#of course once it's so fragile it can no longer be played preserve it for future study. but as long it still has life in it it must sing

[kirbyddd]

guess whos about to find themselves steward of a half century of irreplacable hardware🫣

half of it was literally mine anyways and i left it in the hoarder pile where i knew it could remain untouched for years til i escaped to a stable living situation where it could be set up safely.

thats... still not happening anytime soon, and may never. but the pile's gotten so much more extreme and filthy it's being actively destroyed where it is now so i gotta emergency airlift it to the less dangerous situation. scary stuff either way

[writingoncloudydays]

Omen

a/n: Sorry for the wait, but here it is. Hopefully, it met your standards. Come along to ride this fic and see all the drama and happiness. This ended up being longer than I thought it would be, but oh well. I also don't have anyone to read over this for me, so I'm sorry in advance for grammar and spelling errors. The first chapter Is now complete. Enjoy <3 Warnings: Descriptions of dead bodies, usually hunting things, angst?? Maybe.

3.17k Words

The gentle humming of the Impla fills the silence swimming in the air, the gentle breeze brushing against Dean’s arm. Which hangs low out the window, his other hand drumming against the steering wheel.

The beat of the music flows through his hands, one drumming on the wheel, the other lightly tapping against the car door. He hummed softly to whatever songs were playing on the radio, occasionally singing along, causing Sam to chuckle at him. Sam sits in the passenger seat beside Dean, enjoying the comfortable silence and glad that Dean is enjoying the little things. Simple things rarely come to the boys, no matter how little they want them. There is always some end-of-the-earth mission to save, though it almost always ends with bloodshed. 

Sighing to himself, Sam shakes the thought, focusing back on the iPad with their case information to distance himself from the neverending pain in their lives. Sam tries to stay positive, but sometimes it's rather complicated. Seeing so many people he has loved going to nothing but a memory stored in his brain. 

Glancing over at Dean, a soft, simple smile rests on his face. He enjoys the gentle hum of the Impla and the loud music blasting from the speakers. The sight made him more at ease. His eyes fell back onto the iPad. Scanning over the information once more, he analysed all he could. Hunts never go as planned, and their first guess may only sometimes be correct.

The radio's volume dies down as the journey approaches the town. The once comfortable silence now feels weighted. The humming of the Impala, now drumming against their skull, gave a slight headache. The dread of the hunt is kicking it, and anything fun goes out the window. 

Dean and Sam Winchester arrive in the quaint town of Havenwood, Havenwood is a picturesque and seemingly idyllic small town in the heart of the American Midwest. Known for its charming, tree-lined streets and historic Victorian houses, Havenwood exudes a sense of timeless tranquillity.

The town square is a focal point of community life. It features a beautiful gazebo surrounded by meticulously maintained gardens and various locally owned shops and cafes that offer a warm and welcoming atmosphere.

However, Havenwood harbours a deep history intertwined with the supernatural beneath its serene exterior. The town's founding dates back to the early 1800s, and it has long been a place where the veil between the mundane and the mystical is fragile.

Local legends speak of unexplained phenomena and strange occurrences that have puzzled residents for generations. The town's proximity to ancient Native American burial grounds and location along ley lines add to its mysterious allure.

Sam worked on finding as much background information on the town as possible before they arrived, with some idea of the history and layout of the town.

The boys may have a slight advantage. As they never know what they could be, leading themselves into danger is always present. No case is safe. No matter how simple it may seem to their eyes, things can change drastically.

One of the reasons the case caught their attention was the string of mysterious deaths, which, of course, baffled the local authorities, having not seen anything remotely like this. Strangely, the town's officers have yet to take action after reaching dead ends and not solving the case. 

Dean and Sam Winchester drive their Impala down the winding roads of Havenwood, a town that seems to have been preserved in time. The sun sets behind the rolling hills, casting long shadows over the Victorian houses and the town square, where a handful of residents can be seen enjoying the cool evening. Despite its outward, the brothers sense an underlying tension in the air, a feeling that something sinister lurks just the surface.

Their first stop is the local morgue, a small, nondescript building adjacent to the town's clinic. The coroner, a middle-aged man named Dr. James Hargrove, greets them with a wary look. He has seen his share of unusual cases, but something quite different from this.

"You must be the FBI agents," he says, eyeing their fake badges with scepticism. "Agent Smith, Agent Wesson, right?"

"That's us," Dean replies with a confident smile. "We're here to take a look at the recent victims."

