#knowing this decision had been made; knowing when; knowing how hard its been against self blame and self hate

[draculuve]

.

[justporo]

So you'll see tomorrow

A/N: Seeing a beautiful piece of artwork by @velnna and listening to Half life by Livingston I got a very angsty idea for a drabble (so be warned, it's sad). This idea came to me first a while back listening to Just a Man (you know from *that* BG3 edit). @velnna as always thanks for letting me play with your son - and sorry I hurt him... Also thank you to Dad on Maf's discord server for the inspo for the final line.

Warnings: implied character death (but this is just an alternate timeline ok??), self sacrifice

~~~

So this was it.

This is how they would all die.

There was no way they would defeat the Netherbrain. All their endeavours that led them here, all for naught. Unless…

Staeve saw it in his eyes first. How their expression changed from swimming and hopeless to hardened and determined. Astarion’s brows drew together - the crease they created between them as sharp as his daggers he lifted up once more.

“Staeve.”

He had never heard his voice like this. The tone as sharp as a knife and hard as rock.

It scared him.

“I’m going to create an opening for you. Be ready.”

Fear dug its claws into Staeve’s throat, choking him, as he began to realise what was about to happen.

“No,” the half-drow whispered, weakly grabbing for his lover’s wrists with all of his remaining strength.

“Astarion, no! You can’t do this!”

Panic gave Staeve new power. Helped him to forcefully turn Astarion around to him. Helped him make his love stare into his eyes as he screamed at him again. And again.

He shook him, even making the daggers drop from his pale, blood-speckled fingers.

Staeve kept screaming, feeling his voice become hoarse, hot streams of tears washing away the grime and gore as they made their way down his face.

But as he kept throwing everything at Astarion he noticed ruby eyes remaining hard and unfaltering. The decision had been made.

The last of his strength went with his last drop of hope as Staeve’s hands fell weakly from Astarion’s. His legs gave up, knees hit the ground hard.

And only then did Astarion shift, taking a final step back before making the run-up.

He dropped down in front of Staeve who could only stare up at him anymore.

“Let me do this one thing right, Staeve,” he whispered solemnly, cupping his love’s face. “Just this once let me make things right.”

Staeve’s vision was blurred, his head swimming. But he still clearly saw the warmth in Astarion’s eyes as he leaned his forehead to Staeve’s.

Astarion’s hand wandered to the nape of his neck as he pressed his eyes closed. “Promise me, you’ll live for me, Staeve. To the fullest.” When the vampire opened his eyes again, Staeve was sure there were tears in Astarion’s eyes as well.

There was nothing in Staeve to do or say. He wasn’t in control of anything anymore it felt like. Not even his own body as he solely kept listening to Astarion’s final words.

“And promise me,” the vampire continued, voice breaking, “sometimes - when you sit in the sun - you’ll think of me, Staeve. Promise me.”

Astarion only waited only long enough for Staeve to weakly nod, seemingly the only thing he was still capable of.

Then he crushed his mouth to his lover’s, the motion so forceful their teeth crashed together.

Desperation had them kiss so hard it hurt, that it felt like perishing already. Astarion’s hand on Staeve’s neck pressed down so hard it felt like bones might crush. A single last breath was passed between them as their lips moved against each other as they tried to make this the most vivid moment they had ever experienced.

One so he could never possibly forget this final kiss - how it had felt.

The other so he would go to his end, with the taste of his lover on his lips.

When a small eternity ended and Astarion broke away he grabbed Staeve’s face a final time.

“I know in another life, I would have loved you forever,” Astarion uttered with a smile.

Then he let go, Staeve almost toppling over, suddenly void of anything still lifting him up.

Astarion grabbed his daggers, turned around with a last glance and a smirk - and then he leapt.

[ficandkaboodle]

Analyses of Most Ghost Characters be like…

Terzo was a tragic and extremely deep figure who, based off observations provided by his ghouls and Bishop Necropolitis, was a brilliant mind whose ideas were bastardized and squandered, which resulted in a disappointed and bitter husk of a man who still made an effort to display kindness. However, we will likely never truly know the full story of who he was because he lied so damn often.

Most of how we perceive Secondo is arguably the result of Sister badmouthing him as well as ghouls being brutally candid about how he acted in interviews. However, there’s reason to believe Secondo might’ve been just as multifaceted as Terzo, in that he wasn’t being his complete self to the audience. There’s evidence that could suggest Secondo did not enjoy being Papa in its entirety so much as the perks, which were ironically also hindered by him being Papa at the end of the day. It’s not hard to interpret him as someone who might not have enjoyed being a part of the bloodline at the end of the day because of what it meant he had to sacrifice.

Copia is a manchild, likely as a result of how he grew up: Orphaned, likely a social outcast, very likely undiagnosed. As a result, he might’ve become convinced that the only way to rise above it was to become someone worthy of adoration: Papa. But even after he ascended, his troubles didn’t stop: He had to learn his parentage, didn’t address the fact that his brothers were now dead, and spent the last few months he had with the woman he now knew was his mother dissociating because he developed a fear of death. This fear, mind you, that easily ties back into the theorized likelihood that he placed his self-worth into his success. And this is before getting into his willingness to be a puppet —

Papa Nihil’s complexities come in the form of his tendencies to escape reality and the consequences these brought. He was very likely an absent father, which would have had effects on his sons (say, attention-seeking tendencies; a distrust in authority; abandonment issues). In fact, the only things he seems to seek from his youth is his extremely short-lived music career and his unstable relationship with a woman who ultimately kept quiet about their son(s) they conceived together and ultimately played his lust and delusions against him to play nepotism. And by leaning into this, he got his own children killed. He only “became a father” after he died, and it’s sad that he actually seems his most lucid then. What’s all the more mind-boggling and makes you wonder about his tenure is his ability to be in the moment and try and convince Cardi to learn to do the same. It makes you curious: Was Nihil actually a good Papa when he wasn’t distracted?

Sister Imperator is willfully emotionally constipated and will justify it as being “for the good of the church”. She has definitely been affected by her decisions and what she’s done, from her relationship with Nihil to her giving up her babies and watching them at a distance, only interacting from a work standpoint. She lies, keeps secrets, has people killed off, all to tie her spawn into the position as Papa, which is curious considering her position means she’s already above the station of Papa. She does care about Cardi, but she doesn’t care for him the way he needs to be and, as a result, arguably only exacerbates his anxious tendencies. She’s an extremely interesting character but it’s so easy to water her down to just being manipulative and evil.

………………

Analyses of Primo —

Primo is fucking crazy man I don’t — Like, he might be a serial killer; he would punch a panda for profit; we aren’t even entirely certain he’s human like I would legit headcanon that Primo is a changeling and the fandom would run with it because what choice do we have, he honestly actually could be!!!

[lilacxquartz]

Those Late Summer Nights | Chapter 20

satoru gojo x f!reader x suguru geto

plot: moving to the city from a small town was no easy feat, especially to start teaching as a jujutsu sorcerer.

a/n: part 2, aka the continuation is now in process. warning for newcomers: this is a yandere story with dark (non-con, violence) themes. read on with caution. this story does not romanticise either concept.

masterlist • ao3 • chapter directory • < previous chapter • next chapter >

20. Promise

[3 months later]

You have never been one for goodbyes, but life as it had turned out, had already forced you to do so not once, but twice already.

The first time was voluntary; when you had left your sleepy hometown and the long-haunting corrupt influence far behind. It seemed like such a good decision back then, when you at long last, had obtained that prized referral to work at one of the country’s most prestigious Jujutsu institutions. It almost seemed too good to be true, and maybe that’s because it was, because, just like everything else in your life—all of the highs had to come down—inviting the lows to linger, to fester, to… rot.

The second time wasn’t by your own choice, however, but something far, far worse. If you were being honest, you couldn’t have made sense of your situation if you tried. Forced to flee from Tokyo following an obsession that went too far, the ever-lasting consequences of summer had consumed your life to the point where you were once again left a victim of an unrequited influence out of your control.

You’ve had plenty of time to think about just how exactly it all went wrong, too, and just for a while, you were happy to appoint the self-blame. In a twisted sense, you believed that it was your fault for trying to naively infiltrate a jaded world with such fresh hope. Maybe it was wrong of you to have dreamt of a better life; maybe you should never have tried with Jujutsu to begin with. Perhaps you should have taught the ordinary future generations of today because, it wasn’t like they didn’t matter, too. They were more responsible for future cursed energy than they even knew.

…But then again, how were you supposed to know that you were going to be so entangled between… them?

It wasn’t as though you set out to ruin your own life, after all. It was out of your control from the very second you let your guard down—from the moment that you placed your trust in the two people you shouldn’t have. That couldn’t have been on you, though. Surely not.

You did suppose, however, that in some sort of twisted sense, that your return to the city (albeit against your will) could have been considered a reunion of sorts when you were met with those chilling blue eyes once more. What was once a calm blue sea guiding the way now turned out to be a violent storm—its waves dragging you into the murky depths, anchoring you within it—but not quite letting you drown, at least not yet. You instead were trapped. Imprisoned in a floating limbo, forced to endure whatever… this… all was. It was humiliating, perhaps even insulting and you berated yourself mentally every single passing day for not fighting back against Satoru fucking Gojo when he confronted you back in Osaka, but then again, that same pressing question begged your rationality once more; how exactly were you ever supposed to go against someone like him to begin with?

Someone like him, who had the entire world of Jujutsu wrapped right around his finger.

As bleak as it all sounded, as harsh as the reality reigned true; you never had a chance to begin with, did you? Whether you ran away or stayed behind—it would have likely gone this way, because… after a summer of getting to know him, you of all people knew the truth (from learning it the hard way), that Satoru Gojo always got what he wanted.

You sighed as your eyes rolled back to glare at the fluorescent-lit ceiling, the pale flickering glow straining against your eyes. It was almost comedic with how dramatically it all came undone, like it was some sort of sick joke and you were the unsuspecting punchline right at the very end. Tokyo was supposed to be your fresh start away from the monotonous flow of small-town politics and its corrupt influence, so why on earth did it follow you here, too? You did everything right, after all, you studied hard and you persevered, you earned your place in the world, and just as it all finally began to fall into place… it unraveled. It was truly as though the string that you delicately wove through the passage of life was on its last thread, destined to snap from the moment it all connected.

(There was never a chance. There was always something in the way.)

You sat up, trying to avoid the light only to catch a flash of it reflected in the sleek black tiled floors. Closing your eyes in frustration, you tried to think back to the good times. You did suppose that the city was technically everything you had otherwise fantasised it to be; loud, noisy, and bustling with endless life. It was a far cry from the watchful and prying eyes of your quaint town. There was something… special about Tokyo because you were able to simply just… disappear, as one fleeting face of many, a living ghost blurring in and out of the crowd as you had pleased, free at last.

For it to have been taken away just from the introduction of three people, was almost hilarious. It was funny how that all worked. Just three people. Three.

Shoko, bless her heart, was your first real friend who guided you into the person that you desperately yearned to be. Someone both caring yet unrestricted from the confines of a sheltered former adolescence and then, guiding you into the further depths of it all, was… them.

Ah, Suguru Geto. If only you knew, huh? You laid back down with your head now slightly throbbing with a faint aura; the beginning of a migraine. These damned lights. So brooding and mysterious he was—it was a shame that he had to turn out the way that he did—a nightmare disguised as a dream. Was it your fault for admiring him from a distance initially? Did you somehow fall victim to some sort of manipulative act, when you found his calm, almost contemplative personality to be a comfort? His suffocating presence wasn’t something you could quite predict, after all, so possessive and longing, yet somehow subtly so. To have eluded the perceptive gaze of Shoko and even Satoru was almost impressive, but unsurprising because even he managed to fool you at times. Oh, how crazy he made you feel, even for just doubting him at all.

Then there was Satoru Gojo. Ah, Satoru, Satoru, Satoru… Oh, so ever loud and energetic, Satoru… Truth be told, you found him overwhelming at first, but there was a certain quality of his that drew you in. He was good at both carrying the conversation as well as involving you within it, making you feel special when the attention landed on you for just a second and dare you say, even… validated. Just like Suguru however, he couldn’t keep up the act for very long, though, even if he did crumble last. In some ways, he was the most volatile one out of both of them, because beyond that playful facade that he let on, was something else that bubbled and simmered beneath the surface. It was hard to tell at times, but it was certainly there.

Something that wasn’t quite calm, but maybe tender. Something that was… vulnerable and whatever it was, it made him dangerous to be around.

So in the end, if you had to truly reflect, then maybe it was all three of you that were at fault.

All three of you were that were victims of losing yourself in an attempt to look for something meaningful in that endless, unforgiving city. All three of you were subjected to the quickly fleeting addiction that you could never quite hold onto, of being both seen and understood. It was no wonder that you opened up too quickly and too soon, slipping on that pair of rose-tinted glasses longer than you should have. Maybe if you took them off when you had the chance, then you too, could have been yet another passing soul in and out of their lives, but you weren’t.

You got attached and so did they, and now, for a lack of better words, it wasn’t just your life that was ruined, but theirs too. All together, the three of you floated around in an unending, aimless drift, leaving Shoko to pick up the pieces (as usual).

The migraine faded and never thankfully developed, but you still grimaced at the light that flickered all the same. He was home, but not close just yet. All of those riches that lined his pockets and he couldn’t afford to screw in a better bulb for the lights or at least opt for something warmer and less clinical. You wanted to punch that light, to let it shatter and paint the room in a much-needed night, but you couldn’t. So instead, you were illuminated and exposed, plunged into the spotlight, forced to look at the pretty little cell he had confined you to.

Such continuous misery left you wondering if your life could have been… maybe… better if you followed Suguru. In a way, you missed his pretty lies because he at least tried to offer you comfort and see you for who you truly were, but he also hurt you, so you couldn’t forgive him. Twice. He hurt you twice and yet, your mind still drifted to him at times. Why? You couldn’t make sense of it—of him—of the very same man who despite forcing you to bury your past behind and move on—surely had an issue with never letting you go, with never letting anything that ever happened to you… go.

Did this therefore make Satoru better or worse? You didn’t even know anymore. They were both equal runner-ups for the worst human being, that much was for certain. Suguru may have been involved from the start, but he was nothing like Satoru, who was always watching right from the start, more closely than you, or anyone else had ever known. Those burning blue eyes so focused yet serene, locked on you in a way that almost felt invasive. If Suguru was the storm, then Satoru must have been the cataclysm itself.

Devastating. Consequential. Unforgiving.

Indeed, you were never free.

All of the hope, all of the dreams—everything else that fell in between—none of it was ever real.

The only thing that had ever remained consistent throughout this whole experience was the part where Satoru told you that he would never, ever let you go.

The lights above you were now starting to buzz and crackle, fading in and out with every muffled thud. He was approaching. Suddenly, you regretted spending so much time reflecting on the aftermath of your life yet again, knowing that you had spent yet another day moping around, thinking of them, of him… knowing fully well that you were never truly alone.

Satoru would reunite with you every night, on clockwork, never late and always on time.

His voice was calm, always welcoming yet never inviting. You always found yourself flinching as he greeted you, wanting nothing more than to be left alone for the night. Just one night was all you asked him for—it was all you begged for at one point—for him to not talk to you, for him to not… touch you. A single night was all that you asked for, a break from having to play pretend.

“Ah, [name],” Satoru cooed, lowering an unwinding staircase that revealed a mocking glimpse of the room just above. A faint reminder of just how close the surface was, yet so inaccessible. The entrance operated on a motor, using some sort of secret code. There was a dial pad inside of the basement he kept you in as a failsafe just in case it locked him in, but try as you might to crack the code, you never guessed it right and every time you failed, it sent an alert to him. “You haven’t moved an inch from where I left you last! Didn’t I tell you about the importance of needing to stretch, even if it’s just for a minute or two a day?”

“Please just let me go,” you croaked out weakly, knowing that he wasn’t going to oblige, let alone even humour you.

Predictably ignoring your request, he walked over to you, setting down a plain white plastic bag right where you lay, strategically positioning it so that you could spot your favourite snacks and drinks poking out.

“It’s been a hell of a long day, you know,” he continued, adopting a softer tone that almost sounded hopeful, “did you miss me?”

You closed your eyes in an attempt to block him out. “You already know the answer to that one, don’t you?”

Satoru snorted a half-laugh, seeming annoyed but also amused. “You’ll have to admit it one day, [name],” he reminded, “the sooner you learn to… adapt, the sooner it’ll start to look up for you, and maybe, just maybe…” he trailed off, letting the beginning of a promise hang, “I’ll let you see your friends again, maybe I’d even let you see… him,” he paused as he said that last word, his composed demeanour ever so slightly faltering at the indirect mention of Suguru, “so, what do you say?”

You repeated the same answer you always did, “Never, Gojo,” you sighed, already expecting the worst as he took up the free seat next to you on the sofa, settling right where your head lay.

You felt a cold shocking jolt run through your body as his cold hands cupped your face, tilting your head up to meet with his longing yet intense stare. He would do such a thing on occasion, hoping that you would return even a hint of the way you once looked at Suguru before, and yet you didn’t. In your eyes, there was resentment but also, if he looked hard enough, fear.

“What have I told you about being so formal, huh?” he murmured, scoffing a little, “we’ve been over this, you’ll call me Satoru and we’re… we’re going to make this work,” he reminded you, trying to maintain his composure, “I’m not letting you go either way, so you’re going to have to drop that at some point, because like it or not, it’s not up to you how it all goes… it never has been.”

You blinked, unable to reply.

Satoru’s eyes softened for a moment, revealing a hint of internally conflicting vulnerability, maybe even traces of guilt glinting in his stare. “We’ll play pretend for as long as we have to, yeah? We’ll make all of it feel real one day.”

His words cut sharp even if it was just a reminder of something you already knew, that there was some sort of unseen force meddling in the sidelines of your life, forcing you to endure whatever life had in store for you, even if it meant pretending that it was all okay.

One thing did bother you, though.

A question that you looped over and over in the back of your mind and yet you never did dare ask him, as if afraid to hear the answer.

If he was simply fulfilling his promise to never let you go…

…Then why was he punishing you for being here?

[monimccoythings]

Till We Meet Again

Sequel to The way we were. I want it to turn it into a brief saga I'm just trying to figure out what I want to do. These are just some silly drabbles.

I just love one Logan trope and I swear you'll see it on almost every fic I post.

Word Count: 1131

Tags: implied alcoholism, f!reader, swearing.

Part 1

It took him several days before he mustered the courage to sneak inside Wade's bedroom. Fucker wouldn't waste a chance to invite him in, he'd be overjoyed if he found out he had been snooping around.

Honestly, Wade's room was as insane as its owner, posters and figurines of colorful ponies and cartoons decorated the walls and shelves. How could a grown ass man have a room like that was something he would never understand. The cherry on top would be the Disney sheets that he wouldn't even dare to touch with a ten foot pole. He could already smell what happened in there. It made him gag.

But he had to do it.

He needed to.

Over the course of those days he had gathered as much information as he could about the you of this world. Just to mentally prepare himself about what was coming.

Turns out you had been that universe's Logan's wife, and had perished in his arms while protecting him and Laura. No wonder she never talked about you. It was hard enough for him to even think about it, despite not knowing personally this other you.

Cold sweat formed on his skin at the thought of his version of you having shared the fate of this Y/N back in his universe. Would he be able to live with it. Would he spiral into another rampage of serial killing, self depreciation and alcoholism?

He looked at the pack of beers on the counter, his mouth felt dry. Maybe taking one would keep those thoughts away from his mind. Just numb him enough to think clearly. Alcohol had always been there for him in his darkest moments. The only constant in his life.

A flash of your tear-streaked face as his claws pressed against your neck crossed his mind.

He shook his head.

No.

'Stop trying to drown your problems with alcohol and fucking man up!'

One single look at the wedding band in his hand told him everything he needed to know to make a decision.

He touched the screen of that watchamacallit Wade had stolen.

Just one peek.

One peek and he would be satisfied.

Liar

When he stepped through that portal, he felt like a city boy that after being away for years finally returned back to his hometown. Everything was different, despite having been in that universe his entire life he found himself not having missed it at all.

Now, the only thing that tied him to that place was you.

He cursed loudly. It had been ten years since he had seen you. There was no way to know if you were still living in the same place, or the same city. Hell, he didn't even know if you had swapped jobs.

Fucking great, all this stress for nothing. He felt like an idiot. All of this had been a huge mistake. He should just-

A sudden memory came to him. There was this little shop, not very far away from where he had landed, you always loved to spend your free time there, and drag him along if you could. How much he had hated it back then, now he wished he could just spend one more Sunday morning there with you.

If he could get a whiff of your scent, maybe he could track you down and take a look.

He's just checking, he reminds himself. To make sure you are having a good life.

─────────────────────ⓧ─────────────────────

It didn't take him long to find it. It was faint, but it was still there.

His nose led him to a neighborhood in the deepest part of the Bronx. His brow furrowed in disgust, he didn't like that place at all; it smelled like burnt meat and bodily fluids. How could you live in a place like this? It made the dump he was sharing with Wade and Althea look like fucking Buckingham Palace in comparison.

You shouldn't be living there.

You were not made for a place like that.

