnny always looked gorgeous, and during sex, he looked like a god.Made to worship and praise. Now, his eyes were half closed. The narrow space visible was white – he had rolled back his eyes. Lips parted by heavy pants. Brows tight, as if he was concentrating.

Because he was.

“Slow down,” he drawled, seemingly unable to have his mouth follow along with his thoughts. “Fuck, plea-“, he whined, again. That sound you were looking for. Goddamn music that could feel like silk to the touch.

Your thighs squeezed together for some needed friction, and you did as he asked. He exhaled shakily, fully closing his eyes to get a grip. Johnny’s jaw clenched. He gritted his teeth, releasing a sharp breath from his nose.

Slowly, you bent at the waist, shifting a little on your knees. Your face was right next to his length as you held it up by the base, stroking languidly.

Johnny felt your breath hit his shaft and his eyes snapped open. You saw how his chest stuttered, eyelid twitching at the sight. How the indent of your spine drew a curve that tipped at your ass, tilted up. The lashes framing your doe eyes fluttering right next to his cock. Your lips pink, as if they might have caught teeth. The sheen of his precum around your fingers.

Johnny could’ve come right then and there.

To prevent it, he slid his eyes shut again. It was useless, because he felt that plush mouth he loved oh, so dearly, leave a trail of slow kisses from his base up to his angry-red tip. Johnny hissed a string of curses, wringing his eyes closed until his lids wrinkled.

You lingered a little more on his tip with your lips barely grazing it, tasting the salt of him and reveling in the desperation he was showing. Not a bad thing – this wasn’t that kind of torment you hated to see. Indeed, you liked it.

Very much so.

“Johnny,” you whispered, “Look at me, baby.”

Johnny could only oblige; however, he did beg whatever deity up there to give him enough resolve not to cum on your hand. His eyes drifted open and the sight of you, once again, threatened to have him end the moment way too soon.

He gulped. A fruitless endeavor, because his mouth was dry and his throat stuck. He parted his lips to mumble something. Something incoherent and jumbled because his brain was haywire.

Whatever he had to say, however, came out as a choked sound. Your lips parted further and wrapped around his head. Your heavy-lidded gaze locked with his much too wide eyes, and Johnny crumbled once and for all.

“Christ,” was the first sensed word he growled. His head fell back against the pillow, but that made you still.

He moaned again. Not that sound you liked, but more like a lament – why did you stop. Your mouth left his shaft with a sonorous pop. His head lifted and he glowered – how dare you.

“Eyes on me, Johnny.”

His breath hitched, and he thought you couldn’t have looked more beautiful. His eyes softened at the order, and he gave a simple nod, trying not to look as desperate as he felt and failing spectacularly.

You grinned, and he corrected himself: you could look more beautiful.

Whatever devoted thought was about to cross his mind was stopped in its tracks when you ran your tongue along the underside of his cock. Tortuously slow.

You used your hand at the base to slap the head against the flat of your tongue while your other palm rested on his thigh, feeling how he tensed beneath you. Only then, your lips returned around his cock. The muscles in his neck bulged and the tendons tightened, resisting the urge to just flop back once again.

His hips gave yet another tiny jerk, and he bit his bottom lip. "Careful, pet," he warned you, his voice strained against the rock lodged in the back of his throat.

He reached down and grasped at your hair but did not pull, simply just holding on to give you a sense of where his hands were. He wished he could sit up and ram his cock down the back of your throat. He knew you’d take it – fuck, he knew. 

But he’d used enough strength to gain the current reward, which was also the other reason why his muscles felt too syrupy to hold him up.

The tight grip on your hair almost made your eyes roll back at the promise of what it could’ve meant. The memories of how good he’d guide your head down his length made your cunt flutter around nothing.

You dived down until his tip reached the back of your throat. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as you struggled to breathe from your nose.

“God, sweetheart,” he moaned. Didn’t growl, or groan. John fucking MacTavish moaned, and you were unsure whether you liked this more than the gruff sounds you were used to.

You rose up again and then rammed down. Up, and down. Again, and again. And Johnny thought he could’ve cried. His chest heaved and his lungs burned – struggling to keep up with his rapid intake of air. His thighs tensed.

“Just like tha’.” He stuttered, voice cracking at the edges, “Yes, love. Yes.”

It took a lot of him not to collapse right back against the pillow and just enjoy the feeling and the obscene sounds you were making. And while his eyes stayed focused on you because you had commanded so, he also didn’t want to deprive them of the sight that you were.

You knew his tells: breathy voice, taut quadriceps, those tiny jerks of his hips to meet your mouth. Your hand curled at the base to help you out in your endeavor, stroking lightly and twisting as your mouth still worked. Your eyes locked on him, lidded and watery. Tears down your flushed cheeks.

A fucking sight alright, Johnny thought.

With the last spurs of strength left in his body, he selfishly pushed your head down, burying your nose in his curls. He groaned a desperate “Oh, fuck”, lifted his hips to meet you halfway. With a shudder, you felt him empty himself down your throat.

The grip he had on your hair tightened to the point of delicious pain, stinging your scalp. Johnny's legs went stiff under your touch. His cock twitched, buried deep down your throat, as spit and cum bubbled at the corners of your stuffed mouth.

You didn’t fight how your eyes rolled back this time. Struggling to breathe through your nose as you obediently swallowed.

Johnny allowed himself to collapse back against the pillow. Unfocused and dazed. The way his orgasm hit, like a needle puncturing his brain, made him think that maybe you were right and he’d gone and done it – the hemorrhagic stroke, or whatever it was you said.

When you finally pulled back, Johnny looked down at you with hooded eyes. His chest was still rising and falling at an alarming pace. And just when he thought it was over, that the bliss had regrettably ended, you locked eyes with him. His mouth went dry again.

He slowly let the grip on your hair go to allow you some freedom to move. He reached out to touch the side of your face. His thumb skimmed your lower lip, smearing the spit and what was left of him on your cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly – more than just a compliment.

You blushed. As if your cheeks could get any redder.

After tucking him back into his pants and sweats, Johnny beckoned your face closer to his. You followed his guidance, only to have him curl his fingers at the nape of your neck to tilt your head, and let his lips meet yours.

He didn’t kiss your hungrily. He savored you, allowing your lips to slot, and your tongues to mold. He tasted himself on you, and you tasted yourself on him.

Johnny tucked you under his arm, guiding you to rest your head on his chest like before.

You looked up at him, a cheeky smile on your lips. Tapped your fingers over his heaving chest.

“Slow breaths,” you instructed, “Keep the blood pressure low, baby.”

He huffed, “Fuck off, darling.”

You laughed and nuzzled against him. Johnny could only chuckle with you – could only think you were a vision. And when your face lifted to prop your chin on his chest so your eyes could meet, when your smile beamed in his direction, he was sure you were one.

"Now will you," you tapped his nose with your finger, "Cooperate a little more?”

Johnny snorted.

His lips curled into a tiny smirk. His cheeks were flushed as well, a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. His eyes were droopy and a little dreamy when he took you in. You looked so beautiful his heart could’ve stopped, and if that were to be the last thing he saw, he would've died a happy man.

You were proud of him, and for the first time, he was proud of himself, too.

He fell silent and only basked in your glow, reveling in the sunlight you brought. The arm that held you by your waist traveled upwards, and he curled it around your head. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, tangling with some of your hair as well.

And Johnny thought he’d take it. He’d take it any day.

“Get that achievements list,” he whispered, “Wanna cross that shite myself.”

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.64)

(Sneek Peek)(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: “Take your time, it’s not like I’m dying over here or anything.” “Shut up Jimin you are not going to die.”

Tags: Angst, Blood, Gore, Maiming, violent acts described perpetrated by loved ones, near death experiences, near death experiences, No one dies, Jimin does not die, Hurt with just a little comfort.

W/c: 7.0k

A/N: I'm sorry that this chapter will be a little shorter than usual after such a long weight but i literally could not finish the second half of it in time. i've been going through a rough patch™ which is why recently the updates have been 3 weeks apart instead of just 2 like usual. idk when that will change, this might just be the new reality for me 😭 when i tell you the end of this chapter has a fucking twist to it that i love, you're not prepared!

Previous part - Masterlist - First part

~-~

Chapter 64 Sneak Peak: Pawn and King

The fog covers everything like a balmy damp shadow, the snow going straight to sublimation. Pockets of old streetlamp lights punctuate the darkness. But through it there are husks of metal rising like soldiers. The sky orange behind them from the distant lights of the city,

Jin’s car is there. Hobi spots it. Its blue paint stands out through the overlap of grey brush as his headlights roll over it. And then further in the darkness maybe 50 feet away, Jimin's car. Shiny and black like the husk of an insect.

You're about a mile away from where they must be doing demolition. A singular crane and floodlights shine, casting everything, the river, and this building into a grey-slanted light.

You pull around in the yard in front of the largest and most intact building. You leave the keys in it. Tumbling out the second it glides to a stop.

“Stay here.” You say, but Hobi gets out anyway. He hasn’t noticed the gun tucked into your waistband until now. It makes his pulse tick higher when you take it out. He stares at it.

"Hobi," he looks up at your face, and you flick the safety off. "Sink or swim?"

His hand finds yours. "Swim."

You shake your head like you're angry with yourself, not him. squeezing it once then letting it go. You don’t waste another second arguing. "Stay behind me."

You head off following the disturbed dust, Hobi trailing behind. Ducking from pocket of light to pocket of light.

He always wondered what happened to the gun you’d pointed at him that night you’d run away. That train ticket that still burns a hole in his pocket, a distraction maybe. He's spent the last few months fixating on it- and you of course too. Too fixated to notice the small things that he sees plainly right now. There are facts here that Hobi has not noticed.

The way you hold the gun is not practiced; and why should it be the only one who knows how to handle guns in the pack is Jimin? But the way you walk; completely silent as you transfer your weight from one foot to the other, is heartbreakingly familiar. Hobi knows how and why you've learned to move quietly.

It's almost a dance; the way you glide across the floor. The gun is an extension of your arms, like a dancer's ballet fingers. Spreading and flaying like a wing. Pinky to trigger and index finger along the barrel.

Hobi had always assumed that it belonged to Jimin. Hobi had almost forgotten about it. It was almost 6 months ago now, wasn’t it? there are some things that you never forget, and trauma makes his bones quiet. He's not as good at walking silently as you are- but if the crunch of his red Converse against the gravel bothers you, you do not have a tell.

Hobi feels like he should have asked more questions about it at the time, but now he just bites his lip and stays quiet. You'd promised. You'll tell him in time. Hobi trusts you.

That's the worst thing, isn't it? That Hobi trusts you. You've known he shouldn't since you picked up Jin's call.

Jimin is easy to find if only because he’s sitting in one of those puddles of light, leaning up against one of the containers on the ground floor. Alone. You let out a quiet whimper when you see him. You and Hobi pause in the doorway and Your hand on the gun goes slack

“Minnie!” you forget the gun and run to him, tucking it back into your waistband and falling to your knees at his side. Fingers finding water-dark fabric. Not water- blood.

Hobi stays there, his pulse thudding through his ears, an odd sort of peace to him as he takes in the details. The blood that pools dark on the dusty floor, bubbling. Jimin’s half covered with dust himself. Something wooden and red in his lap. The little bit of blood that’s dripped down his shoulder gathering there. There is a dragged-through patch of dirt a few feet away, more blood, a puddle of it. Jin is nowhere to be found.

Minnie’s eyelashes flutter. “Alpha-” you say. Almost sobbing in relief that he's alive. Alive you can handle. Alive you can work with. You bend down, getting your hand on his cheek.

“Hey pup” he murmurs, he laughs a little, half delirious with pain. He flinches like making the sound hurts him. “You came to the party" he coughs, "did you bring Tae?”

You pull back to look at him. “Tae?”

Jimin grins, eyes fluttering closed, pretty face tipped up against the light. His lips have blood on him- and it looks like a disturbing imitation of Tae’s lipstick. The shadows she leaves on your mouth, on his.

“Yeah- wanna tell her I love her. Wanna tell her that I’m sorry. Could you-" jimin's coughs overtake him, and fresh blood drips down the tips of his fingers, finding home in the soil below.

"Could you tell her for me?”

Coming Saturday December 9th at 5pm EST (Time Zone Adjustments Below)

[bryhoney]

Recognisance pt.5

It's been so long since my last update it's now Pride Month!!! (Yay!!)

Again, I'm sorry it's taken so long - things are still up in the air for my personal life but here we go update time.

EDIT: I left in sections from a previous draft that kind of muddles up which Ghost the reader confronts. Very sorry!!! Edited out now!!!

<- Previous Next ->

He’s standing 20 feet away from you, on the other side of the server room. He’s holding his rifle out in front of him - aiming directly at you. 

He’s barely visible in the darkness, his figure illuminated only by the red glow that dips in and out. He appears entirely unphased as he inches closer to you, as though he is preparing to strike.  

You can barely think straight, utterly terrified to face a Ghost again. 

“Don’t cry yet, there’s so much-”

Your hand doesn’t shake as you aim your pistol towards him - your body resolute in its mission to fight. You would not be going anywhere with this bastard. 

You’d kill him before he harmed you again.

The ghost calls out your name softly as though he’s trying not to scare you. It’s almost a whisper, but you can tell there’s no shock in his voice, he knew you were here. He sounds devastated. 

“Kid?” his stance falters, his shoulders drop and he takes a step forward

Pain and darkness and laughter. Silver catches in the light as it moves closer to your skin. 

You push the memory away, now is not the time for this. Even the slightest distraction will allow him an opportunity to kill you. This man was one of the finest the Americans had - you would not best his reaction time. 

“Stay right there!” you yell across the space between you, voice unwavering and strong despite being up against an opponent whose skills you simply couldn’t match. He was a Ghost after all and you were? 

“It’s me, I-” He says softly, “Do you know who I am?” he asks like he’s trying to tame a wild animal.

“Shut the fuck up” you snap at him. How dare he speak to you like that? Your fear was morphing into abject rage and your finger itched at the trigger. Yet, despite everything Rorke’s ever told you, the desire for answers currently outweighs your desire for revenge. 

You decide you want to know who you’re about to kill. 

You’re desperately trying to recall the images plastered around the base of the Ghosts, trying to piece together which mask matched the ghost in front of you. 

He takes yet another footstep towards you and whispers your name again, his gun lowers away from you ever so slightly. 

You readjust by centimetres and fire, shooting his left shoulder. A warning shot. 

He stumbles backwards slightly, quickly catching his footing. He hisses in pain but that’s all the reaction he gives you from the impact. You’re almost disappointed. 

He doesn’t deserve a warning. At least that’s what you tell yourself - you don’t want to think about how, just for a moment, you were scared you might have miscalculated. That your shot might have rang true, killing him.

Why would that scare you?

He takes a step backwards, somehow managing to keep ahold of his rifle amidst the chaos, which is now aimed back at you. Yet, it doesn't feel steadfast, more half-hearted than anything.

Your breathing is shallow and is absolutely giving away how much adrenaline is coursing through you. You notice your hand is shaking now, and you take a step backwards towards safety. 

“I guess I should’ve seen that coming, huh?” he huffs, it feels like it should’ve been a laugh but his rigid roll of his shoulders gives away his discomfort. 

“Why- How could-?” you shake your head, angry at your inability to control your emotions. You must sound so weak and vulnerable. You were back in the hole again. 

“Look- Kid, this isn’t the reunion either of us wanted, believe me- but we’ve gotta move. Now.” his voice is low and urgent - he sounds utterly in control. “We’ve got to get you out of here, and we’ve got to go now” he brings his hand up to his comms device and you suddenly harden, clenching your jaw. 

“Don’t you fucking dare” You grit your teeth and aim your gun at him again, you might be able to take one ghost out, but no more. 

“Keegan, really? Are you fucking serious? She’s my-”

It’s the voice you once heard comforting you. It’s your father’s voice. Elias’s voice and its sudden invasion cripples you. You stagger back, trying not to lose your sudden advantage over the ghost whose gun is now only gripped by one hand.

“Dammit, we’ve gotta go now” There’s an urgency to his voice as his comms chatter too quietly for you to make out over the alarm. 

He hurt you. 

“I should kill you!” It was meant to sound threatening, but it’s more of a question. 