Dr. Hargrove leads them to a sterile, dimly lit room where the bodies are kept. The air is cold, and the fluorescent lights glare harshly on the metal tables. He pulls back the sheet from the first victim, a middle-aged woman named Martha Jenkins.

Her face is serene and almost peaceful, but the most striking feature is the strange, radiant burn mark on her chest—a sigil neither Dean nor Sam has seen.

"All the victims have this mark," Dr. Hargrove explains, his voice tinged with unease. "I’ve never seen anything like it. It's almost... celestial."

Dean leans in closer, studying the mark with a critical eye. "It's an angelic sigil, Sam. No doubt about it."

Sam nods, flipping through his father's journal for any references. "But it's not one we've come across before. It looks ancient, something from a time long before any of the angels we've encountered."

They move on to the next body, a young man named Peter Lawson, and then to an older woman named Edith Turner. Each bears the same sigil, each mark glowing faintly as if imbued with residual divine energy.

As they examine the bodies, they note other similarities: a look of peaceful resignation on their faces, no signs of struggle or pain, and no discernible cause of death other than the mysterious burns.

"These people didn't suffer," Sam observes, his brow furrowed in thought. "It's almost like they were... chosen."

"But chosen for what?" Dean mutters, frustration creeping into his voice. "And by whom?"

Their investigation leads them to the old church, Havenwood's most prominent landmark. There, they find Father O'Malley, the town's elderly priest, who is more than willing to share the church's history and strange occurrences.

"These deaths have shaken our community to its core," he says, his hands trembling slightly. But the symbols you've described match the ones in our stained glass windows. Come, I'll show you."

The brothers marvel at the church's intricate stained glass windows depicting various scenes of angelic intervention and divine protection. Hidden within the vibrant colours and celestial imagery are the same Enochian symbols they saw on the victims. Sam takes photographs, making sure to document every detail.

"These symbols are part of an ancient angelic ritual," Sam explains. "But why would someone be using them now?"

Dean's mind races as he considers the implications. Angelic rituals are not something that can be performed casually; they require immense power and purpose. The idea that someone—or something—is using them in Havenwood sends a chill down his spine. He glances at the bodies again, the radiant sigils glowing faintly in the dim light. The peaceful expressions on the victims' faces do little to ease his growing unease.

"We need more information," Dean mutters, pulling out his phone. "Cas might know what's going on." He dials Castiel's number, feeling the urgency of the situation pressing down on him. The phone rings, each moment stretching out as he waits for the angel to answer. Finally, the line crackles and Castiel's familiar gravelly voice comes through.

"Cas, we need you here. Now," Dean says, his tone urgent. "We're in Havenwood, and we've got a situation. People are dying, and they're marked with some kind of angelic sigil."

There's a pause on the other end, and Castiel replies, "I'm on my way."

Minutes later, Castiel appears in the corner of the room, his sudden presence causing the air to hum with residual energy. He takes in the scene: the bodies on the tables, the worried expressions on Dean and Sam's faces, and the photographs of the sigils.

"These marks... they're from a Seraphim," Castiel says, his eyes narrowing as he studies the images. "An ancient class of angels, far more powerful than most. They were believed to have vanished eons ago."

"Well, one of them's back," Dean replies, frustration evident in his voice. "And it's leaving a trail of bodies. Why now, Cas? Why here?"

Castiel shifts uncomfortably, his gaze meeting Dean's. "The Seraphim were guardians of divine secrets, keepers of Heaven's most sacred knowledge. If one has awakened, it's not by chance. Something significant has disturbed the celestial order."

Dean clenches his jaw, the tension between him and Castiel palpable. "We need answers, Cas. And fast. People are dying."

"I understand, Dean," Castiel responds, his tone softening slightly. "But the Seraphim are not like other angels. Their motives are beyond our comprehension. We must tread carefully."

Dean's frustration bubbles over. "Carefully? Cas, people are dying! We don't have time to be careful. We need to figure out what's going on and stop it."

Castiel's expression hardens. "I am aware of the urgency, Dean. But rushing in without understanding the full scope of the situation could make things worse."

Dean takes a deep breath, trying to reign in his anger. "Alright, fine. What do we need to do?"

"We need more information," Castiel says. "I will reach out to my contacts in Heaven. There may be records or knowledge about this Seraphim that we can use. In the meantime, you and Sam should continue investigating any local lore or history that might give us clues."

Dean nods reluctantly, the tension between them easing slightly. "Okay, Cas. But hurry. We can't afford to lose any more time."