He could- he could what? He tried to stop that train of thought, he really did. He wasn't allowed to think like that. Not anymore.

He could give you so much more.

He stops in front of what he assumes it's your building, nose crinkling in a sneer. He never had been one for fancy places, but goddamn it, you were way better set off when you two were together. One one corner you had piles of trash that overloaded the dumpster, and in the other you had some junkie recovering from his last trip. Charming.

*thump thump* *thump thump*

His head snapped up. He could hear your heartbeat coming down the stairs. He always joked that he could find you in a crowd just by your heartbeat. All the bravery he had gathered suddenly left him. He couldn't meet you face to face. It was for the best. Just looking from the alleyway would suffice.

Another beating joined yours, hopefully a neighbor. Becuase Logan didn't think he could handle as gracefully as he should seeing you with a new partner. Not without drawing blood.

His breath caught on his throat when you finally emerged from the building.

There you were, time had been nothing but kind to you. Besides some little wrinkles around your eyes and few grey hairs, you still remained as youthful as the day he had pushed you away. Your hair was shorter, and you seemed to have put on a bit more weight, which, honestly, looked great on you. His mouth watered when he saw the considerably fuller breasts pushing against the top of your nurse uniform.

Fuck you looked ravishing.

His hands twitched, wanting to run them all over your newfound curves.

It took every single amount of his willpower to refrain himself from lunging and taking you right there and there. He licked his lips in anticipation. His inner animal getting ready for the chase.

You looked at him and that had the same effect as a bucket of cold water. The smile on your face vanished, leaving only an unsure expression in its place. You took a step back using your arm to protectively shield whoever was behind you.

As much as he tried to understand your completely reasonable reaction, he couldn't deny how much it hurt his feelings watching you pale with dread at the sight of him.

Unconsciously, he took a step forwards. His heart breaking when he saw you take another step back. The animal in him was seething with rage and hurt at your rejection and he had serious doubt he could do anything to calm it down.

There would be no time to dwell on that, because after that he saw who was hidden behind you.

It was a child.

[eyelinerandmcr]

𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭?

Pairing: Virgin!Basement Era!Gerard Way x AFAB!Reader Summary: You and Gerard have been best friends for four years. After years of ignoring your crush on him due to your feelings of inadequacy, it begins to seem like maybe he likes you as well...but like always, your personal issues seem to get in the way. Warnings: Gerard is a complete and total virgin but its implied reader is not, oral sex (M receiving), P in V sex, high school AU but they're both 18, lots of angst, kinda slow burn, self-hatred, substance abuse and reader is depressed if you squint, drug use (not by Gee or reader), making out Word Count: 6.5k

If you had been different, you would have kissed Gerard by now. 

This thought flashed constantly through your mind every time you were around him. And there were times where you thought you might anyway. Times where you were with him in his basement bedroom as he ranted about the latest cartoon he was watching, curled up on the opposite side of the couch as he was. When it would have been so easy to lean over and place your lips on his, rake your hands through his hair, maybe push yourself into his lap. Maybe do more. 

But you never did. Because the thing was, Gerard was the sweetest person you knew. Gerard, who you had met the second day of freshman year when you’d dropped your lunch on the floor in the cafeteria, who had helped you clean up the mess while other students stepped around you or snickered. Gerard, who despite his shy nature had quickly become one of your best friends. Gerard, who would always lend you his sweater if you were cold, knowing even if you didn’t say anything. Who you would rant and cry to about failed romance after failed romance, relationships you knew didn’t work out mainly because of your poor decisions, who would pick you up late at night when you got drunk at some random house party and needed a ride home. Gerard, who was loving and gentle. And you were a mess.

You already felt bad enough about how much he cared for you, knowing you could never truly reciprocate everything he did for you. You knew there was something deeply wrong with you that never allowed you to truly care for someone else in a healthy way. Dragging him into your messy life further than he already was, surely would not result in anything good happening. You loved so hard and overbearingly, and you were scared to drown Gerard—Who you knew had never had a girlfriend, let alone had his first kiss. So how would he be able to handle you? You didn’t wonder about this in an egotistical way. You didn’t believe you were a catch, anything particularly special, in fact you felt quite the opposite. You simply couldn’t imagine a boy as pure and innocent and kind as him not getting overwhelmed by you. 

If you had been different, you would have kissed Gerard by now. But you would settle for stolen stares and brief, fleeting touches that meant nothing. There was no harm in that, right?

On Saturday afternoons, you would go over to Gerard’s house, spending the afternoon doing homework and watching horror movies. You would never admit it, but it was what you looked forward to the most every week. The thought of having to go home at the end of the day felt nearly unbearable every time. One day in February, he was walking you home after several pleasant hours of slasher movies and pizza, the winter air crisp, sharp against your lungs. You buried yourself into your coat, eyes flitting over to him.

The pale sunlight cast against his skin made him look undeniably beautiful. In that moment, you wanted to throw caution into the wind and kiss him, to not care about any consequences that may come with the action. These thoughts caused your eyes to flicker down to his lips, an action that unbeknownst to you, he caught, his cheeks dusting a light pink. Your gaze snapped away from his face and onto the ground in front of you when you realized Gerard had stopped talking about his theory about the next Scream movie. You were saved from the awkwardness by arriving at your front door. 

You turned to him. “Thanks for walking me,” you said quietly, even though he always did. You stepped forward and gave him a hug, his arms carefully wrapping around your back. He was so gentle. He was always so gentle, and it made your heart squeeze painfully. You pulled away after a moment and looked up at him, his hands immediately leaving your body as you did. He looked slightly flustered. You tried to act as if that alone didn’t make you want to pull him in and—

“I’ll see you at school on Monday,” he mumbled, ruffling your hair awkwardly before turning around and walking away without a glance back at you. You watched him go for a moment before entering your house, shutting out the cold but also the chance to stare at him a little longer. Not that that would do you any good.

It was so frustrating. You were trying, trying so hard to ignore your feelings, but the way Gerard was acting was making it nearly impossible to do so. Whenever you felt like you had successfully pushed down your crush, he did something to remind you of it again. The two of you had been close for years, but the way he looked at you sometimes, especially recently, felt different.

You would catch him staring every so often, while you were doing your homework at his kitchen table or watching a movie. It made you wonder if he felt about you the way you felt about him. Which sent you down another spiral. With all your issues, did he genuinely believe you were worth it? You hoped that he did while simultaneously telling yourself it didn't matter in the first place, that there was no chance he even thought of you that way.

The following Monday at school, you saw him only briefly in the halls, but the slightly tense moment the two of you had shared on Saturday kept you from speaking to him, opting instead to look away quickly as you tried to hide the blush that would creep onto your skin. However, you and Gerard had been paired together for a small project in Chemistry.

Luckily, he seemed unfazed by the interaction that weekend. Unfortunately for your workflow, he received the latest issue of Fangoria the previous night, so his rambling about it distracted you from actually working on the assignment. When the bell rang, he was still speaking about the magazine. 

“Shit. We didn’t finish the worksheet, did we,” he said with an embarrassed huff, pushing some hair behind his ear. You smirked at him, amused.

“No, we did not. But you did manage to spoil the entirety of the new Fangoria for me,” you responded teasingly, bumping his shoulder gently with yours.

He blushed slightly. “Oh. Sorry.” He said sheepishly. “We can go to my house after school and finish it. The worksheet. If you’re free,” sounding a bit more nervous than he usually did when he asked you to come over.

You agreed, and parted ways for the rest of the day. After school, he was waiting for you by the main entrance, his hair messy as it always was, his eyes squinted and darting around, searching for you. You waved and ran up to him, absentmindedly wrapping your hand around his upper arm as you began to walk next to him.You could have sworn the tips of his ears flushed at the contact, but ignored it. It could’ve just been the cold. 

His hand tentatively reached around your lower back, resting respectfully on the side of your hip. Your heart began to beat a little faster than normal. He usually wasn’t very touchy, even though you were—not like you minded. 

After the two of you had finished the worksheet, you spent the afternoon together drawing, sitting on opposite sides of his bed together, the soft sound of the radio playing in the background. You felt Gerard’s gaze constantly flickering over to you, making it hard to focus on your sketch of the view outside his window, something you’d drawn a numerous amount of times. After a while, you became restless, distracted by his eyes on you, and set your sketchbook aside. “What’re you drawing?” You asked him suddenly, looking to him.

He immediately glanced away from you, his face turning a slight pink, trying to subtly tilt his sketchbook away from you. “Nothing,” he said unconvincingly, which piqued your interest even more. You wondered what he possibly could be sketching that he didn’t want you to see.

“Come on, please?” When he didn’t budge, you leaned over to see what he had been working on. Your eyes widened as you saw what it was.

You. He was drawing you. Curled up against his bed frame, your eyes narrowed in concentration. He had captured your essence perfectly, as if he’d studied you for so long that he was able to meticulously catch your energy and place it onto a piece of paper. The realization seemed to enter your bloodstream and curl its way into your heart, flooding you with a dreaded hope that you already knew wasn’t going to do any good. You didn’t speak, just looked up at him. Neither of you dared to break the silence, the eye contact you were holding intense enough to drown out any thoughts.

His widened eyes flickered down to your lips. Once. Twice. You had been leaning forward to see the drawing, your weight on your arms in front of you, and in the back of your mind you registered that your palms were pressed into the mattress on either side of his body. The two of you were so close you could feel his breath on your skin. Noses almost brushing, lips almost meeting, causing a tingling sensation of anticipation across your skin. Almost. Out of nowhere, you got a startling snap of reality. Almost there, but not quite enough. You were not enough. Not enough to lean forward just a couple more inches.

As his eyelids began to flutter shut, you suddenly felt just as embarrassed as he’d looked when you’d asked to see his drawing, warmth spreading to your cheeks. You retreated at the last moment, clearing your throat. “Um. It’s good. It looks good. The drawing,” you stumbled over your words.

Gerard looked confused as you spoke, and you wished you hadn’t seen the flicker of disappointment across his features. “The drawing,” he repeated, blinking slowly. “Thanks.” 

“I should go,” you said after a heavy silence. He opened his mouth to speak, but you were already gathering your things and heading for the stairs to leave the basement. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” were your final words as you retreated from the room. You didn’t turn back, no matter how much you wanted to. As you trudged home, countless thoughts were swirling through your brain. The further you walked from his house, the further you separated yourself from the possibilities the afternoon could have held. You could have kissed Gerard. The boy who you’d been yearning for since the beginning of high school, for four years. Who was kinder than any guy you’d ever been with, but the only one you were scared of kissing.

You could easily imagine his lips against yours, how gentle they’d be, but also the thoughts that were bound to flood your mind if that were to happen. You knew you’d feel like you were taking something away from him, you knew you’d feel as if his untouched lips deserved someone better than you to share a first kiss with. That night, you tossed and turned in bed, not able to get the sketch he’d made of you out of your head. The flawless portrayal of your facial expression and body language made you wonder if maybe this wasn’t the first time he’d drawn you. Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought. 

Gerard was too good for you. This was something you’d believed for a long time. But for some reason, you still couldn’t shake the feeling that you should have leaned in. To his face, to your desires, to the opportunity that had quite literally been right in front of you. 

Throughout the next few days at school, you avoided him as much as possible. Which deemed to not be so difficult, seeing as he seemed to be doing the same to you. That bothered you more than it should have. You wanted him to speak to you, ask you why you weren’t talking to him, beg you to. But the thought of going up to him made your stomach drop. It was a clear paradox, just like everything revolving around how you felt about him. He made your head spin, and it was impossible to shut him out of it.

After several days of your mind being clouded by him, you turned to the most idiotic solution for your emotional turbulence, but not an uncommon one for you—going to a shitty house party, one that nearly all your friends were headed to. However, doing your makeup and choosing your outfit while blasting music, lying to your parents and saying you were going to sleep over at a friend's house, hopping on your bike and heading over to the party, didn’t give you the same adrenaline rush it usually did. The intention of getting drunk and dancing with your sweaty classmates and most likely hooking up with one of them didn’t entice you for once, nor divert your thoughts of Gerard, leaving you distracted and off kilter.

You mindlessly left your bike on its side in the front yard, wandering into the party. You allowed yourself to be drawn in and out of conversations for an hour and a half or so, trying to slow yourself down from immediately rushing to the drink table. Just as you were about to pour yourself a cup of a crappy vodka bound to get you tipsy quick, a strange guy you recognized from your gym class approached you and somehow got his grimy fingers on the alcohol bottle. 

“Here, let me get that for you,” he said with a dumb smirk, making the drink for you, of course managing to spill some in the process, you noticed with irritation. You had to resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead giving him a tight lipped smile as he handed you the red solo cup which you knew you were going to throw away the moment you were out of his line of vision.

Unfortunately for you, he began to follow you around as you weaved through the crowd of people, searching for a familiar face that would help you escape the guy who was still speaking, seemingly not noticing or not caring about your obvious disinterest in him. Eventually, you told him you needed to go to the bathroom, and you were finally able to slip from his sight. You managed to leave through the front door, annoyed that your night had been spoiled, ready to risk stealing a bottle of your parents liquor to sooth your craving for intoxication instead of spending another minute in that house.

You walked toward where you were sure you’d left your bike, only to see it wasn’t there. Frantically, you searched for it, to your dismay finding it rammed against the side of the garage with a group of incredibly drunk kids around it, the one lying on the ground next to the bike obviously the culprit of crashing it. It truly was not fun to be sober around non-sober people, you thought at that moment, bitterly wishing you’d been able to get drunk before that boy had started to throw himself at you. You ran up to the group, cursing and upset, though they were too inebriated to acknowledge you or care. You pushed past them and kneeled down to examine your bike that was clearly broken. It was fixable, but at the moment unrideable, causing you to mutter another string of curses. 

To the best of your ability, you dragged the bicycle to the sidewalk in front of the house, sitting down on the concrete next to it with a huff. You supposed you could ask someone at the party to give you a ride home, but most of the kids would be too intoxicated to drive. Then, there was the problem of explaining to your parents why the sleepover you had been at had ended prematurely. You had been relying on spending the night with a hook-up or one of your friends.

But you would have to seek someone out. Going back inside to ask to spend the night with someone meant having to deal with that creepy guy again, standing by on the lawn for someone you recognized to leave was not an option due to how cold out it was, and besides, your appetite for partying—and waiting—had dwindled to be nearly non-existent. You chewed your bottom lip as you faced the only real solution you could think of—calling Gerard. He’d picked you up at parties countless times, but this wasn’t the same, right?

You weren’t drunk, for one. It was different. Everything had felt different the past few days. In fact, that was the problem. It would’ve felt easier to call if you hadn’t nearly shared a kiss the last time you’d seen each other, if you hadn’t pulled away from him. As you rang his number, you wondered if he’d even pick up.

He did. He always did. His voice was clearly raspy with sleep as he answered the phone. “Hello?” 

You sucked in a breath before speaking. “Hey. It’s me. I was at a party and this gross guy wouldn’t leave me alone, then some fucknut broke my bike and I can't fix it and I don't have another way to get home. I just—”

“It’s okay. I’ll come get you,” he said in his soft voice. “Where are you?” 

You were surprised but also deeply comforted by his response to your predicament, behaving as he always was when you were in a situation like this. A part of you had expected him to act differently than he usually did, given the current state your friendship had been in, but you realized in that moment how much you’d overlooked just how much Gerard cared for you, causing an cascading wave of emotions to crash over you, so intense that you had to take a moment to respond to his question.

“The Johnson’s. I’ll check the house number.” He stayed on the phone until he knew exactly where to find you. “Thank you,” you said quietly, your tone almost guilty. You heard the sound of his engine revving up, knowing he’d be there soon.

“Of course,” he responded in a gentle tone that made you want to cry. A part of you wished he wasn’t so caring. If he was less forgiving, less tender, the thought of him waking up late at night to come get you wouldn’t’ve made you feel so bad. You hung up the phone, and waited, huddled on the corner for the next fifteen minutes, shivering slightly—your thin sweater not doing much to keep the cold from eating away at you.

Relief washed over you when Gerard’s familiar car turned around the corner. You stood up, a weak smile on your face. He parked and got out, walking over to you, his expression unreadable. God, he was so beautiful. Even though he’d already taken the action of coming to get you, you were a bit nervous about how he’d treat you after several days of not speaking to one another. “Hi.” you said awkwardly, the one word spoken almost as a question, your arms wrapped around your body in an attempt to maintain some warmth. He gave you a small smile in greeting which further relieved you of your worries of where your friendship stood. However, they didn’t disappear fully.

Your mind flashed back to his hurt expression after you’d pulled away from him the other day. He noticed your physical state and took off his jacket, placing it over your shoulders without a word, before bending over to pick up your broken bike. You buried your face in the coat, inhaling the familiar smell of magazine paper and coffee, overwhelmed with gratitude at his kindness, the way he acted even after days of you ignoring him. “I can help—” you began as he carried your bike to his trunk. But he cut you off with a shrug, placing it carefully in the car. 

“Come on, let's get you home,” he spoke softly.

You slid into the passenger seat, as he did the same on the driver’s side. You bit down on the inside of your cheek before saying, “Gee, I told my parents I was staying over at a friend’s house tonight.” A silence, similar to the one after your near kiss a few days ago, settled over the two of you for a moment. 

“You…can stay at mine,” he said, in a voice that seemed cautious, anticipatory, even though you’d had sleepovers before. You smiled a little, despite yourself, as you thanked him. The ride was quiet, the only sound a soft mixtape of The Smiths and David Bowie songs on low volume that you’d heard many times before. It was strange, to be surrounded by so many familiar things in an atmosphere that felt so utterly different than it had for several years, that had been changed in only a matter of days.

You glanced at him as he drove, wondering if was contemplating the same thing, as he had a thoughtful gleam in his eyes, though they stayed on the road. You wanted to ask. You wanted him to turn around and drive you back to the party, so you could drown your feelings in alcohol and not have to deal with them till the next morning. You wanted to scream at him for acting like nothing was different. You wanted to make him pull over and press your lips to his. But you stayed quiet, opting just to admire his face rather than act on any impulsive emotions, which you registered was very unlike you.

You shook off your musings as you pulled into Gerard’s driveway. Your brain was still slightly muddled, so you barely noticed when he got out of the car and was quickly over at your side, opening your door for you. Your heart squeezed in your chest. He never stopped being kind to you, regardless of how you treated him. You followed him into the house, the silence between you ensuing. It would be comforting if there wasn’t so much you wanted to say. You walked down the stairs to his bedroom, the familiarity relaxing you, making you feel better than you had in days.

You plopped down on his bed, where the two of you had almost kissed. It irritated you how that was all you could think about. You tried to ignore that fact, and the pressing question of if you’d be sleeping in his bed tonight, or upstairs on the couch like you usually did when you slept over. It wouldn’t have even been something you were wondering about if the air wasn’t thick with tension. In the dark room, you watched Gerard’s silhouette move over to his dresser and pull out a pair of shorts and a shirt for you to use as pajamas, walking towards you with the clothes in his hand.

He sat next to you, and you turned to look at his face, highlighted only by the moon, as you took the bundle in your hands. “Will you ever stop doing nice things for me?” you tried to joke, but coming off much more serious and desperate than you’d meant to. His face flushed, his hand tentatively reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. You could hear your heartbeat as his hand brushed lightly against your cheek.

“No,” he whispered, his tone mirroring the sincerity in yours. His eyes caught yours, and you couldn’t help but be reminded of a few days prior when you were in nearly this exact same position. His head dipped down slightly, perhaps subconsciously, and this time you didn’t pull away. Still, you didn’t close the gap fully, allowing the question to hang in the air, allowing him to make the final decision. 

As he finally leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, you expected your mind to be met with a churning storm of guilt for taking Gerard’s first kiss, images of arguments and tears, of his back turned away from you as you inevitably did something to hurt him. But no, you instead tasted coffee and the promise of something real that you couldn’t quite grasp and somehow didn’t feel the need to in the moment. Instead of fear, you felt his gentle hands on you; one on your cheek, the other resting gingerly on your hip. He pulled away after a moment, searching your face anxiously.

“Is…was that good?” he breathed. You nodded in response, too desperate for your hands to be on him to give him a teasing remark, and shortly after, your lips met his again, your fingers finding their way to his hair, while your other hand cupped the back of his neck. The kiss was soft, exploratory on his behalf, his arm snaking around your waist slowly. Your tongue swiped across his bottom lip before entering his mouth, eliciting a small moan from him.

The sound dizzied you, and your worries of ruining Gerard’s innocence immediately left your head. He wrapped his arms tighter around you, gently pushing you down onto the bed. You were slightly surprised by his forwardness, given that this was his first kiss—his first anything—but it was not unwelcome. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he continued to kiss you. You bit down gently on his bottom lip, the kiss still soft, the nip only an encouragement for him to do more. His hand slipped under your shirt, palm pressed against your abdomen. 

With the kiss turning more heated, you supposed it would be best to leave your assumptions behind, as this night had consistently proved you wrong; the party hadn’t saved you from your distracted mind, kissing Gerard hadn’t been as scary as you thought, and he was infinitely less timid than you would have guessed, seeing as he was on top of you with his hand up your shirt. The kiss became more passionate, your legs wrapping around his waist.

As you did this, he shifted slightly, trying to hide his obvious erection, instead doing the opposite by making you aware of it. Your breath hitched slightly, hand wandering south. He pulled away for a moment, watching your hand and mumbling against your lips, “I’ve never, um. Done anything before,” (despite the fact that you knew) but making no move to stop what you were doing. You stopped the movement of your hand at his words.