“We don’t have time for this, lower the gun, Walker” I can hear the frustration mounting in his voice an-

“Walker?” you’re heart sinks. No. No. NO. 

He pauses, “Oh kid, no- What’ve they done to you” he sounds sad. 

“You’re an idiot” the man with the deep voice, he’s laughing. He has the same voice as the man in front-

“You’re a Walker —-- and thr–gh, a certified idiot - I thought may– it was just the men – —- family”, there’s more laughter. 

You feel tears run down your face, “No” is about all you can manage. Your breathing is erratic and your stance is forgotten, the gun is lowered but he doesn’t take advantage of the situation. 

“Higher! H–! Lo will c-tch me!” you’re a child. Happy. 

“That’s your name, look I’m- we’ve gotta get you out of-” he begins, softly, urgently, but the doors to the server room crash open before he can continue. 

“Keegan?” you whisper. It’s him - his gravelly voice. He’s the voice that’s… “No-”

He lurches forward reaching out for you, and every instinct in your body tells you to fight. Yet, the movement is all too familiar-

Your gun is raised and he stalls, before, yelling, “KID, C’MON” as he runs for cover. You’re standing out in the open as gunfire ricochets around you. 

Every instinct tells you that this man is safe. But the memories of what the ghosts did to you are so overwhelming. So terrifyingly real that you can’t move. You desperately want to, but you just can’t. Your brain is too consumed with trying to piece together that you’re a Walker. 

Your dad is Elias. Your brothers are Logan and Hesh Walker. 

It’s only at the thought of them that you jolt back into action. Despite being willing participants in your torture, something doesn’t fit right. 

No, they didn’t- it wasn’t. You love them, they love- loved you. 

You’re surrounded by Federation soldiers, it’s too late for any escape with him now. But it’s not too late to help them. You’re not entirely sure why you feel the need to help them after everything. It’s too scrambled to make sense so you push it out of your mind. 

“I’ve got you! You won’t fall!” 

A tear escapes you.

Some of the soldiers grab you, and you try shrugging them off, “don't touch me,” is all you manage. They chatter amongst themselves, organising a search for the Ghosts. Some of the men begin escorting you back down the way they came. You have a mission in mind; get to one of the surveillance rooms. 

—

The alarm is still blaring when you reach the surveillance room, it’s empty. You ask the guards to lock you in and stand watch so the ghosts can’t get to you. It’s not a convincing rouse, but they don’t question it too much. 

Inside the room, you try to calmly make your way to the observation deck, it’s small but it’s got enough controls that you might be able to be of some use. There’s only one man inside the room with you and he's relatively easy to disarm, even easier to immobilise. You’re not entirely sure how you did it, it was almost a reflex.

Ignoring the shouting coming from his radio, your eyes scan across the series of monitors in front of you. 

You find them quickly, they’re in one of the lower levels, two of them standing next to one of the doors that lead to an external tunnel that burrows into the nearest mountain. They’re trying to blow the door out with some sort of explosive, while two others are kickstarting a car to life. 

You can see the button that will open the door, but you press another, the one that locks the hanger door behind them just before Federation soldiers can burst through. 

You unlock the tunnel door, and open comms, “Go” is all you manage as the door springs open. One of the Ghosts shouts your name, and you hold back a sob. It’s Hesh. It’s your brother Hesh. 

The ghost standing next to him has to forcibly wrestle him into the car before they make their escape. You press another button and the door seals shut behind him. 

You destroy all the footage you can, but it won’t do anything. If they want to find it, they will. 

You’ve sentenced yourself to death for men who tried to kill you. For men who are your family. Rorke had given you a false name, he had redacted your information from the dossiers on the Walkers. 

He’d tried to erase you.

Nothing made sense, you’d seen the ghosts hurt you. You’d felt it and lived it for months and months and months. You’d never seen-

The door opens and Rorke stands on the threshold. 

You’re crying, breathing rapidly as you point the gun towards him, “Gabriel? What’s happening to me?” you feel like you’re shutting down. He’s going to look after you.

He’s going to kill you.

He puts his hands up, “We’ve got you, it’s alright”. 

You shake your head, “You lied to me. I’m-” he’s already crossed the distance between you and has lowered your gun. You’re shaking and you hate the conclusion that’s slowly forming in your head. The resolve that is building in you. 

“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” it’s soft, thinly threat. He nods his head towards the control panels that you’ve deactivated, “don’t we?’. 

You hate that another sob escapes you. How weak you are. 

“You don’t have to pretend you’re alright, kid” it’s his voice again. 

Rorke hauls you away, and you’re less concerned with your safety and find your thoughts drifting back to one, unmistakable fact. 

Rorke killed Elias. 

Rorke killed your father. 

[romione-trope-fest]

One Bed

Fic Title: One Bed

Author Name: smjl/voldemorts-tap-shoes

Selected Trope: only one bed

Brief Summary: The horrors that the three of them—two of them more so than the other, though that’s neither here nor there at the moment—have faced so far on the horcrux hunt have been beyond Hermione’s wildest nightmares. The sight currently facing her is the worst yet.

One. Single. Bed.

Word Count: 2725

Rating: T

Any Trigger Warnings: none

***

The horrors that the three of them—two of them more so than the other, though that’s neither here nor there at the moment—have faced so far on the horcrux hunt have been beyond Hermione’s wildest nightmares. The sight currently facing her is the worst yet.

One. Single. Bed.

She’s only been in the loo for a few minutes. Just long enough to brush her teeth and change into pajamas. When she went in, there were three beds: a set of stacked bunks and a single, the same as they’ve had for months. Ron was outside, already on watch, and Harry was preparing to go out and relieve him. Already she was dreading the awkwardness of being alone in the tent with Ron. Not that he’s done hardly anything but look at her since he’s been back—damn him and that look, the look that says ‘I just poured my heart out to you in front of Harry and you haven’t even heard the half of it yet’—but one could cut the tension between them with a slicing charm.

And now this? Where are they supposed to sleep? Because that’s the only thing to do, really, since she’s certainly not ready to talk to him yet, and though she might be ready to do other things with him—in theory, anyway—her heart has put a firm Impedimenta on those thoughts too.

She finally notices Harry leaning against the kitchen island sipping on a mug of tea, his eyebrows raised in amusement over the rim of the cup. “What the hell is this?” Hermione demands, gesturing wildly at the space where their perfectly acceptable sleeping area used to be.

Harry continues to drink his tea with an infuriating degree of slowness, and Hermione thinks that she might just serve him up to Voldemort if he doesn’t explain himself soon. “This,” Harry says, setting the mug down with a dull thud, “is me getting the two of you to talk to each other.”

“You have no right to—”

“To what?” Harry interjects. “Make sure my best friends don’t kill each other? You haven’t left me much choice.”

Hermione stalks across the room, her hair crackling with fury. Harry circles the island, dodging her attempts to get her hands on him and wring his neck. “Harry James Potter, this is not funny!” she exclaims, finally surrendering to the fact that he’s faster than her. “You put it back right now!”

The tent flap rustles behind her, followed by Ron’s confused voice. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Hermione snaps without looking at him.

“Er…what happened to the bunks?”

“Nothing,” she says again, gritting her teeth as she fumbles for her wand.

Hexing Harry with it is tempting, but the more pressing matter is fixing the bed situation. Hermione brushes past Ron and points her wand at the offending furniture. “Finite.” Nothing happens. She takes a breath and tries again. “Finite incantatem.” Still nothing. She tries Geminio, Engorgio, everything she can think of, but the single tiny bunk remains resolutely unchanged, mocking her with its narrowness. She lets out a groan and turns back to Harry, ignoring Ron’s continued presence. “What did you do to this thing?”

Harry offers only a smirk in answer, clapping Ron on the shoulder as he passes him. “See you two in the morning.”

Hermione clenches her wand so tightly she’s surprised it doesn’t snap in her hand. Ron, against what must be his better judgment, gently pries her fingers from around the wood and sets it on the counter beside her. Under normal circumstances—even what was normal before he left and turned her entire world inside out—she would have given him an earful for taking her wand from her, no matter how good his intentions might have been. At the moment, though, she’s too distracted by the fiendfyre his touch has sent racing up her arm, threatening to consume her.

“It’s not a big deal,” Ron says, already moving away from her, blissfully unaware of the effect he has on her as she remains frozen. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

He has his boots kicked off and his jumper tugged over his head to fling across the arm of the sofa before Hermione manages to recover. “I suppose you think you’re very clever, getting Harry to do your dirty work for you,” she snarls at him. Anything to distract herself from the glimpse of his pale skin that she got a moment ago when his t-shirt stuck to his sweater as he pulled it off, revealing a smattering of freckles and a trail of ginger hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his joggers. She needs to think of anything but that.

Ron merely quirks an eyebrow at her before flopping onto the lumpy cushions of the sofa, his legs dangling off the end almost from the knee down. Before, he would have gone toe-to-toe with her, told her she was barking mad, and they’d have had a row that set her heart racing in more ways than one. Now, he doesn’t rise to the bait; it feels wrong. “I didn’t have anything to do with it, Hermione.”

His pale lashes brush his cheeks as he closes his eyes, signaling the conversation closed even as he shifts and squirms on the sofa, trying to get comfortable. Hermione allows herself a final huff of annoyance as she crosses to the single bed and extinguishes the lights in the tent.

Whatever spell Harry put on the bed, he neglected to do anything similar to the bedding, leaving Hermione no choice but to sleep under Ron’s blanket, her head on Ron’s pillow. Despite her anger, she can’t help but drink in his scent, that familiar woodsy, spicy aroma with just a hint of something sweet, as if he’s always got a Chocolate Frog in his pocket.

The bed is more comfortable than it was before, too—some sort of cushioning charm, maybe, that Hermione wishes she’d thought of herself when they first landed in the woods—and she feels a pang of guilt at the sound of Ron still fidgeting on the sofa.

You didn’t do this. It’s not your job to fix it.

She’s thinking about the bed, of course, but the same could be said of her relationship with Ron. They had formally declared exactly nothing about their feelings for each other before he left, but it was there. She knew it was. It was infused in every innocent brush of their fingers as they studied maps and books together, in the way he said her name, in the way he looked at her. Different than the look he gives her now, but equally weighted with emotion and things unsaid.

But then he left. Gone, in an instant, without a second thought or backwards glance at her. In her more clear headed moments throughout those interminable weeks, she thought it mustn’t have been about her. He’d rowed with Harry that night; he was tired, hungry, worried about his family. Not that that was an excuse—they all were feeling all of those things—but she tried to tell herself that his feelings for her were a separate issue.

Are they? She doesn’t know. He nearly said as much the night he came back—damn if his story about the deluminator wasn’t the most romantic thing she’d ever heard—but she’s been too hurt to hear more. And besides, they’re still on the mission that spawned their hesitation in the first place. If there were no Voldemort, she thinks they’d have been properly sorted last summer, enjoying their seventh year at Hogwarts, maybe as Head Boy and Girl. Their own living quarters with plenty of privacy for—no, don’t go there.

Instead they’re here: Hermione wide awake staring at the canvas ceiling of the tent; Ron tossing and turning on the sofa across the room. She wonders if the lumpy cushions are the only reason he can’t sleep, or if perhaps his brain is torturing him with this same line of thought—or worse. He’s hinted at something more with the locket, some particular brand of malice that the cursed necklace saved just for him.

But she hasn’t been ready to hear more about that either. It’s a waiting game, like always. Waiting for her heart to give her permission to let him back in, or for Ron’s newfound patience with her to give out and for him to force his way back in. She thinks she’d be okay with either, honestly; on a fundamental level, she appreciates the space he’s given her since he’s been back, but it also feels like a hollow shell of their relationship. It doesn’t feel like them.

“Ron?” she calls tentatively. She doesn’t want to rouse him if he’s actually fallen asleep, though she’s fairly certain from the sound of his breathing that he hasn’t, and his answer comes without missing a beat.

“Yeah?” She hears the hope in his tone, and it twists her stomach into knots. Only once or twice has she addressed him directly since his return, and she knows they’re both wondering if maybe the ice is beginning to thaw.

“Whatever Harry did to the bed…it’s more comfortable now.”

A soft snort comes from Ron’s direction. “That’s nice for you.”

“Do you want to share?”

There’s a moment of loaded silence before Ron asks, “Share what?”

She could only possibly mean one thing given the context, but she doesn’t blame him for asking because it’s such a wildly ludicrous suggestion that she also can’t possibly mean that. “The bed.”

The tent is so quiet that she’s sure Ron can hear her heart pounding, hear the way her breath hitches when his blankets rustle and his feet touch the floor. His steps are slow and methodical as he approaches the bed, full of hesitation. He stops at the edge of the mattress, and suddenly his wand is in her face, though there’s humor in his voice when he asks, “Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?”

Hermione swats at his wand and rolls her eyes. “Very funny,” she retorts, injecting her voice with as much sarcasm as she can muster. Her heart is leaping in her chest, screaming at her—This! This is what we’ve been missing!—but she’s determined to let sensibility win. She hasn’t forgiven him, and she frames the suggestion to share the bed as a matter of logistics. “You’re no good to anyone if you don’t get some sleep, and this bed is still plenty big for the two of us.”

Plenty big is a gross exaggeration, but it’s big enough. Hermione slides all the way to the inside edge of the mattress and turns on her side, away from Ron. It takes several long minutes for Ron to follow, sliding under the covers beside her inch by inch, as if he thinks at any moment she’s going to roll back over and hex him. That’s probably a fair assumption, considering their history, but it’s not something he has to worry about tonight.

Once settled, Ron lays stiff as a board at the other edge of the mattress. She’s slept on the bunk beneath him for long enough now to know that he is a deep but restless sleeper, always unconsciously moving or rolling over or kicking the blankets off or pulling them back up through a ceaseless chorus of snores. Tonight, there is none of that. He is still not sleeping.

Neither is she, of course. The palpable tension building in the small space between them is almost unbearable. This was a stupid idea she had. So naturally, she blames Ron.

“Will you relax?” she hisses over her shoulder at him, as if his sleeping in the bed beside her is a perfectly normal occurrence that shouldn’t have either of them so wound up.

“If you want me to be comfortable, then you need to relax,” Ron fires back. “This was your idea.”

“Well, if you’re not comfortable, then you might as well just go back and sleep on the couch.” Hermione flops over onto her back and gives Ron a hard shove in the arm to move him in that direction. He’s so close to the edge of the bed that he almost tumbles off it, but he catches himself and rebounds back toward her, his eyes flashing with irritation.

“Hermione, what the fu—”

The swear dies on his lips as he realizes the position they’re now in, one of his hands on either side of her face as his body hovers above hers. Her palm lands feebly against his chest, a ghost of the initial impulse to push him away, and she feels his heart thundering against his ribs. Neither of them moves, too terrified that the next decision they make is going to be the wrong one, and a different but familiar tension settles over them.

Ron seems to be even more frozen than she is; the only movement is his eyes flickering across her face, searching for an answer, and Hermione knows that she has to be the one to decide where this goes next. She could still push him away, and he would go without a fight.

She doesn’t want to push him away.

Her fingers curl into a fist, pulling the fabric of his t-shirt into her grasp. “I’m still mad at you,” she says breathlessly. She would hate how desperate her voice sounds if she had any brain cells left functioning to care about such things. As it is, they’ve all abandoned their posts to focus on the way Ron’s eyes seem to darken with every passing moment and the attempt to catalog the exact shade of pink of his tongue as it darts out to wet his lips.

Ron gives a tiny nod in answer. “I know.”

“And this is not why I asked you to share the bed.”

His laughter vibrates against her hand. “I know that, too.”

“But I missed you,” she admits in a whisper. Ron’s expression softens, and the way he breathes out her name, his husky voice caressing every syllable, pushes her over the edge.

Hermione tugs firmly at his shirt to pull him down to her, and any lingering hesitation between them vanishes as their lips crash together. It’s impossible to doubt Ron’s feelings for her when his mouth is on hers, hungry and insistent after so much time spent holding back. She notes with some amusement as his tongue seeks hers that he tastes a bit like chocolate too, which should be impossible since there hasn’t been any in the tent for weeks but doesn’t totally surprise her.

