#judgeme

[iloveplayrehersal]

Y'all I'm writing an essay on Bonnie and Clyde should I post it here or no

[thatgeekboi]

Judge me off my playlist pt 2

[t1c3]

T1C3 - "Judge Me" (Official Music Video)

[cherry-bomb-ships]

Goodniiiiight I am thinking about him thinking about him thinking about him thinking about him thinking about him thinking about him thinking about him thinking about him thinking about him thinking about him thinking about him

[ivyprism]

I'm a simple girl... I want a skeleton to move my hair tentatively and slowly put a necklace on my neck.

Is that a crime???

[royalreef]

She could disembowel you with a few kicks of her back legs. Remember this.

[ana-ab59]

Judge me when you become perfect

[undercoverxs]

it’s  not  two  of  us ,  it’s  all  of  us . (lets go existential agony)

... A foot slides back.

「 All of us. 」

-- These words that tie a knot in their stomach... fell out of their own mouth?

In a way, it almost seemed natural. 'We.' 'Us.' More than once, things like that came absentmindedly to their tongue, only caught by a prisoner's wandering remark. This feeling, this natural feeling--

To be scared of the breath drawn into your own lungs... In a way, a terrifying way, It feels as absurd as that.

It's just-

They never expected to see their chest inflate.

"Y..." - Twice as hard. That breath, it became twice as hard to take in, push out. The mirror that didn't lift its hand the same way, didn't bend on their cue- A hallucination? Maybe. - It became subject to such an othering word as "YOU-", which itself brought their skull to pound.

'( Us -)' '( We- )' '( All of us- )'

"What do you... mean by that?"

Why does it feel like they already knew?

[gigashadow]

im very new to neon genesis evangelion…. I started reading the manga which may be a grave faux pas or whatever but THAT ASIDE

What is the point? Maybe I’m not far enough into it (I’ve read vol 1-6) but it’s so bleak. I’m waiting for it to get good?

never fear, I will be reading the whole thing before passing a final judgement, but I really feel like I’m missing something crucial

[appocalipse]

MAKE IT EASY : ̗̀➛ STEVE HARRINGTON

・❥・part 1・part 2 ❥・3.8k words

Summary: steve asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for a family dinner. the problem is: after all is said and done, he gives you the cold shoulder. have you done something wrong?

requested by my beloved @stevebabey 🥺

a/n: this was supposed to be a drabble, and now, oh well...I had to split it into two parts. here we go.

・❥・

It was the epitome of a terrible idea.

And it had started that day. 

The very moment Steve walked into the diner your family owned, you knew something was wrong. Not that it was uncommon for Steve to visit you at work — not at all. In fact, it was almost a weekly occurrence, the highlight of it, in fact, for you; the odd part was that Steve never showed up alone, without at least a few of the kids. On that Wednesday night, he was not only alone but also strangely nervous.

You rarely saw Steve get nervous. His confidence was as much a part of him as his signature perfect hair. But tonight, his hands fidgeted with the edge of his jacket, eyes darting around the diner as if searching for an escape route. He looked like he was trying to convince himself to leave.

Weird.

"Steve," you greeted him with a warm smile, hoping to ease his obvious tension a little bit as he approached the counter. "You look like you've seen a Demogorgon."

It was supposed to be a joke. You only felt comfortable saying that now because — luckily — things had been quiet at Hawkins. It had been a long time since you and your friends had to deal with one. But something about Steve's demeanor really made you wonder if there was more to this visit than just a friendly catch-up.

He tried for a convincing chuckle, but it came out tinged with a hint of sadness instead. "I wish," he said, and then quickly shook his head, "Actually no, of course not. I kinda…There's something I wanted to-"

You furrowed your brows, concern knitting your features together. At this point, Steve's tension seemed to be rubbing off on you.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine, just…can we talk?"

"Of course."

He glanced around the diner, gaze briefly flitting over the empty tables and the neon glow of the jukebox. "Not here," he murmured, voice barely audible above the din of conversation and clinking dishes. It was a busy night, despite being Wednesday. "Can you, like, take a break?"

For Steve, of course you could.

Curiosity mingled with concern, and you followed his lead, stepping out into the cool night air. The streets were bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, casting elongated shadows that danced upon the pavement. You leaned against the side of the building, your eyes fixed on Steve, awaiting an explanation for his beyond unusual behavior.

He raked his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit that seemed magnified in this moment. "Look," he began, his voice tinged with a vulnerability you hadn't heard before, "I need a favor- a big one."

Oh, Jesus. "Steve," you placed a hand over your chest, breathing a sigh of relief. "For a moment there I thought you were going to say something terrible. A favor? C'mon, sure. What do you want me to do?"

Steve's eyes met yours, his gaze earnest and…vulnerable?

"I... I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend... Just for one night!" he quickly added, like he was afraid you might misinterpret his request, say no even before he could finish… but no, of course you wouldn't. Far from it. 

Who wouldn't want to date Steve Harrington?

"But why would you-"

"My parents," Steve interjected, tone deeply tinged with unease, "they're in town."

"Oh." Steve rarely ever spoke about his parents, and their mere presence seemed to have stirred a sense of apprehension within him. "Are they still... difficult?" 

You knew you were touching scars, deep scars. You made sure to be gentle.

Steve sighed, gaze fixed on the ground. 

"Yeah, you could say that," a hint of frustration colored his voice, as if he were carrying on his shoulders the weight of every little judgemental glare they had ever sent his way. "Nothing I do is ever enough for them. They've always been focused on money and success. To them, that's the measure of worth. And because I don't fit their mold of the perfect, ambitious son, they treat me like…well, you know how they treat me."

Indeed, you knew.

Steve looked like he didn't know you were unable to say no to him.

And that's how you put yourself into one hell of a mess.

+

It's Saturday night and you're standing in front of the mirror, desperately trying to zip up your stupid dress. Why anyone would put a zipper in the back of a dress, in the most difficult possible place for a person to reach on their own, is something you are unable to fathom.

But then again, maybe you're the stupid one in this story, you think bitterly, since it was you who chose the dress with the zipper in the back in the first place.   

Why are you trying so hard, though?

"I'm not," you tell yourself out loud, stubbornly.

There is a big pile of discarded clothes on your bed that says otherwise.  

With a feeling akin to fear bubbling in your stomach, you glance at the clock. It's almost seven. For fuck's sake. 

You're late. 

Steve will arrive soon, and you are apparently unable to close the damn zipper of your own dress, no matter in which awkward positions you try twisting yourself into…you just can't reach it.

The doorbell rings.

The world is truly a dark place, isn't it?      

You freeze. It can only be Steve. Shit, shit, shit! For a moment, you consider the idea of simply not opening the door, turning off the lights and pretending you never agreed to take part in this madness that is dining with the Harringtons.

HA! As if you'd really be able to turn your back on Steve. 

You take a deep breath, accepting the battle you just lost, and decide that your only and best option is to simply open the door and ask Steve for help — mortified or not. With no choice but to leave the dress with the zipper still open and your back somewhat exposed, you quickly walk to the door to open it.