“Do you want to?” you whispered.

“Please. D-don't stop,” he responded, voice trembling with need as he moved his kisses down your jaw. You pushed down his sweatpants with his help, his boxers following shortly after. His breath hitched as your fingers wrapped around him, letting out a shaky moan. After a few pumps of your hand, you pulled back, and he let out a slight whimper at the loss of contact. 

“C’mon, sit on the edge of the bed for me,” you said in a soft tone, almost as if you were trying not to scare him away. He got up off of you and moved, and you slid onto the ground between his legs, shifting onto your knees in front of him. Gerard looked down, biting his lip slightly. There was no arrogant smirk or over-confident facial expressions written across his features, the way most guys were in a situation with a girl on their knees in front of them. He instead stared at you with tenderness, lust evident in his gaze but not the main nor most noticeable aspect of it. He seemed nearly startled that he was even in this position, but incredibly willing at the same time—not just willing to be here with any person, but with you.

The thought caused something within you to twist in a way you couldn’t decide made you feel guilty or not. You didn’t want to be worrying right now, when you were finally between the legs of the guy you’d had a crush on for years. You pulled him in by the front of his shirt, giving him a quick kiss before moving your attention down to his dick that was leaking precum, desire swirling in your gut.

You leaned in, licking it off, which caused him to let out a sharp whine, his fingers digging into the sheets on either side of him. You smirked slightly, wetting his cock with your tongue before your lips wrapped around it, beginning to suck him off. He began to breathe heavily, his head tilting back slightly, eyes squeezed shut. 

“Fuck…” he groaned, your name escaping his lips shortly after. His trembling hand went to the back of your head, not pulling your hair but gently holding onto it like he was scared of hurting you, a subtle action that made your heart twinge.

“Is this alright?” he asked between broken breaths, opening his eyes to look into yours. You pulled away for a moment, murmuring a quick yes, before delving back in, mouth moving with purpose, drawing more noises from his throat, his fingers in your hair tightening slightly as his eyelids shut again. You pushed your head further down, eliciting a string of words that bordered on nonsensical from Gerard. This encouraged you further, taking as much of him in your mouth as he could, his tip hitting the back of your throat as you bobbed your head. You weren’t thinking about anything anymore, your only goal to draw as many sounds from him as you could, barely stopping for air as his moans grew louder. His hips began to buck up to meet your mouth, clearly beginning to lose control.

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbled, face flushing.

You let out a small laugh, “It’s okay. I don’t mind,” which seemed to reassure him, his face screwing up in pleasure as you continued. Your heartbeat raced, your only thought was his pleasure. Occasionally he would whisper small words of shy praise between his gasps and moans. After a few more minutes, his whole body was trembling.

“M’gonna—” he gasped out, the hand that wasn't in your hair digging further into his sheets. He finished with your name in his mouth, his cum shooting down your throat. You swallowed it, licking up the remainders along his length as he stared down at you in almost disbelief, still breathing heavily. 

“Would you come here?” he whispered to you, and as you stood up from your kneeling position, he gently pulled you into his lap, arms wrapping around you. He buried his face in your neck.

“God, that was—Thank you,” he said sheepishly against your skin, planting a small kiss against your shoulder. A soft smile spread across your face at his shyness that didn’t fully leave despite his sudden bursts of confidence. Gerard lifted his head up, eyes flickering to your lips as he drew you in to kiss you again. It soon became more intense, and he led you onto your back where you’d been before.

After a moment, he reached for the buttons on your jeans, looking at you for permission. You were slightly surprised, expecting the night’s activities to have ended at the blowjob, perhaps a bit more kissing and nothing more. However, you were not opposed to the idea of it, nodding for him to continue. He kissed your lips again, whispering a small thank you, before gently undoing the buttons and pushing your jeans down. You kicked them off, before reaching up and pulling off your shirt, now just left in your bra and underpants. 

Gerard’s fingers lightly grazed over your clothed core, then traced light patterns across your bare body as his lips met yours again, your back arching up slightly to help him as he fumbled with your bra clasp. You giggled slightly at the moment that would have been awkward had it been anyone else, causing him to blush as he finally unhooked it, pulling the nylon fabric off your body. He left small nips and kisses between and across your breasts, drawing shivers from you, before kissing you once more. A brush of his bare skin against yours had you craving more.

“D’you have any condoms?” you asked, leaving a peck on his clavicle.

“Yeah. Yes,” he mumbled breathlessly, reaching over to the drawers by his bed and pulling one out.

Once he rolled it on, you kissed him again, and spoke softly, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

He nodded, his hand brushing against your hip. “I…I’ve thought about it before. A lot,” he admitted, and even in the dark you could see his face turn red, making you smile. “I really want to.”

“Me too,” you said, shifting yourself under him slightly. He inhaled, planting a final kiss to your neck before lining his dick up with you and pushing in. Gerard let out a quiet moan, a sound similar to his leaving you as well. Your fingernails dug soft crescents into his pale skin as he sunk into you.

After a moment of waiting to make sure there was nothing that made either of you want to stop, he began to gently move his hips against yours. He was soft, like he was in every setting, every scenario, but you could feel the passion behind his movements, letting out a soft whine.

“Everything fine?” he whispered, and you responded with a small nod, eyelids fluttering shut. He sucked a dark spot into your neck as his body rocked against yours. Your breath hastened along with his as Gerard quickened his pace, causing the whimpers and moans of the both of you to gradually become louder. He kept his hand on your hip, his other arm propping him up.

Your fingernails dragged up and down his back, a clear contradiction to his gentle movements, which somehow didn’t leave you feeling like a thief of innocence, maybe because he didn’t seem to mind at all. You left small kisses and marks against his throat periodically, which would prompt him to move faster. 

His hands and lips traveled across your skin, slowly, mapping out every inch and committing it to memory. His fingers across your stomach made you weak, drawing another shaky moan from your mouth. As he treated your body with nothing but tenderness, you realized it had never mattered to Gerard that you were a mess. He had always seen past it, and you’d never noticed the way he still thought you were beautiful when you were crying or hysterical, the way he still admired you when you were falling apart. You had always known that he was the most understanding person you’d ever met, but never imagined his empathy applied to you as well—at least not to this extent.

But right here, right now, with his loving hands across your body, you knew that he saw all of you—and still wanted all of you. Every emotion, every touch, became heightened, your body beginning to reach its limit. Near the end, he sped up, his movements growing slightly sloppy but never losing the gentleness he always carried, no matter how hard your nails were digging into him. He shifted slightly, hitting a new angle within you, the sounds leaving both of your throats becoming uncontrollable. 

He finished right before you did, moaning out your name, continuing to move his body against yours until he was sure you were done too. Your fingers dug into his back a final time as you reached your peak, causing him to shiver, and he pressed a soft kiss to your collarbone. You both stayed still for a moment, wrapped in each others’ arms, the rate of your hearts gradually slowing down, pressing shaky pecks onto the other's skin.

After a while, he pulled out and threw the condom in the trash, still breathing heavily as he pulled his clothes back on. You looked at him as you dressed in the shirt and shorts he had given you to wear earlier, sitting up, and grateful you’d decided to finally ignore your fears and kiss the boy you had wanted to kiss for so long. His hand brushed against your jaw, pulling you closer to him.

“Are you okay? Was that…okay?” he asked, looking slightly nervous. “I mean, I thought it was. Not just okay. More than okay. Like, I really liked it. I really—” You smiled at him through a bitten lip, cutting off his rambling although you were still a bit short on breath.

“Don’t worry,” you softly peppered his lips with small pecks. “It was really good. You were really good. Especially for a virgin,” you added the last sentence teasingly, seeing the tips of his ears flush when you spoke. He didn’t know how to respond, instead leaning forward and kissing you slowly again.

You didn’t exactly know what else to say either, with so many thoughts swirling through your head it felt impossible, gratefully leaning in. “Let’s get some sleep, yeah?” You suggested after a little while. He nodded, lips grazing your neck, and you nestled under the blankets together, head pressed against his chest as you listened to the still quickened beat of his heart, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on your hip. 

“I really did. Like you for a long time,” he said after a moment of silence. You lifted your head up to look at him, a stupid grin on your face.

“I should’ve kissed you sooner,” but behind the casual way you said it, you meant it sincerely. With those words, you meant that you should have realized how he saw you, accepted yourself and the fact that he desired you. He returned the smile, perhaps not understanding the meaning behind the five simple words, giving you a final trail of pecks against your lips and neck before leaning his head down and closing his eyes.

Gerard would probably never know about your internal battle to act on how much you wanted him. He would never know about the nights you had spent, wishing you were different so that you would be worthy of his lips on yours. He would never know about the guilt that tore away at you when he dealt with your problems or looked after you, or all the times you had nearly taken a chance, but hadn’t.

But as you drifted off to sleep that night, you decided it didn’t matter. You would make it work, because the very thing that had held you back from him was the very thing that would make you stay: Gerard was the sweetest person you knew. You would never allow yourself to lose him because you would be better for him than you ever had in a relationship. 

If you had been different, you would have kissed Gerard. But in the end, he had not kissed the perfect girl who only existed in your head. He had chosen you.

[maxdibert]

Lila and Lenú are two sides of the same coin.

I often come across criticisms of one or the other, mostly against Lenú, which is understandable because Lenú is not a likable narrator. Lenú is not a narrator who endears herself to the reader. She tells us her story like a personal diary, laying herself bare to share her desires, ambitions, loves, and achievements, but also her insecurities. And Lenú is terribly insecure. She has always had very low self-esteem, and it is this lack of confidence that often leads her to terrible behaviors or even regrettable decisions. But most of all, her constant insecurity throughout her story (and her life) is focused on constantly comparing herself to Lila, which at various points in the saga makes the reader find her heavy and even exasperating, as she is unable to overcome that childhood rivalry even when both are living in completely different worlds.

On the other hand, Lila can also be disliked at times. Lila is selfish, resentful, and unstoppable when she wants to hurt someone—she knows exactly how to do it. Lila is ambitious but hasn't had opportunities, so when they arise, she steps over everyone to seize them. Lila is not fair and sometimes has a very biased view. Lila is toxic and can be truly damaging. But without Lila, there would be no Lenú. And without Lenú, there would be no Lila, because they are the center of each other's worlds, and their absolutely turbulent, poisonous, and codependent friendship is what not only shapes the Neapolitan Novels but is also the constant driving force in their lives.

Lenú is the narrator without natural talent, but with enormous work discipline. She has envied Lila since childhood and feels terribly inadequate next to her because what Lenú achieved through hard work, Lila possessed with natural brilliance. Lila was the brilliant friend, the one who learned to count and read by herself, and who, despite being forced to leave school, would always have the ability to surpass Lenú if she wanted. This is something that haunts Elena throughout her life: the fear of confronting the reality that if Lila had been able to keep studying like her, she would probably have outshone her as she always did in their neighborhood. The ghost of being the second, always one step behind her genius friend—the one who is thinner, prettier, more extroverted, and more charismatic—marks Lenú’s growth process, and its effects are visible even in adulthood. But it is precisely because of this, the fear of being overshadowed by Lila, that Lenú strives to be the best she can be, to reach the highest possible level. Lila is Lenú’s motivation. Lenú, who over the years tries to shake off the dust and grime of her humble origins, to distance herself from that neighborhood full of poverty and violence, to become a self-made intellectual bourgeois woman who wants nothing to do with those uneducated poor savages she grew up with. And yet, she always ends up back in the neighborhood. She cannot escape her own nature, her origins, her blood. She cannot escape Lila.

Lila is the genius, the one who could have been greater than anyone, the girl who was forced to leave school and got married at just 15, thinking she could escape her home but ended up trapped in an even worse hell. She always wanted to leave, see the world, and she was the one who pushed Lenú from childhood to dream and go beyond. And she is the one who ends up abandoning all her dreams, acquiring a cold, raw, and cynical view of life, politics, and social classes. Lila is terribly envious. She envies Lenú because Lenú has the life she always wanted, without realizing that Lenú envies her for having the energy she always longed for. She envies Lenú because Lenú has been able to leave the neighborhood, because she can study, because she has choices. That’s why, when Lenú messes up, Lila always gets angry with her and reproaches her, because if Lenú messes up, then what does Lila have left? Lila is the neighborhood, the origins, the wild, the dark—she is the reminder that no matter how far Lenú goes or how high she climbs, she will always be from the neighborhood. Because you can take the girl out of the neighborhood, but you can’t take the neighborhood out of the girl. Lila is strong and weak at the same time, she is invincible and terribly vulnerable. And this weakness, this vulnerability, she only shows to Lenú. She only fears in front of Lenú, only cries in front of Lenú, only shows herself lost with Lenú. Because Lila, who is visceral, who is from the earth, from the roots, knows deep down that she and Lenú have a connection that goes beyond years and misfortunes. Because Lenú, though she will never know it, is her brilliant friend.

The magic of their relationship is that they are each the brilliant friend to the other, and that makes them both wary of each other, while simultaneously falling into their toxic dynamics again and again. But at the end of the day, they always have each other, even if in a completely dysfunctional and quite messed-up way. I could spend hours and hours talking about them, but I will just say that their relationship is the most incredible I have ever read about two female protagonists. It’s complex, it’s beautiful, it’s horrible at times, exasperating most of the time. It’s treacherous, it’s doomed, it’s stronger than everything, weaker than most. It is, in the end, just like life itself.

[cloud-somersault]

Something that absolutely destroys me about shadowpeach is just the fact that they weren't "good" to each other. They loved each other, sure, but sometimes love just isn't enough.

They are "right person wrong time." They helped each other unintentionally go into a self-destructive paths, and the worst part is that only Wukong managed to get out of it before it ruined him.

Its just so fucked up, imagine you love someone and they love you but they are undeniably going into a path with no return but they do change and they become better, but only after you're gone.

Yeah, I think shadowpeach is compelling and interesting for the layers of tragedy it has. I really do think they're the "right person, wrong time" type of dynamic. If they met each other later on, there wouldn't have been any major problems; just ones they could address as they come up.

But I think...it's a great showing of how people can change each other. A chance interaction can change a person for life. We, as people, are made up of those interactions, the pain, the hurt, the love, the joy we've been shown and what we've given to others.

Wukong and Macaque were doing what they felt was right. In the way they felt was right. And they didn't know how to address it or be better, because confronting the communication issues and lack of respect and value means admitting there's a problem, and neither of them wanted to do that.

I don't think Macaque wanted to, he just wanted to put up with it and stay on Wukong's good side. He disregarded his own hesitations and doubts and believed in this person wholeheartedly instead of making his own decisions and choosing to go against the grain. It's hard to say "no" to the Monkey King, admittedly, but Macaque, probably, felt as if he couldn't.

In s4, he subtly tried to remove himself from the uprising against Heaven, but Wukong dragged him back in on the premise that they're "bros" and it'll be a fun "whatever" kind of time and not a life or death situation. Macaque saw that truth; Wukong refused to.

And that's a lot of Wukong's whole story - thinking he's invincible, that he's above everyone, that he's the handsomest and strongest and best ever. he was entitled and didn't like being told no. Very haughty and spoiled. A brat. He had sense and was funny and showed kindness when he needed to, but he was selfish, also.

Against all that, Macaque's in an odd position. They're friends, but Macaque is quiet. He's subtle. A shadow. Introverted and observant, he probably never felt as if his voice mattered or would change anything. But getting the attention of the Monkey King is a high honor!

And Wukong just thought Macaque was cool, another strong guy with shadow magic that he could get into mischief with. Someone like him!!

It reminds me of a dynamic you see a lot in media. The adventurous main character paired with a more shy and scared secondary character. The main character drags them around unwillingly into situations, assuring the secondary character everything will be fine. And, eventually, it takes the secondary character standing up for themselves for a change to occur.

And that's what happened in that cave.

There is tragedy...in someone you love changing after you're no longer in their life. But...it's more important that they changed at all. A lot of people don't. It's difficult to change. And Wukong was traveling (and was trapped) in this journey with people, learning and humbling himself along the way, learning friendship and love. It took that specific environment and discipline to change him, because changing the Monkey King?? Is a huge task, something that Macaque by himself couldn't do.

And that's said around this fandom like it's a bad thing. I know Macaque would see it as one, because that's his character, but...I don't know. I don't see it as one. Maybe you're not what that person needs, not at that moment, not at that time. And that's..okay. I think that's something we gotta accept.

Because we can't fix everyone. We can't hold ourselves to that standard. Just as I said before, people are collections of their interactions with others, and maybe those other people...are what Wukong needed at that moment. Maybe Macaque wasn't at a point in his life, maturity wise or life experience wise, to direct Wukong on the path to change. Maybe that wasn't his burden to bear.

Sometimes it takes a specific person to say something. With how people weave in and out of each others lives, I think the takeaway should be more "I'm glad you changed. I'm proud of you. You did it!" Like, let's focus on the end result, because...if people change for the better, than they can help others change, and maybe Wukong is the right person at this right time to help Macaque change.

[just-another-personal-side-blog]

Summary: On medical leave, Rhea hears from the absolute last person ever.

***

Rhea appreciated all the care Buddy was treating her with. It was hard not to sink into a type of depression, what with the bandages blocking half her vision. There was no way of knowing how long she'd be out of the ring for... and that's what hurt the most. The word 'indefinitely' was clawing away at her hope, this wasn't how the story was supposed to go.

She made her way through the quiet house heading to the kitchen, loyal fur babies sticking close to their mama's heels. Tossing her cell onto the granite counter, Damian was keeping up w her... he'll he was the first person to show up and check in. Between him, Jey, and Buddy, she was almost distracted enough from the self pity that kept trying to surge forth to drown her.

Pulling out leftovers from dinner the night before, setting the microwave to one minute, before leaning against the center island. Before the timer could beep, Rhea's phone began to buzz against the counter signaling a new text. There was a brief pause, knowing the boys were all busy with work. She couldn't begin to guess who might be checking in...

After a pause she took a look at the number of the last person who could be reaching out.

Edge: I heard what happened with Liv. Did the Doctors give you a timeline?

A decisive scoff escaped at first, he hadn't been in contact since the day The OG Judgement Day jumped him. Their former great leader moved on with his career, while the beast he created became corrupted by toxic personalities. At first she was tempted to block his contact, but a flicker of indignant fury flared up.

Rhea: Why do you care? Thought you had bigger and better going on.

The microwave beeped distracting her momentarily, as she moved the leftovers onto a plate, the phone vibrated again.

Edge: If anyone understands what its like being put on a shelf due to injury it'd be me.

Edge: What did the Doctors tell you?

The anger was smothered by the knowledge that... he wasn't lying. Not everyone suffers from neck damage and comes back after 9 years. That thought made her heart plummet into the pit of her stomach. A wave of nausea swelled killing any appetite Rhea had, w a sigh of defeat the leftovers went right back into the fridge.

For a few moments she read and reread  the messages, until the woman got the confidence to replay.

Rhea: They don't know how long my recovery may take. I'm just lucky I didn't end up with a concussion as well.

She paused before adding,

Rhea: I'm more angry than anything else. Twice now Liv has caused me to end up off the roster for a period of time.

Rhea: But I'm more angry with myself for letting it happen.

Another hesitation, why was she telling him all this... her finger hovered over the mute button.

Edge: I get it. Right now you need to focus on healing, you're stronger than you realize.

Edge: It's easy to give in to the self loathing and blame. That voice is lying to you. I'm willing to bet you'll be delivering payback no later than New Years Day.

That brought a small smile, everyone was treating her like a broken toy. She appreciated the knowledge there was someone believing in her.

Edge: Be kind to yourself, rest up, allow the healing process to move at the pace your body needs. And throughout prepare for the deliverance you will rain down on Liv.

A shaky exhale escaped her lungs, he was right... she knew he was right. It took a few minutes before Rhea was emotionally able to reply.

Rhea: Thanks.

Rhea: I didn't realize how much I needed to hear that.

Edge: Of course.

Edge: Know that outside of everything, I'm proud of you and Damian. You two are beasts in the ring, Finn doesn't realize who he betrayed.

She couldn't deny the warmth that spread through her limbs. A sense of comfort and safety.... a lot like when she won her first match back in Australia.

Edge: You show that phony Judgement Day why I chose you and Priest first. Know Beth and I are cheering by two on.

Edge: And if you need someone to talk to who can understand what your dealing with, I'm just a call away. Any time.

With a pause she couldn't help the small smile of appreciation, there was a momentary sense of relief... and that fire was fanned once more.

Rhea: We won't let you down.

Edge: You two never could.

With that the caller id signaled Buddy calling to probably ask if she wanted him to grab anything from the grocery store. And for the first time since waking up in the hospital she had a release of the tightness in her body.

It felt a lot like having a parent acknowledge your success,  Rhea had forgotten how that was. A smile curled her lips as she answered her hubby's call. Now there was a fresh hope blossoming in her heart. Liv wasn't gonna put her down like a rabid dog, she would let her feel safe for a time before making an epic return.

Scorched earth, nothing would be left of the Temu Judgement Day. Now was the era of The Terror Twins and their fiery wrath.

A fractured orbital socket wouldn't stop her, an injured leg didn't stop her, heartbreak didn't stop her. This wasn't the end of her story, that was for certain.