She meets every move he makes and matches it with equal fervor, letting her hand drift up past the stubble on his cheek to tangle in his hair, pulling him even closer. Ron groans softly as he drops his weight to his elbows, engulfing her. Now that they’ve started, Hermione never wants to stop kissing him, but her lungs are beginning to protest, and she forces her lips away from his with a deep gasp for air.

The rapid rise and fall of Ron’s chest tells her he has the same need, but he doesn’t pull away from her completely, alternating his breaths with soft kisses to her cheek and then her neck. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” he murmurs, pressing the words into her skin. “I’m so, so sorry.”

His apology puts a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes. She knows he’s sorry for leaving—she does, she knows—but it doesn’t make the pain go away. Still, she takes a deep breath and tugs his face back to hers to look him in the eye when she replies, “I know you are.” It’s the best she can do right now. She’ll forgive him eventually—she’s probably further along that path than she wants to admit, already—but it’s going to take time.

Ron seems to understand, his nose brushing against hers as he nods and leans in for one more gentle kiss before rolling off to his side. “Reckon we should put the beds back?”

Even if Hermione knew how to, she’d rather not. At least, not for tonight. She shakes her head and snuggles up against Ron’s side. He settles the blanket over them both, letting his arm curl around her shoulders as she whispers, “In the morning.”

[wulvercazz]

(... no art bc this site sucks<3)

🎃Halloween Town, Act 13: Claim🍓🫐

Back to Masterpost👻

Tags:  Pregnancy, Deepthroating Extra Tags: Possessive Behaviour, Mpreg

It was truly a surprise to have Ichigo himself at his doorstep, left with his fist in the air as Grimmjow opened the door with tired reluctance before the prince could bring himself to knock. But the awkward fixing of his posture was quickly overridden by the shock that Grimmjow’s distended belly brought. The witch sighed, it’s been several months since their last game, several months since he’d learned what the bug really used him for; the second he felt Ichigo’s energy outside the door he knew this conversion was inevitable. With a nod he invited the spirit inside, and closed the door quietly behind him, almost hearing the cogs turn inside Ichigo’s head. “You- Can– Can human males…?” “No.” He answered tiredly, “I am pregnant, though, … in a way.” Ichigo nodded dumbly, lost still in the surprise. “What do you want?” Grimm added with a sense of urgency, before the prince had any time to continue pacing his floor in his wonder. “Ah- Well, after you and Nell— helped me you just… disappeared. I was worried, I guess. I owed you at least making sure nothing had eaten you yet.” “Awe,” Grimmjow smirked, his voice a coarse tease, “I didn’t know you cared like that.” And with great satisfaction, Ichigo’s face heated up with a blush. “So who’s is it?” The Halloween heir rushes to ask, save himself from any more mockery. Grimmjow rolls his eyes, “it’s not mine, that’s for sure.” And before Ichigo can make any more questions, with a tight frown and childish confusion in his eyes, the witch clarifies; “Aizen came here. I’m nothing but his glorified egg basket.” The name triggers a growl, that Grimmjow drinks in with amusement and a strange tenderness that he’d rather chalk up to whatever weird hormones Aizen’s magick-made uterus is releasing in his body. “Aizen did this to you?” The prince growls in a dark coarse voice. “Yes, didn’t I just-” Grimmjow tries to answer with growing exasperation, but the flickering of flames atop Ichigo’s head distract him from his anger. “Alright– clam the fuck down, berry.” The flame dies out with an offended scowl, and it’s the perfect opportunity to manhandle Ichigo into sitting his ass down on one of the kitchen chairs. His thick arms bracket the prince, holding onto the back of the chair and leaning in to look right into Ichigo’s eyes. “I don’t care. This is one of the tamest things that have happened to me since I took up witchcraft; a few eggs aren’t gonna kill me.” “Y-You don’t want out?” “You felt my cock, there’s nothing down there for these things to come out of; whatever spell Aizen used I’m sure will only serve its purpose once the time comes. So as open as I am to a little knife play, I’d rather not cut my guts in half over a few bugs. There’s only a few weeks if my calculations are right, anyway.” “But–” And Grimmjow makes a shushing noise, bringing a hand up to hold Ichigo’s jaw in a slight show of dominance that the prince doesn’t take without a warning growl in his sternum— “if you’re so jealous you should just say so. Or is your breeding kink that strong that you’re letting your hormones fuck up your brain?” Grimm’s not sure what does it, but Ichigo’s eyes light up in both shame and indignation; his back pushed against the edge of the table where Ichigo cages him with his own arms and growls on his face. “I’m not jealous.” “So that kink of yours is going strong, huh?” He’s never learned how to stop poking the bear… but it gets him an armful of pissed off and possessive prince that he’s not about to pass up.

[serzhantkris]

Something Worth Fighting For-17

Summary: You’ve just begun to settle into life as an Avenger when a mission gone awry divides the team in half, and a familiar face shows up just in time to make you second guess your every choice. Third installment of the Worth Fighting For Series.

Words: 1292

Author’s Note: Hello. Hi. Yes, it’s me. It has been…. 3 years. Three. Years. Since I wrote this story. Yes, I know. You might be thinking, “Kris! We thought this story was over. We thought you had abandoned us!” The truth is, life got in the way. Covid happened. A new job. Another new job. Moving. You know, life. But I never ever forgot about this story or about you guys. This is my gift to all of you, for my 5k and some odd followers. For those of you who were here when this story began, for those of you discovering it for the first time.

And, yes. Because I know someone will surely ask, the answer is yes. There will be another installment in this series.

Now, without further ado. The final part of “Something Worth Fighting For.”

“Are you ready?”

The steady thrum of the monitors filled the open, empty space of the laboratory. Shuri dragged her hand across the front of the holographic projections, her focus sharp as she took in the details of each graph as it appeared before her. She was double, triple, quadruple checking every heartbeat, every brainwave, checking his blood pressure, glucose levels, pH balance— every minutiae of what made a person a person, Shuri’s eyes darted over each bit of data with precise detail, looking for any imperfections that would halt the process about to unfold it the laboratory.

T’challa rested his hand on your upper back, leaning close when you did not respond to his inquiry. Your focus was entirely on the cryogenic chamber in front of you. You reached out, your hand trembling as your fingertips touched the thick, frozen glass. “Can he hear us yet?”

“Not yet,” Shuri said, swiping the holographic screen away. She turned towards you and T’challa, plucking her tablet off the table next to the chamber. “Vitals are good. Everything’s reading normal.”

You drop your hand from the glass, looking at the tablet in her hands. “And you’re sure it worked?”

Shuri’s eyes flicker between you and T’challa. “It was difficult,” she said. “It isn’t as simple as hitting a delete button. I had to run an algorithm to flush the influence of the trigger words while retaining the core context and content of the original memories, and keeping the things that make him… him.”

“But did it work?”

Shuri scoffed, as though offended you felt the need to ask. Months of your life was spent in this very lab, the only thing separating you and her being the chamber that housed Bucky. You knew her well, and trusted that if she said he was ready, she meant it.

That didn’t stop the anxiety that had made itself a home in your gut for the past six months.

“Believe me,” she said, tapping at her table. “No one will be more disappointed than I if it doesn’t work.”

You flash her a half-hearted smile. “Somehow I sincerely doubt that,” you said. She smiled back at you, moving towards the consol that would slowly- as not to send his body into shock- wake Bucky from his six month slumber. “Do you think- Should we have woken him up sooner? When we found out-“

“You did what you thought was right,” T’challa said, nodding at Shuri. She pressed buttons on the consol, and the chamber began emitting a low hum. “What’s done is done. You cannot change it now.”

You nod, stepping away from the chamber. The ice under the glass was clearing away, the blurry image of Bucky beneath it slowly coming into focus. Your stomach churned as the anxiety started to crawl higher in your body, worming its way up your chest and creeping into your throat. Nausea rolled over you in waves, and without a moment to spare, you darted through the door into the laboratory bathroom. The door slid closed behind you automatically as you gripped the edges of the toilet, emptying the contents of your stomach. The anxiety did not go with it, instead clinging to you with newborn ferocity.

Even once the vomiting had passed, you remained in the toilet, eyes pinched shut, trying to get a grip on yourself before you exited.

You heard movement beyond the closed door, then speaking. Bucky’s voice was low and course from disuse, but distinct. Hearing him speak, you became ill again, and then everything was quiet and still.

You wiped off your mouth, rinsing it with water from the sink. You flushed the toilet, and paused for just a moment as your wedding ring glinted in the fluorescent light.

We can still have a life when I wake up.

You steel yourself, and pass through the door.

He can’t remember if he dreamed or not. He doesn’t think so- he never dreamed before, when it was Hydra on the other side of the glass. At least, if he did, he never remembered. When his eyes flutter open, awake for the first time in- however long it’s been- he almost panics, the memory of waking up a clean slate in a dirty room clear in his mind. But this room is white and open and smells like chemical cleaner, nothing like the places he used to wake up. The fear subsides, quickly, and he’s still just Bucky. For now.

It’s disorienting, waking up and trying to remember where you are, how you got there, who you are. But it comes back slowly, like trudging out of deep water. His body comes back like his memory, the feeling slowly creeping through his fingers and hands, his feet, legs, and finally, he raises his hands and grips the edge of the chamber to pull himself out.

Shuri is right next to him, looking between him and her tablet. T’challa is on the other side, offering him a hand. He takes it, his feet still unsure. “Hey there, doc.”

Shuri offers him a smile. “Welcome back, Barnes. Try not to move too quickly just yet.”

Bucky nods, still holding onto T’challa’s hand and the edge of the chamber. The world seems to tilt and slide, and his eyes squeeze closed to ward the dizziness away. He lets go of T’challa’s hand, pinching the bridge of his nose.

A violent, muffled retching sound echoes from another room. Bucky furrowed his brows, trying to pinpoint the sound, but everything was still fuzzy. Something heavy is hanging around his throat, and he grabs at it, squinting against the too-bright light of the laboratory to get a better look.

A pair of dog tags hang on a long chain, jingling against a heavy ring of metal.

His wedding ring.

“Y/N,” he mumbles, voice cracking from disuse. “Where’s Y/N?”

Shuri and T’challa exchanged glances, their lips pressed into fine lines. A mechanical whir sounded through the open air as the bathroom door slid open.

And there you were. Standing in the doorway, only steps away, a halo of fluorescent light behind you. The haze of waking and heaviness in his body seemed all the lighter for seeing you. You were as beautiful as the day he went under, as though not a moment had gone by. He could almost believe that he’d laid down and barely closed his eyes at all before waking again.

And yet, all the same, he became instantly aware that time had passed; more than weeks, less than a year. He knew this because of the swell in your stomach, your hand resting gently over your belly button.

The space between you was a long pause. Bucky’s lips parted, struck with dumbfoundedness, an utterly perplexed expression on his face. You stood, silently, heart hammering against your rib cage as you waited for him to say something, anything at all.

“You’re pregnant?”

You nod, holding your breath.

His first few steps are slow and heavy. Like a newborn foal, his legs shake under him, and then his strides are long and quick and with purpose, and when he throws his arm around you and buries his nose in the crook of your neck, you breathe again. His whole body shakes and he squeezes you tightly, his embrace swallowing you.

He’s crying when you put your hands on the sides of his face, prying him away just enough to find his lips with yours. His mouth is dry and his beard ragged, but he tastes sweet and warm and his kiss takes the breath from your lungs. You had been waiting for this moment for six months.

And now that you finally had him, you were never letting go.

[vlerian-root]

PMDD + transitioning

I don't know how to write this in a more poetic manner, but I would like to put some words out of my head and into (virtual) paper. Being trans has saved my life

Quite literally! I have a medical condition called PMDD, that has been undiagnosed for 17 years. It is a neurological sensitivity to changes in levels of estrogen in the blood. There is documentation out there, don't believe anything that says "it's like bad pms". It has nothing to do with pms. This is your brain being "allergic" to you getting your period, and causing havoc on any and all brain functions - like a russian roulette! It can affect your mood (in a good and bad way, usually very extreme), leaving you suicidal, violent, nonverbal, manic... It can be very painful - and not just in your head, with the typical migraines that last for days, but also on the rest of your body, or localized areas. I used to not be able to move my legs for days at a time. "Just pms" my ass. It can affect your memory. Long and short term memory, some parts of mine are just gone. Erased. Not coming back. They are big chunks too. It can affect you psychologically, in all the fun flavors that can have, like paranoia, obsession, depression, hypomania, dissociation... This usually lasts up to 10 days and ends when you get your period. Which is a hell of its own, so I have lost half of my time for the last few years, when it started getting really bad. It only got diagnosed for me when my psychologist noticed a pattern of me getting really bad every month around the same time. He assumed I knew this. I did not. Nobody had every mentioned PMDD, I didn't know it existed.

But here is where we get to the good part. I was in medical psychological therapy for something unrelated (OCPD, a personality disorder, although most of the symptoms got really bad with PMDD), and the psychiatrist assigned to me is an expert in this matter. He talked to me about the research he had done, and the research I had done while obsessively browsing the internet for any morsel of info I could get. So far any medical treatments had been from ineffective to making things a lot worse, so I needed to talk to someone who knew their stuff. And he did! But we found that since this is your body being "allergic" to a thing it naturally produces, and will continue to produce for at least another 20ish years, the best treatment was to stop that cycle. I had tried this before with my gyno. This went terribly bad. Twice. Or rather, it went great for 3 months, then worse than ever after that, and it became the new normal. It was hell. I was at a point where I couldn't have any sort of normal life. Half the time I would make projects and live happily by myself, and the other half I needed help to even walk to the bathroom because my head was about to explode, my legs didn't work, I wanted to jump out of a window, and I forgot about all my deadlines. Oh, and the muscle spasms that looked almost like seizures. This shit had cost me 90% of my social life, all of my professional life, and was now simply trying to take my life.

BUT!!! Did you know that if you remove the ovaries, the estrogen blood levels stop rising and falling? Did you know that triggers premature menopause? Did you know that testosterone is a very effective treatment of the side effects of menopause?

That was my whole approach, and my brilliant psychiatrist agreed it was a good one. To this day, he has been the only person to not question this decision even if it's pretty radical. He's the only one that has understood there is no sense in asking someone whose brain is killing them from the inside "are you sure you want to do that? you won't be able to turn back!". I'm aware you can't put the ovaries back in. But they are. Killing me. Driving me insane. Please.

It took me ages to find a doctor that would even contemplate doing this (quite simple) surgery. Every single one of them used the "but you are a woman of childbearing age, I can't do this in good faith" argument. Or the "I don't know about PMDD so I think you are lying" covered in sugary lies approach. It was hell.

In the end, I have gotten the surgery. I no longer have overies. I'm writing this weeks after it, and I can assure whoever is reading this that I no longer suffer - or will suffer - from PMDD ever again. Writing that feels so liberating... The kicker is that I wouldn't have been able to access any of this if I wasn't trans. Because PMDD is so badly researched and documented that even the doctors that specialize in the organs it affects think it's "bad pms". I had to say "but I am a trans man, this is very dysphoric". Then, and only then, would they give me T. I am not a trans man, just transmasc. I wanted to get healthy before transitioning, because it's not very great to be in an unstable mental state to handle the tsunami of changes and their (sometimes social) repercussions that come with it. But irony of ironies, the cure for 90% of my health issues has been transitioning.

OCPD has gotten easier to manage thanks to the emotional resilience I got on T (and what my therapist taught me) No ovaries mean no periods, which means no spending up to 2 weeks each month with my brain self destructing. No more memory loss, no more pain, no more spasms, no more migraines!!! No more dreading the days before the next T dose in case the previous one is a little too short (this has sent me to the ER before). No more pregnancy risk. No more depression, no more low energy, no more low libido, no more bullshit!!!! I am ME, inside and out, forever!!!!! I haven't felt like this since I was 14, and I'm 32 now! This is insane to think about @_@ It sucks that I had to lie to some doctors to get where I am today. But if I hadn't, I don't even know if I'd be here. It wasn't that big of a lie anyways (I hope). Feels bad to me, because I hate lying, but... no, I think this one was ok.

TL;DR: I have PMDD, meaning my brain is allergic to estrogen, so you can kind of say I was allergic to being a woman, and transitioning has saved my life ♥

If you are still reading this, thank you. I'm very sleepy and this probably makes very little sense, but my dms are open to any questions.