"Sorry, I'm late," you say, a little out of breath. "I had a little problem with the dress and I... flowers?"   

Flowers, for sure. Steve holds a beautiful bouquet of red roses. He looks at you for a moment, then his eyes run over the partly open dress and your exposed skin for a couple of seconds too long to be accidental. You swallow thickly.

"Yeah I..." he shakes his head, a little uncomfortable standing there, and then his eyes meet yours. "The flowers are for you. Do you want me to...?" he mimics the motion of closing a zipper.

You feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but there is no choice but to accept. You look at him, a mix of gratitude and nervousness in your eyes.  

"Yeah, that would be great," you reply, stumbling over the words. 

If he notices, he doesn't say anything.  

Steve comes closer and hands you the bouquet, your fingers briefly touching his. You catch a whiff of his cologne — citrusy fruit and wood notes — as you turn around, brushing your hair away from your neck.    

For a moment, Steve does nothing, and you wonder if he is just figuring out the best way to close the zipper…or something else entirely. 

His touch ghosts down your bare back before his hand finally, finally finds the zipper. Slowly, he pulls it up, inch by inch, and you hold your breath for a moment, lost in a feeling your best friend is definitely not supposed to evoke in you. You feel the dress tighten, fabric adjusting to your body, his fingers inevitably brushing your skin and sending unexpected tingles up your spine. You try to ignore the trail of electricity left by the tip of his fingers as you turn to face him, eyes finding his.

"There you go", he murmurs, taking his hands off you and taking a small step back. "You look very... girlfriend."  

You laugh.   

"Thank you", you say softly, your heart beating faster. "You also look very boyfriend."

A small smile plays on Steve's lips, a flush creeping up his cheeks. Or maybe it's just the cold night breeze coming through the open door...   

Steve's gaze drifts to your lips and lingers there for way too long to be accidental. He is so close that he starts crushing the bouquet between the two of you…

Something clicks inside of you. Common sense, perhaps.

"Thank you... for the flowers."

The spell breaks; he moves away so fast that you almost drop the flowers on the floor.   

"Yeah, uh, no problem," he says quickly, regaining his composure. "Ready to go?"

Disappointment stabs at you, but you try to hide it. Maybe you imagined too much, read signs where there were none.  

"Sure. I'll just put the flowers in a vase."

It's an excuse to catch your breath. You walk to the kitchen, put water in the first clean container you find and put the flowers in it. Deep breaths, deep breaths.

Your heart is racing and yet nothing has happened. It's just dinner, you tell yourself, I've had dinner with Steve and the others before. It's just dinner.   

So why did you try so hard to look beautiful? insists the other voice in your mind. You decide it's best not to answer.

"You okay?"  

Steve is at the kitchen door, all concern and soft brown eyes.  You must have taken too long.

"Yes, I'm fine," you reply, forcing a smile to calm your own anxiety. "I was just taking care of the flowers. Ready to go?"

Steve nods. A gentleman, he opens the car door for you to get in. It's a short drive to the Harrington house, and you take the opportunity to try to calm your nerves. Looking out the window, you watch the city lights blinking as you approach your destination.

You look at him. You have the impression that Steve is driving slightly slower than necessary.

"Can I ask you something?" you say, unsure.

Steve briefly glances at you before returning his attention to the road, looking so stiff you're under the impression he might break his back at any moment.

"Sure, what's up?"

"Why did you ask me to pretend to be your girlfriend? I mean, I understand the part about your parents…but why didn't you bring someone you're actually dating or something?"

There's a brief moment of silence before Steve responds, his voice a bit softer.

"Actually, I'm not really dating anyone at the moment," he admits. "And when my parents mentioned the dinner, I kind of panicked. I didn't want to show up alone and face more questions about my life, you know?"

"I know," you respond, understandingly. "And why did you choose me specifically?"

He looks away for a moment before answering.

"Because you're perfect," he says, finally looking back at you. Then quickly, as if he only just realized the words slipped out on their own, he adds, nervously staring back at the road, "I mean, my parents, they... you're perfect for them. They're going to love you."

You feel a mix of surprise, satisfaction, and confusion with Steve's response. You try not to read any deeper meaning behind the words, telling yourself not to notice how he quickly tries to disguise them.

"I see," you reply, although you don't really understand anything. Steve seems to say one thing when he means another. "Well, I hope I can do well. I mean, I'm not very convincing when I lie."

Steve smiles briefly and nods.

"I'm sure you'll be great. Just... be yourself."

You appreciate Steve's vote of confidence and focus on staying calm as the car approaches the Harringtons' house. Although there's still a lingering questioning in your mind about Steve's earlier response, you decide to set it aside for now and focus on the immediate task.

Steve parks the car, and you both step out together. Nervousness returns as you approach the front door. You exchange a quick glance with Steve, seeking mutual encouragement.

As you walk toward the house's entrance, Steve's hand finds yours. He gently squeezes it, and you're not sure if he's trying to convey or seek comfort himself. You don't mind anyway.

The door opens, revealing Steve's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington. As you prepare to enter their house, they cast evaluative glances your way, as you had expected. Mrs. Harrington's smile seems a bit forced, while Mr. Harrington maintains a serious expression you can't even begin to try to read.

It's not like you expected anything different.

"Mom," says Steve in lieu of a greeting. "Dad."

"Steve, you finally made it," says Mrs. Harrington, her tone somehow a mix of relief and disapproval. "And this must be your... girlfriend."

Steve maintains his composure as he introduces you, although you can sense a slight tension in his shoulders. It's only when he says your last name that Steve's parents' gazes turn into something completely different, almost a scientific interest.

Hawkins is a small place. Your parents' business is respected enough in town.

All eyes turn to you, and you try not to show the insecurity you feel inside. Mr. Harrington studies you for a moment, his penetrating gaze seeming to assess your suitability for his son.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Mr. Harrington," he finally says, extending an unusually large hand for a formal greeting.

You shake his hand firmly, trying to convey a confidence you're not quite sure you feel. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Harrington. Thank you for the invitation."

Mrs. Harrington still seems a bit unsettled but composes herself as she invites you inside. You're making your way toward the dining room when you feel Steve's hand intertwine with yours again, and when your gaze meets his, he's smiling.

Thank you, he mouths.

You smile back.

During dinner, you make an effort to be as pleasant and interesting as you can possibly be in the eyes of Steve's parents, responding politely and trying to find points of common interest. In turn, Steve makes an effort to showcase his worth, defending his accomplishments, however small and sharing his plans for the future, painting an image of maturity that, you can tell by the look in his parents' eyes, they were not expecting.

Throughout the evening, you realize that although Steve's parents are demanding and neglectful in many aspects, they also seem to have their own insecurities and concerns. They want the best for Steve, even if their way of expressing it is at least…unusual.

As the night progresses, you find yourself navigating this strange family dynamic better and better, to the point where Steve's parents' attention is fully on you, and it doesn't even feel that uncomfortable anymore. You even laugh at one point.