[jukemaestro]

Hasty Decisions (All Might x Reader) Part 2 18+

****As promised, part 2! This where the hardcore things begin, so don’t say I didn’t warn you! Enjoy!***

“My room?” I suggested as we pulled away.

“Which way?”

“To the left.” I panted slightly before he scooped me up into his arms and carried me. I became anxious again. The heat from his arms and chest were almost too much for me to bear. I was on the verge of protesting but I cut myself off. This was only supposed to be a one time thing. Most people would kill for a chance to be held by him…I could handle being held for tonight. He kissed me again as I tightened my grip around him, more for security rather than passion. I opened my mouth and his tongue made its way in, causing me to moan as our kiss deepened. He was definitely an amazing kisser behind his polite and flustered nature. I was gently lowered onto the bed and scooted my way backwards partly in relief, but also to accommodate for his large frame to sit on my queen sized bed. He loosened his necktie and pulled it off. I unzipped my dress, and chucked it to the nearby chair and pulled my loose hair up into a ponytail.

“Um, I just wanted you to know that I want to keep my shirt on.” He said nervously as he placed his tie on my nightstand, not meeting my eyes or making contact in my direction. I tilted my head in curiosity before inquiring.

“Body shy?”

“You could say that. Sorry.” He said scratching the back of his neck before turning to face me. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped before going into a coughing fit.

“Oh my god! Are you okay? Are you coughing up blood?” I panicked. That definitely sobered up whatever traces of alcohol remained in my system as adrenaline kicked in.

“I-I’m sorry. I’m fine, trust me, this tends to happen when I get overexcited or shocked.” Well that was a very interesting answer. Like a switch in my brain, I smirked at him.

“And what, my dear Toshinori, did you get so worked up over?” I said slyly as I crawled onto his lap and straddled him. My arms wrapped loosely around his neck.

“W-well. I didn’t expect to see those scars.” I was taken aback and not really sure if I should’ve been offended, but I decided to share the details.

“This was from an unlucky encounter with a punk who brought a knife to a fist fight.” I said pointing at a really long and dull scar that was near my ribs. “Happened when I left practice in middle school. I almost got mugged in an alley and tried to fight my way out of it since I didn’t have as much control over my quirk then as I do now. I didn’t want to risk frying his brain or anything. Asshole pulled out a knife and started slashing and stabbing.” I felt his hand trace over my scars gently. He brushed over a few scabbed circular shaped wounds that were fresher than the scars left behind by the knife fight. “A couple of those were from different shootouts before my staff could expand into a shield. I lost a lot of blood and stayed in the hospital for a while.”

“What happened here?” He asked, tracing the scar that ran across my lower abdomen. It was freshly healed and the final thing that cleared me to return to work.

“Scar from a hysterectomy. A bullet was lodged in my uterus and they had to remove it so I wouldn’t die from internal bleeding.”

He took a moment to pause and look at me. The look in his eyes was very hard to describe, it might’ve been pity mixed with sorrow. But that wouldn’t make sense since he hardly knew me; and yet here he was, gently brushing his thumb against my healed scar tissue with a melancholy expression.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Don’t worry about it. It is what it is.”

He had a puzzled look on his face as he continued tracing the various scars along my abdomen. “How are you comfortable showing me these?” He asked softly.

“Time helps. Of course there are days when I get self conscious, but it doesn’t get to my head like before. I have my duties as a hero, I can’t dwell on old things like this when there are so many people I can help.”

“You’re quite amazing, you know that? Your words just gave this old man some courage.” He chuckled softly. Slowly and with uncertainty, he began to unbutton his shirt. I quickly put my hand on his to stop him at the 3rd button.

“You don’t have to take off your shirt if you don’t want to. Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable doing just because I shared a few stories with you.”

“It’s not that I’m uncomfortable, but more that I’ve been avoiding it. My life was changed after a particular injury and I haven't quite been the same. I found some solace when you shared your story and I think it’s time that I face mine.”

“Not until you’re ready. We barely know each other. I don’t think I’m the right person you should show this to.”

He was quiet for a moment and then nodded his head in understanding.

I took his hands and kissed him gently.

“Scars come with the job don’t you think?” I finally said once we parted. “Besides, I’d like to think that yours has a cool story attached to it. Maybe you can share it after I fuck you into these sheets.”

I could see the fire in him light up and his lips dove for to kiss my exposed neck. I gasped and moaned in surprise when he immediately found the spot that made me weak. He sucked the skin on it roughly, and I was near certain he was trying to leave a mark.

“You can leave hickies if you want. My hero suit has a turtleneck.” I sighed in pleasure.

I could feel his smile against my skin as he kissed across my collarbone and his hands rested on my breasts. He gave them a couple of gentle squeezes while leaving more marks on me.

“Good to know.” I heard him chuckle quietly.

A little guilty that I was the only one feeling good, I began to grind against him and his body jerked towards me in response. I gasped in surprise, which was followed by a moan, as he teased my sensitive nipples. His tongue circled the hardened bud as my hands went to undo his belt buckle. Soft moans were the only noises I could make before he laid me down. I was in a daze and wondered why he had me on my back when I had planned to ride him into my sheets. I finally understood when he got on his knees and brought his face between my legs. He kissed my inner thighs and kissed his way towards my pussy. My body tightened in anticipation before I finally felt his tongue lick along the slit and circle around my clit. I let out a loud moan as I felt his tongue continue to glide along my entrance. His hands moved to my thighs and he pulled me closer to him. He turned his attention to my clit, alternating between flicking it with the tip of his tongue and circling it. My hands immediately moved to his hair and held on tightly. The pleasure was overwhelming and I moaned in approval. I then felt his finger make its way inside me. It was thick and I could only whimper in response. My brain turned to mush when he introduced a second finger and felt around for my g-spot. Once he found it, he made a summoning motion with his fingers and I felt my legs quiver around him as pleasure ran from my core through my body.

“Fuck. So good…” I moaned.

“You ready?”

“Y-yes.”

“I should warn you about my size. I don’t want to scare you off, but I thought you should know.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll manage.”

He nodded and I moaned when he pulled out his fingers. I whimpered at the loss of dizzying pleasure and sat up on my elbows to watch him take his boxers and trousers off. An audible gasp escaped my lips as I eyed his thick cock up and down.

“Lay down right now.” I commanded.

He was taken aback but complied in embarrassment. His cheeks were red and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. I wrapped my hand around his semi-hard cock and gave it a few languid pumps. He groaned when my lips wrapped around the pink head. As I took more of his length and swirled my tongue around it, I felt his hand grip my hair. I moaned around him thanks to the wonderful sensation from my scalp and sucked him off as I felt him get harder in my mouth.

I licked up the shaft as my hands worked what I couldn’t reach. He pulled me off of him gently and brushed away loose strands that fell out of my ponytail.

“I want you so bad right now.” He said desperately. I moved to sit on his lap and reached over to my nightstand, pulling out some condoms and lube.

“Do you want to put it on? Or should I?” I asked.

“I can do it.” He said taking the condom package from my hand and shakily opening it. Interesting. He put it on swiftly and leaned back on my pillows, placing his hands on my thighs. I poured the lube in my hand to try to warm it up before lubricating his cock and my entrance. My hips hovered over him as he toyed with me, having his head tease along my pussy. He stilled when I placed a hand on his wrist and slowly slid down his length. My heart raced and I could hear it pounding in my ears. I gasped as he stretched me, moving my hands to his shoulders in a firm grip. I froze towards the end of his shaft when the tip of his cock brushed against my cervix.

“Holy shit.” We said out of breath simultaneously.

“I can’t believe you filled me up.” I chuckled.

“I expected it with how small you are. But I admit, you do look nice sitting on my cock like this.” He smiled.

I smirked and raised my hips, feeling the slight discomfort from the stretch slowly subside. I moaned as I slid back down and felt his hands tighten their grip on me.

“Shit…” He sighed and tilted his head back. “You’re so tight.”

That line alone made me so wet and needy that I felt the need to kick things up a notch. I pulled his hands away from my thighs. He seemed kind of confused about what I was doing until I pressed his wrists on either side of his head.

“Keep them there.” I ordered. He gulped and nodded nervously.

I began to move again, starting off slowly to tease him. He looked so desperate to touch me as he started to grind up to match my rhythm. I moaned as I began to speed up the pace and his face became more flushed.

“Fuck, you’re so thick. Stretching me out this way. I’ve never felt this good before Toshi.” He was visibly hornier than before. His hands grabbed the pillow under his head tightly but I wasn’t done yet. I gently placed my hands on his chest for support, afraid to put too much weight on him. I changed my rhythm, now slowly rolling my hips side to side, and leaned forward so my chest rested on his. I kissed along his neck and collarbone before I began to bounce rapidly again. He threw his head back and I finally decided that my teasing was over.

“Please Toshi...fuck into me”. It was like something in him snapped. His hands immediately moved to my hips and with a firm grip, he began ramming into me. I threw my head back as his cock brushed against the sensitive spots within me. My hands moved to his forearms as I sat up and tried to match his pace.

“Fuck, your pussy is so good. So fucking wet for me. I bet you wanted this didn’t you?” He moaned in his lust filled haze.

I was taken aback as he truly didn’t seem to be the type to talk in this way during sex. But I was definitely not going to stop him.

“Fuck! Yes! I want you to ruin me. I want you to fuck me so hard and good that I won’t be able to walk.”

“Holy shit.” He groaned as his thrusts became more sparradic. It was getting harder to keep up with him and I felt myself getting closer to my orgasm.

“I’m close.” I moaned as my grip around his cock tightened. He moved his hand to my entrance and teased my clit. I started to shake from the overwhelming stimulation.

“I’m gonna cum.” He warned. I was pushed over the edge and cried out his name. My orgasm washed over me as I squirted. He stilled and moaned as he reached his climax soon after. It took him a few moments to catch his breath. I shakily got off of him and fell next to his side to catch my own breath while he disposed of the condom.

“You didn’t tell me you were a squirter.” He panted as he turned to face me.

“Whoops. I should’ve warned you beforehand. My bad.” I said awkwardly.

“No, don't worry about it. I think it’s sexy.” He said, giving me a smile. “To tell you the truth, you are incredibly sexy on top. Thank you.”

“No, thank you for pleasing me like that.” I chuckled as I looked at him. “Did you want to go another round?”

“Unfortunately I think you drained all the energy I had for tonight. I promise I’m not making excuses because I truly had a great time, but I feel like I should get going.” He said, sounding ashamed. From what I could gather, his statement seemed genuine, unlike the previous one night stands I’ve experienced in the past.

“It’s ok, I understand. You don’t have to worry about that. If you need to be somewhere, don’t stay on my account.” I said. And it was true, I did understand that as the number one hero, he had responsibilities to attend to and I respected that. Even though all I wanted was to bask in the post-sex afterglow.

“If you’d like, perhaps we could meet again another time? I know you said you don’t do these things often, but I’d really like to see you again.” He said, sounding like a nervous teenager.

“Definitely. Pass me your phone, I’ll put my contact info on it.” I said excitedly. “Besides, I definitely have a couple of more tricks up my sleeve for you.”

He blushed and passed me his phone. I put in my contact information under my hero name followed by the smirking devil and equestrian emojis. I sent myself a text and heard my phone vibrate in my dress pocket from the chair.

“Here you go.” I said, handing him back his phone. He choked when he looked at the screen and I laughed at his reaction.

“How fitting.” He coughed. “You truly are like a little devil aren’t you?”

“When I want to be.” I smirked. “Text me on your next free day.”

“I should also mention that we should probably set up some phone rules.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well my time is divided up into different places. As you know while doing missions, if a phone goes off, it could put us in danger. So we probably shouldn’t text each other during work hours.”

“That’s fair. The same rule applies to you, you know? I don’t want to put anyone in my agency in danger either.”

“Glad we can come to an agreement. Also, I know I asked you to call me Toshi and for now, that’s all right, but please refer to me as All Might during work. I’d like to keep this under wraps if possible for your safety.”

“Understood. Now I have a few questions for you.”

“Yes?”

“First, can I send you nudes?”

He nearly doubled over and coughed heavily. I could see blood on his hand and I instinctively rubbed his back to try to soothe his coughing. When he came to, he nodded in agreement.

“I would appreciate them, yes.”

“When can I send them to you?”

“Preferably in the evening. I’m usually busy before that time.”

“Alright. My next question is about your injury. Will you share your story? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He stayed quiet for a long minute and deeply sighed.

“I’d still like to keep that part of my life private if you don’t mind. Maybe I’ll share the details of it with you later. But just know that it affects my day to day life.”

“It’s alright. You shouldn’t feel pressured to tell me since we don’t know each other too well yet. Well, we know each other a little intimately now, I guess.” I chuckled.

“We most certainly do. I should get going.” He said, standing up to get his clothes.

“If you need to use the bathroom to freshen up, you can use it. It’s down the hall to the right.”

“I’ll take your offer on that.”

He walked down the hall, and I removed the bed sheets and took them to the washing machine. I heard the occasional cough from the bathroom, but it didn’t really concern me too much as I loaded the machine. By the time I returned to the living room, I saw him at the door entrance putting on his shoes, looking as put together as when he came in. Meanwhile, I was still very much naked.

“I’ll see you next time you’re off then.” I said, approaching him.

“Yes.” He said.

“Bye Toshi.” I said, leaning against the door.

“I’ll see you later, Nova.” He leaned forward and kissed my cheek softly.

“Hopefully we can go a couple more rounds next time.”

He blushed and turned to face the door.

“I hope so too. I can’t wait.” He said, closing the door behind him.

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 9 - Obsession

title: oddly enough, i seem to be alive

fandom: empires smp

TRUST AU!!!! (it's super long jsyk warning on opening the readmore)

cw: graphic self-harm

~

"Hey," Pix says, softly.

When Jimmy doesn't respond, Pix clears his throat. "Jimmy."

Jimmy just watches, entranced, as the scrape on his arm slowly heals black up, blood pulled back in and skin melting together.

It had been an accident.

He'd been lugging a large branch, and it had slipped and scratched down his arm. There was no way he would have done that on purpose.

But staring at where the wound had just been, Jimmy kind of wants it to happen again.

"Jimmy."

He blinks, looks up. Pix is watching him, brows furrowed in an expression that Jimmy can't quite read.

Jimmy waits, and after a long moment of studying him, Pix gives a little decisive nod. "I'll stay another day," he says, readjusting the branch in his arms.

"I—I thought you were just staying—"

"To finish one hut, yes, but I was just thinking—it's very possible that your first recruits will be injured. They may not be up to constructing anything. We'd better build two, just to be sure."

Jimmy nods. That makes sense. He understands that.

"How are the wounds feeling?" asks Pix a couple of moments later, after Jimmy has laid the branch in the pile, ready to prop them all up leaning against each other like a tent made of branches.

"Good," Jimmy says, too quickly. "They don't—they don't even hurt."

They don't, that's true. But if he thinks about it too hard, he can still feel that sword carving its way down through him and he wants to vomit.

So he doesn't think about it. Easy-peasy.

"And your ear?"

Jimmy's ears twitch on instinct, the movements of the left one cruelly limited.

He remembers, so long ago, fWhip touching that ear, thumb tracing over the delicate spines, his hold so terrifying that Jimmy did everything he said to avoid injury.

Then, he'd been afraid of a tear in the fin. It would have been almost impossible to stitch it back together straight, leaving an ugly scar.

He hadn't even thought of the possibility of half of it just being slashed off.

The cut has healed over, but he's missing half of his ear, most of the fin chopped away. Sound echoes in a strangely muffled way on his left side, and walking makes him a little nauseous. He doesn't think there's a way to fix it, though. It doesn't really hurt, it just unbalances him a little.

"It's fine," he says, rubbing the back of his neck a little self-consciously. "I'm fine. Thanks."

Pix is watching him again, he realizes as he looks up. Jimmy shrugs, looks away.

His desire for Scott to be here hasn't changed. But Pix had said something about how there's no way to contact Scott without it being seen by fWhip's spies, and his work here is more important.

Sure, he wants to rescue his people. But he doesn't see how that's so important that he has to stay hidden in the woods of the No Man's Land outside the Cod Empire's borders. Wouldn't it be better to go to Scott or Lizzie and get their help to free his lands?

But Pix saved him—somehow—and Jimmy will trust that he knows what he's doing.

That night, Pix lays out in his bedroll by their little campfire and tells Jimmy that if anything happens or he needs to sleep before his watch is over, to wake him.

And after Pix is long asleep, Jimmy sits by the fire and stares into the embers, fingers itching and every nerve jangling.

With a sudden rush of energy, he reaches into the fire and plucks out a charred piece of wood, which he holds to his forearm.

It burns—quickly, painfully, his fingertips and his arm, but Jimmy's no stranger to pain and he holds it there until it becomes too much to bear. When it does, he tosses the piece of wood back into the fire and watches his arm.

His skin is bubbling up angrily, red and blotchy, his finger and thumb black with soot and stinging. 

But after an agonizing couple of moments and a splash of water, the blisters start to sink back into his skin, fading away with every passing moment, until quite some time later, his arm has little more than a tiny red mark, sure to vanish in time.

Jimmy rinses his finger off with some water from their shared waterskin, finds the pads of his fingertips normal.

His heart is beating too fast. Is he breathing too fast? He thinks he is. He remembers the way the pain felt, but he can't feel it at all anymore. There's no sign of it. There's nothing to prove that he even felt it.

He died. He stopped breathing, and his heart slowed and eventually stopped, and he died, no matter what Pix said.

And what does he have to show for it? A thin scar on his back? A missing piece of his ear?

He just burned himself, badly, and now he can't even feel it.

Jimmy takes in a shuddering breath, pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. This can't—this can't be right. Nothing about this is right.

He stares again into the low fire, heart jumping at the possibility of doing it again. No one would even know.

He doesn't do anything, almost stuck there in indecision. And when the moon passes the predetermined point, he forces himself to stand and shakes Pix awake. Then he stumbles off to the pond to sleep, and just hopes that his head will be a bit clearer in the morning.

-

His old scars are beginning to fade.

He'd noticed it this morning, drying himself off after sleeping in the pond. There had been one, a nasty raised one on his forearm from when Joey broke his arm and it burst through the skin. Now it's faded into his skin, visible but not as dark as it had been, and his skin there is almost smooth.

There are others. The jagged one on his upper arm is nothing more than a thin line, the small brown scar on his ribs entirely gone. They're all slowly fading, some more like vague marks along his body rather than the ugly scars they once were.

He should be happy. He should be excited that his scars are fading, that his skin is clearing.

He isn't.

He panics, actually.

Jimmy used to look at himself in the mirror and hate his appearance. He would wish idly for his scars to miraculously vanish, if only to annoy Sausage. He would always wear a long-sleeved tunic to various meetings, ashamed of the many marks that a ruler oughtn't have.

But what he went through was torture. Torture, for several years, and then death.

He was tortured for years, and he has no proof.

Without even thinking, Jimmy grabs his new knife and carves carefully along one of the scars on his ribcage, pushing the knife in deeper and deeper as he can bear it.

He bites his lip to repress any noise, digs the knife in a bit further before yanking it out. There. That should do it.

Blood spills down his stomach, and Jimmy just stares at it, relishing the aching sting of the cut.

It hurts. It hurts a lot, actually.

But it feels so good. It feels like he's alive.

He makes quick work of his other scars, tracing the lines with the blade of his knife. And when that's all done, and his head feels a little woozy but his mind feels clearer than ever, sharpened by the pain, he stares down at his murky reflection in the pond.

He's absolutely covered in blood. It washes down his torso (and all over his body, really, the tally marks under his knee among others carved out), and Jimmy can really only feel glad that he hadn't put on any clothes yet. That's a sure way for Pix to find out what he's doing. Blood-stained clothes is a dead giveaway that someone is bleeding.

He's not really sure why he feels he needs to hide this. He just has some sort of idea that Pix wouldn't be all too happy about it, after all the effort he went through to make sure Jimmy survived.

It is a lot of blood, though, and Jimmy's fairly sure it isn't stopping soon, so he takes the scrap of cloth he has to wash himself with and wets it, runs it over his body.

It's water, apparently, that mostly fosters this new healing power. He can heal without it, but not very efficiently, and it will definitely scar. A damp rag should just act as a clotting agent, right?

It does—every cut scabs over, and Jimmy feels like something tight in his chest loosens as he looks down at himself, at his new old scars.

Perfect.

"Jimmy? Are you decent?"

Jimmy curses under his breath, dashes away the few tears that have gathered in his eyes. "No, no—um, give me one second!"

"All right, but hurry up, please—we've got another hut to set up, still, and I started designing a lean-to of sorts last night, so I might try that out. Also, are you all right if I come back later in the week with some tents? It might be more convenient to set those up in case of an influx of people."

"Yeah—sure, whatever," Jimmy calls in Pix's direction, pulling his tunic on over his head. "Sounds great."

"I was also thinking—I know we were talking about going for Bobsill first, but it may be best to go through farmhouses or hamlets on the border before trying to go to a larger village. That way, if Mythland has already reached Bobsill, it won't just be one man trying to infiltrate an army."