[link4eva]

Kiro’s My Heart Jumps for Joy Mind’s Quest Translation [CN]

Hello, thank you for patience! The translation of this masterpiece of a date has arrived!! 😍

💛 A few things to note before you begin reading 💛

If you haven’t seen it yet, you can find the Exclusive Radio for this date here!

This translation was done with the help of Google Translate and @keliosyfan​!

I’m going to be including links to videos about certain moves and exercises that are described/mentioned in the date if you would like a little more detail. I’ve been classically trained in ballet ever since I was 5, so I’m going to leave little tidbits here and there throughout. My bun head self was so giddy while reading through 🤩 

I am going to give a slight TRIGGER WARNING in regards to the theme of weight loss in this date. The content of the date doesn’t really revolve around this topic, but it was mentioned enough times for me to feel that I should say something about it. Having been in the dance scene, I know it can be a sensitive topic.

So without further ado, enjoy!

*Spoilers for future content below!*

[First Part]

??: Dear passengers, welcome to Loveland Airlines flight LY0521 from Loveland City to Bern…

Accompanied by the gentle broadcast sound, I quickly finished the work email. After closing the file, I click to open the top chat box–

“Hey, I’ll take off right away~”

The moment the message is sent, a typing indicator pops up with a round-headed bear bouncing around.

Kiro: “Great! See you in seventeen hours and seven minutes!”

After the message arrived, another bear popped up and blew a pink heart kiss to me.

After we “blew kisses” back and forth several times with joy, I turned on airplane mode and looked at the blue sky outside the porthole. *CUUUUUTE*

In order to star in a literary film with a professional ballet dancer as the main character, Kiro decided to go to France for further studies despite the training he had when he was young.

Because this stay is for a month, we agreed to celebrate New Year’s in France so that he could study without apprehension.  

(Flashback to MC’s bedroom)

One week ago, Kiro unexpectedly sent a message adding additional plans–

Kiro: “MC, I’m going to Bern to find the teacher who taught me back then to take ballet lessons. See you in Bern!”

(Back to present)

MC: Phew… finally arrived.

After getting off the plane, I pulled the suitcase and walked quickly to the exit while rubbing my sore shoulders.

After walking through several passages, I finally saw the pick-up area. However–

The area was densely packed with golden heads occupying my field of vision. My ability to “spot the blond at a glance” is completely lost here. *I’m hoping this is what the text meant to say. GT made it sound really strange lol*

MC: Hmm…let’s use the power of technology.

Just as I was about to take out my phone, a brown colour appeared in the corner of my eye at a distance, shaking left and right midair in the crowd.

I looked closely and found that it was a little bear hand puppet!

It is wearing a beret and a plaid suit. It is obviously a gentleman’s outfit, but it is waving its bear paws excitedly, and its round head is also swinging back and forth in a rock-and-roll style.

After I waved to the Little Bear with a knowing smile, I quickened my pace.

At the same time, Little Bear also quickened his pace. *Changed some wording*

As I crossed the boundary line of the exit, I finally saw the person I had missed day and night for the past half month.

MC: Kiro! 

I let go of my luggage and threw myself into his arms. He tightened his arms, and a laughing voice rang in my ears.

Kiro: It seems that Kiro is also very lucky today. 

Kiro: It was supposed to take seventeen hours and seven minutes to see you, but only sixteen hours and fifty-three minutes have passed. *The fact that he counts down the minutes until he sees his beloved again 😭*

MC: Pfft, are you so easily satisfied? It’s just ten minutes early… 

Kiro: But for those of us who haven’t seen Miss Chips for half a month, we should cherish every moment we can earlier. 

MC: Us?

He raised the Little Bear with a smile, and it leaned down to me in a gentlemanly manner and kissed my cheek.

Kiro: Bear Ro-Ro misses you so much that he told me to kiss you when we meet~

Kiro: But I made an agreement with him a few weeks in advance. He can only kiss cheeks, and I–

In the next second, a softer touch lands on my upper lip and leaves a touch of sweetness.

Looking at the cunning he had in his eyes, I stand on my tiptoes and rubbed my nose with his.

MC: This big star Kiro really has a bunch of tricks up his sleeve. *Changed some wording. GT was giving something about 108 minds and I couldn’t tell you what it meant. I searched forever and couldn’t find anything 🥲*

MC: Even “stealing relatives” needs to find a high-sounding reason~ *This, too...*

Kiro: Don’t you like it? It’s not impossible to omit this step next time…

Just as I was about to smile and pinch his palm, my phone sounded with the company’s notification tone.

MC: …Give me one sec.

Kiro: Is it still busy during this time? 

MC: It’s okay~ In order to have a happy New Year with Superstar Kiro, I have already dealt with most of the stuff at work.

MC: Now we are waiting for an overseas company’s cooperation intention to reply.

Kiro: So that’s it…and there’s a lot of time for me? 

After pressing the send button, I took his arm with a smile.

MC: Well, almost 70% of the time is yours. The rest I can leave to work~

Kiro: Not bad, I’m accounted for more than half of your time.

He rolled his eyes, took my hand and walked towards the parking lot.

But after walking a few steps, I suddenly felt something was wrong and squeezed his palm.

Like realizing something, I took two quick steps forward, then turned around to face him, carefully observing him as I walked backwards.

Perhaps because of the sunlight, his jawline was more defined, and even his eye sockets became somewhat deep.

Although I knew that in order to meet the requirements of the role, he needed to be thinner. But now that I actually get to see him in person, he was much thinner than in the video call a few days ago.

MC: …

I feel a surge of tears beginning to rise, making my eyes feel a little hot.

Kiro has made such an effort for this role. I want to affirm him more than feel sorry for him.

I sniffled hard, pretending to be cold, and gave him a big smile.

MC: Kiro, you did it, congratulations! You have lost a lot of weight! Now it is very in line with what you showed me before the appearance of the protagonist was set. *Changed some wording*

Kiro: Really? Is it that obvious? 

MC: Of course! My Kiro now has a thin and lean beauty.

He opened his eyes slightly and smiled triumphantly.

Kiro: With your words, I seem to have the courage to insist on eating salad for a month again.

MC: You want to lose more weight?

Kiro: Well, after showing the teacher the premise of the character I’m playing, he thinks that the upper body needs to be thinner.

I froze for a moment and reacted belatedly.

MC: Are you talking about the ballet teacher you came here to take lessons with?

Kiro nodded.

MC: It seems that this mentor is really serious, otherwise he wouldn’t have made you willing to “toss” back and forth like this.

He seemed to be lost in thought, and after a while, he grinned wryly. 

Kiro: It’s better to say...that he’s a devil teacher rather than just a teacher. 

[Second Part]

After returning to Kiro’s temporary residence in Bern, it was already dark.

First, he studied the script for two hours according to the plan, and after half an hour of exercise…

We finally lay down on the sofa and chatted while resting, listening to the stories about him practising when he was young.

MC: What?! Even if you practice until late at night the day before, you have to get up at 5:30 in the morning the next day to practise again? *Can confirm this is 100% true. Had some practices until midnight sometimes and then had to go to school bright and early the next day. Rip 🥲*

Hearing this, I couldn’t help raising my head from his arms in surprise.

Kiro: Well, there are benefits to waking up early, too. You can take your time and have a hot breakfast. Otherwise, you can only just bite a piece of bread and run to class. 

Kiro: But what impressed me the most was that if we fell below his expectations even just a little bit, he would force us to stand on our heads.

Kiro: Ah— At that time, I was dizzy every day and often saw stars in front of my eyes in the room.

He paused and poked my nose triumphantly.

Kiro: But under such strict training, I was accidentally trained to be a pro “One, two, three wooden man”! *If you’ve heard of “Freeze Dance”, it’s pretty similar to what I believe he’s saying here (except that it’s not a punishment lol). The goal of the game is to only dance when the music is playing. When the music stops, everyone freezes. If you’re caught moving even just a little bit, you’re out. Whoever is the last one remaining wins. For an added challenge, there’ll be certain poses that the players have to freeze in such as a tree or flamingo.*

MC: Pfft… why is this such a game? Is it some kind of trick to avoid the devil teacher?

Kiro: Hmph, that’s right! As long as I am punished to stand on my head, I will try to “idle” while he is not looking at me~

Kiro: If I don’t, my head will be filled with blood and I will pass out, and I don’t want the ambulance to “wee woo, wee woo” me away. *He actually makes the siren sounds LOL*

MC: …

Listening to him joking about his previous experience, I felt a bit of a tug at my heart.

Even though I know this is typical for professional training, I still feel that this is a bit “wicked” for a ten-year-old child.

MC: Damn, I didn’t expect it to be so “devilish”!

Faced with my belated dissatisfaction, Kiro just smiled, his eyes reflecting the colours of flickering stars.

Then his fingertips wove between mine as if absorbing their warmth and began caressing them gently.

Kiro: I didn’t care about those things long ago, but now that I’m hearing Miss Chips’ cry of injustice…

Kiro: I am still very happy. 

I couldn’t help hugging him and leaning my head gently against his chest.

MC: …Then the reason why you came to him for mentoring is that this teacher has an irreplaceable strength?

Kiro hugged me tightly, closing the distance between us silently. 

Kiro: That’s right. But at the beginning, I didn’t have such an idea, but when I was training in France some time ago…

Kiro: I found that although the teacher in charge is very professional, he just encouraged me to get used to things slowly whenever I made a mistake. *Changed some wording*

Kiro: But…I don’t have much time to get used to it.

Kiro: I have to practice every movement to the extreme as soon as possible so that I can take on more difficult skills. 

MC: Have you communicated with him? Ask him to be stricter?

He paused, his eyes flickering with a complex expression.

Kiro: Well, he said that it was because I have missed the best age to practice professional ballet… 

Kiro: So even if one were to follow the requirements of professional dancers, it may not be enough.

He let go of me slightly, the deep sea in his eyes filled the night with more profound emotions secretly surging.

Kiro: But even though he said that, I still can’t accept it. 

The classical music flowing continuously from the record player in the room became extremely clear in the “pause” at this moment.

Kiro got off the sofa silently and walked towards the centre of the terrace alone–

Looking at his sudden actions, I seemed to know what he was going to do next, but I also didn’t. 

I can only watch him quietly.

After he slightly raised the corners of his lips to me, his body swayed gently to the melody.

*Bear with me as I give some terminology. GT isn’t the best at giving exact details for movements, so I had to get creative to make the steps make sense in word format 😅*

Soon, he seemed to enter the state. Kiro took a round step, jumped into the air and twirled lightly. *It looks like here he is doing a piqué turn en dehors and then going into a tour en l’air. You can watch it here (start at 1:30)*

The moonlight spread across the area, dyeing him bright and clean. His slender arms seem to touch the stars, stretching with supple grace.

Several times, he made difficult moves in the air that I couldn’t put a name to, just like an angel who strayed into the mortal world. *(Video) The text doesn’t say which moves but this link will give you an idea of what is being described here* 

He danced like this in the moonlight with the specs of dust, flowing in my unmoving eyes.

I don’t know how long it took before Kiro put down his lightly raised arms and turned to look at me.

Kiro: MC, this is the only episode that was approved by that teacher when I was ten years old. 

Kiro: Although I didn’t study with him for long, I still remember this part even now.

Kiro: …Every moment, height, and angle I never forgot.

Looking at the man who was still panting slightly, I couldn’t help sitting up from the sofa and staring at him sincerely.

MC: Kiro, although I don’t know much about ballet, I think the part you just performed was awesome.

MC: Just like the professional ballet dancers I see on TV.

Kiro: Really?

Kiro: But this is not enough.

Kiro: Because I want to play the protagonist who is dancing in the presence of thousands of people on stage. 

Kiro: For this reason, he has put in a lot of hard work. He has been practising day and night since he was five years old. In the past twenty years, he never slacked off a single day.

Kiro: And there’s this kind of distance between me and that person that I can’t catch up with.

Kiro: I can only keep practising, keep running forward, and walk through every road he has experienced.

Kiro: Only in this way can I empathize with him and interpret this role more realistically.

Kiro said this softly, his eyes slowly falling back on me.

Kiro: Therefore, his skills must not be treated “according to” Kiro’s own conditions.

Kiro: It is to be worthy of the stage of ten thousand people. 

Kiro: I have to be worthy of this pride.

Kiro spoke firmly against the night as if nothing could shake him.

At the same time, a gust of evening wind blows, and the raised hem of his clothes outlines his emaciated body.

The already distinct collarbone is getting deeper now, and even his shoulder blades are clearly protruding.

The emotion called “distress” turned into a thin rope at this time and it slowly twisted, making my breathing more rapid.

I silently walked behind Kiro and hugged him proudly but gently.

MC: Kiro, if you work hard, you will definitely make it through.

MC: And I will always be with you. 

He turned around with a smile and rubbed my head.

Kiro: Then I will prepare you in advance. *Changed some wording*

Kiro: I may practice without sleep or food, and may even have some small abrasions on my body…

Kiro: You can’t stop me then. 

Hearing his coquettish tone, I couldn’t help smiling and leaning into his arms.

MC: Of course, I know that. After all, you are Kiro who pursues perfection.

MC: Besides, I’m by your side now.

MC: If you feel tired and out of breath because you are too involved in doing something…

MC: I will hold you firmly like driftwood in the water so that you can find support as soon as you reach out. Reach out and I’ll be there.

MC: Let me help you find your breath.

MC: So you can rest assured do your best. 

[Memory Silhouette]

It was late at night and light snow fell outside the window.

Kiro sat in a corner of the terrace, quietly watching the world being gradually dyed into a pure white.

He originally thought that the chat tonight was just a shallow recollection of childhood trivialities.

But the sleepless heart lying on the bed seemed to prove that his emotions were not as relaxed as he had thought.

Although he has long forgotten how painful it is to stretch his legs to the right degree. *Changed some wording*

He could still vaguely see a picture in his mind with transparent ink stains dripping on the smooth floor.

It’s just that no one can tell whether it’s tears or sweat. *From experience, probably both 🥲*

Kiro exhaled lightly, stood up on his tiptoes and jumped again following the fluttering white snow.

But even so, he still likes it all.

Whether it is music or dance, they can make one’s heart calm.

And even more so when he was a child.

Apart from KEY’s home, he likes to spend time alone in the practice room.

You can temporarily isolate yourself, and then devote your full being to the melody of each stanza. *Changed some wording*

It’s where no one can bother him, it belongs to him alone–

A secret base.

Thinking of this, Kiro couldn’t help raising the corners of his lips. 

He hummed softly, and in the ever-changing dance steps, he caught flakes of white snow with his palm.

It wasn’t until a cloud slowly blows away that the obscured stars finally appear.

Kiro looked at the sky and couldn’t help but speak softly.

Kiro: Miss Chips, the stars are out. 

After a brief silence, Kiro looked back at the girl who was already asleep and walked quietly to her side.

The girl fell asleep peacefully, the laptop was still on the quilt, and the screen was covered with program budgets.

Kiro: Trying to work with jet lag must be hard, right? 

Kiro picked up the laptop while talking, and after pressing the save button, he closed the screen and put it aside.

Just when he was about to get into bed, he seemed to have thought of something, and suddenly stayed in place. 

Kiro: …

In the next second, Kiro began to rub his somewhat cold hands to warm them up and then on the clothes and trousers that were penetrated with cold air.

It wasn’t until his body became warm that he lifted the quilt and lay down slowly.

But before he could find the most suitable sleeping position, the girl suddenly rolled over and hugged him.

Kiro: Are you a koala? You found the right place in one go. 

Even though he said this, he still gently took the girl into his arms.

Just as he closed his eyes contentedly, he suddenly opened his eyes as if he had forgotten the most important thing.

Kiro smiled, leaned over and kissed the girl’s soft lips. *This is a reference to his first Exclusive Memory in his Mini House where they agreed to share a kiss in the morning when they wake up and before they go to bed 💛*

Kiro: Good night, my Miss Chips. 

[Third Part]

The morning sun gleamed leisurely on my eyelids. I opened my eyes and found that the other half of the bed was empty, only covered with residual warmth.

Thinking that Kiro had already woken up, I also took out the laptop beside the bed and started working.

There is a seven-hour time difference between Loveland City and here, so I can only start work in the early hours of the morning and at midnight.

In order to finalize the cooperation intention with the overseas “TN” company earlier, I have been organizing online meetings with Anna and optimized the planning proposal and budget table many times.