By the end of the dinner, as you two prepare to leave, you notice a very similar expression of relief on the faces of Steve's parents. They seem to have found some kind of approval in the way you both behaved together during the evening.

As you say goodbye, Mr. Harrington extends his hand again, but this time, his handshake is warmer, less formal, and Mrs. Harrington's smile almost seems genuine. Almost.

"It was a pleasure having you here," she says. "You should bring her more often, Steve."

You and Steve exchange a look of surprise. Had you somehow managed to create a connection with his parents?

As you walk away from the Harringtons' house, Steve's hand finds yours for the third time that night, and an optimistic part of you registers the fact that there's no one else here to see. He gently squeezes it, his brown eyes filled with gratitude when they meet yours.

"You were amazing," he says, genuinely smiling.

In the car, during the ride back, you both talk animatedly about the night and his parents' reactions. The tension from dinner seems to have diminished, leaving you both more relaxed and confident.

When you arrive in front of your house, Steve turns off the car and gets out to accompany you to the front door, even after you— out of politeness, mind you — said it's really not necessary. 

"You know, I didn't expect everything to go so well tonight," says Steve, with a playful smile. "I can't believe I'm saying this about a dinner with my parents, but thanks to you, it was even fun."

You laugh. "I kinda had fun too. I think we did better than we thought possible."

"You're amazing," he says again, and this time his voice carries a softer, more intimate tone. His eyes meet yours, shining, and you see admiration there…maybe, you dare to think, something even deeper.

The silence grows tense. Your heart races. There's something special happening between you, you know there is; this goes beyond mere friendship or pretending to be a couple for one night…doesn't it?

Are you imagining this?

"Steve..."

You can't finish before he's leaning in slowly, and you're almost certain his eyes are fixed on your lips. For a feverish moment, you think Steve is going to kiss you.

He tilts his head last second. You feel the softness of his lips brushing against your cheek a moment later, a light and brief kiss, mouth almost uncertain against your warm skin….and then it's over.

Steve pulls back slowly. 

"Goodnight," he says, eyes soft, smile softer. "Thank you…for today."

"You're welcome."

It's only when you enter the house that the dress dilemma comes to mind. 

Well…shit.

The zipper at the back is still unreachable for you, and you can't undo it yourself unless you use scissors — which, considering the price you paid for it, you really don't want to do.

With few options and too much embarrassment, you decide to call Steve back while you still can.

"Steve?" you practically shout, your embarrassment immediately doubling. He's about to open the door of his trusted BMW when he turns to you, confused and unfairly handsome under the street light.

Suddenly using the scissors on the dress doesn't seem like such a bad idea anymore.

Well, too late.

"Could you, you know... " you ask, gesturing to the back of your dress, "help me with the zipper?"

His initial surprise quickly gives way to a nervous smile.

"Sure. What kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I didn't help?"

"I'm sure that's one of the many job duties."

"Definitely. And I strive to be a top-notch fake boyfriend."

He steps in. With the door closed behind the two of you, the atmosphere takes on a sense of intimacy and anticipation.

"I really can't reach the zipper," you feel the need to explain, even more flustered by his silence.

"No problem," Steve says with that gentle tone that makes your heart do funny things inside your chest. "Turn around."

You turn so that he can reach the dress' zipper, and now you're facing the large oval mirror in the hallway, with Steve standing right behind you.

He reaches out gently, his fingers lightly brushing the back of your dress.

Breathe in. 

The temperature around you seems to rise a few degrees.

Breath out. 

You feel the gentle pressure of his fingers as he starts to slide the zipper down. He touches your skin and you tell yourself that this is inevitable, that he didn't mean to…but he lingers. Lingers just enough for you to tense up and let out a breathless sigh you certainly didn't intend to.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, his voice soft, filled with concern. You know he's looking at you through the mirror and that's precisely why you keep your gaze on the floor. "Are my fingers cold?"

"No, your fingers..." your voice sounds hoarse. You clear your throat. "...it's fine, I'm okay."

I'm great. I'm more than okay. Nothing out of the ordinary happening here.

However, when the zipper seems to momentarily get stuck — because of course  it had to — the two of you exchange equally panicked looks through the mirror, though perhaps for different reasons. An uncomfortable silence fills the air as Steve tries to fix the issue.

"I'm... it's just... sorry, it seems to be stuck."

There's a moment of awkward silence as he tries to figure out a way to open the zipper. You can feel the tension in the air as he struggles to handle the situation.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" you joke, desperately trying to ease the tension.

Steve lets out a low laugh, his warm breath gently caressing your neck.

"Absolutely," he replies, his voice slightly husky. Then, probably without so much as noticing, he adds, "I've taken off many dresses before."

Oh.

"Steve-"

Steve doesn't give up. With skilled fingers, he adjusts the position of the zipper and makes another attempt. It moves.

"We're almost there," he murmurs softly, his voice close to your ear.

Finally, with a smooth motion, the zipper gives way, sliding all the way down. A sigh of relief escapes your lips, and you turn around to face Steve, finding his eyes filled with excitement.

"I did it!"

His enthusiastic smile soon gives way to something else as he realizes how close — and technically partly undressed — you are.

And close you are, so very close. Close enough that you and Steve are somehow breathing the same air now.

Close enough, you realize, that a slight tilt of the head and...you'd be kissing.

Kissing.

Did he notice that too?

You hold your dress up over your chest to make sure it doesn't fall because, well…no matter how distracted you are, it's not enough that you'd risk a wardrobe malfunction that'll leave you standing there naked in front of Steve Harrington.

"...thanks," you manage a whisper, lips a hair's breadth away from his. You do know that Steve has no reason not to go now that dinner is over and everything went (surprisingly) well, but a part of you wonders if maybe…

Steve's hands hover around your waist as if unsure of what to do next. 

So close...

You hold still.

In that breathless silence, you're under the impression that Steve leans closer, even if just the slightest bit, maybe without even noticing. 

"Steve…" you slowly tilt your head to the side.

Steve's heart is pounding in his chest as he feels the warmth of your breath against his lips. Stop, he thinks. His eyes flutter closed, and Steve can't help but lean in just a little bit more. 

He raises his arm as if to touch you, wanting to touch you, to hold your face, to bring you closer…but he stops with one of his hands hovering near your cheek.

He pulls away with a gasp, his hands flying up to his face in shock. "I should-" he stammers. "I need to go."

Bam.

Door closed.

And just like that, he's out of the house before you can even open your eyes properly.

He just…pulled away. 

What the hell was that?

[dcdreamblog]

So I’m a little confused about the hero(?) called vigilante, he seems to be both a cowboy themed crime fighter and a violent psychopath in a power rangers suit. Are they different guys? Do they have any connection outside of the name?

They most certainly do not, the connection between Golden Age hero Greg Saunders and ANY of the murderers and sociopaths who have taken the name Vigilante after him is nonexistent and, in fact, any attempts to claim legitimacy from him are strongly condemned by Saunders.