"Mhm," Jimmy says, probably not loud enough for Pix to hear. He cringes as his freshly-scabbing wounds stick to his tunic. Hopefully if he gets a bit of blood on his clothes, Pix won't notice it amongst the bloodstains already there.

He's come to hate these clothes, stomach turning every time he pulls them over his head. He died in these clothes, after all. He's washed them since, but the blood doesn't come out.

Pix had mentioned getting him something new to wear. Jimmy can't wait for that.

Then he just has to tug his boots on, and he can join Pix in building the next hut. His clothes chafe against his scabs, but that's more than okay. It reminds him that he's alive.

And the next morning, after Pix hugs him and leaves, Jimmy carves right back into his already mostly-healed scars.

-

Scott asks him, once, why his scales seem to be perpetually growing in. Jimmy panics, just shrugs and mutters something about scars.

He doesn't know how to say that he pulls them out in front of the mirror every morning.

It's a little like pulling a nail from the nailbed, but over the past month or so Jimmy's gotten good at wiggling them out quickly without making any sort of pained noises.

He only touches the scales that are trying to push through the scar tissue, of course. Those scars—the scars left from the Void—don't disappear. They don't fade with every swim, the patchwork marks stubbornly remaining on his face.

He doesn't mind that those ones don't fade. He doesn't want to have to stick a knife into his face every day.

But he does tug out the scales trying to grow in, every morning in the mirror (after re-scarring his body), before pinning his veil on and heading out for the day, holding himself carefully and hiding the winces at every touch from Scott.

By the evening, when they retire to their quarters, Jimmy has pretty much healed enough that the pain isn't an issue. He'll run a bath, then just rinse himself off enough that there aren't any scabs or lingering patches of dried blood, before he returns to Scott, looking as close to as he always did before.

It's exhausting, but it works perfectly. He spends every moment tired and pained, but the pain clears Jimmy's head and reminds him that he did suffer, that it was real. He won't let that fade away.

It works perfectly.

That is, until it doesn't.

One morning, Jimmy's in the washroom as he usually is, tongue sticking out a bit between his teeth as he digs his knife a little deeper into his side.

There must be some moisture in the air today or something, because his body keeps stubbornly healing this one wound. Jimmy wipes away some blood with a cloth, trying to get a clearer view of it.

It's already begun to heal again, the skin sealing up by itself. It's like his body is trying to tell him something. 

Something that Jimmy is resolutely going to ignore.

He pulls the knife out, blinks away a tear, and shoves it right back in—a little harder than intended—

Too deep, too deep—he knows instantly that he's gone too far, because his vision goes double and his stomach turns unpleasantly.

There's a knife, almost hilt-deep, in his side.

It's not the first time he's accidentally gone too far. He did it that first morning after they won—while his whole country prepared to kick out the occupying soldiers, he was passed out on the floor of the washroom, his body slowly healing itself until he was able to wake up and crawl into the bath.

He'd done it again a week later, while preparing to visit Rivendell. He'd gone too deep on his thigh, pierced that same artery that had made it such a dire wound in the first place. Again, he'd passed out until his body healed just enough for him to get in the bath.

And now here he is, knife way too far into his body, and he didn't even start any water running before cutting into himself.

Jimmy's fingers grasp the handle of the knife, but it's slippery with blood and he can't get a good enough grasp to do more than wiggle it a little, which does nothing but make him gasp out in pain.

Okay. No need to panic. He just . . . he just needs to. . . .

His knees buckle and he falls onto his other side, biting his lip as it jostles all his other wounds. This has happened before. He knows this has happened before. He just has to get some water.

His damp cloth is out of reach, hanging on the edge of the sink basin. The bath is out of reach of his trembling arms, and he doesn't think he'd have the strength to turn the faucet, anyway.

Jimmy's just thinking it might be best to just sleep here a moment, let his body do a bit of healing with whatever moisture is already in the air, when the door opens.

"Sorry, I—Jimmy!"

He blinks, sees three—two Scotts, looking down at him in horror.

"Hng," he slurs, attempting a greeting.

In an instant, Scott's beside him, right hand frantic as it lightly touches him all over.

"Is someone in the palace? Who—Jimmy, the knife—I won't let you die, it's all right, I just need—I need a healing potion, or something, I need—"

"W'er," Jimmy forces out past his heavy lips. "Jus' . . . jus' w'er."

"Water! Right, right, er—I am going to have to pull this knife out, sorry—I'll put pressure on it, and—I'll start the bath first, don't move—"

Jimmy, of course, doesn't move. He just lies there, beginning to feel a bit cold.

Being cold isn't his favorite thing in the world. There are a lot of better ways to be.

Then he cries out, because suddenly Scott is right there again, yanking the knife out of his side.

"It's all right, I'm going to lift you into the bath now—"

His world tilts and slides together, and Jimmy bites the inside of his cheek to keep from vomiting—

Then there's water—crisp, cool water, all around him, enveloping him. Jimmy sighs a little, shifts—oh, he's in the tub. Right. That's disappointing. He likes swimming.

No. No, he has to stay focused. He was . . . he was cutting himself, he was fixing his scars, and then Scott—

No. Scott can't see this, he can't know about what Jimmy has been doing because—he wouldn't understand—

Jimmy sits up, ignoring the pull of his various wounds. He's going to be normal, act normal, and just hope that Scott didn't notice anything.

A hand pushes on his chest, and he looks up to see Scott, worry creasing his face.

"You aren't anywhere near done healing, lie back down," he says, something terribly sad in his voice. "We'll talk after."

Oh. He doesn't like the sound of that.

But Jimmy lies back down, anyways, his head sticking out of the water, and watches as his wounds slowly seal back together.

-

"So."

Scott looks at him, eyes crinkled sadly. "So."

Jimmy shifts uncomfortably in his spot on the couch, his scabs rubbing against his tunic.

He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to know what Scott thinks. He just wants to pretend this never happened, so he can go see his Rivendell tutor before heading home and leading his country.

There's a plate of food on his lap, eggs that Scott had scrambled for him. Something about protein being good for blood loss.

Jimmy stares down at it, pushing the eggs around with his fork. He's hungry, but he doesn't really want to eat. He's scared of what Scott will say.

It's kind of messed up to recarve his own scars every morning. It's really messed up. Which means that Jimmy's really messed up in the head, too. What kind of sick person cuts themself every day to make sure they don't lose reminders of pain?

"How are you feeling right now?" Scott asks after a moment. Jimmy's stomach lurches; he grips his fork a bit tighter.

"Fine," he manages.

Scott sighs.

Scott’s going to break up with him. Jimmy knows it, suddenly—who would want to be with someone who purposefully hurts himself?

Tears gather in his eyes. He doesn't know what to do. He can't fix this.

"How long," Scott says, voice carefully unwavering, "have you been . . . hurting yourself?"

A tear spills free onto his cheek. Jimmy opens his mouth several times, can't speak for the lump in his throat. Instead, he shrugs, scoops up a bite of eggs and shoves into his mouth, forcing his jaw to chew when all it wants is to open wide in a sob.

"Okay," Scott says, sounding almost maddeningly calm. "More than just today?"

Jimmy forces himself to nod.

"Since before everything?"

He shakes his head.

"That's good to hear. And, er, it's all right if you don't know, but . . . why?"

Another question that Jimmy can't answer. He thinks he could answer it, if he had asked himself in the mirror, but here, with Scott waiting to break up with him after he hears how terrible of an answer it is?

Jimmy swallows his mouthful of egg and valiantly tries not to cry.

"Well, darling—I want you to remember that I love you. Nothing that you say will make me hate you. I just want to help."

That's what Scott thinks. He doesn't know the thoughts that go through Jimmy's head every time he digs a knife into his body. He doesn't know that in some sick way, Jimmy wants the scars, wants the memories of all the hurt.

A cold, pale hand lays itself on his own hand, stilling his anxious jiggling of his plate.

"Look at me, please."

Reluctantly, Jimmy looks up, meets Scott's eyes.

Scott doesn't look angry. He doesn't look disgusted.

He just looks sad.

"I want to help you," Scott repeats slowly. "I can't help you if I don't know why you're hurting."

Jimmy can't say it. He can’t, he can’t face the way Scott will look at him—

"If you would prefer, you can talk to Lizzie or Joel about it," Scott offers, and. . . .

Jimmy's automatic reaction is to refuse, because Lizzie's his sister (and a terrifying twelve-foot sea monster) and Joel is his best friend, but then it strikes him that if he tells one of them, they could tell Scott, and then Jimmy wouldn't have to see his reaction.

Which is how, only two hours later, Jimmy's sitting on the same sofa beside Joel, the same plate of eggs still in his lap.

He's wearing his veil, now, so at least if he starts crying again, Joel won't see it.

His scars are itching to be reopened, just to make sure they don't heal over too much. He doesn't usually take a morning bath, so they've probably healed more than they should have. He wonders if he can excuse himself for the washroom, take a knife to some of them before talking to Joel. It always clears his mind, too. Then he could have this conversation without losing track of it.

Then he remembers that Scott took the knife when he helped Jimmy out of the bath, and to get another one he would have to go dig through his drawers, and that would be suspicious.

"Scott told me a little bit about what's going on," Joel says quietly, interrupting Jimmy's thoughts. "He says he walked in on you . . . uh, hurting yourself? Do you want to talk about that?"

No. He doesn't want to talk about that at all. He would, in fact, prefer it if everyone forgot it happened so that he could go back to his routine in peace.

But Scott is worried, and now Joel is worried, and Jimmy owes an explanation.

He also knows that if he won't explain to either of them, they'll bring in Lizzie, and he doesn't want to worry her, too.

Joel lets out a breath. "Okay. Cool. Well, was that a one time thing? Or have you done it before?"

He can answer that. That isn't a difficult question.

"Since—every day," Jimmy forces out, voice barely above a whisper, his throat constricting against his will. "Every day since I, uh, woke up."

He feels the sofa go still under him as Joel's knee stops bouncing.

"Sorry—every day since—Jimmy, that's got to be three months ago, or more! Why didn't you talk to anyone?"

Jimmy cringes. This is why he didn't tell anyone—he doesn't want people to freak out over his personal issues. "It's not a big deal," he mutters.

Joel laughs incredulously. "Not a big deal? You—you—what, trying to kill yourself isn't a big deal?"

"I'm not trying to kill myself," Jimmy argues, turning to properly face Joel.

Joel looks—not quite angry, but definitely heated, hands curled into fists and a bit red in the face. If Jimmy were any less stubborn, he would have cowed, returning to his cold plate of eggs and his half-hearted shrugs.

But Jimmy's stubborn, and a moron, and he doesn't like false accusations.

"Right, then what are you trying to do, huh?" Joel asks, hands spreading wide. "Because when Scott calls crying about how he found you covered in blood with a knife hilt-deep in your ribcage, you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, your idiot brother-in-law and best friend just tried to commit suicide and nobody even knew there was a problem!"

"I'm—I'm not suicidal!" Jimmy sputters.

"You sound pretty bloody suicidal to me."

Jimmy takes a deep breath, hot tears prickling at his eyes. He didn't want to worry anyone with his stupid problems, and now everybody's worried.

"I'm not, okay?" he says. He grips his long robe in his gloved hands, twists the fabric between his fingers. He doesn't even try to stop the plate when it slips off his lap, falling to the carpet with a muffled thunk.

"It's just—look, it's hard to explain."

"Start at the beginning, maybe," says Joel irritatingly, crossing his arms.

Jimmy swallows. "Okay. Um, so I died, right?"

"I do remember giving your eulogy, yeah. I also seem to remember you telling us that you didn't actually die."

"I basically died," Jimmy waves. "My heartrate went down too low to register as alive, so I died. And—and suddenly I'm awake, in—in a ditch, and just start limping my way across fields in the middle of the night as I feel my internal organs just sloshing about—"

"Gross—"

"—and Pix found me, and I almost died again, and I learned that I could heal in water."

Joel nods wisely. "Being a terrifying sea demigod, and all that."

"I didn't know any of that yet. But the longer I spent in water, the more healed I got—and then, the next day, I noticed my—my scars started to fade."

He pauses, not entirely sure how to proceed. Joel doesn't say anything, just waits.

"I couldn't let them fade," Jimmy says eventually, and his eyes slide away from Joel's face and down to the floor. "I—I know, it's messed up, but it was like—the only proof that I had been hurt was disappearing before my eyes, and I couldn't—I couldn't let that happen. So I—I started carving my scars. Every morning. To keep them from going away."

Silence.

"Why," Joel says slowly, "on this great bloomin' earth, would you do that?"

Jimmy cringes. He sounds angry. It's usually pretty funny when Joel gets angry, but it's definitely not something Jimmy can handle right now.

He doesn't even know how to explain it. He doesn't know how to put reasoning to his terrible actions. He's a ruler, and a good thousand years old or more—he ought to know better!

"Because," Joel continues when he doesn't answer, "I know that is not the way Lizzie raised you."

"You weren't there," Jimmy points out.

"Yeah, well, you can't even remember it, so let's assume I'm right. My wife wouldn't encourage you to hurt yourself because you feel some sick need to have scars—"

"I was gaslit for years," Jimmy interrupts, standing. Joel doesn't understand—nobody understands— "They convinced me that all the stuff I went through was my fault, and the only reason someone realized it wasn't was because of my scars! The only proof I have that it wasn't my fault is on my body, and I can't let it just fade away!"

"So you mutilate yourself." Joel stands as well, eyebrows low in a glower.

"I don't—" Jimmy pulls at his hood, wishing it was his hair. "It's not—"

He can't focus, he can't do this, his head is all twisted around and he's tired, tired from already having to practically heal himself back to life this morning, and he just knows that some of the scars are more healed than they should be at this time of day so he ought to cut into them just to make sure—

"I have to go," he mumbles, because that's all he can think of, he just has to get away to somewhere private and quiet where he can cry and cut in peace.

He starts to leave, but Joel catches him around the chest. "I don't think we're done talking! We need—"

"I have to go," Jimmy says again, and now there's tears gathering in his eyes and he can't do this—

He pushes past Joel and out the door, into the hallway, and from there he makes a break for it, running, robes flapping around his ankles, down as many confusing corridors as he can until he finds himself in some kind of cellar, barrels lining the walls, a cozy light flickering from bracketed torches.

There's nobody else here, as far as he can tell, so Jimmy curls up in a corner beside an empty barrel and buries his face in his knees.

He cries for a while, veil sticking to his cheeks, just letting out all the terrible feelings of getting caught and having to explain and being so twisted in his mind, all the shame and guilt and disgust. And when he feels that all his tears are gone, he digs his sharp nails into a shiny pink scar on his forearm, watches as blood beads up then streams down his arm with a growing calmness.

This is sick. He shouldn't find peace in hurting himself. He shouldn't have to do this to feel like he's actually alive, and not some undead creature.

Footsteps.

Jimmy pulls down his sleeve as quickly as he can, tugs his glove back on. And when the shadow of someone rounds the corner, he sees Scott.

Scott offers him a smile, he can tell. Even with the veil on, with the teary red eyes, Jimmy can tell he smiled.

Scott sits down beside him, far better at sitting gracefully with a skirt on than Jimmy will ever be. He sits there, quiet, their knees just barely bumping against each other.

"Your arm is bleeding," Scott says after a couple of long minutes.

Jimmy, fully knowing that his arm is bleeding, looks down. Sure enough, there's an ugly splotch of red against the pale green of his sleeve.

"Oops," he says dully, word a little distorted by his stuffed-up nose.

He's kind of beyond caring, at this point. Nobody understands. Why would anybody see this wonderful healing magic as a curse, like he does?

"I talked with Joel," says Scott cautiously.

Jimmy waits.

Scott waits, too.

Historically, Jimmy is not a very patient person. It usually takes about thirty seconds for him to give in when Scott is waiting.

But his mood has swung from terrified and upset to numb and indifferent. So he doesn't say anything, and after a bit, Scott continues.

"I'm going to be having a long talk with him about handling matters of mental health," Scott says, anger suddenly bursting from him in a wave of cold air. "He went about that in entirely the wrong way. I'm sorry for the hurt he's caused."

Hurt? Joel didn't really do anything, he just . . . he just responded in the way a normal person would. He didn't understand, and that's exactly right. Nobody should understand something this horrible. Some days Jimmy doesn't even understand it.

"I want you to know that I love you," says Scott. "I'm not going to stop just because you're struggling. I want to help you."

He'd said something similar this morning. Jimmy just shrugs. He's not willing to hope that Scott would actually be willing to help. Not if he knew the full story.

"Joel said something about you trying to stop your scars from healing?"

Right. He'd better explain, then, let Scott know upfront everything that's wrong with him.

"My body heals, right?" he says quietly. "And—and my scars were healing. And it scared me. I didn't want them to heal."

"You hate your scars, though," Scott puts in. Jimmy doesn't look at him, keeps his eyes trained on the floor. "You told me that you—that you're ashamed of them. Why did you feel like that?"

Jimmy bites his lip, searches for whatever it was that he'd told Joel.

"They hurt me for a really long time," he decides on eventually, and he's frustrated when tears start to burn behind his eyes. He literally just finished crying, he doesn't need to do more. "And I thought it was my fault. Until you told me it wasn't, and you only knew that because of my scars."

Scott makes a small humming noise. Jimmy looks up, makes eye contact briefly (he sees nothing but grief and love) before turning back to the floor.

"If they fade, there's nothing to prove that I went through any of that. And I know that's stupid, and messed up, but I couldn't—I couldn't just let that go. So I started . . . re-carving them. Just enough every morning that it would scar over again, and then by the next morning I could do it again. I'm sorry."

"And this morning?"

Jimmy shrugs again, idly wipes away a tear. "Accidentally went too deep. It's happened a couple of times. Not fun, of course—" he shudders, remembering the burning pain and the cold and the blurry vision— "but nothing that won't heal itself. I'm usually very careful about it."

A burst of cold from Scott, one that almost feels like fear on the back of Jimmy's tongue.

"Is that all?" Scott asks, voice trembling just the slightest bit.

Is it all?

Jimmy certainly wants it to be all. He doesn't want to have to cause Scott any more heartache.

And he remembers, vaguely, that first night conscious, Pix fast asleep, and how he held a hot coal to his arm just to watch himself heal. He remembers how the pain made him feel alive.

And just now, his fingernails digging into his arm to calm himself.

"I think so," he says.

Then he's utterly taken aback when Scott leans over and wraps him in a hug.

"Tell me if this hurts, okay?" Scott mumbles into his shoulder.

It does, a little bit. But Jimmy just puts his arms around Scott, awkward as the leaning hug is, and holds him close, as his instinct dictates.

He loves Scott. He loves him so, so much. He can't wait until they're married.

If they get married.

After a good minute, Scott pulls back, readjusts so that he can lean against Jimmy. Jimmy, naturally, lays his head atop Scott's.

"I'm not upset with you," Scott says, sounding a little like he's crying. Jimmy doesn't move to check, his heart leaping at the words. "I'm not mad at you. I love you so much, okay? I'm making a promise every day to stick with you, and I'm not breaking it."

Jimmy's breath chokes in his throat.

Scott isn't going to break up with him, probably.

And Jimmy is going to do everything in his power to make sure he never does. Even if that means stopping cutting. He'll do whatever it takes to be good enough for Scott.

"I have elves that work in mental and emotional health," Scott says. "I can get you in for an appointment today."

Does he want that?

There's something wrong with his head if he actually wants to cut himself (like he does right now, healed cuts itching to be reopened), and he wants to be better for Scott, so he probably should see someone who's actually trained for help.

But he doesn't really want to. He doesn't want to talk to anyone else about this. He doesn't want to lose his scars.

"Maybe," he hedges. Scott gently takes his chin, moves his head a bit further away to face him.

Reluctantly, Jimmy looks up into his eyes, the rest of his face obscured by the veil.

Scott's eyes are their normal, beautiful ice blue, lovingly soft yet determined.

"That is not a 'maybe'," he says firmly. "That is non-negotiable. You are going to try to get better, and I am going to help you, but you aren't going to stay like this. So I'll get you the appointment, and then we can treat the rest of the day like it's normal, if you like. But right now we're figuring this out."

That sounds like a lot of hurt.

But somewhere, deep down, he's really sick of stabbing himself.

"You're mean," grumbles Jimmy, resting his head back on Scott. "I've never done anything like this to you."

"You literally made me hug you that one time," Scott says drily. "Remember?"

Jimmy forces a laugh. "What, when you were afraid you were gonna freeze me?"

"And you knew that I could do anything if I put my mind to it," continues Scott. "Including control my freak ice powers. And I know you can control this, all right?"

Control is an interesting word, but. . . .

Jimmy nods. He can . . . he can try.

And for now, he leans on Scott, and wishes everything was just a bit easier.

-

It's hard.

It's hard to let go.

"Jimmy, what are you doing?"

Jimmy bites his lip. His health advisor told him to ask Scott for help when he got self-harm urges, and here he is with blood running down his torso and a knife held over his collarbone.

What's he supposed to do?

His health advisor also told him to not lie if he cut.