It’s just that the other party hasn’t expressed its intention and my heart is beginning to sink.

After another reminder to keep the staff on track, I got off the computer and walked out of the bedroom in my nightgown.

(Cut to courtyard)

The morning sun shines in through the leaves in the courtyard, casting a peaceful moment.

I walked lazily until I noticed the empty yogurt bowl on the island in front of me and a banana peel in the trash can.

This scene reminded me of the thin frame dancing in the moonlight.

I pursed my lips, stepped forward and opened the refrigerator–

At a glance, there are only fruits and vegetables and unsweetened yogurt on the side door panel.

MC: He’s been eating these every day…there’s not even meat.

I continued to rummage and finally found a steak in the small and exquisite freezer with a sticky note on the sealed bag–

Kiro: “I’ll eat you on Thursday!”

Kiro: “What’s Kiro, who’s had meat for only two days, going to do? Can’t stand it T_T *Changed some wording*

Just seeing the words on the sticky note, his tone of grievance and bitterness filled in my mind.

Feeling sad, I picked up a pen and wrote a cute little sentence–

“I promise that when you accomplish the weight loss, we will find an authentic hot pot restaurant in Switzerland, so come on!”

After closing the refrigerator, I sighed and walked toward the living room. My gaze continued to search for Kiro’s figure.

As if responding to me, after turning a corner, I heard soft piano music playing slowly.

I followed the sound and saw a figure standing against the light. 

Kiro stepped on the green grass with bare feet and stretched his slender arms toward the blue sky as if he was stroking something.

His fingertips touch the tree trunk, one arm stretched over the other as his leg extended up in the air.

The close-fitting clothes trace out lean lines and the light is like a paintbrush, leaving traces of lustre. *Once again, GT wasn’t very clear, but it sounds like he is doing an adage which is slower-paced to focus on lines and extensions of the body. The video here will give you an idea.* 

Under the shadowy backlight, that unreal figure seemed to make me really see the dream-chasing boy in the script.

The sky and the earth are his audience, the grass, trees and sunshine are his feathers, and the sound of rustling leaves in the wind is the uninterrupted applause.

And like a noble prince standing under the sunlight, the immediate everything is calmly captured in his eyes.

I never made a sound, unwilling to destroy the eternal moment in this “picture frame”. It wasn’t until the sound of the piano subsided that he finally stopped and sat on the soft bed next to him. *It’s interesting that “picture frame” is mentioned because this is one of the techniques used in dance. You can use it for any sort of dance but adage is one where it’s super important to remember. Basically, imagine that as you are dancing, there is a photographer who is taking pictures of you throughout. As these pictures are being taken, you want the photographer to capture each and every position you go through to get to the next. While you want each position to be clear in the picture, you also have to remember to have your body flow rather than have it be rigid.*

I don’t know what he is thinking as he waits for his panting breaths to calm down. Only then did he reach out and lace his fingers into his hair gently, lifting it out of the way. 

My gaze was following his movements, and when I found that the zipper was reaching his waist, I opened my mouth in a strange way.

MC: Do you need help? 

Hearing my voice, Kiro paused slightly. He stood still for a moment and then looked sideways at me.

The moment our eyes met, the deep blue sea begins to secretly surge.

It’s as if it’s going to drag me into the tide.

Kiro: Well, help me undo it.

His voice was slightly hoarse. I walked over and slowly undid the zipper.

With the movement, the tulle of the shirt slid to the sides, revealing the thin neck and slightly protruding spine.

Perhaps the sunlight was a bit dazzling which made me involuntarily put my fingertips on his.

It is a different touch from the past because it is not so smooth. It is also a little cold.

I pursed my lips and continued to pull down the zipper. Looking at the gradually revealing spine, I finally couldn’t help blurting out my silent emotions.

MC: Kiro, I’ve made up my mind, I want to accompany you. Let’s start with a salad.

MC: I know it will be very hard for one person, so let’s work together to resist the temptation of delicious food. Just consider it a challenge!

MC: But you have to promise me that when the shooting is over, you will eat all the meat that is hidden away.

MC: If Savin disagrees, I will help you to intercede.

MC: Otherwise…you might as well take on some characters that need to gain muscle so that you can eat delicious foods freely–

Without waiting for these words to pour out, he suddenly turned around, put his hands on my lower back and kissed me.

The sudden kiss made me feel overwhelmed, but the instigator just kept silent as he breathed with me.

Slowly, his cold body embraced me and we sank onto the soft couch together, as if immersed in a clear spring in winter.

I opened my eyes slightly and found that the eyes of the person close at hand were still shut, his eyelashes trembled slightly with his breathing.

But soon, he seemed to notice my gaze and opened his eyes.

Kiro: … 

Now that his eyes were no longer closed, he looked at me quietly, his fingertips wandering around my lower back.

His fingertips were “cascading”, slowly running over my back and continuously rolling upwards until finally sinking deep into my hair.

The fingertips that kept rubbing made me shiver slightly.

Kiro: MC…

MC: Hm?

I murmured indulgently, but not even a moment after my breath was released, he seized me again.

At the same time, the nightgown was easily untied.

His kiss slowly moved downstream, leaving a ticklish feeling everywhere he went.

Although my body trembled slightly, I couldn’t help but want to do something… I raised my chin and caught his eyes which were as muddled as mine.

MC: Kiro…

MC: Hold me closer.

Kiro: Mm. 

Even though I said this, I was the first to wrap my arms around him, making sure to leave no extra gaps.

In this way, we roamed each other’s bodies in this clear spring surging with tides, letting the temperature slowly boil.

Until the sun rises and completely covers the spring–

Only fine layers of sweat were left in the silence between each other which seemed to confirm something.

He finally let me go, but his warm fingertips were still caressing my collarbone.

Kiro: You know what? Before you came, I thought this morning was going to be a repeat of the previous few days. 

I lay in his arms, a little confused by the sudden conversation, but he just raised the corners of his lips and continued talking.

Kiro: After repeating the exercises over and over again, my brain began to empty, and I imagined myself coming to the seaside. My feet were no longer touching green grass, but rather soft sand.

Kiro: It seems that you can float in the clouds with just a light jump.

Kiro: At that time, I was thinking, what could be better than now? 

He stopped slowly, looking down at me.

Kiro: Then you stopped me.

Kiro: At that moment, all the bubbles of my fantasy disappeared little by little until there was no sea or beach.

Kiro: I came back to reality and saw my favourite scene.

At this moment, looking at those blue eyes that only reflected me, my heart began to softly surge.

MC: Is that what’s best for you?

Kiro: Well, there is no other scenery like yours. 

I buried myself in his chest with a smile. We tacitly enjoyed the tranquillity at this moment and felt each other’s breath.

Growl…

Until some sudden sound came from my stomach.

Before I could explain myself, Kiro poked my stomach with a smile. 

Kiro: It seems like Miss Chips’ stomach has started to eat itself. 

MC: I…

He smiled brighter and lowered his head to rub the tip of my nose.

Kiro: But it’s mainly my fault that I didn’t prepare breakfast for you in advance.

After he finished speaking, he got up and walked towards the kitchen. Halfway through, he suddenly thought of something and turned to look at me.

Kiro: By the way, come to class with me after eating. I already let the teacher know in advance~ 

[Fourth Part]

In the afternoon, I ended up in a sunny classroom and met the rumoured “Devil Teacher”.

He is warming up at the barre. Although his hair is white, his face is thin and his eyes are as sharp as an eagle’s.

From the slender limbs and elegant posture, it is not difficult to see that even in his sixties, he still has the ultimate pursuit of art.

Kiro: Bonjour, professeur. 

Kiro looked at me, wrapped an arm around my waist and continued speaking in French so that I couldn’t understand–

It wasn’t until I caught my name that I realized he was introducing me to the teacher.

I hurriedly nodded to the teacher and wondered whether I should also greet him in French, but my tongue was tied when I opened my mouth.

MC: [In English] …Hi, nice to meet you.

Teacher: Bonjour.

The teacher nodded calmly, and with a wave of his forearm, gave way to the position of the barre as if signalling the start of class.

Kiro: I’m ready to start, so you have to keep looking at me. 

He leaned over slyly and looked at me, tilted his head and pecked my cheek lightly.

MC: Kiro…the teacher is still there. 

Kiro: Don’t worry, he’s a “devil”, but he’s also a romantic French man.

As he spoke, he took out the dance shoes in his bag and changed into them. After taking off his jacket, he revealed the clothes he wore for practising from not long ago.

Watching him walk quickly to the barre to start warming up, I also went to the corner and sat down quickly.

The piano accompaniment sounded quickly and the classroom is gradually filled with dancing and Bu Bu’s main theme.

Teacher: Non, non, non…!! (No, no, no…!!)

Although I don’t understand French, from the teacher’s passionate tone sounding again and again, I also noticed that the atmosphere is tense and strict.

In just ten minutes, Kiro’s clothes were soaked with sweat, his cheeks were flushed, and he gasped for breath.

But he never stopped. He took a step back onto his left leg with his arms held to the side and bent his knees–

After a burst of momentum, he began to rotate round and round.

Sweat drops were scattered onto the ground following the inertia, and the only sound left in the whole classroom was the sound of the rotation… *(Video) From the sounds of it, Kiro’s doing pirouettes or fouette’s, but I’m leaning towards pirouettes.*

The corrections sounded continuously along with “Non”. *Changed some wording*

Suddenly, the picture in front of me gradually overlapped with a thin golden figure following the story I heard last night.

I thought that when he was a child, in the face of such a “vicious spirit”, he would be trembling.

But looking at it now, that doesn’t seem to be the case.

Even if the nay-saying voice is louder, he held his jaw up high and proceeds to jump up in the air, one smooth movement after the other. *(Video) Possibly grand allegro?*

His face stays determined throughout as if nothing could defeat him.

Looking at him like this, the little golden portrait I built in my mind was stroked with “pride”.

Involuntarily, I took out my phone and silently recorded the picturesque scene.

After an unknown amount of time, the light was dyed red-gold by time and afterglow slipped in.

I straightened my body slightly, and the moment the devil teacher stepped out of the classroom, I quickly walked in front of Kiro.

At this time, he was sitting on the floor stretching his muscles. I squatted down, handed over the water bottle and kissed him lightly.

MC: Kiro, thank you for your hard work~

Kiro: It wasn’t hard, I’m just a little tired– 

He pouted coquettishly, opened his arms, and lay back on the floor.

MC: The floor is so cold, you’ll catch a cold like this!

Kiro: Then you should come and warm me up. 

Kiro smiled and tugged me lightly so that I fell into his lap and open arms.

As if he wanted to rest for a while, he closed his eyes, his fingertips caressed my shoulder restlessly.

Kiro: Miss Chips, how did I do in class?

MC: Do I really need to say? You did very, very well, of course.

Kiro: Hmm…could this be the encouragement of love?

MC: Wrong. To be precise, it is the encouragement and affirmation of love~

MC: If you don’t believe me, take a look at the dance you just did. It was just like a dynamic oil painting~

As I said that, I took out my cell phone and played the video I just recorded for him.

Kiro: Sigh…It seems that the jump is not high enough and the feeling of staying in the air isn’t either. 

Kiro: And when controlling the legs, the insteps are not very straight, and it seems that the muscles are subconsciously relaxed.

According to his comments, I carefully observed every frame of the screen for a second and finally poked him with my elbow helplessly.

MC: …Are you sure you’re not nitpicking? *If there’s one thing that most dancers hate, it’s watching themselves dance in a video. It’s like “Omg, not the sickled foot! 😫” “ What is that leg doing?!” LOL*

MC: Or maybe it’s because I’m an outsider, so I can’t see things the same way you do.

Kiro: Maybe both? 

Kiro: After all, in the eyes of the professional, you can see at a glance whether the movements are in place.

Kiro: So I still have a long, long way to go before reaching that level.

Kiro: It just so happens that there is no class tomorrow, so why not spend the whole day in the practice room, trying to improve the instep situation…

Even though he said that, his tone was not the slightest bit discouraged. On the contrary, there is still a bit of eagerness to try.

I couldn’t help but prop my head sideways, stretch out my thumb and poke his cheek like a stamp.

MC: Kiro, you are really amazing.

He also imitated me and turned his head sideways and touched the tip of my nose.

Kiro: Huh? Did you just find out that I’m amazing today? 

MC: …Seriously?? I’m praising you!

Seeing me pretending to be serious, he smiled and narrowed his eyes like the corners of his mouth. The little bear dipped in honey obediently waits for “praise”.

MC: Because I saw you in class today, I realized that this process seems to be more difficult than I imagined.

MC: It is simply a double tempering of the mind and body…but you seem to be enjoying it, so that’s what makes it amazing.

Kiro: Hearing you say that, I don’t seem to be bad~ 

I smiled and winked as I handed the microphone to his mouth.

MC: In this case, I want to interview Superstar Kiro. What tips can you pass on to me in this regard?

MC: I also want to have fun on the journey of training~

He rolled his eyes and laid down again with his head on top of his arms.

Kiro: It seems that there is no trick, I just often see things that make me stick to it when I practice. *Such a dancer thing to say haha*

I looked around the classroom, tilting my head in confusion.

MC: But isn’t there just a barre and a mirror here?

Kiro: Not quite, maybe it’s because our perspectives are different?

Kiro: For example, in your eyes, what you see is that I keep dancing and practising.

Kiro: But in my eyes, besides the barre and the mirror, I also see many different things. 

MC: What is that?

Kiro: …I’m trying to figure out how to describe it to you.

In the end, his eyes lit up. When he came close to me, his sweet breath stopped at the tip of my nose.

Kiro: Let’s see, how about you practice with me tomorrow?

Kiro: So that you can see what I see. 

[Memory Silhouette]

In the evening after Kiro and I got back from class, we began eating a salad.

Kiro: Miss Chips, are you sure you don’t want to add any salad dressing? 

Kiro: You know you don’t have to follow so closely.

I nodded with firm eyes, put a vegetable in my mouth and chewed.

MC: No need, I said I want to be with you.

MC: And eating a healthy salad is good for me, too. It’ll help to remove the buildup of the greasy food I ate before~

MC: If I’m really gluttonous, I’ll use the “self-deception method”--

As I said this, I picked up a piece of tofu, closed my eyes and put it in my mouth.

MC: This is meat, this is meat. Just chew this tender and fragrant meat.

Kiro: I’ll try it, too.

Kiro: What I’m eating now is tender beef and eggs. 

I couldn’t help but secretly open my eyes halfway and smile after Kiro had followed my example and closed his eyes to eat.

MC: So? Does it work?

He opened his eyes and shrugged his shoulders with a helpless smile.

Kiro: No, it’s just plain white tofu. 

Kiro: Ah– I can’t wait until tomorrow to eat that steak.

Hearing this, I suddenly thought of something and opened my mouth while picking up some beans.

MC: By the way, you said that there is no class tomorrow in the afternoon and you can only practice by yourself.

MC: So when is your next class?

He rolled his eyes and bit into a vegetable.

Kiro: Next Monday.

I froze for a moment and couldn’t help being a little surprised.

MC: Is there always such a long time between classes?

Kiro: Well, he has so many students to teach, so the queue is very full.

MC: Ah..that sounds so hard having to teach classes all day long.

Kiro: He doesn’t find it hard. Since he retired from the stage, he has been teaching students who also want to be on the stage. Kiro: In this way, day after day, twenty or thirty years have passed.

MC: Amazing… *I’ve had a couple of professors who were in their seventies. One of them even performed occasionally, too.*

Before I could finish speaking, Kiro took out a tissue, wiped the corner of my mouth lightly, and continued to eat with a fork.

Kiro: Mm, but being able to maintain his fierce character for thirty years is something that is special about him…

MC: You never really talked about his gentle side before. Is it the encouragement method? *Changed some wording*

Kiro thought for a while, smiled and shook his head.

Kiro: He himself said that he can gently praise and encourage just like other teachers.

Kiro: But to do so would smooth out the edges of genius.

Kiro: If ultimate perfection is desired, then indulgent compliments should be an afterthought. 

MC: …Hold on.

I bit the fork lightly, pretending to look at Kiro seriously.

MC: Could it be that your perfectionism was nurtured by this teacher?

Kiro: That’s not true, it just happens to be the same idea.