(The portrait of Saunders currently on display at the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville, TN)

By now everyone on this blog should know Saunders. The son of a Wyoming lawman killed by criminal elements he took up the tools of the cowboy's trade and became a scourge to criminals from the Mississippi to the coast. He served with the 7 Soldiers of Victory and the All Star Squadron before being lost to time just after WWII, only recovered by an early case of the JLA. He has since mostly retired, married and settled down to a quiet life running a chain of western restaurants and serving as elected sheriff of a small town on the Mexican border.

(A photograph of Adrian Chase as Vigilante, firing back at pursuing police officers during an on foot chase) The man I believe you are referring to is disgraced former Manhattan judge and district attorney Adrian Chase. Originally a popular opponent to the city's organized crime he suffered a nervous breakdown after the death of his wife and children in a mob hit. Adopting the masked identity of the Vigilante he sought to mete out his own brand of justice across the big apple. He was a murderer. A mass murderer at that. A serial killer in every name but publicity. His body count stands at at least 300, most likely more, including at least two police officers. 35% of his victims had never been convicted of any crime. 15% had never been held in suspicion of one. Some people call Adrian Chase a controversial figure. I don't. Whether you like it or not, here is the unquestionable truth: Chase's actions did not eradicate the mafia in New York City. His activities made no significant statistical difference in crime rates. The guilt or innocence of many of his victims cannot be conclusively proven and less than 20% of his victims were ever under suspicion of a capital crime in the first place. Leaving ASIDE the fact that New York is a state with no death penalty by the will of its own population. The men he killed were criminals, people insist. I am educated and empathetic enough to know that crime, and organized crime in particular, are born out of poverty. Men and women from impoverished neighborhoods finding the only way out from under the system's boot. It is not a dragon you can slay, it's a side effect of a broken system. There is a REASON superheroes don't kill, even back to literal Nazi saboteurs in WWII. Because as of now we do not live in a society where we are meant to CHEER men in masks deciding who is allowed to live and who is supposed to die behind some condemned building in the dark. And I will never consent to living in a society where that is the case, especially when the victims of this kind of top down self righteousness on the part of a man who was meant to uphold and respect the rule of our laws and the rights of its accused will ALWAYS target those who are poor, marginalized or unwell above ANYONE else. My only regret in the life of Adrian Chase is that he managed to commit suicide before he could be publically arrested. Chase has been directly responsible as inspiration for at least 7 copycat killers, 2 following directly in the wake of his persona, 2 who are tied to the infamous mercenary hitman Deathstroke by the FBI, one in Metropolis, one in Gotham and one who is still currently at large in Los Angeles. I pray only that he is caught, unmasked and convicted before a jury of his peers. And that the families of those who any of these serial killers passed their "judgement" upon might someday find peace.

[enigmaticexplorer]

Let Me Love You - Part IV

Masterlist | Previous Part | Next Part

General Summary. An opportunity to expand your grandmother’s business brings you to Coruscant and a chance-encounter with Commander Fox. Friendship is your intent. But feelings grow, and with them, renewed fears. 

Pairing. Commander Fox x female!reader

General Warnings. Self-esteem issues; intimacy issues; trust issues; explicit sexual content. 

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Word Count. 3.4K

A Like without a Reblog will result in an automatic block.

9 Kelona, Zhellday

Early morning sunlight greeted you, playful and eager. It was the same each morning. A monotony fitting Coruscant’s metallic environment. 

The planet’s controlled climate lacked the inspiration of a heavy rainstorm as the skies blackened and sheets of rain pummeled the fields. 

It lacked the novelty of a spring snowstorm as a dense fog captured the hills in its uncanny embrace and snow blanketed the landscape for kilometers.

It lacked the natural yet unpredictable change among autumn’s maple leaves and the joy of a harvest nearing completion.

Perched on the edge of your bed, you glared out the window at the cityscape beyond. Already the walkways bustled with life. Air traffic crowded the sky. 

A planet with more than a trillion beings and you were more alone than ever.

A result of your actions, you were well aware of this fact. 

As solitude consoled you with its quiet, independence-encouraged embrace, so too did self-sabotage comfort: a self-preserving shadow that protected you from the unknowns of the future. 

Both solitude and self-sabotage were formerly lurking forces that, over many years, became your closest allies.

They looked out for you. 

They wanted what was best for you. 

They cared about you.

They were voices of reason. They maintained an organized list of your flaws, and reminded you of them often. Not to humiliate or shame you. Rather, to protect you from the inevitable hurt of abandonment. 

You couldn’t be hurt if you never opened yourself to the vulnerability of being—

Your feet lurched to a stop outside the stained-glass windows of the gallery. The panes of purples, blues, greens, and yellows glowed beneath the morning sunlight. They weren’t the attention of your focus, though. 

It was the man with a shoulder resting against the door and armored arms crossed over his chest. A man who was seven hours early.

You ground your teeth. Clenched and unclenched your hands at your sides. Smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from your pencil skirt. Unease coiled tight with foreboding as you forced yourself to move forward.

Fox lifted his head. Straightening, he removed his helmet, his expression carefully blank. 

You kept your face equally blank. “What are you doing here?” 

“We received a security alert.” The answer was unexpected. Your relief must’ve shown because Fox frowned. “The cams on this street went out an hour ago. A malfunction. I need to check the gallery.”

Understanding the wordless intent in his response, you keyed in the code. The door swished open and you stepped inside. The overhead lights flickered on in welcome. Depositing your bag atop the counter, you motioned for Fox to continue into the backroom and then logged into your computer, pulling up today’s schedule. A moment later and Fox returned. 

“I’ll need your security footage for the last twenty-four hours,” he said.

“I’ll get a copy made.” Your gaze remained planted on your computer screen. “It’ll be ready tomorrow.” 

Silence, swollen with tension, thickened throughout the gallery. 

Opening a file, you prepared notes for your first two client meetings, waiting for the door to announce Fox’s departure—

“Are we gonna talk about it?”

You stiffened. It took far too much effort to meet his stare, and once you did, you wanted to look away. His gaze was too familiar. Too intense. Too intimate.

“I’m not sure what there’s to talk about,” you said calmly. “We kissed. That was it. It was a lapse in judgement—”

“A lapse in judgement?” His low chuckle was anything but humorous.  

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Your arms wrapped around your stomach. “I won’t apologize for not inviting you—”

“Let’s start with you putting words in my mouth.” There was a rigid set to Fox’s shoulders: defiant, defensive. “I never said you were a hookup.”

“And I said that I don’t do them.”

Fox exhaled a sharp breath and then braced his hands against the counter. “You ran away from me. Without an explanation. Nothing. We could’ve talked, like the adults that we are, but you fucking ran.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” You offered an exasperated smile. “It was just a kiss—”

“It meant nothing to you.”

“It was just—”

“A kiss.” Ire narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. I got that.” Releasing the counter, Fox scrubbed his jaw, eyeing you with an unfamiliar hostility that made you tense. “When I told you that I wanted you, what did you—”

“You don’t want me.” Your voice was inflectionless, dismissive. “You don’t even know me.”