He didn't ask Scott for help, so he might as well follow the second rule.

"Jimmy?" Scott asks again, knocking on the closed bathroom door. "What are you doing?"

"Um," Jimmy says, looking down at himself. "I'm cutting?"

"Jimmy, unlock the door."

Jimmy sighs, guilt rising in his throat. He's not trying hard enough. He really isn't.

He doesn't want to be better.

He crosses the room to the door, pauses for just a moment to dig the knife into the skin above his collarbone, hissing between his teeth as it smarts. He pulls up a little chunk of skin as he withdraws the knife, rubs the blood from his hand onto some unbloodied patch of skin on his stomach, and opens the door.

Scott's waiting there, arms folded, and Jimmy can see in his face the way his heart breaks when he takes in the violent scene that is Jimmy's body.

"Sorry," Jimmy mumbles, face heating with shame. "It was a rough morning."

Which is true. He'd woken up with the itch under his skin, and then he'd had to message Joel and tell him he was fine after being entirely out of contact for the past week, which had been terrifying and made him feel out of control somehow, and then he saw that the scar above his elbow that had once been so gnarled and raised was nothing but a brown mark on his skin, and he hadn't been able to hold back the urge any longer.

Which is how he found himself here in the washroom, shirtless and veil-less and trousers rolled up above his knees, covered in blood as he'd slowly quieted the buzzing of his mind by cutting into himself again and again.

"Oh, darling," Scott says mournfully. He heads toward the sink basin and Jimmy's wet cloth there. "Let's get you cleaned up, all right? Then we can schedule an extra appointment with the health advisor."

Jimmy doesn't move when Scott beckons him to the sink, though. He just stares down at himself, at the blood leaking from the six or seven deep cuts he's already carved.

"Jimmy?"

It's terrible. It's absolutely horrible, and Jimmy's insides twist awfully when he says it, but it's all his mind is stuck on.

"I wasn't finished."

Scott tilts his head. "What?"

Jimmy flexes his fingers on the knife hilt. "I—I wasn't done. I can't just, just stop in the middle."

Scott looks at him. Just looks at him, eyes scanning Jimmy's body in a way that makes him want to squirm and shy away.

"All right," Scott says eventually, and he leans against the basin. He waves a hand. "Continue."

Jimmy blinks. He didn't expect Scott to agree. He kind of expected him to forcibly take the knife away and send him straight to his health advisor.

He waits, knife poised above his sternum, ready to make a quick, long cut. Scott doesn't even move.

Well, he isn't going to do it while Scott is right here. That's—that would be awful.

"Um. . . ." He looks at the door, then back at Scott. Scott folds his arms.

"I'm not leaving," he says, settling in a bit. "Either cut in front of me or don't do it at all."

He can't do that. He isn't going to hurt himself in front of Scott.

But it's the only option if he wants to finish re-carving his scars.

Jimmy lifts the knife again—at some point it had fallen to his side—and sets it on his sternum, ready to drag it down.

He tries not to look at Scott, but he sees him flinch out of the corner of his eye—

He lets the knife fall back to his side. He can't do it. Not with Scott here. He can't make Scott watch that.

He knows why Scott won't leave, but it seems stupid. Why can't he just let Jimmy finish cutting in peace?

"Sure you can't leave?" he tries half-heartedly. Scott raises an eyebrow.

Right.

He can agree, give Scott the knife, pour some water on his wounds; or he can get angry, yell at him, run out and finish cutting in peace.

The second option, while certainly appealing, is quite possibly relationship-ruining. He's always done his best to rein in his stubbornness with Scott, and he's learned in recent months that it's frequently better and safer to not fight.

Even though he twitches toward the door, even though the knife feels so right against his skin, even though there's nothing stopping him, he chooses the first.

He isn't going to do it happily, though, and he levels a glare at Scott (who just raises his other eyebrow) before stumping across the washroom and holding the knife out, hilt-first.

"Here," he grumbles. "Hide it, or whatever you did with the first one."

Scott takes it, a smile playing on his lips that's some combination of relieved and self-satisfied. Jimmy rolls his eyes.

It drops quickly, though, as Scott picks up the washcloth and sits Jimmy down on the side of the tub, cleaning his wounds one by one.

"I thought you were supposed to come to me when you felt urges," Scott says quietly, pulling back the cloth as the cut on his collarbone begins to slowly mend itself. "I was just in our room. You wouldn't have been bothering me."

Jimmy sighs, purposefully drawing it out so that Scott knows just how annoyed he is. "I dunno. Just needed to fix my scars. Didn't want you to stop me."

"I'm sorry. I don't know how hard this is for you, but I need you to come to me even when you don't want to. Or—if not me, someone. Your advisor, or Lizzie, or someone. All right?"

He's right.

Jimmy doesn't want him to be right. He wants him to be nice.

It isn't Scott's kindness that makes him want to marry him, though. It probably isn't one of the first qualities that anyone would associate with him. He may want Scott to be nice about this, but he's far more likely to be right—which is, sometimes unfortunately, one of his prominent qualities. He always seems to be right.

"Okay," he says begrudgingly. "I'm fine, though. It doesn't actually hurt me."

Scott scoffs. "Right. It doesn't hurt to cut? At all?"

"Well, yeah, it hurts, but not permanently—"

"Just because you heal well doesn't mean damage isn't permanent," Scott tells him, frowning at a wound that won't close. He reaches into the medicine chest beside them, pulls out a bandage. "I would say this has been very hard for you emotionally. For others, too. And you can't tell me that almost dying every so often is healthy."

Scott is, again, right. Regular and severe amounts of pain are bad for the psyche, according to his health advisor.

Jimmy sighs again, less intentionally obnoxious. "Why are you always right?"

Scott smiles, gives him a little kiss on the cheek. "It's my job as your future husband. Somebody has to take care of you."

"I'm still not happy with you, mister, but . . . it's good to know one of us knows what he's doing."

"I'll keep doing my best," Scott declares. "But you have your moments, Jimmy."

Jimmy snorts. "Right. Honestly, if I looked at the two of us for help, I'd definitely choose the savior king who took down a demon over the guy who died a couple months ago."

"You're forgetting that I basically died, too," says Scott. "We're both just that guy. And you're a demigod who single-handedly kept an empire alive, so don't sell yourself short."

Jimmy lifts his arm when Scott taps it, lets him treat a cut on his side.

"I don't know if you know, but you're kind of a local hero," Jimmy jokes. "Kind of hard to measure up to."

Scott chuckles. "Yes, I think I figured that out when Katherine showed me the new line of Smajor dolls at her local toy shop. Or maybe when Gem told me that her students were dying their hair blue? Or maybe when I was issued an official apology from the citizens of the Grimlands. There, all done. You can start getting dressed, I'll clean up in here."

Jimmy stands, grimaces at how stiff his wounds already feel. He would offer to help—that is his blood on the floor, after all—but he always feels a little lightheaded after cutting and it takes him long enough to get dressed, anyways. Better to let Scott take care of this, and that way Jimmy won't accidentally pass out while leaning over to clean the washroom floor and he also might be ready to leave right when Scott is.

He heads toward their shared closet, hand hovering over his favorite green tunic (he usually belts it over a brown long-sleeved piece to keep in line with the betrothal modesty laws) before choosing one of Scott's favorites, a sky-blue robe with gold leaf trim and wide sleeves, which Jimmy chooses to wear over his brown long-sleeved shirt, knowing that they absolutely won't match. Scott will be embarrassed and annoyed at Jimmy for wearing his clothes in public, and Jimmy's definitely still feeling like acting obnoxious.

Sure enough, Scott glares at him all through the political breakfast of that morning, when the elven lords and ladies eye Jimmy and barely restrain giggles.

And Jimmy ignores the itching of his scars and smiles.

-

It's only two days later, and he's about to cut again.

The itching is so strong, and Jimmy, though avoiding mirrors for now, catches a glimpse of his reflection in the pool that morning and can't help but notice how light his scars are.

He has a knife socked away behind one of the never-read books on his shelf. He's taken to hiding any knives he can find (there's at least three in his room, in various hiding places) and he goes so far as to pull out the book and stare at the knife there.

He made it an entire week, and now he can't go two days?

He's stronger than this. He needs to fight this urge. He doesn't want to, but he also, logically, does not want to cut.

Which is nice, actually. He's been craving it for so long; it's nice to genuinely not want to cut. Even if it's just because he doesn't want to let Scott down.

So how on earth is he meant to deal with this, when he's supposed to be studying in their quarters for the next two hours and he can't stop thinking about the knives he has?

Scott's in a meeting about rebuilding assistance with a representative of the Undergrove, so Jimmy can't just go hang out with him. It would be both illegal and improper to have an unallied ruler present at such a meeting.

He'd come up with other such solutions at the insistence of his health advisor, in case Scott wasn't available at any given time. But none of those options are very feasible right now, either—he could take a walk but would just end up returning here, still needing to do his studies. He could call Lizzie, but then he would need to explain the situation and he still hasn't found the guts to tell her of the matter. He could instead do work for his empire—he and Scott are going to be returning there in just a couple of days—but there's not really anything remote that he can do that hasn't already been done. And his last option is to take a nap, but he doesn't think he'd be able to sleep with this pulling at his brain.

Whatever he does, he can't stay in this room, Jimmy decides. It's too much of a temptation. He'd be much better off somewhere else, somewhere people are watching and he has to act normal.

It's almost physically difficult to make himself leave, but Jimmy grabs his books on the history of musical tradition in Rivendell and his study journal and leaves the room, wandering the palace until he finds the meeting room where Scott currently is.

He sits outside the room (a servant pulls a chair into the hallway for him, despite his insistence that he didn't need one, that he was fine on the floor) and does his best to study while he waits for his fiance to have a break.

After about an hour, he's startled by the door opening, a guard leading the Undergrove representative into the hall and away, followed by others from the meeting.

Jimmy waits until all the official-looking people have filtered out, muttering to each other and shuffling papers. Then he pokes his head in, finds Scott sitting in his grand chair at the head of the table, Ilphas at his side. They're murmuring with each other, examining papers before them, and Scott rubs his eyes and lays his face in his hands.

Jimmy doesn't say anything, but Ilphas looks up, raises their eyebrows, and stands, patting Scott lightly on the shoulder.

"You'll cheer him up," they mutter to Jimmy as they pass on their way out. "The meeting is on recess, you have fifteen minutes."

Jimmy nods, sidles into the room. Scott looks up when he gets close, lines around his eyes softening.

"Hi," Scott says as Jimmy takes Ilphas's vacated seat. "How has studying been?"

Jimmy thinks of his time in the hallway, trying desperately not to roll up his sleeves just to scratch at his arms, or head back up to his room to fix his scars. It had been a constant struggle, and he hadn't gotten more than page read, the words blurring before his eyes.

He hums noncommittally, taps his gloved fingers on the table before him. "How was the meeting?"

"Good, I think," Scott says, glancing down at his papers. "Just difficult. Our alliance with the Undergrove is about as strong as it can get, which is always good. The problem is, I have an empire of my own that was under enemy rule to take care of, and we're spread thin enough with other allies. We're trying to figure out what Rivendell has spare of that the gnomes could actually use. There are at least five other people who need to be present for this, though, so it may go on for several days."

"Hm." Jimmy shifts a bit, ready to preemptively wince when his stomach presses against the table, but there's no wound there.

He hadn't carved it open, after all.

Instantly, Jimmy feels his entire body break out into sweat, the itching becoming a hive of ants crawling under his skin.

He needs to fix his scars. He needs to cut, or else they'll disappear and they're already starting to disappear and he can't stand it.

He isn't supposed to be cutting. He's supposed to distract himself.

But Jimmy's doing all of the right things! He left the room with the temptations, he tried to focus on something else, he found Scott. He did exactly what his health advisor told him to do, and it didn't work. He just needs to fix his scars, he needs to leave the room and go get his knife and lock himself in the washroom—Scott would never know, he knows how to hide it, he could just get it done—

"—entirely confidential, of course," Scott is saying distantly. "But basically, Shelby's afraid that—"

"Scott," Jimmy interrupts, voice too loud. Scott looks up from the table, and Jimmy just knows his eyebrow is raised, even if he can't well see it. "Yes, darling?"

Right. He isn't even going to think about it, because if he thinks about it, he'll chicken out, he just can't let Scott down.

"I am about to cut myself," Jimmy says, detached and calm. "There is a knife on my bookshelf, second shelf behind the red book on the left. There's another one between my mattress and my bedframe. Could you please remove them?"

Scott stares at him for a moment, before shoving back his chair. "I—yes, of course—are you all right if I leave you here?"

"Maybe leave me with Ilphas," Jimmy forces himself to say, despite the way his head screams at him. If he's alone, he can at least scratch himself with his sharp nails. "I—I shouldn't be alone."

He should be letting Scott rest during this break, not bothering him with his dumb mental issues. He should actually be a normal adult for once and handle his own problems.

But Scott taps his shoulder as he passes by. "Thank you for coming to me," he says seriously. "You did everything right. I'll see you in a moment, and I'll send Ilphas in here."

Then he's gone, and a moment later, Ilphas ducks back into the room.

"Milord," they nod to Jimmy. Jimmy nods back, tugging his gloves up a bit from where he'd started to subconsciously pull them off.

Jimmy doesn't speak. Ilphas looks awkwardly between him and the hall, then, with the uncomfortable air of forcing a conversation, says, "The music of Rivendell? How do you find yourself enjoying it?"

"The—the music itself, or, uh, the study?"

"The study," they clarify. Jimmy chews on his lip for a moment.

"It's strange, studying music," he says. "I guess I didn't think about the fact that people must do it."

"How did Cod music come about?"

Jimmy shrugs. "I don't know. I think I pioneered it, though."

Ilphas tilts their head. Jimmy does not elaborate.

He does vaguely remember tying two clam shells together to make a noisemaker, one that had quickly spread in popularity and he still sees as a percussion instrument in Cod culture. Why study Cod music when he was there for its development?

"How old do elves get?" Jimmy asks suddenly as the thought occurs to him—are there elves here who might have seen the development of their culture, as Jimmy had seen his own?

"One thousand and two-hundred is the oldest an elf has lived to be," Ilphas says, sounding weirdly proud. "We are among the longest-lived of the species of the earth. Even the fae tend to live for under four hundred years. The gnomes have a lifespan slightly shorter than humans, and the inhabitants of the ocean and the Codlands—do correct me if I'm wrong—do not commonly live longer than one hundred and fifty years, and often shorter, depending on the breed. Which is why elves have historically kept to themselves, and rarely married outside their own—there is no one who can match our lifespan."

It almost feels pointed. "Well, you won't have that problem with me," Jimmy says offhandedly. He so badly wants to tear through his sleeve, stab his pointed nail into his upper arm. He can't stand this, he has to go fix his scars, he has to stop Scott from taking his knives.

He takes in a long, slow breath. He can control this urge until it passes.

He blinks, and realizes that Ilphas is frowning at him.

"Pardon my asking, milord, but is the Cod lifespan not typically under a hundred years? Lord Smajor will likely live to be over a thousand, praying all goes well in his reign."

Oh. Right.

"I'm . . . I'm kind of older than I look," Jimmy says awkwardly. "I'll . . . I'll probably outlive him, honestly. If all goes well in—in my reign."

"Outlive Lord Smajor?" Ilphas sputters. "Perhaps, if he were already well-advanced, but he is barely an adult! Aeor willing, he will—"

"I'm back, thank you, Ilphas," Scott says, entering the room. "Apologies, it was urgent. Do you mind if I have a moment alone with my betrothed? And," he adds, as Ilphas inclines their head and moves to leave, "give us ample warning before entering again. Five minutes alone?"

"Five minutes," Ilphas agrees, casting one more confused look toward Jimmy before leaving and closing the door behind themself.

Scott barely hesitates. He crosses the room like he has an urgent mission and sweeps Jimmy up into a hug.

Jimmy can't help it; he smiles, throws his arms around Scott's neck.

"I'm so proud of you!" Scott says, and he lets go of Jimmy only for a moment to release the clips on both their veils, letting them slip down.

Scott isn't kidding—his face is positively beaming, as tired as he still appears. Jimmy's really not sure why. He hadn't even done anything, except want to hurt himself. "I didn't do anything special," he mumbles.

"You came up with a plan, and you stuck to it," says Scott. "You took initiative by asking me to remove dangerous items from your room. You fought your addiction to get help. That's incredible, Jimmy!"

But it isn't. He didn't do anything.

And he doesn't like that word.

"It's not an addiction," Jimmy says, looking away. "It's just me being dumb. Don't—don't call it an addiction when I could stop at any time, I just keep choosing to mess up."

Scott frowns. "Jimmy, you came in here because you were fighting an urge to self-harm and you needed me to make sure you didn't. Do you want to cut?"

Does he?

To some extent, he does. He wants to check on his scars, make them dark and ugly again, tug the shimmering scales out of his face and from his knuckles. He can't lose this.

But Jimmy's so tired of hurting. He doesn't want to be trapped in this endless loop of nearly killing himself every morning for the next however-long he lives.

He feels like a child, trying to lug around a wagon of useless rocks, each one collected from a meaningful place, but useless all the same.

"I don't know," he whispers. "I don't think I want to."

"You don't have to call it an addiction," Scott says gently. "It's an alarming word. But when you're repeatedly hurting yourself and you don't want to, it isn't normal."

He says something else that Jimmy doesn't understand as he turns his head to check the door, Scott's voice becoming distorted in his bad ear. When he turns back, Scott's smiling softly.

"You're two days sober," he says, voice bursting with something like pride. "And you're already taking all the right steps."

"Two days," Jimmy groans. It feels like it's been weeks already, his scars constantly nagging at the back of his mind. And he has to be clean from self-harm for—for forever?

He isn't strong enough for that. He doesn't want to be strong enough.

"Three days tomorrow," Scott encourages. "Three days is enough. And then four days after that. One day at a time."

Scott is too perfect for him. He's such an excellent person, and Jimmy just can't measure up.

One day at a time.

"I can try that," Jimmy says. Scott smiles, one gloved hand coming up to rest on Jimmy's jaw.

"I'm right here, okay? Every day."

And then, at Jimmy's little nod, Scott closes the gap between them and kisses him.

Scott's a good kisser, if Jimmy does say so himself. He's responsive, and tends to let Jimmy lead, and Jimmy really wants to lead right now.

He lightly scrapes one of his sharp lower teeth against Scott's bottom lip, smiles against Scott's mouth when his partner actually moans a little, lets his lips fall further open. So ridiculously sensitive, his lover is.

Jimmy's about to go a little further—he really does love kissing Scott, it feels like taking care of him in some odd, protective way, it makes him feel like he can do something right—when a knock on the door startles them apart.

The door opens a crack, and Ilphas calls in, "Milords, it's been seven minutes, so you had really better make yourselves decent if you aren't."

Jimmy blushes; the blood drains from Scott's face.

"Just one moment," Scott calls over his shoulder, standing up straight from where he'd been leaning back on the table.

He fixes both their veils, and Jimmy cracks one last smile at him, hidden by the thin green fabric.

Then he's being ushered out of the room, and many more people are being ushered in, and Jimmy has to return to his studies for another half hour before heading off for a walk through the gardens.

The itching under his skin quiets just a little.

And Jimmy lives one day at a time.

-

It's about a year later when he relapses.

Jimmy's had a bad day—he's been in meetings all week, trying to see if the House Blossom Alliance can be reformed, and it's been stressful all around. And then today, in one of those meetings, fWhip had made it clear that he believed Jimmy had entirely invented the years of torment at the hands of him and Sausage and Joey.

It had been a moment where Jimmy had floundered. His hands had clenched into fists, bile had risen in the back of his throat, he'd stared hard at the table while Katherine called for fWhip to behave himself.

And now, arriving home in Rivendell, Jimmy can barely hide in his room fast enough.

fWhip's right, there's no proof that any of it ever happened—there's no way to verify it, no way to show that Jimmy had been through everything because none of his scars are more than faint lines now except the ones from the Void, and those ones have a clear origin that isn't necessarily fWhip—and Scott doesn't count as an eyewitness because he's Jimmy's husband, he's biased, he could be lying about seeing any of it because Jimmy doesn't have any way to corroborate his story and everything itches under his skin and it's so bad—

Moving almost by instinct, Jimmy stumbles up from where he's collapsed on the floor, up and over to his bedside rug. He pulls up a corner of it, and there the knife is.

It's been hidden there for at least a year, its oiled sheath still showing Jimmy's fingerprints from when he'd last touched it to hide it.

He barely thinks for a moment, his stomach going all cold as he realizes what he's about to do—he's been clean for a year, he can't do this he doesn't really want to does he?—but he thinks more about where he's going to start and how to keep himself from being interrupted than he does anything else.

He locks himself in the washroom, strips off his brown leather waistcoat and green tunic and surveys his torso for a moment.

There used to be a scar, long and thin, right down his sternum. He traces his skin there lightly with the tip of the knife, hair standing on end.

Then he pushes the knife in.

It hurts. It hurts a lot more than it used to, he thinks—it's been a while since he was properly injured, and it's hard to think when there's a knife in him.