MC: Really…you already had such an awareness when you were ten years old?

MC: At that time, I would only cry and complete all the holiday homework the day before school started…

Kiro put down the fork, smiled and rubbed my head. 

Kiro: Of course, at the time I didn’t know what the term perfectionism meant.

Kiro: I just simply wanted to be the best, to be first.

Looking at his smiling eyes, I couldn’t help pinching his nose.

MC: A very ambitious ghost– *I don’t know what this was meant to be*

Kiro: As you said, being a workaholic is not bad~ 

He pinches my nose in return and then puts the two empty salad bowls in the sink and starts cleaning.

I blinked and ran to help him clean up the table.

MC: After washing, I’ll help you with the lines, alright?

His soapy hand paused slightly, and after a while, he quickly pecked the side of my face.

MC: Pfft…Are you that happy to practice lines with me?

Kiro: Of course, with your sweet self by my side, I’m jumping with joy. *Changed some wording*

Kiro: So how can I be unhappy when I am soaked in a honeypot~ 

[Fifth Part]

On the second day, wisps of morning light were hidden behind the classroom door. I pushed it lightly and the sun enveloped my whole body at once, making me feel marvellous and causing my eyes to narrow.

MC: Sure enough, a beautiful day starts by being greeted by the sun.

Kiro: That’s right, today’s practice will definitely be “distinction”. *Changed the word at the end because one of the highest levels of marks you can get in a ballet exam is called “distinction” (at least in RAD)* 

Thinking about what Kiro said yesterday, I smiled and wrapped my arms around the nape of his neck.

MC: But before starting, let me say this in advance!

MC: If I look stiff and have two left feet, you must not laugh at me. *Changed some wording*

He looked at me who was close at hand, leaned in and pecked the side of my lips.

Kiro: Okay, but before that, go and change your clothes, alright? 

MC: …Clothes?

I followed his gaze and looked back to find a brand new dance skirt on the stool in the classroom.

Kiro: You should know that in addition to office supplies and daily necessities in your suitcase, there are only Spring Festival-themed clothes to be worn here.

Kiro: I don’t have any close-fitting sportswear, so I had to ask someone to buy some overnight.

I walked over curiously and picked up the dance skirt. It was like a cicada’s wings, the thin lace looked gorgeous and comfortable.

MC: Why is this different from the practice clothes in my memory, it looks like a performance costume–

Kiro slightly shrugged his shoulders, cunning in his eyes.

Kiro: Maybe that’s because it was bought for the “princess” I talked to on the phone? ….She’s both cute and fascinating. 

MC: ……You really didn’t say that, did you? 

He smiled and took off his coat and the practice clothes he had changed into were inexplicably matched with the skirt in my hand.

Kiro: Miss Chips is so silly. Actually, I ordered this skirt online myself overnight.

Kiro: It’s just that my eyes are too picky, so I finally chose the one that I think is best.

Kiro: Of course, the prerequisite for choosing is that it has to match my clothes.

After changing clothes and walking into the classroom, Kiro’s gaze fell on me and he laughed.

Kiro: It’s so beautiful. Now it’s time to invite my Princess Chips to warm up with me~ 

As he spoke, he led me to the barre and I imitated his movements and put my leg on the barre.

In an instant, I felt my muscles being stretched.

Kiro: Does it hurt?

Kiro walked behind me and lightly stroked my lower thigh with his fingertips which made me tremble uncontrollably.

MC: …No, but it’s a bit ticklish. 

Kiro: Then just try to bear it? Your body is left vulnerable to injury if it’s not properly warmed up. 

Seeing me nodding my head, he also suppressed his smile a little and helped me warm up earnestly.

His cold fingertips moved from my thighs to my waist and then my butterfly bone. After a while, sweat beads began to appear.

His fingertips are no longer cold, almost as if they were absorbing my increasing body temperature.

It wasn’t until the sunlight shifted after a few minutes that I exhaustedly leaned on his shoulder.

MC: Why…is warming up so tiring. I feel that it’s even more energy-consuming than Pilates. *Between the two, Pilates rocked me omg. My body wouldn’t stop shaking after 😖. But ballet warm-ups can be hella intense, too. I had one teacher that used to say that if you’re not pouring sweat after the first exercise, you’re doing something wrong 😅*

Kiro: You can’t stop now, this is just the beginning. 

Without waiting for me to make a bitter face, he rubbed my cheek.

Kiro: Or do you not want to feel it?

MC: Of course I do, what should I do next?

At this time, there was a vibrating sound which seemed to be coming from my cell phone on the bench.

I glanced at Kiro, walked over suspiciously and picked it up to find it was Anna calling.

Anna: MC, TN, which had been wanting to talk about cooperation before has finally agreed.

Anna: But the profit they proposed is far worse than our expectation. We don’t even have the authority to plan the programs we cooperate with…It feels like the company has exhausted all its options.

MC: Is there room for negotiation?

Anna: Probably not. After all, TN is an experienced overseas media company, and many domestic media companies want to cooperate with them even after paying money.

My heart sank. Facing this “favourite” in the eyes of the media, I was speechless, so I had to end the call first.

Kiro: What’s the matter? Your expression doesn’t look good. 

I don’t know when but Kiro came to my side and rubbed between my brows.

I took a deep breath and briefly explained the incident.

MC: I thought it was good news, but I didn’t expect it to be a sum of money that would almost erase our profits besides increasing popularity.

As I said that, I buried myself in his chest with some distress.

MC: But in the long run, this is a very important step in the strategy of “occupying” overseas markets.

MC: So is it better to agree to cooperate?

Kiro: So you’re conflicted about which option to go with?

MC: After all, it is a matter of choice. No matter which option we go with, I won’t feel very reconciled…

Kiro gently stroked my hair, his eyes filled with light.

Kiro: I don’t think there’s anything to be worried about. 

He said this and took me to the barre and put my hands on top of it.

Kiro: MC, in order to achieve our goals, we have to accept that no trade-offs can be made.

Kiro: But it’s not a once-and-for-all decision. Sometimes it’s only an illusion that confuses you.

Kiro: Let you mistakenly think that giving up important things will give you better returns in the future.

MC: Kiro…

Gazing into my perplexed eyes, he just moved closer to me, breathing lightly by my ears.

Kiro: I still remember the teacher telling me in my first ballet class–

Kiro raised my chin with his fingertips, making my breathing stop.

Kiro: Never bow your head so easily. 

His eyes are clear and bright in the sun, but also a little fierier.

Kiro: Everyone has their own pride.

Kiro: So we need to continue to maintain it to keep it fulfilled.

No matter how slow I was, I realized that Kiro seemed to care about what he was referring to.

Kiro: And, if you want to let your every move be relaxed and controlled.

Kiro: Then you yourself must first have strength.

In the next second, his fingers moved between my legs. Within seconds, tremors spread all over my body.

Kiro: Squeeze your legs.

Kiro: The strength runs through from the feet to the head, so this way you can stand more firmly and not be easily shaken. 

A low but undeniable voice sounded in my ears. I took a light breath and tried to squeeze my legs together according to his words.

I gradually felt his fingertips being squeezed and restrained by my legs, but I still let his fingertips climb up calmly.

Kiro: Your inner strength is not enough, I can still do whatever I want. *Just want to add that this is something that dance teachers stress to their students. Having inner thigh strength is one the most important things to maintaining good balance, along with core strength.*

As if to prove his words, he pulled out his hand and easily picked up my leg with one finger and slowly tightened his palm.

The sudden move made me want to look in the mirror ahead. 

He seemed to sense what I was going to do and gently held my jaw. *The position that MC is in is called arabesque*

MC: Kiro…?

Seeing that I was a little surprised, those quiet eyes finally turned into a small smile.

Then he leaned closer and rubbed my shoulder.

Kiro: Miss Chips, remember what I said yesterday?

Kiro: About what exactly I saw in my vision.

MC: Mm…

He smiled lightly and looked into the distance.

Kiro: I’m not actually watching myself in the mirror doing one movement one after another.

Kiro: Nor am I looking at every person and thing in this classroom.

He paused and slowly retracted his palm that was tightly holding my waist.

Kiro: I will look to the end of the distance. *YASSSS!! This is another thing that is taught in dance. You don’t want to just aim your focus at the audience or at an object, you want to project it outside the venue and beyond.*

Kiro: Sometimes there is the sea, the green grass, and the place where I shuttle between cities.

Kiro: They are all my stages.

Kiro: And when I perform on my stage, how can I feel bitter?

Kiro: I just feel satisfied, and I just want to stay on this stage just a little longer.

Looking at the vast sea in his eyes, my heart also ripples like the waves.

It surges endlessly, pushing me to the bright place again and again.

Kiro: Now, do you still feel stuck on which decision to make? 

I looked and him and shook my head slightly.

MC: It seems that I no longer am. I know what I should do now.

Seeing that I had an answer, Kiro laughed.

In the next second, he held my waist with both hands like in a classic ballet pas de deux and lifted me into the air.

Kiro: MC, I have one more thing to ask you.

He said this while supporting me to turn and face the window.

Kiro: Can you tell me what the scenery is in your eyes right now?

Following his voice, I looked at everything in my field of vision and my heart began to surge softly.

MC: I…

MC: I see the grass, the sky, and the distance…

MC: I see many beautiful sceneries.

Even though it is an all-too-common scene in front of me, I dare not blink at this moment.

I don’t want to spoil a single bit of it.

Kiro: You said before that if I feel tired, out of breath or frustrated…

Kiro: You’ll be the driftwood that’ll always hold me up. 

Kiro: So that I can do whatever I want to the best of my ability.

Kiro: And I’ll be yours. 

Kiro lowered me slowly while talking and we were attached to each other without any gaps.

His eyes were shining brightly as if this fine light is enough to light up my whole being.

I couldn’t help but hold his cheeks and smile brightly.

MC: Kiro, you have always been doing something like this for me.

MC: I know you will always be by my side, encouraging and supporting me. So no matter what happens, I won’t be timid.

MC: You have always been my strength. *CRYING RN*

Kiro shook his head lightly with a gorgeous smile on his face.

Kiro: Just this is not enough.

Kiro: I want even more of you. 

After speaking, he gently held my head and kissed me tenderly.

His breath is so soft, but it seems to be able to invade my whole world, leaving only the surging sea.

I just lay in the blue ocean, letting it move my body with the tides.

In his arms, I also slowly closed my eyes, feeling his temperature, feeling being surrounded by light–

Because my heart has already crafted the brightest and most beautiful scenery.

[End]

[stalkedbytrains]

Assassin's Monthly: Retirement is Just Fine

“Come on Sugary,” she asked, her chin resting in her hands, green eyes following the broad woman with the surprisingly delicate hands. “All I’m asking is for us to go get two cups of coffee.”

“Oh it is two cups now?” asked the woman with the French accent and slightly graying dark hair. “A moment ago it was only one.”

“It’s a negotiation tactic,” the middle aged woman shrugged.

“I see,” Sugary sighed. “But you know I cannot stand the piss you Americans call coffee.”

“I’ll make you some. I’ll roast the beans and grind them all by hand. The whole shebang.”

“Not in that dreadful thing you call a kitchen. I cannot set foot in there in good conscience. Lilith, it would not know fine cuisine if it was painted on the walls.”

“You drive a hard bargain Sugary. Fine. I’ll redo my kitchen. Rip it all out and go down to the studs. And I’ll get a fancy, modern kitchen with all the amenities and then you’ll come over for four cups of coffee.”

“Oh, we are all the way to four now?”

“If I’m redoing my whole kitchen? Yeah, four,” she said with a smile. Before she could continue a man in an expensive suit and a stylishly unshaven face entered the armory.

“Sherry!”

“Chérie,” the green eyed woman corrected him. “It is French.”

“I knew that,” he grumbled as he looked over the woman that corrected him.

Her face was starting to show lines of age. The little black dress she had on showed off as many scars at it did tattoos that were all starting to fade slightly from time. Her hair was also showing signs of losing its luster if not it’s color. But her eyes were as bright and fiery as they’d ever been.

“Holy shit!” the guy all but yelled. “It’s you!”

“Sugary? Who is this guy?” she asked without taking her eyes off of him.

“Relax,” the French woman responded. “He’s a headhunter for the old men up north. The Council? The Cloakroom? Whatever they call themselves these days.”

“You’re her! You’re the Queen of the Kill! You are the top contract killer ever! Oh man, I was actually at the rally when you killed that Senator! Oh, please tell me you’re here because Sherry’s making you a gun. Please tell me you’re back.”

“Nope. Still retired,” she said as she took her finger off the trigger on the concealed pistol she had trained on the man. “I just come in every week or so to try and convince my favorite gunsmith to get some coffee with me. And every time it ends up with me doing something outrageous. Today I’m apparently remodeling my entire kitchen.”

“If you’re doing some construction, it’ll cost you some decent money, and I can offer you a super easy job that’s basically just cash in pocket.”

“I don’t take jobs from people off the street. Besides I’m retired.”

“I know, I know, you’re out of the game. You stopped working, what, six years ago?”

“Seven.”

“But come on, I heard you take some jobs you find interesting or if you’re unnaturally bored. Since you retired you did three jobs, right?”

“Four.”

“God the bidding war over your last job was insane! My employers were very upset we got knocked out so early. Come on, how much did they pay you?”

“Thirteen,” she said lazily, still looking at Sugary who was smiling slightly while filling bullet casings with gunpowder.

“Million? Holy shit! Who orders a hit for thirteen million?”

“Seriously? I have confidentiality stuff. And don’t ask me how many people they paid to have offed either.”

The man sighed, “Can you at least tell me who it was for? I swear it was one of the Sheikhs.”

“Nope, a Canadian.”

“Really?”

“The fuck do you think?”

“Ok, ok. But the Consortium will pay you a million and a half to kill three people by the end of the month,” the man continued with his pitch.

The woman rolled her eyes.

“Look, it’ll be super easy. Three targets. The only restrictions are that they all have to be taken out at the same time, and it has to be by the end of the month. I can give you half a million per head.”

Sugary shrugged.

“Make it an even two million and you’ve got a deal,” she said.

“What about one point seven five million and I get you a meeting with the Italian home designer Benito. He’s my brother’s wife’s cousin. He can redo your whole kitchen into the fanciest fucking kitchen to ever exist.”

Sugary raised an eyebrow.

Seeing the look on the gunsmith’s face, the woman sighed and said, “Fine. I was bored anyways. I’ll do it, assuming everything works out with your credentials and stuff. And I guess I’ll need a gun Sugary.”

“Sugary?” the man asked. “I thought you said it was Chérie.”

“It’s French for ‘sweet’,” Lilith said. “You know sugary sweet? Ah never mind.”

“I don’t know where she got it either,” Sugary said.

“Either way. I’ll need a new gun. I’ll need the lightest hair trigger you got, and as little recoil as possible,” the woman mused.

Sugary reached across the small counter top between her and the woman and grabbed her to pull her into a kiss that lasted a few seconds too long to be strictly friendly.

“Oh to make a gun for you again? It would be a pleasure!”

“And I guess I’ll have to bring the coffee here since you’ll be working,” the woman sighed.

“You know I won’t accept-“

“I know, I know,” she said as she stood up and moved to leave the room. “A double espresso from that one place, with one cream and four sugars. I remember.”

“Merci my love.”

[ahmementos]

Remember To Forget

I think at this point the retelling of RE 6 has been done in abundance but I never did it, hence this drabble.

He had been told Chris didn’t remember anything.  “I think I’d remember a hot piece like yourself.”  To hear Chris refer to him as a hot piece was wild.  

Leon was almost regretting being sent in on the assignment.  He had been assigned to guard detail for the President for so long that, after assuring the detail taking over for him was competent, he leapt at the chance to get out of the US and breathe. 

“If you did, you’d realize that is not something you’d call me.”  Leon tipped the whiskey glass back and swallowed down its contents.  “Ever.”  

Whether or not he’d like for Chris to call him that was irrelevant; Chris didn’t know who he was at that particular moment and Leon wasn’t going to pretend Chris felt that way when he was himself .  He stared at the man he’d been tasked to bring back, a man the BSAA didn’t want to trigger by sending in his squad unless they absolutely had to.  I’ve met him once, was Leon’s response, but he went anyway, following intel to the bar he’d heard Chris had practically been living at.  