Fox considered you for a long time. Then, scoffing with disbelief, he turned on his heel and started toward the door. However, halfway there, he paused. He looked over his shoulder. 

“I pity you.” His voice was low and yet it carried in the silence: deafening. “You say that you want to be known—you’re a liar. You don’t want to be known. That means letting someone get close. Letting them see you. But you don’t let anyone in.” Steely anger hardened once-soft eyes. “You’re too fucking scared to give someone a chance.”  

Before you could react, before you could respond, Fox strode through the door and disappeared down the walkway.

The next day, Coruscant’s afternoon shone as usual: unordinary, temperate. You were filing notes from your recent meeting with a donor when the front door swished open. The unfamiliar cadence in the visitor’s stroll informed you that it wasn’t Fox. The differences in armor—white accented with red, no kama—further confirmed it. 

The Guard introduced himself as Commander Thire. You led him into the backroom where he checked the sword. He left with a perfunctory nod.

That night, huddled in a tight ball on one side of your bed, you gritted your teeth as tears puddled on your pillow. It didn’t matter that you were staring blankly out your window. They trickled down the planes of your face, as persistent as autumn’s drizzle pattering against red and gold leaves.

You were alone. 

You would always be alone.

The next day, Commander Thire visited your gallery at the same time with the same professional indifference. 

That night, you sat on your couch and watched hours of entertainment on the holo. It was mind-numbing. An endless relay of drama that kept you from thinking about him.

On the third day without Fox, you selected an elaborate recipe for dinner, purchased ingredients after work, and then spent four hours deliberating over your meal. 

Finely chopped vegetables, each measured to an exact length.

A pretentious sauce requiring varied times of simmering, boiling, and cooling.

Stew, slow-cooked and mandating both counterclockwise and clockwise stirring.

Bread dough left to rise to an exact second, and then kneaded for a set number of rolls.

Thinly sliced citruses, marinating in a simple syrup and then muddled.

Once finished, you sipped the vegetable stew, savored the spices of the sautéed salad’s sauce, munched on the toasted bread, sipped your citrus-infused, nonalcoholic drink. 

Throughout your silent dinner, you defended your actions and decision from a jury of mental critics. Not only were you protecting yourself, but you were saving Fox from eventual disappointment. He deserved better.

On the fourth day, while Commander Thire made his departure, you called after him: “How much longer of this?”

He paused. “ ‘Til Commander Fox deems the issue resolved.”

Your eyes narrowed. “It’s been four months. Do you really think the daily visits are necessary?”

“Commander Fox believes they are.” Commander Thire extended his chin in your direction. “He oversees this specific case. And he’s relentless with the things he wants.”

The fifth day without Fox’s presence, the 14th of Kelona, Zhellday, you were still mulling Commander Thire’s farewell from the previous day. For some reason, it was stuck in your mind. Snagged on an obstinate thorn. 

And he’s relentless with the things he wants.

As you strolled out of the gallery and down a darkening walkway, you rolled your eyes. Fox was relentless. Persistent in his objectives. Consistent in his doggedness. His relentlessness went beyond his career—it was obvious in your last conversation. The demand for an explanation. And the harshness in his parting words. 

I pity you.

Gods, you hated those three words. You hated the disdain on his face. You hated the way his judgement speared your chest and stripped you bare.  

Your pace quickened with your anger. 

How dare he judge you? 

How dare he pity you?

The mere arrogance was fucking unbelievable. 

For five days, you’d let his words exist without argument. Without debate. But he couldn’t have the last word, especially when his judgement was so inaccurate and uncalled for. 

A sharp turn took you in the opposite direction of your apartment.

Twenty minutes later, you strode into the former military base, now headquarters for various military and security departments. A lift ride spat you out on the Department of Security’s floor. Three Guards, dressed in armor, were chuckling about something. 

You strode toward the front desk. “Where’s Commander Fox’s office?” 

One of the men—a dyed mohawk slicing across his head—rubbed the back of his neck. “Commander Fox doesn’t have any available appointments this late in the evening.”

“That’s fine.” You leaned against the desk’s counter. “I’ll wait for him to leave.”

Before the Guard with the mohawk could argue, a Guard with a cybernetic eye strode out of an adjacent office. Unlike the others, he didn’t wear any armor. He glanced you over. “Down the hall,” he said. The beginning of a smirk curled his lips. “Last door on the right.”

With a curt nod, you made your way down the hall. At the last door, you rapped the metal. The door immediately opened.

“You had—”

Your voice faltered as you took in the two men seated across from Fox. Commander Thire and another Guard.

“Sorry.” Embarrassment flushed through your upper body, and you retreated a step. “I’ll wait—”

“They were just leaving.” Fox rose to his feet, levelling a pointed look at the two men. “We’ll continue this later.”

Commander Thire and the other Guard stood, the latter muttering under his breath, “We just got here.” Commander Thire thwacked the back of his head. 

As they made to leave, you scanned Fox’s office, taking in the stiff, gray couch pushed against an adjacent wall and a single holophoto mounted on the opposite wall. There were five men in the photo; they all wore different colored armor. You recognized Fox and Cody, and to your surprise, the Guard with the cybernetic. The two other men you weren’t familiar with. 

The swoosh of the door announced Commander Thire and the other Guard’s departure.

You faced Fox. He’d rounded his desk and was leaning against its front edge: relaxed, unflappable. It annoyed you.

“You had no right to say that you pity me,” you snapped. “You don’t know me—”

“I do.” Fox tucked his hands into his pockets. His gaze was steady on yours. “I’ve spent the last four months getting to know you. I know you better than you think.”

“Is that so?” He remained quietly composed, and you shook your head. He didn’t know the real you; the realization hollowed a wan smile on your mouth. “I’m opinionated and self-righteous.”

He merely arched a brow.

“I’m a perfectionist,” you said calmly. There was a desperation unspooling within you—a desperate need for him to see your flaws, your issues, and reject you. So you could finally move on. “To the point of being overly critical of both myself and those around me. I prefer things to be a certain way.”

Fox nodded solemnly.

“I’m self-preserving.” Your eyes narrowed at his unaffected demeanor. He needed to understand; you needed to make him see to understand. “I’m cold. Some probably consider me heartless.”

“I’m well aware of your flaws.” Fox spoke with an equanimity that made you stiffen. His eyes swept across your face. “I have them, too. I can be controlling when stressed. Dismissive of others’ feelings. Blunt and apathetic—so much so, it comes across as condescending.”

“We’re not talking about you.” He started to chuckle. “I’m not having kids.”

The statement cut through his chuckle and he sobered.

A knowing smirk sliced across your face. “I’m selfish when it comes to my physical and mental health, and I know myself. I know that I won’t make a good mother. But I do know that most men want kids—”

“Some of my brothers have kids. You know that.” Fox turned a smug smirk on you. “But I never imagined children in my future. I like being an uncle. That’s it.”

You gritted your teeth. “I don’t do blow jobs.”

Fox released a choked noise, and he brought a hand to his mouth, running his thumb along his lower lip. He looked…the bastard looked amused.