After the first cut, he falls back into the routine as if he'd cut just yesterday. His hands find the vague spots that were once twisted scars and carves them out by muscle memory, stabbing the knife deeper and deeper as his hands shake and his knees go weak.

And then he reaches the scales on his face and his hand falters.

He's covered in blood. He's absolutely soaked in it, his face stark-white against all that red.

He relapsed.

The knife slips from his numb fingers and clatters to the floor. Jimmy feels himself sway, the sight of so much blood making his head woozy.

He sits down, hard, on the floor, the world tilting a little. He isn't going to—it isn't that bad. He's definitely done worse to himself, even if it's been a year.

A year. He was clean for an entire year, and all of that is now gone.

He kind of doesn't want to clean up. What's the point? He might as well keep cutting and never stop, seeing as he's already lost literally all of his progress.

But he doesn't, for some reason. He doesn't touch the scales on his face and hands, fully grown in now when he'd never let them before.

Instead, he follows old routine. He gets his wet cloth from the basin and wipes down his body, watching the wounds slowly scab over until no more blood is seeping out. Then he pulls his tunic back on over stinging wounds, leaving the waist coat for another day, and rolls his trouser legs down.

Now what is he supposed to do?

He wants to keep it hidden. That old itch that had been a quiet background noise for many months now is roaring for attention, pushing and pulling at his mind.

He can't tell anyone about this, or else they'll make him stop.

Which—he wants to stop. He literally wants to stop, but he can't stop thinking of ways to hide it, to keep his knife as his own and cover the marks he's made.

He isn't going to do that. He isn't going to hide things from Scott anymore.

So Jimmy sits on their bed and gets out his communicator, tapping out a message to his husband with trembling fingers.

I need help. if you're busy don't worry about it it isn't urgent :)

Jimmy tosses his communicator across the bed, hugs his arms around himself. Why did he send a smiley face? That was dumb. Then Scott will turn up later and think that it isn't an actual issue, even though Jimmy relapsed and everything is suddenly so bad.

But he can't bother him by telling him it's important, because Scott is currently in his weekend planning meeting to prepare to go to the Codlands for the next week, and that's very important and if Jimmy interrupts it Scott might not be able to go home with him this week.

So he waits there, hugging himself, his cuts hurting just a little too much for him to forget them.

He doesn't cry. When he used to cut, it would disconnect his emotions. His head would clear a little more with every dig of the knife, and he would finish feeling numb with a buzz of satisfaction.

The satisfaction feels more sickly than anything else. He sits there, stewing in the feeling, staring at nothing.

He can't act normal. He's not sure how he thought he would be able to pretend that nothing was wrong. He can't even do that while alone.

Jimmy waits there, feeling rather small, curled up on the end of their bed. He doesn't move. He doesn't even readjust when he feels a cut on his side pull open and stick to his tunic. Shame. He liked this tunic.

He's not sure how long he waits before the sitting room door opens and he hears Scott take off his boots. He knows it's Scott, instinctively—Scott always turns the doorknob when shutting the door so that it closes softly, and Jimmy knows exactly the sounds it makes when Scott pulls free the laces of his boots and sets them on the wooden rack.

Sure enough, Scott comes through the bedroom side door, offering Jimmy a soft smile before unclasping an official-looking cape of sorts (his wings shake themselves a couple of times) and laying it on the back of his desk chair, setting his crown on the desk.

"I got your message," Scott says. "Sorry I took a little while, I only had a few more items of business to take care of before it was all finished. How was your meeting? How's Katherine doing?"

Jimmy stands, twisting his hands in the fabric of his shirt, carefully not looking at the cut across his lower palm that he'd made just earlier.

"Um, she's good," he says, not quite meeting Scott's eyes. "The meeting didn't go the best."

Scott clicks his tongue, lifts a necklace off himself and sets it on the desk beside his crown. "I should've been there. I don't like it when you have to talk to any of them without me there."

"Gem and Katherine and Pix were there," Jimmy says. "He wasn't going to attack me. He just . . . he said some stuff."

"I'll kill him," Scott says instantly. "I'm the Champion of Aeor, I can take him, easy."

"And I'm a thousand-year-old demigod, we all could take him," Jimmy reminds him. "But that's not really . . . that's not what I need help with. But it's related, I guess."

"What, did fWhip do something?"

"Not . . . not exactly."

A frown creases Scott's face. He crosses the room, sits down on the bed, and pats the spot beside him.

Jimmy joins him, almost reluctantly. It would be easier to just tell him from the doorway, then take off running before Scott can get angry or sad. But he sits beside his husband and does his best not to flinch when Scott's wing comes to settle around him.

"You're upset, darling," Scott says, tone careful and soft. "What's wrong?"

There's no tears. Not yet. Only a feeling like he's going to throw up.

"I relapsed," Jimmy manages, voice barely above a whisper. "I cut myself. I relapsed."

"Oh . . . oh, love. . . ."

"I didn't mean to," he adds. "Just—fWhip said some things and I couldn't get them out of my head."

"I'll kill him," Scott says again. "I'm actually going to kill him, he made you feel like that and—"

"Scott. . . ."

Scott stops at Jimmy's small, pleading word. He pauses, then takes Jimmy's hands in his own.

"I love you," he says seriously, and Jimmy's heart flips at the reminder. "Whatever fWhip said means absolutely nothing to me, okay? You are incredible, darling. Now, do you need any medical attention? How bad is it?"

Jimmy's about to wave him off, say that it isn't bad at all. He's never liked to admit to pain.

But he's learning how to be better. He doesn't want to lie to his husband.

"I'll be fine," he says carefully. "It was pretty bad, though. I—I really messed up. I basically just, uh, stopped short of my scales."

Scott breathes in and out, slow and steady. Then he looks Jimmy hard in the eye.

"I'm glad you're okay," he says, face determined. "I'm sorry you went through that. Do you have anything that I need to keep safe?"

"Knife," Jimmy says. "It's in the washroom, on the sink. I cleaned up, so don't worry about . . . anything."

Scott nods, squeezes Jimmy's hands before slipping away, through the sitting room and into the washroom. After a couple of moments, he returns, smile a little tight around the corners.

Jimmy swallows back that horrible ill feeling. He was an entire year sober, and one little mocking statement from fWhip sent him right back to day one.

“I failed,” he whispers eventually. Finally, tears burn at his eyes.

He failed. An entire year.

“You didn’t . . . that doesn’t change your worth,” Scott tells him, once again weaving their hands together. “It doesn’t change anything. You just keep trying.”

“Yeah, but—it does, really, because—”

“Failing doesn’t mean you’re worthless,” Scott says strongly. “It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. It only means you try again.”

Scott knows that. Jimmy knows how deeply Scott struggled, those weeks living in the refugee camp, with feeling like he was anything but a failure. Scott’s worked with those feelings for a very long time—Jimmy still remembers from the other month how Scott held him so tightly and almost cried over that first time that he was late to answer Jimmy’s messages, so long ago, how badly he felt he’d failed him.

Scott knows how it feels to be a failure.

Jimmy’s pretty well-acquainted with it too, to be fair. He’s felt like a failure for most of his short memory.

But that’s okay.

“I’m a loser,” he tries half-heartedly.

“Don’t say such things about my husband.”

Hearing Scott call him his husband releases some of the tension Jimmy’s holding in his chest and he collapses onto Scott, his wounds twinging. Scott huffs out a laugh, falls back against the bed, pulling Jimmy down with him.

“The urge is a lot stronger, now,” Jimmy warns Scott, voice partially muffled by his husband’s tunic. “I might . . . I might fail again.”

The last words come out small, shameful. Scott hugs Jimmy tight.

“Okay,” he says simply. “I wish I could fight it for you, but I’m here to support you, no matter what.”

That’s all Jimmy needs.

He can do it, he thinks.

“One day at a time, darling.”

“One day at a time.”

[fereldanwench]

👀 please share your thoughts on the emp threads and especially goro’s vanity I’d love to know more

Happy to oblige!!!

So for those who don't know, EMP threading in the Cyberpunk world is a type of cyberware that appeared towards the end of the Red Decades/Time of the Red, likely in the late 2040s. It was believed at the time that it could protect its wearer against electromagnetic interference from more intense cybernetics (like weapon augmentations and the like) and radiation. However, that was never scientifically confirmed, and in my opinion, it was probably some sci-fi woo-woo marketing bullshit.

It's cataloged as fashionware in the TTPRG, which means that it doesn't really increase the risk for cyberpsychosis and other negative side effects the way the real shit does. It's basically just about aesthetics and typically has little functional purpose.

I believe it was Goro's writer, Philip Weber, who confirmed on one Pawel's Twitch streams in fall 2021 that the markings on Goro's face are EMP threads and not "proper" cyberware. (I don't feel like tracking down the link right this second, but when I have a little more time I can verify and/or amend the exact source in the comments. I do know that Goro definitely has EMP threading.)

Goro's exact age has never been confirmed--We've just been told he's at least 45 years old in 2077, although I personally always felt like that was too young. My initial guess was early to mid-60s, and then I bumped my headcanon down to 55ish to find a happy medium between the two. Regardless, he's likely somewhere between his late teens to late 20s when EMP threading is gaining popularity, and I feel like this sort of new trendy cyberware probably has much greater appeal to young adults who are really finding their personal style and identity and whatnot.

So I've always had two different but not necessarily conflicting thoughts about Goro's EMP threading:

He got them for practical purposes, thinking they would enhance his abilities and make him an even better little super soldier for Arasaka-sama. Or maybe Arasaka even made their soldiers get them at one point, buying into the idea that they did have a functional purpose.

He got them because he just wanted to look cool. 😎 And I mean, he does still have them, even after presumably something traumatic damaged a part of the threading (that scar, to me, looks like it happened after the threading was implanted given how perfectly it lines up against the remaining thread), so I think there's some conscious fashion/style decision here. I don't see them as being something he'd have a hard time getting removed if he really wanted to.

And like I said: these don't even necessarily have to conflict. Maybe he got them on his own because he thought they'd be functional AND looked cool. 😎

As for Goro's youthful vanity--I really don't have any hard evidence or anything to back up this headcanon, it's just kind of one of those Vibes™️ type things based on the very little he shares about his life before Arasaka.

He does mention that he and his peers always made it a point to wash before the Arasaka transports would roll through Chiba, and I could see him really leaning in hard to having impeccable hygiene, which could also extend to style, to try to distance himself from his streetkid beginnings. Between the bullying we see with David in the Arasaka academy in Edgerunners and real-life stories my husband has shared from his time in a military academy, I imagine Goro was probably surrounded by some real fuckin' assholes who would love to take him down for anything they possibly could, so it would be not just a matter of pride, but self-preservation.

Goro also mentioned that he lacked discipline before Arasaka, and I think he was probably a fuckin' handful when he was younger. I just really love the idea of him being a vain, arrogant pain in the ass in his teens and early 20s and having a major humbling moment in the field, like losing fellow soldiers due to his over-confidence. (Side note: his time as a soldier is probably the era of his life I want to know the most about--He has that line about Saburo understanding what it was like, and I feel like if Goro can identify with someone who served in WWII that he's probably seen some shit.)

So yeah! There's probably other shit I left out, but this is basically the gist of my Goro's EMP Threading as a Symbol of Vanity thesis, lmao

[licncourt]

begin again COOKED as a post-qotd fix-it (fave fic! <3) but i need to know your thoughts on prince lestat/how you would re-do it in the correct way. to this day i still think LESTAT becoming prince monarch of all the vampires is one of the craziest decisions made during the novels. to me lestat is a prince in the same way that jack skellington was king of halloween (that includes the running away to cause delusional hijinks that ultimately jeapordize everyone)

Aaahhh thank you!! That fic is my child that I birthed so I appreciate it more than you know! It's actually BA's one year finished-iversary next week, my baby's all grown up.

I've talked about that before actually in this post about how I would rewrite the whole series, but I can expand a little here!

Firstly, this could've been two books instead of three. There was nothing going on in there that required three entire novels

Things that have to go entirely: aliens, test tube clone baby Viktor, Atlantis. Sorry, not salvageable

I think rather than the Amel thing, it would have been cool if the sacred core had started corrupting Lestat and altering his behavior as host, maybe changing him gradually into a animalistic, violent folklore-like vampire, making him slowly lose his mind like Mekare, or erasing his sense of self to become a blank host. Then it's a race against the clock and vampire magical biology to save him. This could be the first PL book

Ideally, I think this book should be narrated by Louis and focus a lot on his growth as a character as he finishes his personal. It would bring some happy ending closure to the IWTV version of him without being a jarring change. I also think having his POV for the best of his and Lestat's relationship would be a nice full circle moment from seeing him describe their worst. The idea of Lestat losing himself to the core and them potentially coming together too late would add good drama as well. Maybe this is Louis' follow-up memoir describing how they fixed things

The Rhoshamandes conflict can stay for the second PL and final VC book, but I think it could've been less boring if the drama between him and Lestat had been better fleshed out. They have a lot of similarities that weren't used to their full advantage. It would really highlight Lestat's growth to have him defeat what he could've become

When Lestat reunites with Louis, they would actually have some long, hard conversations about their past, ones that continue throughout the PL trilogy

Hopefully an explanation for why Lestat has made this 180 is included, even if it's just the crushing realization of his own loneliness and longing reaching critical mass after twenty years of who the fuck knows what

The cast is pared down to the strongest written and most interesting characters so the story isn't spread so thin, probably Lestat, Louis, Armand, Gabrielle, Marius, Pandora, and maybe a small handful of new characters with significance in the story. I think Seth, Fareed, Sevraine had the most potential to be good additions to the primary roster if she wanted to add on

Cool characters from the original like trilogy like Maharet and Khayman are expanded on rather than killed offscreen to make room for more Anne Rice NPCs. If we're going to kill someone from the trilogy, please God let it be David Talbot

This goes without saying I think, especially from me, but Louis would be restored to his former glory as a true main character alongside Lestat instead of relegated to lobotomized housewife. There was so much potential for him in an active consort role. We also don't get to see how he got to such a peaceful place at the end of PL, so I would like to see him work through some stuff on the page

I would either cut the Rhoshamandes/Benedict storyline because of how redundant it is with how it mirrors the Marius/Armand dynamic or do something to differentiate it as its own relationship. At the very least, maybe the similarity could be highlighted to become a character beat for Armand

As far as Armand in general, I would make him a much more prominent player. I think he's a great fit for a court setting and could create a lot of intrigue as well as adding coolness factor. I'm always torn about whether I like the reveal of his romantic feelings for Lestat, but in the interest of keeping SOME things intact, I would just play it differently. Primarily, I think he becomes way too agreeable (similar to Louis) in how he submits to and idolizes Lestat, so I would love to see him come into more conflict with Lestat in spite of those feelings. Maybe we can see him make some peace with their history and let go of that intense emotion for something healthier

If we're going to keep the sex injections (IVs, whatever), I think we should do more with it than have Lestat prematurely ejaculate into a random woman. I think there's potential for a very interesting new dynamic with Louis and Lestat. It would be cathartic and maybe an interesting part of their healing process and of becoming a real couple for the first time

That's what I can think of for now, but I might update later!

[sjsmith56]

Third Date

Summary: Bucky, called out for a mission, ghosts Holly on his return, making her think he doesn’t care. When Sam comes to get her and take her to him he tells her what happened on the mission that affected Bucky. Before they can plan the third date there are things that have to be said.

Length: 4.1K

Characters: Bucky, Holly, Sam

Warnings: Angst, Bucky’s anxiety and negative self-talk, ghosting.

Author’s notes: I didn’t plan for this to become a therapy session but sometimes that’s where the writing takes you. Sam is kind of the voice of reason in this with his “just talk about it” attitude. Thought it fitting since he’s the one who composed and sent the original text asking Holly out on Bucky’s behalf. This is the final instalment of this story.

First date Second date

🌆 🌇 🌃

Holly

It had been almost three weeks since Ivy and I last saw Steve and Bucky. Pulled away on a mission just a few days after that amazing double date we had, meant that other than video calls or texts neither one of us had heard from the guys. About a week into the mission Bucky stopped calling. Then Ivy got a text from Steve a few days later that he was coming back in the next day. I had heard nothing from Bucky, and he didn’t respond to my texts or calls, which bothered me as I thought we had something really special starting. Two days after Steve’s supposed return, as I left work there was a truck parked across the street from the building and I recognized the man leaning against the truck. He waved, looked both ways then ran across the traffic.

“Hi, Holly,” he asked. “Remember me? I’m Sam Wilson, Bucky’s friend. We met at Coney Island. I’m here to get you.”

“I haven’t heard from him in a while,” I replied. “Steve came back, but Bucky hasn’t even called.”

Sam smiled sympathetically. “I know, and he’s sorry but something happened and he kind of swore Steve to secrecy. I think they’re both being dumbasses about it, so I made an executive decision. Do you want to see him?”

Maybe it was the sincere expression on his face or the fact he called both guys dumbasses, but something said I could trust Sam. I nodded and he guided me safely across the street, holding the door of his truck open for me. As I settled in while he started it, he glanced sympathetically at me.

“This was a really hard mission for Bucky,” he said. “One of the bases where he was experimented on in the 1950s was rebuilt and they were kidnapping kids, performing experiments on them against their will. This is classified, by the way, so don’t go telling anyone.”

“Is he alright?” I was worried now.

Even though I didn’t know all the details of when Bucky was held prisoner by HYDRA, I knew the basics; that he was experimented on, tortured and forced to kill for them. I could only imagine if he found kids in the same predicament how it might trigger his PTSD.

“He’s better but the whole thing took its toll on him,” said Sam. “He sometimes has a hard time dealing with the emotions it brings up in him. In fact, after they got the kids out, he went back on his own and started trashing the place. I mean literally tearing it apart and it kind of collapsed around him. He was trapped for a day which didn’t help matters. Steve, Thor and Tony were able to get him out, but he had injuries and spent the last few days in a healing cradle back at the Tower. He was released yesterday, and we encouraged him to call you but he’s sure you want nothing to do with him after he, well, ghosted you.”

“You care about him,” I stated. “He said you’re a major pain in the ass, but you do care.”

“I do tease him a lot and maybe I shouldn’t because it’s over things that he doesn’t know about, being a guy from the 1940s,” admitted Sam. “But I hate seeing him miserable and he’s miserable right now, thinking that he blew his chances with you.”

I didn’t say anything to that because I did feel like he ghosted me. Even though I was still mad, I was more disappointed that he wouldn’t let me know he had messed up. As Sam drove from Brooklyn towards Midtown, he asked me more about myself. We found some common ground as Ivy and I were from a fishing community, although we were from the west coast, and he was from Louisiana, co-owner of a fishing boat with his sister. As we got closer to our destination, I got the feeling he was also helping me calm down somewhat as he seemed to have the knack of affirming my negative emotions about being ghosted while encouraging me to be sympathetic to Bucky. I almost laughed when he pulled into the parking garage at Avengers Tower and parked the truck before giving me some advice.

“Just don’t beat him up too bad,” he said. “Tell him how his behaviour made you feel but give him a way to make amends for it.”

“You were a counsellor in a previous life, weren’t you?” I asked. “You’ve been preparing me to deal with him.”

He grinned and shrugged. “I counselled veterans for a time, but I did this because I like you and you make him happy. He still needs to own his mistakes, but he also needs to be led like a kid to see the brighter side of things.”

We entered the elevator, stopping at the lobby so that I could get registered for a friend security ID that would allow me to return almost any time. From there we went to another elevator, and he asked for a certain floor. A female voice came out of nowhere and greeted me by name. I looked at Sam, recognizing the voice from the car that Steve picked us up in for the double date.

“That’s the AI, Friday,” he explained. “You can ask her anything, and I mean anything.”

“Friday, should I forgive Bucky Barnes for ghosting me?” I asked facetiously.

“Sergeant Barnes is a man who still deals with his emotions like many men born at the same time as him,” said the AI, immediately. “It may seem frustrating to a modern woman that he would keep himself closed off, not wishing to inflict what he sees as his flaws on you. However, he is also loyal, faithful, sincere, and according to an analysis of masculine beauty standards is considered to fit in the higher percentile of attractive men, although he seems unaware of that. Based on those factors, forgiveness should be considered.”

I looked at Sam while he grinned at me. “I’m still thinking about it,” I said.

The doors opened to a floor, and we stepped out. There was a common room with a kitchen attached, as well as a large communal table. Several people were gathered around it and watched me as I got off the elevator. We turned in the other direction towards what I assumed were the living quarters. It was bright, large, and I had the feeling that the apartment I was going to was going to be considerably larger than the small flat that I lived in, the same flat that Bucky lived in just a few months previously. Knocking on one of the doors, Sam tentatively opened it and stuck his head inside then he stepped back out.

“Not there,” he said. “He’s not cleared for working out yet so he’s likely in one of his thinking spots. Back to the elevator. Friday, where is Sergeant Barnes?”

She told him and this time we took the elevator to the top, getting out on the roof of the Avengers Tower. I was expecting it to be cool and windy up there, but it was actually kind of nice and warm, without being hot. Sam told me where to go then he left me there. Taking a breath, I walked along the decking towards an assortment of patio furniture. Bucky was sitting on a lounge chair that looked out over the Manhattan skyline. As I approached, I could see that he was aware of someone coming closer.