“Then losing my memory was the best damn thing for me, especially right now.”  Chris had been looking him over since the conversation had been initiated, if Leon was being honest but at that moment?  If Chris could have devoured him with his gaze, he would have.

Chris hadn’t shaved in at least a month and his appearance was far from the clean cut soldier he tended to present himself as.  Leon couldn’t even say his disheveled appearance or the fact that he smelled like he bathed in alcohol before heading to the bar was a turn off.  That said more about his own tastes than it did Chris’, didn’t it?

“And the minute you get your memory back, you will regret having those thoughts.”  He wasn’t drunk, not yet, but Leon was already regretting having the thoughts he was having about a man who didn’t remember who he was, let alone who Leon was to him… which was nothing.  Claire’s friend, fellow survivor of Raccoon City; that’s who Leon was.

Chris didn’t even blink.  “Well you could fuck me, and see if that jogs my memory.”  His eyes never left Leon’s as he took another drink.  “Unless you really aren’t invested in bringing me back in like my alleged superiors want.”

“Aha.”  More a statement than an actual laugh, more a deflection than an admission of desire, Leon leaned back in his chair and did his best not to lick his lips.  “Even if I thought that was a good idea, you are too drunk to honestly consent to that.”

Chris tipped the bottle of whiskey against Leon’s glass and filled it up.  “Then you get drunk with me,” he offered as a faulty compromise.  “Then we both can make stupid choices.”

“A man who’s still too sober for his own good, trying to make a deal like that.”  The glass lifted in Leon’s hand and tilted against his lips.  

Chris offered a lazy half smile.  “Your room or mine?”

*

No one drunk off their ass could ravage another person so expertly.  Skilled fingers made short work of buttons and zippers on pants  Calloused palms smoothed Leon’s shirt up and over his head.  He knew being a functional alcoholic was possible - ask him how he knew - but Chris was making him feel like he had a lot more to learn about the title if he wanted to be the reigning DSO ‘ drunk at work and no one can tell’ champ.  Either that or Chris wasn’t as drunk as he was pretending.

“I better not find out later-” Leon tried to speak but the mouth back on his silenced further protest.  He didn’t want to find out later that Chris was faking being drunk because that meant he went along with this game willingly, because he wanted to fuck him.  The affair was only okay if it meant nothing.

The neon sign just outside the window illuminated Chris’ face when he pulled back.  “Stop thinking,” he whispered, words spoken against Leon’s jaw and brushed against the shell of Leon’s ear.  

All Leon could do was nod; every one of his senses were being overloaded by a man he wasn’t sure was even drunk.

Chris told him to stop thinking but all Leon could do was think, think about the real reasons why he jumped at the chance to come try to save someone he only met once .  Obligation to Claire, obligation to the country, or was it because meeting Chris Redfield one time had the man on his brain more times than he cared to admit?  Ultimately, he wanted to know how those rough work worn hands felt against his skin, against each and every scar his own line of work had given him.  As Chris’ fingers mapped along a healed over bullet wound on his shoulder, he could confirm it felt amazing.

“This your first?”  The strength that Chris expended to hoist Leon up on the bare topped dresser was impressive, him sliding between Leon’s parted thighs even more so.  “With a guy?”

Leon answered by hoisting a leg up so that his hand could make contact with the pockets and slap a packet of lube against his chest.  “No.”  

Every inch closer Chris pressed against him was almost too much, and the sight of him tearing into a packet of lube with his teeth was even more so.  “Always prepared or were you hoping it’d go this way?”

Like the good little whore he’d been told he was on more occasions than he cared to count, he answered with more of a moan than he wanted to.  “Always prepared.”  Words breathed out when slicked fingers slipped inside him.  “Not complaining that it’s going this way, though.”

“Are we enemies?”  Chris’ words were hushed against Leon’s skin as he worked him open with a gentleness that was what Leon expected from the boy scout, but not from the amnesiac rough around the edges man he’d found at the bar.  “Battle buddies?  Wingmen?  Am I dick deep in pussy when I’m not out saving the world instead of between these perfect fucking thighs?”

“None of the above, s’far as I know.”  Leon shook his head, then let it fall back against the wall.  “If you ever thought about me like this, you kept that shit to yourself.”  

Chris slowly withdrew his fingers.  “I don’t guess amnesia stops the body’s natural desires.”  The space wasn’t left empty for long, just long enough to slick up his cock and gently press inside.  “If my old memories come back and erase this, remind me I said that shit about being between your thighs.”

Leon bit down on his bottom lip until Chris’ mouth offered assistance in muffling his unwanted noises.  One of two things was going to happen.  Getting off inside his tight ass was going to jog his memory or he was never going to remember this shit happened thanks to alcohol and Leon was never going to bring it up.  His nails sunk into Chris’ back, both out of response to the pace picking up and also to the thought of giving any of it up.  

If there was ever a moment Leon wished was at the bottom of every bottle he crawled into, it was that one.  He wanted every empty bottle of whiskey to lead to Chris Redfield being between his thighs, every last drop following every last orgasm the man could wrench out of his body by simply tilting his hips just right as he thrust deep inside.  

“The me you know is an idiot.”  He wanted the amnesiac Chris to sit down with real Chris and make fucking a normal part of their daily routine.  

Leon wanted to declare the Leon that Chris currently knew was the bigger idiot, getting tipsy enough to fuck without a second thought, but he was too busy thanking that same idiot for disregarding the moral implications of the scenario.  He just held on tighter, met Chris’ thrusts with his own, and let the world spiral away… 

*

Leon was gone before morning.  “Look he doesn’t remember me enough to click anything into place for him, okay?”  He wasn’t comfortable leaving his post with the President for long and he was definitely running from the case of feelings and emotions he caught with those warm arms curled around him in the middle of the night.  “You can probably send the BSAA team in and it would work better.”

“ He didn’t even remember you from the Terrasave party?”

He spoke softly as he crossed the airport towards his departing flight home.  “I did what I could but he definitely did not remember me.  He didn’t remember you either, Claire.”

“He’s an asshole like that, I guess.”

“All it proves is that we all spend too much time doing our jobs and not enough time being with the people we care about.”  Leon sucked at pep talks and cheering people up.  Claire knew this.  The fact that she was still sitting on the phone pretending he had some magical phrase to make it all better was telling of how upset she was.  “Tell BSAA he’s probably softened enough to take whatever intervention they have planned.”

“You make it sound like you fucked him into complacency.”

“A spy never tells his tactics and trade secrets.”  He was glad the phone didn’t convey the blush he knew was spreading across his cheeks.  “I have to board, Claire.  Send the BSAA in.  He’ll come around-”

“I want a big party, a real party, when whatever the hell this mess is gets cleared up.”

“Whatever you want,” he promised.  Always the needs of others, never his own.  His own needs would’ve had him saying to hell with the President and staying until Chris came around.  His own needs would’ve insisted Chris come back with him and they’d sort the amnesia out later.  

Claire wanted a party.  The President wanted his topman back on the job.  Whatever Leon wanted was irrelevant.

*

“So Ada’s not dead.”  

Leon had been doing his best to avoid Chris as much as possible since the missions got entwined.  “No… she’s definitely not dead.”  Now the man was blocking his escape from the med tent he’d just been checked out in.  “I’m sorry about Piers.”

Chris nodded and took a step closer, but didn’t quite crowd Leon's space.  “He was a good soldier who deserved better,” was all he said on the matter, quietly and solemnly.  

“We all deserve better.”  Leon stared at the table and his hands flat against it, anything so he didn’t have to look at Chris.  

“I was going to retire after this mission,” Chris confessed, crossing his arms over his chest as he spoke on a subject he wasn’t sure Leon cared about.  “I remembered a guy I ran into when my head was a mess that I wanted to hunt down.  He had the most perfect thighs-”

Leon definitely couldn’t look at him after that omission.  “I’m supposed to say it was a mistake and that we were drunk and apologize, right?”  His breath caught in his throat as Chris crossed the distance between them.  “If you’re asking about Ada-”

Chris’ hand was so gentle as it tugged Leon’s chin in his direction so he was forced to give him eye contact.  “Only if you and Ada are an item and you were off having drunk affairs instead of actively giving in to something you wanted.”

“Ada is complicated but I wasn’t running from her that night.”  Leon’s eyes slowly shut as he leaned into Chris’ touch.  “You’re going to a joint operation after this, hm?”

“I’ll be gone long enough for us both to think about where we might go from here.”

“When do you leave?”

“Twelve hours.”

Leon’s hand slid down Chris’ chest, fingers left to hook around belt loops.  “Twelve hours is a long time.”  His other hand slipped into his pants pocket and pulled out a key card for his booked hotel for the night.  “Plenty of time to shower and decompress from one of the longest goddamn missions on record, if you want my professional opinion.”

“Your opinion is the only one I want to hear right now.”  He sealed the deal with a kiss, long and deep, his own hand wrapping possessively around Leon’s hand and the keycard that promised one night of bliss before it all went to shit again for both of them.

[beclight]

so uh.

i saw the news this morning and sparklecare is going 18+ and. to say im shattered would be an heavy understatement.

dont get me wrong, i understand why kneeby took this decision. but come on, i feel like it shouldve been 18+ from the beggining, not a third into the comic's public release. after many now "underage" people got foxated on it and have had 6yrs (reboot) to start reading it, and especially not after building a community, a fandom, that is mostly composed of autistic people that lowkey rely on it in their everyday life;;;;;

sparklecare was everything to me. everything.

(more personnal stuff and opinions under cut, i just needed to vent and let go. read tldr at bottom if lazy.)

it has been my main hyperfixation for more than a year and a half now. literally all i think about, all day. my only consistent fixation and the first one that lasted as long as it did since years, and was so prominent in my life. genuinely my only constant source of happiness that would help me through the hardest moments of the past nearly two years, and now its.. out of reach, gone, until i turn 18 in two years.

i hate to say this. i hate it so much, but its so, so disappointing. why was this comic, which is mostly aimed at mentally ill people lets not lie to ourselves (literally every single person i met within the community was autistic/nm and taken aback in the best way possible by the amout of mental health awareness and representation in the comic and it's AUs), taken back halfway through, after it has now become thousands of people's hyperfixation, and for the most, a life altering one..? its. so sad. ive been shaking all day i dont want it taken away from me, not now. not so soon.

as i said previously i understand kittycorn's decision n everything but considering the ENORMOUS amount of trigger warnings for literally evrrything on the site (which im not complaining about dgmw!!! i think its great to have sm and for everyone's triggers :] but you cant deny that not every warning is necessarily triggering to the biggest amout of peole reading it), -

- ,it feels like making the comic, the AUs, the fandom, LIKING the characters, and engaging in the community ALL 18+ ALL OF A SUDDEN in the middle of it is... too much?;

it may just be my opinion but considering how heavily everything is triggered, and how every slightly bloody/nsfw joke scene has a clean transcript avaible to replace it, it's kinda silly to me that everything has to be 18+ now.... kit's blogs i can understand, shes an adult and may not feel comfortable with engaging with minors anymore and that i understand and respect 100%!. but making all her previous current and future content and ocs un-likable by minors, even stuff that was released before TheGreatMinorBan™, considering how many people kin characters from sch, have it as their main hyperfixation and escape from the outside world, is way too much in my opinion, or the decision shouldve been announced and only enforced when a really triggering volume was about to get released(since now nobody can go back to make it 18+ from the start..). you can ask people to stop interacting personally with you or engage with your online profiles but taking away their hyperfixation for content that has been released for years without any real limit out of seemingly nowhere, after spending months teasing the future of your work.. is really disappointing. :/

i legit dont know what ill become for the next two years without sparklecare. i wouldve genuinely "unlucky-friend-of-hemera-that-has-their-limbs-attached-to-her" 'd myself if i hadnt stumbled accross it and idk how im expected to just? forget about it? for years untill i become 'of age' again to read.

i know lurking from alts is a thing but thats dogshit to me. i wanna interact with and be a part of the community, which is such an amazing one. i had sm art i wanted to make and share with the world. i dont want to not talk to anyone or pretend to be a person that i'm not to stay up to date with my favorite author's work and other bloggers' fanart surrounding it. feels scummy and would prolly hurt me more anyways.

tldr;

sch shouldve either been 18+ from the start - annoucned that itd become 18+ but kept at 15/16+ until the announcement of a RLLY triggering volume - or just kept at 16+ all along considering literally everything has trigger warnings anyways. idk it feels sooo shitty to develop an enourmous fixation on smth for years just for it to one day out of nowhere have it taken away from you in the middle of it's release because a character will verbally mentions j3rking 0ff in a volume released in 5yrs, and be expected to JUST FORGET IT EXISTS..

no hate for kc's decision, i understand and respect it, but it hurts like a bitch to have your fixation taken away from you, and in the middle of it too. ..

[hhoneyglasss]

retired from sad, new career in business

notes: hiya. here is cutie.

i hope u enjoy.

pairings: geordi/cutie

pov: cutie — first person limited

word count: 1.4k

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46497778

!! TWs {these begin under the cut} !! slightly graphic imagery, metaphoric mention of vomiting, discussion about current specialized therapy, & mentions of past relationship troubles. if any of these topics are triggering to u, please proceed with caution or do not interact with this work.

reblogs r v much appreciated !

The days were quiet now.

It wasn’t an unpleasant silence—at least, not in the way that it used to be. I've come to like it a lot, actually. Sometimes being the only noise in the house wasn’t so bad—at least not as bad as I used to think it was.

Before now, I’d hated silence since I was a kid. I was almost never around it—my childhood home was always full of the (mental) voices of my family. Never a quiet moment, save for when I was alone, but even then, I’d always have music on or the TV turned to an audible but low volume in the background. I’d do anything to fill in the empty space that silence has a nasty habit of making.

When I grew older and moved out on my own, I always lived with somebody. The buzz of their thoughts would always echo their reverb, and I got used to the noise.

There was never a moment when I was truly by myself. Even when I was asleep, I could hear someone else’s dreams being acted out just a second behind mine. Their thoughts were always playing on a silver screen, one that I wove for myself and only I knew about.

But things were different with Geordi. Now, I had someone else aware of the screen, sitting right next to me as the movie played out before us.

He didn’t like the film, though, and suddenly, I didn’t either.

That’s when the cassette tape’s casing splintered and the roll of film tore. I watched as the screen I’d made ripped apart, threads upon threads coming undone until I was drowning in them.

The only thing left in my theater was a single spotlight that now aimed all of its blistering light onto me. The title of today’s film changed, and suddenly I was the opening act.

Except there wasn’t anybody in the audience. Rows upon rows of empty leather seats stared down at me and the only thing I could focus on was the deafening silence filling up the room.

The only thing clear to me through my tears was Geordi standing at the left side of the theater. His face was dimly lit with the red light of the emergency exit sign, and I opened my mouth to scream to him, but nothing came out. I screamed and screamed and screamed until my throat had been ripped raw, only to choke on the silver pouring from my mouth.

Through the threads dripping with silver, I reached out to Geordi, even when the better judgment of silence told me that I didn’t deserve it. But when I wiped the silver tears from my eyes, the only thing left in his wake was his ticket, now torn to shreds.

I turned slowly to look directly at the spotlight, ignoring the burn in my eyes. I turned again to look at my captive, empty audience, and I screamed again. I wailed and hollered and shrieked until I was dripping silver and I collapsed on the stage, distant claps sounding as the curtain was drawn in a final flourish.

It had been three months since then. Three months since we’d separated—or broken up? Maybe taking a break is the best word. I know I couldn’t tell you.

I’d started seeing someone not long after—maybe two weeks had passed before I’d found an empowered specialist working under D.U.M.P. After our initial appointment, we’d begun meetings three times a week.

Now, two and a half months later, we’ve reduced it to one meeting a week. My specialist, Dr. Almar, said that I’ve been making a lot of progress. She even dared to say that she can see the effort I’m putting in. I still have trouble believing her sometimes.

In the beginning, I felt that same urge I did with her that I had with Geordi. That awful want to look into her thoughts because the other option—not having a clue as to what she was thinking—seemed impossible. I resisted, though, and only five minutes into our first appointment, she asked, “Are you listening to my thoughts right now? Have you at all since we begun talking?”

“No.”

“Good,” she had said, a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips, “That’s the first right step.”