He was supposed to be disillusioned by these revelations. Suddenly uninterested, disgruntled. Not fucking amused.

“I don’t like being choked or roughly used or humiliated.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “I refuse to be used.”

Fox nodded thoughtfully. “All right.”

His blasé response was simultaneously shocking and irksome. You frowned. “I’m being serious.”

“I know.” He shrugged at your bemused glower. “I don’t care how you touch me. And I can be satisfied with just your hands. You learned that a few nights ago.”

“I don’t believe you—”

“I almost came in my trousers that night. All because you fucking touched me.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Don’t question the effect you have on my body.”  

Your lips pressed in a thin line.

Fox tapped the edge of his desk. “Would you suck my cock if I didn’t fuck your mouth? If I let you…do whatever you wanted?”

“I…” You pressed a palm to your chest, massaging it. 

The thought of tasting him—running your tongue along his shaft, sucking on the tip, exploring his body with slow licks—without the fear of expectation or being used was…appealing. You wanted to listen to his moans, and feel him tremble beneath your touches, and watch him come apart. 

You wanted to be with him; you wanted to experience the physical intimacy. 

But, even if he didn’t fuck your mouth, it didn’t matter.

“I’m not good at sex.” You stared at him, weary, drained. “I’m slow, and I struggle to orgasm, even on my own, and penetration can hurt. It’s a waste of time—”

“I fucking hate when you say that.” Annoyance hardened the consonants of his words as Fox scowled at you. He exhaled a long breath and then pierced you with an exasperated stare. “A man won’t give a shit how long you take. So long as he gets to see you naked—so long as he gets to touch you—he’ll take whatever time is necessary.”

“You’re ignoring the part about penetration—”

“There are other ways to find pleasure.”

“Sure, but sex is—”

“A learning curve.” Fox mimicked your stance, arms crossing his chest. “I don’t care if it takes months. I don’t care if it takes years. I don’t care if I spend the rest of my fucking life learning. All that matters to me is being honest with one another. And being willing to learn.”

You dug your fingernails into your biceps. “I don’t have the body type that men want.”

“You’re generalizing men’s wants,” Fox said sharply. “But you don’t know what I want. You’ve never asked.” 

You clenched and unclenched your jaw. “What do you want?”

“You.” Fox straightened to his full height and stepped forward. “I’ve already told you this—”

“You don’t want me, Fox.” Your voice was quiet, as hollow as you felt. “You may want me temporarily, but it won’t last.”

“Yeah? How do you know that?” 

As he closed the distance between your bodies, you backed into the door, eyeing him. 

“You’ll be disappointed with me,” you said. “Or you’ll grow bored.”

Fox braced his hands on opposite sides of your head. Trapping you.

“I don’t think you’re taking my points about sex seriously—” 

“Sex is only one part of a relationship. And I fell in—” He swallowed. “I want to be with you because I like you. I like being around you. I’ve had four months to get to know you—flaws and all—and I’m still here.”

The intensity of his gaze was too much to bear, so you lowered your eyes to a point on his chest. This close, you could see the failed attempt to remove a scorch mark just above his heart.  

“You said you pity me,” you whispered.

“I…was angry,” he said quietly, regretfully. “At you. With myself. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry.” 

A combination of sweat and something woody—cedar—enveloped you. As tangible as the arms caging you against the door. 

“I can’t promise that I’ll be the perfect man,” Fox murmured. “But I’ll hold myself accountable for my mistakes. And I’ll strive to be a good man.”

Emotion flared within your chest, tightening your lungs, constricting the back of your throat. 

This was supposed to be easy. Simple. He was supposed to dismiss you—see your issues and turn the other way. 

“You aren’t perfect.” Your eyes were trained on his chest plate, but you could feel the heat of his gaze on your face. He lowered his face a smidge. Your eyes met his. “I don’t expect you to be perfect. We’re human. We fuck up. We get angry. We disagree. It’s our nature.”

“But there are better options,” you said hoarsely. “Better women—” 

“I don’t want them.” His hands flexed against the door. “I want you.”

You shook your head. 

There were other flaws, you were certain of it, that would deter him. Make him realize he deserved the best this galaxy had to offer. 

You searched the crevasses and chasms of your mind, seeking out the organized list. But you’d already named the worst offenders. Would your preference to go to bed early qualify as a disqualifier? 

“I’m going back home.” You were trembling. “In three years. I’m leaving, and I’m not coming back.”

“I’d like to see the stars.”

“Don’t—” You looked away, swallowing the emotion threatening to release. It churned hot and volatile within you. “Don’t do this. Please.”

“Let me in—”

“You could hurt me.” Your back flattened against the door; your fingers scraped the metal. “You could really hurt me.”

Silence, and then: “Look at me.”

You ground your teeth. 

“Look at me.”

Your eyes lifted to his and, against your will, it happened. A single tear leaked onto your cheek, slowly drifting downwards, leaving an unmistakable trail. 

Quickly, you went to wipe it away. But just as swiftly, Fox grabbed your wrist, pressing it against the door. His eyes wandered along the tear’s trail to its conclusive end at the drop off of your chin, and then returned to yours.

“Let me love you,” he said quietly.

Undeserving.

Unlovable.

Never enough.

Another tear splashed from the corner of your eye. 

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“I know.” Fox released your wrist and flattened both hands against the door once more. “You’re gonna have to trust me.”

“I don’t know how to.”

“Let me in, and I’ll show you.”

A part of you wanted to close your eyes, press your palms to your ears, curl inwards on yourself until it all disappeared. Fox. The last four months. That damned tiny hand pounding against your ribcage, insistent for him. You wanted to ignore it all. Pretend none of it had happened.

A greater part of you—a part tired of being alone, tired of the hollowness within you—silenced your two closest allies and their lurking whispers.

“I need space.” You felt empty, worn. “I need space to think about…everything.”

Fox surveyed you for a moment, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and then gave a short nod. “I’ll walk you back to your place.”

The first day after your conversation, Commander Thire reappeared for the daily visit. His now-familiar face was a relief. You were grateful for Fox’s consideration.

On the evening of the second day, you slipped into your sequined dress and creamy heels, treated yourself to a private dinner, and then returned to the Museum. You spent four hours perusing levels five, four, and three.

Another three days elapsed without Fox and you went to the transport center, purchasing tickets to Lefaepa for the 1st of Yelona. No matter what happened, you were resolved to return home for the Harvest Festival.

After six days, on the evening of the 20th of Kelona, you retrieved your comm and messaged Fox: 0525.

The code to your apartment building. 

Masterlist | Part III - Part V

A/N: I feel like I owe an explanation.

For an embarrassingly long time in my life, I thought blowjobs were supposed to be rough. I blame it on the media I consumed. Books and fanfic, alike, always portrayed them as a very rough activity. It became ingrained in me. Blowjobs were rough. And you simply had to take it.

I wasn't interested in rough. And I thought that because I lacked that interest, then there was something wrong with me. Eventually, just the thought of sex nauseated me. If a guy showed interest in me, I immediately cut him out because I was scared of the possibility of sex and blowjobs.