With a determined look, Castiel disappears, leaving Dean and Sam to continue their investigation. As they regroup, the gravity of the situation settles over them. They know they are up against an ancient and powerful force, and the stakes have never been higher.

Castiel stands on a secluded hilltop, his eyes fixed on the twilight sky. The evening is still, but within the silence, he senses a disquieting tremor rippling through the fabric of the celestial realm. It is a subtle yet profound dispiecesthat reverberates through his very essence. His celestial senses, honed over eons, detect a surge of divine energy—ancient and formidable—stirring from a long-forgotten slumber.

The presence is unlike anything Castiel has encountered in millennia, its power both overwhelming and familiar. He closes his eyes, reaching out with his grace, probing the disturbance with cautious curiosity. As he delves deeper, fragments of ancient memories surface, fragments of an era when he was but a fledgling angel among the heavenly host. 

The presence he feels now resonates with the same awe-inspiring might of the Seraphim, celestial beings of immense power and purity, long thought dormant or lost to the annals of history. A sudden, vivid vision assaults his mind: a celestial being, radiant and terrible in its glory, standing amidst a sea of stars. Its wings, vast and shimmering with celestial light, cast an ethereal glow that illuminated the darkness. 

Castiel recognises this being—an ancient Seraphim whose name has been whispered in reverence and fear among the angels. The Seraphim's eyes, burning with a fierce determination, lock onto Castiel's, conveying a message of warning and challenge.

The vision fades, leaving Castiel breathless and shaken. He realises that this ancient power has awakened with a purpose that could reshape the foundations of Heaven and Earth. 

His implications are staggering; the balance of power within the celestial realm is shifting, and the Seraphim's intentions remain mysterious.

As they delve deeper into Havenwood's secrets, they uncover a local legend about a celestial guardian who once watched over the town, a Seraphim who vanished centuries ago. The legend speaks of a time when the guardian would return, chosen by the divine to carry out a holy mission. The puzzle pieces start to fit together, but the picture they form is far from reassuring.

Their next step is to regroup with Castiel, who has been scouring his sources for information. They meet at a secluded spot outside town, where Castiel shares his knowledge. "The Seraphim's awakening is not a random event," he says, his voice laden with urgency. "Something, or someone, has triggered it. We need to find out who and why."

The brothers and Castiel realise they are up against an ancient power with motives that could reshape the world. Armed with their newfound knowledge, they prepare to confront the celestial being, hoping to stop it before Havenwood becomes a battlefield in a war between Heaven and Earth. As they set their plan in motion, the tranquil town of Havenwood braces itself for the impending storm, unaware of the celestial forces converging upon it.

 With time running out and the body count rising, Dean and Sam must race to stop the rogue angel before Havenwood becomes ground zero for a catastrophic event that could unleash heavenly wrath upon the world.

With urgency, Castiel knows he must act swiftly. He turns to seek out Dean and Sam Winchester, his trusted allies, knowing they will need to be prepared for the trials ahead.

The disturbance in the celestial realm is not just a harbinger of change but a call to arms. Together, they must unravel the enigma of the Seraphim's awakening, uncover its intentions, and brace themselves for the celestial storm that threatens to engulf Heaven and Earth.

Dean and Sam drive through the night, the Impala's headlights cutting through the darkness as they race back to the Men of Letters bunker. The road is long and winding, but their minds are focused on the task ahead. They know they need more than just information; they need a plan and the right weapons to face a being as powerful as a Seraphim.

"Sam, start making a list of everything we know about the Seraphim," Dean says, gripping the steering wheel tightly. "We need to find any weaknesses, any lore that can give us an edge."

Sam nods, already flipping through their father's journal and cross-referencing it with his laptop. "I'll check our archives for any references to Seraphim. We might find something in the old Men of Letters files."

The miles pass in tense silence; both brothers are lost in their thoughts. The enormity of the situation weighs heavily on them, but they know they can't afford to falter. The familiar sense of determination settles over them as they pull into the bunker’s garage. This place, filled with the accumulated knowledge of generations of hunters, is their best chance at finding the answers they need.

Inside the bunker, Castiel is already waiting for them in the library, his expression grim but resolute. "We don't have much time," he says as they enter. "The Seraphim's presence will not go unnoticed by other celestial beings. We need to act quickly."

The Winchester brothers and Castiel gather in the dimly lit library of The Man of Letters Bunker, a place filled with the echoes of ancient knowledge and supernatural lore. 

The heavy wooden table before them is strewn with open books, faded maps, and pages of Enochian script. The air is thick with tension as they process the gravity of the situation.