Those words specifically had stuck with me; first right step. From then on, I tried to make those right steps, and I’ll admit they didn’t always go ‘right’. Sometimes I made wrong ones, but I learned that that’s okay. I learned that instead of staying stuck there, standing, I would keep marching forward.

So I did.

I hadn’t talked to Geordi at all in the time we’ve been separated. I waited for him instead, letting him come to me when he felt he was ready to talk again.

I’d already fumbled enough threads—now it was his turn to work the needle.

Today, I sat on the railing of the balcony. It was finally beginning to be warm again, the short days of winter having already passed us by. The sun was setting slowly, its rays painting wide strokes of pink, orange, and purple across the sleepy sky.

A warm breeze blew past me, and I let out a heavy sigh. The city was quieter today than usual—the common hustle and bustle of cars was gone. Instead, I just watched. I saw a couple ride bikes towards the beach, towels almost being sent flying before they both caught them and laughed. I watched as the lights of stores flicked on, their twinkling mimicking the stars that had begun to appear in the sky.

I heard my phone ring inside, and I hopped off of the balcony to head back in. I slid the doors shut before picking up my phone and reading the contact.

Geordi’s name appeared on the screen.

I thought at first that it was a mistake, an accidental clicking of my contact when he meant to call someone else. After the third ring, though, I figured that it wasn’t.

I answered with a deep breath, “Hey, Geordi.”

“Hi,” he greeted.

I paused, unsure of what to say next. Every phrase I could come up with didn’t sound right, everything just slightly off. I let him take the lead.

“How are you?”

I smiled a little. “I’m okay. How have you been?”

“Good.”

The silence came back again before he said, “I just wanted to tell you that I miss you.”

I smiled a little wider. “I miss you too.”

Silence followed once again, but it was natural. Neither of us tried to fill it until the moment felt right. It was new, but it wasn’t bad. I didn’t mind it.

I said next, “I’ve been talking to someone—an empowered specialist. I like it. It’s nice.”

“I’m glad,” he replied, and I loved how I could hear the smile in his voice, “I’m happy beyond words, cutie.”

The old nickname pulled at my heartstrings, and I got a little dizzy. I sat down on the couch.

He spoke up again. “If you’re ready to talk, I’d like to meet up whenever you’re free. I’d really like to see you again, but only if you’re comfortable.”

“No, I’d—I’d really like that, too.”

“Okay,” he said, “What about the coffee shop on Glassglow Boulevard? The one we used to go to?”

“That sounds great,” I answered, “Are you free tomorrow? Maybe around six?”

“Yeah,” Geordi agreed, “It’s a date, then.”

“It is.”

A few moments of silence passed by before I added, “And Geordi, I—I want you to know that I know that things aren’t gonna go back to the way they were, and I—I think that’s a good thing. I think that’s a really good thing, actually. I’m ready to begin our next right step with you, as long as you are.”

“I’m ready, cutie,” he said, “I love you. I love you more than you know.”

“I love you too, Geordi.”

—

We ended the call not long after, both of us confirming the date, time, and location for tomorrow with each other before exchanging ‘good night's' to one another.

I set my phone on the couch and leaned back, turning to look outside. The sun had fully set now, the sky now lit with countless stars. Moonlight lounged across the railing and spilled onto the living room floor.

Liquid silver was now shining back at me, its luminance reflecting off of every surface in the open room. I was surrounded by it, but this time it was different.

There was hope in this silver, a certain glimmer to it that wasn’t there before. There was something in it that told me things were going to be okay—all I had to do was be patient.

It told me that I was making the right steps, and for the first time in a long time, I believed it. I believed in myself.

The room drifted off into silence, and I let myself be enveloped by my spools of silver as they led me back into my theater.

It told me I was making right steps, and for the first time in three months, I believed it. So I welcomed it, and I let myself be enveloped by it as it led me through the night.

[mysteriouslover1516]

Lost without You (Part 2)

TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of heartbreak, depression, alcoholism, and thoughts of suicide.

MC sat on the edge of the bathtub, her stomach churning as her vision grew hazy. She probably shouldn’t have drunk that fourth thing of vodka, bad idea. Two months had gone by since the incident at the mine, two months since Richy’s death, two months since Jake had disappeared without a trace.

Her eyes started to well up with tears at the thought, Jake was dead too. There was no way he could have escaped the mine undetected, he probably weighed his options, favoring the odds of dying in the mine over facing capture by the FBI. She couldn’t blame him, not really. The FBI would have never let him go, who knows what they would have done to him. MC sat there perched for a while, reveling in how the cool porcelain of the tub felt against the back of her legs, eyes squeezing shut as her head felt like it was being split in half. Hangovers were no joke, and apparently it didn’t take till the next morning for the symptoms to attack with a vengeance.

After finally determining that she could make it to her bed, she stood up unsteadily. Managing to not trip over her own two feet, MC collapsed onto her bed. Her eyes glanced towards the alarm clock that sat on her nightstand, the time digits glowing dark red: 1:58am.

It could have been the alcohol taking its toll, or perhaps she just wanted to reminisce, or maybe she was hoping for some sign of life; whatever it was she picked up her phone. Her long, slim fingers shakily danced over the screen, opening up the messenger app. There he was, at the top of her list. His contact pinned, messages locked, his mysterious profile picture looking back at her. Her eyes carefully took in the last message he sent to her, one that she would never forget, but the butterflies in her stomach returned as if reading it for the very first time again.

MC, I love you.

All the promises he had made, the promises that he’d never let anyone come between them, they had all simply vanished into thin air. “Did you know you were going to die, Jake?” She whispered to herself, tearing up once more. “Did you know this was the end?”

MC closed the hacker’s chat, mindlessly scrolling through the chats she had shared with all of her friends from Duskwood. Her finger stopped on someone’s profile picture, a cap placed on top of his blonde hair, lips twisted into one of his iconic side smirks. Richy.

If I told you I was sorry

Would you believe me?

If Dan hadn’t shot him, Richy would still be alive…..no. If Richy had just come clean in the first place, it would have never gone this far. It was funny how much you could miss someone even if you never met them in real life, and Richy was one of them, and then there was Jake…..

As she neared the end of her messages, her eyes fell on the picture with an eye, Nymos. Back then she had feared she would never hear from Jake again, and now it seemed to be her reality, a living nightmare, her personal hell hole. All of those texts that she had spammed to Nymos,  as if those messages would bring the hacker back; he had never received them. Apparently Nymos was programmed to only activate when MC and Lilly discovered the right password to view the video he had left, rw47vr. A crazy, intoxicating idea struck her; those messages had never been delivered to Jake. Her fingers involuntarily started to type upon the screen, this was her way  of letting him go, providing closure for herself, perhaps she could finally move on…….

It’s been two months since the fire at the mine

Since you disappeared

It was Richy, Jake, it was Richy all along

How had Richy fooled them all like this? How could he do this to them, to his friends? Part of her wanted to hate him for everything, but she could never bring herself to do it.

He was the man without a face

He kidnapped Hannah

Marked his own shop with the mark of the raven

Faked his own death so he could plant the evidence

Richy killed Jake, didn’t he? It was Richy’s fault, Richy’s fault Jake was dead.

Amy is dead because of him

You are dead….because of him, Jake

Deep down she knew the truth though, it wasn’t Richy’s fault. She was the one he wanted, not Jake. It was her fault, her fault the hacker had died.

You shouldn’t have gone

It’s all my fault

If I had gone, you wouldn’t have been in the mine

The FBI wouldn’t have trapped you underground

You’d still be here

You’d still love me…

MC’s crying grew worse as she wiped her damp hair out of her face, she couldn’t continue on like this, the pain was growing worse, it felt like it was slowly but surely killing her.

It’s my fault

My fault you’re gone, my fault that you’re not on the other end of this line anymore

I miss you, Jake

I miss you more than I could ever explain

Instead of it healing, her heartbreak was slowly infecting her whole being, the sickness coursing through her very veins. It was harder to get out of bed every morning, harder to socialize with those who were once her friends, everything was harder now. What was the point anymore?

I’m trying to be strong, Jake

Trying to keep on with life as you would have wanted

I try to numb the pain, but the alcohol always wears off

What if there’s only one way to escape it, Jake?

Maybe then we could be together again

You once asked me to go with you till the end of the road, is that what you meant?

She knew she shouldn’t be considering it, but the thought was still tugging at her, inviting her in. What if this was the only way to finally find peace? What if suicide was the actual answer? Is this what Jake would have wanted? Something inside her echoed the answer she already knew in her heart, Yes MC, join me.

I love you, Jake

Hey lovelies ;) So here is part two, please like and leave comments below! I love hearing from all of you! The third and final part will hopefully be out in a couple of days! Thank you for all your love and support, love you ;)

[acourtofthought]

Elucien - The Key to Stopping a Civil War

“Vassa knows that the Queens of the Realm will be a threat until they are dealt with,” I said at last. Another tidbit that Lucien had told us. Well, Az and me at least. “But unless the queens step out of line, it’s not for us to face. If we sweep in, even to stop them from triggering another war, we’ll be seen as conquerors, not heroes. We need the humans in other territories to trust us, if we can ever hope to achieve lasting peace.” “Then perhaps Jurian and Vassa should deal with them. While Vassa is free to do so.” I’d contemplated it. Feyre and I had discussed it long into the night. Several times. “The humans must be given a chance to rule themselves. Decide for themselves. Even our allies.”

Rhys says if they can convince territories in the human lands to trust them, they can achieve lasting piece (in their world).

But the NC hasn't really done anything since the war to earn the humans trust.

It seems like Lucien has though....

Lucien shrugged. “First—here. To help. Then …” Another glance at Elain. “Who knows?” (here to help us referring to the mortal lands)

Lucien had remained behind to help with any of the human wounded still needing Fae healing, but had promised to come here when he finished

“He’s spent months helping them sort out the politics of who rules Prythian’s slice of the human lands,”

“She and Jurian are getting along?” I hadn’t seen them interact, could only imagine what the two of them would be like in the same room together. Both trying to lead the humans who occupied the sliver of land at the southernmost end of Prythian. Left ungoverned for so long. Too long. No king or queen remained in these lands. No memory of their name, their lineage.

He’s voluntarily living with them these days, and not just as an emissary. As their friend.”

But there is also the threat of the fae in other continents:

Indeed, Mor’s eyes shuttered. “They don’t want to sign the new treaty.”

I don’t think Vallahan is interested in peace. Or allying with us.”

“And the humans, despite those queens, are far weaker than we are. Pushing into human lands is low-hanging fruit. Montesere and Rask are likely thinking the same thing.” Cassian groaned skyward. That had been the fear during the recent war: that those three territories across the sea might ally with Hybern. Had they, there would have been no chance at all of survival. Now, even with Hybern’s king dead, its people remained angry. An army might be raised again in Hybern. And if it united with Vallahan, if Montesere and Rask joined with the goal of claiming more territory from the humans …

And those Fae don't seem to be interested in signing the peace treaty the NC put together with help from their allies.

“I’m Lucien. Courtier and emissary.

had always been good at talking to people

a pattern of thinking and feeling that was old, and clever,

Like Rhys, he usually opted for words to win his battles,

There was a reason he had that fox mask, you know.”

“My sister Elain can convince anyone to do anything with a few smiles.”

rather than letting it deign to gift her with power, as it had with Elain.

Elain, who it had gifted with such powers, found her so lovely it had wanted to give her something … It would not harm Elain, even in its hunt to reclaim what had been taken.

and friends: those two half-wraiths who worked in Rhysand’s household. But those things had always come easily to her sister. Had always made Elain special.

Her gaze shifted to the carved wooden rose she’d placed upon the mantel, half-hidden in the shadows beside a figurine of a supple-bodied female, her upraised arms clasping a full moon between them. Some sort of primal goddess—perhaps even the Mother herself. Nesta hadn’t let herself dwell on why she’d felt the need to set the rose there. Why she hadn’t just thrown it in a drawer.

she pulled the small, carved rose from her pocket and set it upon the gravestone. A permanent marker of the beauty and good he’d tried to bring into the world.

The more I think about it, the more I like the idea that Elucien will put a stop to the unrest across their lands, just in time to unite their people for whatever threat Prythian will face from outside their world.

It had belonged to a true Fae High King in Prythian, as there had been in Hybern. He had united the lands, its people—and for a while, with that sword, peace had reigned

“Very well then, Rhysand.” Amren also turned from the desk and the blades Rhys’s magic now sheathed and set upon the surface. “But know that the Cauldron’s benevolence will be extended to you only for so long before it is offered to another."

from Lucien’s goodness.

“He is a good male,” I repeated.

Lucien is loyal—fiercely so.”

It doesn't seem coincidental that we learned of the Daglan in ACOSF, the original masters of their land who were banished from their world under the rule of the first High King. And in CC2 are told of the Asteri who have desired finding their way back to the original world they came from but can no longer remember the location of. A world Bryce may have just opened a portal too.

To me, it does make sense that High King would not necessarily be the one with the most power (checks and balances and all that) but one who has the ability to rally humans, the Prythian fae and those on other continents.

[arry-katt310]

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!

I'm gonna explain more on Maddie’s character bc she's my current obsession and I keep coming up with more for her.

Maddie is currently pansexual. She ends up with a cross dressing boyfriend who she gets married to in the future. That'll be another post tho.

She may not support the things her family does, but she supports their sexual preferences. So she wears pride stuff such as rubber band bracelets the colors of her brothers' sexuality flags on her wrists constantly.

Some other facts about her:

She has been in the pocket dimension of Hell for a year now.

Constantly exhausted.

Babysits Andrew when her brother is at work; she adores Andrew and tries not to get on his case about how crappy his father is.

Got shot 5 times before she moved in the pocket dimension.

People love to call her "a gift from the Gods".

She helps around the city and is a speaker for the church; the church is actually very terrible. The pastor is unhealthily obsessed with her, his logic is "she's a gift from the Gods, I'm the main pastor of the church, so therefore she was sent here for me" he hasn't told anyone this, but he has said it to her a couple times and holds it against her. This will be a different post later.

She acts a LOT like her dad. She's good at gaslighting ppl. Very good at it. And possibly one if the only ppl who can read her father; she can't always do it, but to Julius's @sanityshorror surprise, she has done it before.

She can fight powerful people, but she can't go against her dad. If she ever does get in a physical fight with him, she'd lose. It's bc I triggers her childhood trauma whenever her dad gets violent, so she'll easily let that get to her and it'll put her guard down.

Idk if this is something Killian @sanityshorror would actually do, but he wanted to see how good she was at fighting, so he asked her to show him by battling with him. Now if Julius was the one who asked her, she'd back down, but since she doesn't know Killian that well, she accepted. However this ended terribly. She got sidetracked and Killian cut her arm open with his weapon. He had no intention of hurting her, so he's very upset with himself bc of this incident.

Since Maddie is a vampire and can communicate with the dead, she talks to her mother’s ghost. Half of their conversations is just bashing her father. Emily doesn't really have anything against Julius and holds no grudge, but if Maddie wants to, they'll spend hours talking shit. Emily dies draw the line at bashing Octavian @sanityshorror and Devlin @scarfaxia. Bc those two are STILL her sons in her eyes, and they have been working hard just to get Maddie to trust them. So she will not let Maddie hurt her brothers.

When she was younger, she was so desperate for her father's attention, that she tried to make her own little designs for him to look at. She never had the confidence to show him, but when he was going through things at the old house, he found one of her designs and actually created it. Its on display at the dress shop. However this was so long ago that she does not know that that dress was one that she created. He's been trying to hint at it, but he's Julius so he doesn't do much and is too petty to do actually it.

Maddie doesn't have any friends. She's too busy to hang out a keep a friendship going. So her brothers are the only ones she hangs out with.

Maddie is only 16. She's a high school student, so she's busy with that.

Her worst subject is history while her best is English. Killian tutors her in history whenever he has the time. And since then, she's been getting higher grades.

She also is taking a psychology class. She has a pretty high grade in it.

The only reason she's IN the pocket dimension is bc when Julius killed Annabella, he had no idea that Maddie was living with her and when he found out, he was told by Satan to keep her bc he sees her as "good potential"

Maddie has no desire to join Julius. The second she graduates high-school, she's going to college. And probably moving out of state.

That's all! Bye! Happy Pride Month! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