It's taken me a lot of years to process and deconstruct this belief. It's something I still struggle with; I find it hard to believe, at times, that there are men who can be content without rough blowjobs. One of the ways I'm trying to "normalize" non-rough sex for me is through writing. It's why I've avoided writing explicit blowjob scenes for my most recent stories, and why there's been an emphasis on my MMCs being gentle when it's been explored. I know that I neglect male pleasure and prioritize female pleasure in my writing; so I wanted to explain why that is.

Also, this is NOT to shame people who enjoy certain types of sex. This is simply for me to see my personal wants/boundaries normalized and represented in fic. Thank you for understanding.

[wouldhope]

✉ @judgemes said: nobody listens to what they don't want to hear. / for haruka

"You're - you're so mean, Warden-san..." Haruka sniffles a bit, eyes focused on the table between them rather than the guard themself as he gnaws his fingernails nervously, specks of red springing up on the occasion that he bit too hard.

He doesn't understand... Why did this always happen? The first woman he'd called "mother" had ignored his very existence, and now Muu, who he thought had been his real mother, was pulling away from him too... He was quickly running out of options here. If that woman wasn't his real mother and neither was Muu, who could it be? Was there anyone left that hadn't abandoned him yet?

And then, he felt like he'd had an epiphany - maybe he hadn't been wrong before when he thought that maybe the warden was his real mother. After all, even though they had been harsh with him sometimes, they still looked at him, didn't they? Even if they didn't forgive him, they still talked to him, asked him questions, still met his gaze, despite how... Unkempt he was these days, after refusing to leave his room for days on end and refusing to let Shidou change his bandages often enough... Was it possible that the answer had been right in front of him all along?

But Es had completely rejected the notion when he brought it up, and now he felt like he was at a total loss. He needed something to latch onto, but every time he tried, it seemed like it slipped right through his fingers... It was becoming harder and harder to contain his frustration- his agony at feeling so alone again. "If i-it's not you, then... Who is it?! Do I n-not have a mother? Am I ju-just that different from everyone...? Isn't every human su-supposed to have a mother? Why isn't there a single person I-I can belong to-?! Am I not human too, Warden-san?! Make me understand-!"

[deimos-awaits]

Overview of House Phobos

From the personal files of Inquisitor Seraph Seraphsdottior:

FILE NAME: Hippeis Deimosian

SUBJECT: Overview of the House of Phobos

DOCUMENT TEXT:  To say that the Knights of House of Phobos are bellicose would be an understatement. The House of Phobos is a knightly house sworn to serve the forgeworld of Deimos. They are organised under their High Princeps. This position was created as far back as their records say when a Knight of House Taranis, Yaakov Taranis, fought the Night Haunter traitor Primarch Konard Curze to a standstill in the questoris suit known as Samson for the protection of the forgemoon of Deimos. Afterwards, the priests of Deimos grateful for Yaakov’s protection reportedly granted him lordship over the moon of Phobos, which has since been expanded to function as a knightly world. The veracity of this founding myth cannot be verified. Excerpt from Magos Historia Esther-Mendeelvee ∆12.56π’s work, Nights of Knights:

LO AND BEHOLD, THE  BARON OF TARANIS YAAKOV THE BRAVE AND BOLD , THE LIGHT OF THE OMNISSIAH, FOUGHT THE HAUNTER FOR EIGHT DAYS AND EIGHT NIGHTS, PUSHING THE FOUL PROGENITOR OF  BACK WITH EACH BLOW.  FOR THIS YAAKOV WAS GRANTED WITH HIS TWELVE CHILDREN HIS HOUSE HIS OWN. THEY ARE STALWARTS AGAINST HERESY, EVER LOYAL TO THE PRIESTS OF THE OMNISSIAH YET TO COME AND THE MACHINE GOD. SELAH. 

THE HOUSE NOW KNOWN AS PHOBOS WOULD SERVE WELL FOR THE MYRIAD OF OUR LORD THE MACHINE GOD EVER WATCHFUL FOR THE LEGIO SIGILANT AND OTHER FORCES OF THE FORGE OF DEIMOS. MAY THE EYES OF THE KNIGHTLY HOUSE NEVER CEASE, MAY THEY AWE EVER TERRIFY THE HERETICS AND ALIEN THAT WOULD THREATEN THE DOMAINS OF MANKIND. SELAH.

THE HOUSE OF PHOBOS STANDS GUARD WITH THE GOD ENGINES OF THE LEGIO SIGILANT FIRST OF MALCADOR THE HERO'S MANY HONORS. THEY STAND FIRM AND EVERY AT THE READY. SELAH.

THE HOUSE OF PHOBOS FOREVER STANDS WITH HER MANY ARMIGER AND QUESTORIS AND DOMINUS AND ACATUS PATTERN SUITES THAT WILL STAND FOREVER AS THE WATCH FORCE OF THE FORGEWORLD DEIMOS. SELAH.

As Magos Historia here reports, in much the language that knightley hagiographies prefer, this house stands watching and as the guards of the Titan Legio based on Deimos itself. As for the tactics employed, Phobos has many war glaive patterned suits as well as a few heresy era moirax and meagera suits that would lend some credence to at least the date of their foundational myth. Phobos knights tend to specialize in anti-vehicle actions with large shock and awe demonstrations to break the will of the enemy. To this there are a shockingly few number of  helverin war suites with such suites being regarded as dishonorable to use. Such tactics can be seen further reported in the ill written Nights of Knights which to preserve my own sense of the Gothic language,  I will not be including but include the Scourging of Pharos, the Passage of Yam Suph, and the Breaking of The 7th Sons of the Rotbringer during the Plague Wars. Another interesting note is members of the house of Phobos seem to give up their names during the bonding with the knight and take up the name of whatever suit they bond with. The only exception is the High Princeps who is always styled Malka Yaakov. House Phobos also has one vassal house, House Theodoric, a former Questoris  Inperalis house whose High Queen I found guilty of heresy. The non heretical remnants  were forced to swear loyalty to the current High Princeps Malka Yaakov DXXI of Phobos. This has bolstered the House's forces in recent years as a number of suites, though I could not find how many, were lost during the Plague Wars in defence of Ultramar, including the previous High Princeps, Malka Yaakov DXX, and his Sacristan.  I am writing this overview for personal reference given that a lance of knights are traveling with my current focus of investigation. I do not think the House itself is heretical, though I do question the judgement of High Princeps Malka Yaakov DXXI regarding itinerant tech priests, and the judgement of High Princeps Malka Yaakov DXXI in general. High Princeps Malka Yaakov DXXI does not seem to be the individual weilding power in the knightly house instead it seems most decisions seem to come from the former High Princeps's siblings, Master of the Vox Saul of Phobos and Master of Lore David of Phobos. 

[royalreef]

"Whyever are you like this. I hate you. Stop that."