“I said I don’t want to be bothered,” he called out, looking to the side. “Just leave me alone.”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” I answered, and he jumped off the chaise.

“Holly,” he whispered. “How did you ….”

“Sam came for me,” I answered. There were all sorts of questions I wanted to ask him, but Sam had said to lead with how his ghosting made me feel. “You didn’t call or text, and I thought you were ending it with me, before we even had a chance to see where this goes. That really hurt, Bucky.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied, looking sad. “I was dealing with some things, not very well either, and I thought I could handle them by myself.”

“So I heard. You got hurt.”

“Yeah.” He looked down at his hands. I stepped closer but he stepped away. “I’m not worth it, not really.”

“Not worth what?”

He ran his hands through his hair, which had grown out a bit in the few weeks since I saw him. His stubble was noticeable, making me wonder if that was a super soldier thing.

“Love. I’m broken, Holly. When things get too much, I have a hard time. It’s not fair for someone as amazing as you to be tied down to someone like me.”

“I thought we were just dating,” I stated. “Kind of early for love.”

“Guys I served with got married after just a few days of dating,” he answered. “They were the lucky ones. Had someone waiting at home for them. I didn’t.”

“If you met me in 1940, would you have dated me?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he smiled. “I would have taken you to dinner and dancing. We would go for walks in the park, sit on the benches in the shadows and make out. I would have given you a ring, so you would wait for me. My therapist said it doesn’t work like that anymore. You need time to get to know someone, to find out if you can add them to your life.”

He looked out over the skyline, and I never thought I saw someone so beautiful as him, at that moment. There was something vulnerable, and hopeful, but also sad about him, how he kept himself deliberately apart.

“My last boyfriend said I would be prettier if I lost 20 pounds,” I said. “The one before him said I was too needy which was weird because I only saw him every two weeks and he always phoned me. Before him there were several that basically told me I didn’t measure up to their ideal woman. With you, I’ve only ever felt beautiful, and appreciated, and loved. You’re not broken, Bucky, not if you know how to make me feel like something to be cherished and you do. We all have baggage and not all scars are physical but they’re still there. The only thing that heals them is time and love. I have the time and I definitely have the love just waiting for the right guy to return it to me. I want that guy to be you.”

“Really? Even with only two dates?”

“When you know you know,” I smiled. “We can go on as many dates as you want before we say anything but I’m just asking that you don’t sabotage us by thinking you’re not worth it because you are. You’re definitely boyfriend material and maybe more with the right woman.”

He just stood there, looking everywhere but at me so I came closer until I was right in front of him. There are so many romantic movies that use the same trope of when the heroine, who’s been unlucky in love, finally finds the strength to confront the hero, who’s either been busy with saving the world or just not realizing that the woman who is looking up at him at that moment is the one who wants to be with him. I felt like I was in one of those scenes right then and there. The sun was low in the west, casting a golden glow over Manhattan. We were alone on a skyscraper and a light breeze was gently blowing the tendrils of my hair across my face. Bucky, so handsome, with his chiseled features and those eyes, those damn fine blue eyes that changed with his emotions, were bright but sad. We were so close together that I could feel the heat coming from his body. Right now, those eyes were looking at me as if I held his fate in my hands.

“I’m afraid of hurting you,” he whispered, then he lifted his left hand, looking at it as if it were something alien. “When I have a nightmare, I don’t know my own strength and I panic. I could really hurt you if I hit you.”

“When you slept over the last time we saw each other did you have a nightmare?” I asked.

“No, but I was pretty relaxed,” he admitted. “I often get my nightmares after a mission, especially ones that trigger memories for me.”

Raising my hand, I tentatively touched his left arm, running my hand down to his hand, then supporting it as I caressed his palm.

“One of my friends went through a tough time after she left an abusive relationship,” I said. “Touch was really difficult for her, and she had nightmares as well, horrible ones where she would cower into herself and not let anyone touch her. At first, we didn’t understand, and we would try to hug her against her wishes. She would hit out in a panic to keep us from touching her. I got a few black eyes and quite a few bruises from her hits.”

He was still letting me touch his palm and I ran my hand back up to his shoulder, feeling the seam of the metal where it met the flesh of his body. For several moments he tensed, and his breathing became a little erratic, so I stopped but left my fingers on the spot, gently circling it with just a single fingertip.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low.

“What we did for her to help her learn to trust again,” I said in my softest voice. “It wasn’t anything a therapist recommended. It was just something our circle of friends hoped would help. In a pleasant situation we started with little touches and caresses, while speaking gently to her, desensitizing her panic response. It took time but after a while when she had a nightmare, she was able to let us comfort her physically with hugs. The best part is that the panic attacks decreased.” His breathing had eased as I explained while still gently rubbing that circle on his shoulder. “I’m still touching the part of your shoulder where you reacted just a few minutes ago but now your breathing is normal and you’re not tense.”

I stopped but kept my hand there. He took a deep breath and looked up to the sky for a moment then back at me.

“I’m still afraid,” he said. “I like you so much and the thought of it becoming more is so appealing but if I hurt you, it will send me deeper into the darkness.”

“Then we have a safe word,” I suggested. “I know most people think of it as something sexual to draw a boundary so that a partner doesn’t go too far but it can also be used in a situation involving emotional upheaval, a way to say back off so that the person with you knows that you’re at the limit of your control.”

“Kind of hard when I’m still in between dreaming and waking up,” answered Bucky, then he became thoughtful. “Although, if I get the idea implanted in my consciousness maybe it’s something that I’ll be able to blurt out and you can get away from me.”

“A therapist can suggest it as a post-hypnotic command,” I mused, then saw the look of panic on his face. “Okay, or not. It might be something that we work on. If you’re really stressed after a mission, just send me a text with the word and I’ll know you’re not ghosting me, just dealing with things. I can respect that. When you’re ready I’ll be around. Just don’t shut me out, Bucky. It hurt.”

“I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my neck. “I missed you and I’m so sorry I let my fear keep me from talking to you.”

I squeezed him back, feeling the impact of his worry for me. It was obvious that I meant something to him. Just as I was about to tell him something he released me. His face was more alive as he looked down at me.

“We have to go out,” he said. “Third date. Anything you want.”

I looked out over the view from where we were.

“Can we just sit up here and watch the sunset first?” I asked. “I’ve never been on a building this high to see that before. Then, maybe we can go for pizza or something and go for a walk after?”

He smiled at me then and I felt like my insides had turned warm and mushy.

“We can do that,” he agreed.

He led me over to the assortment of patio furniture that was there. Arranging the pieces together so that we could recline and see the sunset he helped me on then sat beside me. With his arm around me, while basking in the warmth that I drew from his body it was almost perfect.

Bucky

I almost lost her; lost her before I could tell her how incredible she was. I almost lost her because I fell into my old trap of withdrawing into myself whenever it got too hard to deal with my past. As we were at that base, with the sounds, sights, and smells that I remembered from when HYDRA had me, assaulting me constantly while we dealt with the small army that was there, all I could think of was this wasn’t real. Real was falling asleep next to Holly on her couch, then waking up next to her when the sun poured into that tiny flat that had felt like a dormitory to me when I lived there. But Holly had made it a home, with plants and pictures, cushions and throw blankets that had me wanting to be there with her, more than I ever wanted to be there before. She did that, gave me a sense that I could have a future with someone, with her. Then I had to almost blow it by ghosting her because the pain of what we found in that base brought so much anger and fear; nothing that I wanted to taint her with.

As we watched the sunset; rather she watched the sunset while I watched her, I thanked whatever god there was that gave me Sam for a friend. Steve was willing to let me wallow in my misery, not wanting to impose his will on mine, thinking he was being kind. But Sam went right to what I needed. He went and got Holly, bringing her back to the Tower so that I could draw some strength from her. How could one woman be so strong, and make me feel so weak, but in a good way? Weak in that I wanted to please her, to follow her lead, to be vulnerable with her in a way that I never was before with a woman. That’s what I felt with Holly, not like the jacked up enhanced human that HYDRA made me but just a guy who thought he might be in love with this girl.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said as the sun dipped behind the buildings. “Different than a sunset over the ocean but beautiful just the same.” She noticed I wasn’t watching the sunset. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m agreeing with you,” is what came out of my mouth.

I meant to say that she was beautiful, but it got tangled up with her comment about the sunset. It didn’t matter because her face glowed as she blushed, and I felt it deep inside of me. As the sun sunk lower to the horizon, obscured by the other Manhattan buildings and the clouds spread out, the orange colour deepened then dissipated as the indigo blue of night seeped into the sky. The solar lights up top came on and we found ourselves in the dark, except for the little pools of white light that would guide us back to the elevator. I shifted to get up, remembering that I said we could go for pizza, but she put her hand on my chest. No words were required as I bent my head to hers and kissed her. The touch of her soft hands on my neck and hair felt like heaven while she tasted like honey. With my arms I pulled her close, wanting to mold my body to hers. Without even thinking I whispered to her.

“Stay with me tonight.”

It was too late to take it back, but I didn’t regret saying it. Being close to her in as many ways possible had already occurred to me before I regressed and her keeping me on this soft chair with her indicated that perhaps she felt the same way. She could have given me any number of excuses not to stay; work, no extra clothes, too soon … but none of those came out of her lips.

“Alright.”

That one word almost sent me over the edge. After all that I had done to sabotage our relationship from going any further she liked me enough (maybe even more) to say yes, to agreeing to stay with me. I would have asked her to marry me at that moment; following in the footsteps of so many soldiers in World War II who met and married the right girl in a few weeks or less. Then she made me laugh with her next words.

“Can we get the pizza first? I’m starving.”

“Me too,” I replied. “I haven’t eaten well since I started the mission. Come on.”

This time Holly let me help her off of the chaise and we walked, hand in hand, to the elevator. Just before we got there I stopped and caressed her face. An idea had formed in my mind, and I wanted to share it before we left the rooftop.

“I think I know the safe word, but I don’t want to use it to keep you away. I want you to use it on me so that I know you’re close and that you care about me and then maybe I’ll feel safe enough to stop panicking.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Sunset,” I replied, looking back at where we had watched it together. “It will remind me of being here with you and feeling … loved.”

“Sunset,” she repeated, smiling softly. “I like that.”

We went down to the common room, partly to let them know I was better, but I also wanted the others to formally meet Holly. She showed me that Sam set her up with a friend's security ID that would allow her access to the Avengers level of the building, meaning she could drop in almost any time. Both Steve and Sam came to give her a hug and we sat talking with the others for a while. Then I stood up and took her by the hand.

“We’re going out for some pizza, somewhere close,” I said. “Kind of our third date.” She squeezed my hand and smiled at me, so I made a leap in logic. “You’re welcome to come with us, if you want. We can make an evening of it.”

“I should go pick up Ivy then,” said Steve. “Don’t want her feeling left out.”

We waited while the others got ready, and I leaned down close. “That’s what you signalled, right?”

A big smile crossed her face. “Yeah, I kind of want to get to know the people you’re around the most. That’s alright, isn’t it?”

“It’s perfect.”

It was perfect and I was actually looking forward to it, to being with Holly, and my friends. Being alone seemed easy but it wasn’t. It just isolated me further and now that I had Holly, I wanted more of what I once had; good friends, good times, and maybe one day, someone to come home to, someone to be my tether to life and love. By the time we got down to the street level and headed to the nearest pizzeria I knew for sure who I wanted it to be. With Holly’s hand in mine, I felt hopeful, and hope was a good thing.

If you liked this one shot please like, comment, or reblog.

[offender42085]

Post 0561

The judge called out the authorities, noting his disappointment with the probation officer’s report  calling it so biased against the defendant that the Court could not rely on the information, the analysis or the recommendation presented.

Benjamin Vargas, California inmate; born 1991 incarceration intake in 2012 at age 21; sentenced to 6 years; released in 2016

The consequences of their fateful encounter on May 15, 2011 ​— ​when Vincent Velasquez, 26, was killed and Benjamin Vargas, 20, who was arrested for his death and ultimately convicted of voluntary manslaughter ​— ​were on full display at Vargas’s sentencing hearing, as emotional statements and pleas were made to Judge George Eskin on behalf of both young men.

That night, according to testimony, Vargas was walking with his girlfriend in Isla Vista when Velasquez ​— ​who was drunk ​— ​asked him, “What’s up?” Vargas responded, “Homie, you don’t know me. Don’t say ‘what’s up’ to me.” The encounter quickly escalated. Velasquez punched Vargas, who was knocked to the ground, and a struggle ensued. Witness testimony indicated the bigger, stronger Velasquez quickly gained the upper hand, with his friend Ray Velez cheering him on. But the tide turned, and it wasn’t long before Velasquez was bloody and lying on the ground. Defense attorney Ron Bamieh argued vigorously that Velasquez was the aggressor and Vargas acted out of self-defense.

Velasquez wouldn’t make it through the night. He had been stabbed 16 times and suffered two fatal wounds ​— ​one to the neck and one to the heart. Vargas, meanwhile, has spent the last 14 months in County Jail. And after Monday morning’s sentencing, he will spend the next few years in state prison, after Eskin sentenced him to a six-year term there.

Vargas, who sat in court looking forward throughout the proceedings, wrote a letter to the judge in which he expressed his remorse for what had happened. Maria Vargas, his sister, called her brother a good man who works hard for his family. “He’s always been a dedicated father,” she said. “He is gentle with his son.”

More than 100 people submitted letters in support of both the victim and defendant.

After reading the letters, and after hearing the impassioned words of family and friends, Judge Eskin read his decision aloud to the filled courtroom. The maximum sentence Vargas could have received is 11 years, while the six-year sentence is the middle term. He received credit for the more than one year he spent in County Jail.

Prosecutor Hans Almgren said in documents filed with the court that “this case calls for a sentence which protects society, punishes the defendant, deters others from criminal conduct by demonstrating its consequences and prevents the defendant from committing new crimes by isolating him for the period of incarceration of 11 years.”

Aggravating factors, Almgren explained, include that the killing involved “[a] high degree of cruelty, viciousness, or callousness,” and that Velasquez was vulnerable because he had been drinking and did not have a weapon.

Bamieh, meanwhile, said Vargas was working and living a responsible life prior to the incident. “He was not living a worthless or insignificant life when this incident occurred,” Bamieh wrote. “He was contributing to society by working and raising his son in a responsible manner.”

Bamieh said that by finding Vargas guilty of voluntary manslaughter, the jury must have adopted the legal theory of imperfect self-defense, that is, self-defense was necessary, but unreasonable. This can reduce a charge from murder to manslaughter. While some jurors hinted to attorneys how they reached their conclusion, it isn’t known how each juror came to rest on voluntary manslaughter.

Bamieh vigorously argued it was a case of self-defense, pointing out Velasquez threw the first punch and for a time was winning the brawl between the two. With friend Velez egging him on, Velasquez had the upper hand, Bamieh said, and Vargas had a reasonable fear of great bodily injury or even death.

Bamieh said he never saw this case as one of murder but had offered to plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter, an offer he said Almgren rejected. Almgren wouldn’t comment on the bargaining process but did say he thought this was a murder case, noting the 16 total stab wounds Velasquez received.

Almgren argued Vargas entered the fight against a bigger, stronger man because Vargas knew he had a knife with him. In court, he told Eskin, “Sixteen stab wounds is not a trivial matter at all.” Velasquez was also in a vulnerable position because he had been drinking, Almgren said. But, “you have to respect the jury’s verdict,” Almgren said in an interview after the decision was handed down. “And you have to respect the judge’s judgment. I thought we had a strong case for second-degree murder.”

At the end of the trial, the judge had concluded the jury would not be able to consider first-degree murder in its deliberations, finding that no rational trier of fact could find Vargas guilty of first-degree murder, which requires premeditation and deliberation.

At Benjamin Vargas’s sentencing hearing, the judge again called out the authorities, taking the time to note his disappointment with the probation officer’s report ​— ​usually done in preparation for sentencing to help inform the judge’s decision ​— ​calling it “so biased against the defendant that the Court could not rely on the information, the analysis or the recommendation presented.” Eskin said the bias of the report, wherein the officer recommended the upper term of 11 years, was palpable.

Vargas was eligible to be sentenced to probation, but Eskin said neither probation nor the low prison term of three years were appropriate, noting the fact that Vargas had gone to Isla Vista armed with a knife. Eskin said that “there was a point in time during the fight, as Benjamin inflicted the majority of knife wounds to Vincent’s back, that despite the frenzy of the situation, he could have and should have stopped.”

3a

[rriavian]

Another WIP snippet, inspired by a post made by @merculuros, this is still very rough (and incomplete) but I think it still works as a standalone.

Title: (Im)patience is a virtue

Summary: Dream doesn’t wait once he regains his tools. He already knows exactly what he wants.

-

Dream starts at the Corinthian’s hips.

The left one—chosen only because he has to start somewhere—lips closing over tanned skin, the subtle jut of the Corinthian’s bone. Dream could linger, will be back, now follows the line of muscle connecting pelvis to stomach with his tongue, knows this path so very well because he made it. The strong muscles of the abdomen; a physique he’d melded into shape, the indents he’d made with his fingers, now alive and quivering under little questing licks of his tongue.

Dream pauses, feels first the steady rise and fall of the Corinthian’s chest, the swell of artificial lungs, then once again the shivering of muscles contracting beneath his lips. 

Now that is something he’s not yet had.

Dream wants more of it.

So he continues upwards, gets to the smooth plane of the Corinthian’s chest, is once again faced with the decision of which way to go and this time choice only irritates because Dream wants both. The possibility of neglecting either one is unacceptable; Dream finds a way around it, gets a nipple between his teeth, the other between two fingers, and he pinches and sucks at the same time because he will not deny himself. 

The Corinthian groans. 

It’s a lovely pleased sound, needing and wanting, which is good because it matches Dream’s desires exactly. No misalignment here, no rebellion, just the smooth rolling purr of his nightmares voice, that ream of silk Dream put so lovingly inside his throat, now deepened. 

Now loud. 

The Corinthian tangles a hand in Dream's hair; twists, yanks, shoves, violent in pleasure as he holds him where he is, and that feels good too. 

Dream shifts a little, just enough so a leg rests between the Corinthian’s, so that his own are spread across one strongly muscled thigh. Dream had made his creation bigger than him, a little taller too, masculine and powerful and no matter what his nightmare has done in the waking world he isn’t a gift for any human to enjoy. Dream had made something that pleases him; something beautiful, something with a smile, something warm too, with golden skin and sharp, vicious teeth.

Perhaps it’s a little too self-congratulatory.

Perhaps this admiration for his own work is arrogant, but even if he cared for humility Dream could not know exactly how the Corinthian would taste before he tried him. 

Finally he can, finally he does, draws both nipples to hardened nubs as the Corinthian arches back onto the bed and swears. There's another sharp tug in Dream’s hair, that big hand now cups the back of his skull, splays fingers across the curve as if debating whether to crush or cradle. His nightmare is hard against his leg, and Dream is too, achingly so where he’s pressed against the thigh he straddles.

The position was a good choice though.

It lets him touch and be touched, lets him lavish attention without leaving any part of his creation forgotten, teasing with the sharp line of a fingernail as he grazes the other nipple with his teeth. Dream can give his nightmare his mouth and feel better about the rest needing to wait its turn because the Corinthian can have the length of him now. He has the full line of Dream’s body, feet tangled with his, can have it and keep it and this would only be better if they were back in the Dreaming. 

His nightmare isn’t ready to leave yet though, still wilful, still needing persuasion, and Dream himself had been far too impatient to wait.

Even now he can’t quite hold it back; wants more, wants to find out how every inch of this body tastes, and yet Dream can’t bring himself to pull away from where he is. Not when he’s enjoying it so very much, not when he knows he’s still being held here, and if his nightmare wants to be pleased like this then he won’t deny him. Dream listens to the Corinthian’s harsh breaths, feels the cruel flex of fingers in his hair, wants nothing more than to see if he can make his nightmare come just from this.

The subconscious stirs, curious and clamouring, and Dream very nearly lashes out as he tells it to go away he is mine.

It still reels with the sting of a slap—settles beneath his skin, skittering back to repose—and Dream hums contently in the silence as he begins to rock against the Corinthian’s thigh, leg brushing against his nightmare’s cock. The motion is small, yet enough to please them both, a slick friction against the skin that means Dream can have more without needing to move. The Corinthian moans with all three mouths, a relief, some of his need diffusing out, and Dream had known that despite his creations enjoyment he’d needed more stimulation. 

The tight grip in Dream’s hair hasn’t eased. 

“Will you let me move?” He murmurs, swirls his tongue around the delicate skin of his nightmare's nipple. “Or do you mean to keep me here?”

“I’ll keep you where I want.” The Corinthian says, cold despite the way his body burns. “And you’ll stay.”

Dream smirks. 

“Yes.” He replies, soft—a play at being meek because he likes the way it makes the Corinthian stutter—lets the order sink under his skin. It’s sweet like molasses, like the richness of his nightmare's drawling voice, because Dream is a monster too and the Corinthian can’t hurt him by being something as lovely as rough. 

He sighs; greed soothed but not yet sated, no need to rush, Dream held still with his head bent over his nightmare's skin and knowing all he’ll get is more.

“I’ll stay.”