[angstea]

i need to run, but i can't get out of bed for anyone

Fandom: BBC Ghosts

Ship: Caphavers

Series: Auctober 2024

<- Previous | Masterlist | Next ->

Summary: Havers has a lot of bad days

AN: The Captain and Havers are both autistic

Title is from Juliet by Cavetown

Written for Auctober Day 28: Safe Foods

Read on AO3

As soon as Anthony cracked his eyes open in the morning, he could tell it was going to be a rough day. The empty darkness covered him like a heavy blanket, pinning him in place. His mind felt foggy, unable to pinpoint anything other than the overwhelming urge to go back to sleep. He tried to rub the sleep from his eyes but still couldn't force his limbs to move.

He knew he should get up, it wouldn't do any good to lie here feeling sorry for himself. He took a deep breath and tried once more to move, at least a little.

His arm shifted and the movement sent a stabbing pain through his shoulder and a sharp ache skittered down his spine. He sucked in a hissing breath through his teeth. His back had been giving him grief since the war and some days were better than others. Honestly, it wasn't just his back. His entire skeletal structure seemed to be in a bid to make his life miserable

His inability to get out of bed was an entirely different issue from the pain he was in though. He'd had days like this since he was a boy, where the weighty shadows in his head became too much to bear and he remained wrapped up in his bed. He often claimed it was illness, leading those around him to simply believe he was prone to sickness. These days were far from the worst to deal with.

The worst days were always the ones where he had enough energy that he couldn't justify staying in bed but none of the willpower to do anything more than the bare minimum. He'd drift through his day, doing everything he needed but hardly speaking, hardly smiling. He'd sit by himself and barely eat, knowing that everyone could tell something wasn't right. He couldn't decide if the sneering whispers or genuine concern were more painful.

At least this wasn't one of those days. He could tell James he was ill and leave it at that. Lying here letting the darkness smother him wasn't exactly a desirable option but it was all he could do.

"Anthony?" And now James was stood in his doorway looking so worried. It made Anthony's chest ache with the guilt of making him feel this way.

James approached, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. His expression was hard to look at and Anthony cast his eyes to the floor.

"One of those days, is it?" he asked softly, placing a gentle hand on Anthony's shoulder.

He wanted to recoil from the affection and care, tell James he was fine. His body stubbornly refused to move. He spoke before he could even think.

"I'm sorry."

"Hey, none of that. The enemy got you while you're weak but there's still time to turn this day around." James was almost beginning to sound like the Captain again but his voice stayed soft, loving. Anthony felt his lips quirk into a very small smile for a brief second.

And now James was pulling away the covers, much to Anthony's dismay. James just smiled fondly as he tugged lightly at Anthony's shoulder, encouraging but not forceful.

"Come on, up."

Anthony unwillingly did as he was told and dragged himself to sit upright, needing an extra supporting hand when his back pain tried to put the whole thing to a stop. He leaned against James' side, head resting on his shoulder.

"Right, first order of business would be breakfast, wouldn't it?" James' tone was light, as if the thought didn't make Anthony feel sick to his stomach.

"No." was his almost petulant reply, hiding his face in the crook of James' neck. "Not today, I just...I can't."

"Please? Anthony, you-"

"James." he pleaded, not having the energy to fight but still too stubborn to let go of his stance. He knew James found it troubling but this was yet another thing he had always struggled with.

Food was not just food, it carried expectations, judgement and anxiety. Expectations to react correctly, judgement at his failure to do so and the anxiety of getting it wrong again. An adverse response to an unexpected texture lead to social rejection, reprimand from authority and overall nothing good.

And that wasn't even mentioning the food itself. Sudden crunches in soft foods jolted through his teeth and sent his flesh crawling with fire. Tastes often could be more overpowering than anticipated and the only way to cease the screaming under his skin was to rock himself back and forth or shake his hands violently or just simply cry. None of these were acceptable behaviour so he either spent mealtimes with a rigid posture and nails digging into his palm to keep his feelings at bay or avoided them all together.

"Fine. Just...at least sit in the kitchen with me then?"

He let out a sigh, he wasn't going to win this battle, and nodded.

James smiled and his heart felt warm, even as the other stood from the bed, depriving Anthony of the physical contact. Before he could even protest, James' hands were in his.

"Come on, on your feet soldier."

His blood ran cold.

The whole battlefield seemed to grind to a halt, everything happening in slow motion. A grenade whistled through the air, soon to make it's deadly impact. A young soldier (and god, Havers didn't even remember his name), barely even 20, if Havers didn't do something he was going to die, he had to-

He made up his mind in a millisecond and he ran to the soldier in question. He shoved the young man as hard as he could to propel him away just as the grenade went off. The explosion roared in his ears as Havers was thrown off his feet. Pain seared through the left side of his face and everything suddenly snapped back into place and resumed its normal pace.

The landing was painful. He hit the ground with his right shoulder first and the impact sent shockwaves through his whole body. He managed to crack his eyes open but found he could only see out of one, warm blood running down his face and getting in his eye.

"Major!" A hand grabbed his shoulder and roughly dragged him to his feet, pulling a cry of pain from him. "Come on, on your feet soldier!"

"Anthony."

Havers gasped and opened his eyes. He was rocking back and forth and squeezing the Captain's hands tightly. Why was he holding the Captain's hands?

"Anthony, look at me."

He managed to drag his gaze from the floor up to the Captain's face. His stomach twisted oddly and he stared off to the side to make it stop. Faces were hard to look at right now.

"Are you back with me?"

Havers managed a halting nod. "Yes, sir."

The Captain frowned. Why was he upset?

Oh.

"James." he corrected quickly. "Yeah, I'm here James."

His lips turned into a smile and Anthony couldn't help but reciprocate.

James gently took him by the arm and pulled him to his feet, guiding him to the bedroom door. He wasn't sure why James felt the need to support him, he was perfectly able to walk, thank you. Although, he couldn't bring himself to oppose. The contact offered him a little comfort.

Even after so many of these days, he wasn't sure why James' kindness still shocked him. He couldn't quite squash the voice in the back of his mind that screamed that James would abandon him in a heartbeat and he was ashamed that part of him thought so low of the man.

They walked the familiar route down to their kitchen. Usually, James would start on the tea and Anthony would find something for their breakfasts. Instead, Anthony was situated at the table while James took on both tasks. Something in his stomach swirled uneasily at the disruption.

James reached to open the kitchen curtains and his heart rate suddenly spiked.

"Wait!" he couldn't stifle the shout before it fell from his mouth. James withdrew his hand liked he'd been burned and turned to look at his...friend. "Don't open the curtains...please."

And James just nodded in understanding. Sometimes it was easier to stay hidden.

-

James knew exactly what he was doing. Anthony was sure of it

A plate in the middle of the table. Four pieces of toast, all untouched. Two with butter, two with jam. Two for James, two for Anthony.

James wasn't eating his breakfast, merely sending a pointed look across the table and sipping his tea. He wasn't going to give in until Anthony did.

And maybe it took a five minute stand off for him to finally, begrudgingly, take a small bite from the corner of a piece of toast.

And maybe he felt better. But he would never admit that outloud.