We need to find out everything we can about this Seraphim," Sam says, laying out the books he brought from the Impala. "Its history, purpose, anything that can give us a clue about what it wants and how we can stop it."

Dean adds, "And we need to arm ourselves. We can't go in empty-handed if we're going up against something this powerful. Cas, any ideas on what might work against a Seraphim?"

Castiel nods thoughtfully. "Angel blades will be effective, but we might need something stronger. There are ancient weapons relics from the time of the first angels that might be hidden in the Men of Letters' vaults. I'll help you locate them."

Dean paces back and forth, his brow furrowed with worry. "So, you're telling us this Seraphim is awake? An ancient angel that powerful isn't something we can just hunt down and gank," he says, glancing at Castiel with a mix of disbelief and concern.

Castiel, standing by a dusty bookshelf, nods solemnly. His usually calm demeanour is tinged with unease. "Yes, Dean. The Seraphim are among the oldest and most powerful of angels. They were created at the dawn of time, their power rivalling that of archangels. If one has awakened, it signifies a monumental shift in the celestial realm."

Sam, seated at the table, poring over an ancient tome, looks up. "I found a reference to the Seraphim in these texts. They were believed to be guardians of the divine order and protectors of Heaven's most sacred secrets. But they disappeared ages ago, their fate unknown."

"Until now," Dean mutters, rubbing his temples. "Why now, Cas? What could have possibly triggered its awakening?"

Castiel sighs, his blue eyes reflecting his inner turmoil. "I don't know. But the disturbance I felt in the celestial realm is unmistakable.” The Seraphim's presence is a beacon—a powerful surge of divine energy that hasn't been felt for millennia. Whatever its purpose, it won't go unnoticed by other celestial beings or those seeking to exploit its power.

The room falls into a contemplative silence, the weight of the revelation settling over them. The implications are vast and daunting. An ancient being of immense power, with motivations unknown, could spell disaster not only for Heaven but for Earth as well.

Sam breaks the silence, his voice steady but persistent. "We need to find out everything we can about this Seraphim. Its history, purpose, anything that can give us a clue about what it wants and how we can stop it."

Dean nods in agreement, his resolve hardening. "Agreed. We can't let this thing wreak havoc. We need to be prepared for whatever it throws our way."

Castiel steps forward, a determined look on his face. "I'll reach out to my remaining contacts in Heaven, see if they know anything. We must tread carefully. The Seraphim's awakening will attract attention, and not all of it will be friendly."

As they delve into their research, the sense of urgency grows. Every passing moment brings them closer to a confrontation with an ancient and powerful being.

The stakes have never been higher, and failure is not an option. Armed with knowledge, determination, and the strength of their unbreakable bond, Dean, Sam, and Castiel prepare to face the Seraphim and the celestial storm it heralds.

The brothers and their angelic allies feel a sense of urgency as they disperse to gather complicated information to formulate a plan. The bunker, usually a sanctuary of relative safety, now feels like the war room of a desperate battle.

They are on the cusp of facing a threat unlike any they have encountered before—a being from the dawn of time with the power to reshape the destiny of both Heaven and Earth.

With their bond of trust and unwavering determination, Dean, Sam, and Castiel prepare to confront the ancient Seraphim. They know their journey will be difficult, but they also know they stand a chance to protect the world from an unimaginable celestial upheaval. 

[jangofctts]

As You Are (Bucky Barnes x fem!reader)

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 6.4k

Warnings: smut, explicit language, mentions of alcohol, mentions of violence and injuries, light choking, brief thigh riding/grinding, vaginal fingering with them metal fingies, oral female receiving, unprotected vaginal sex (dont be a dick, wrap that stick), fucking on sam’s couch

a/n: ok hi this fic is very self indulgent bUT YKNOW WHAT WHO CARES EKJHEJHKEJH this is my first fic for marvel and AH I hope I did Bucky justice. ENJOY YALL

This had been a terrible idea. 

Right from the minute you tailed after he and Sam to the Baron’s extensive vintage car storage. Bucky had explicitly withheld any and all information regarding this little excursion to protect you but of course you’d shown up—none too jazzed about the little stunt Bucky pulled regarding the Baron. Fair. 

You were right—Bucky should have called but that overwhelming guilt of dragging you into another one of his problems stopped him from pressing that little call button. He never wanted to be the reason you ended up back on the run again. Though judging by the way things were going, it was more than likely you’d be in prison by the end of the week. 

Luck had your back in that sort of regard—too bad it could never rescue you from your own stubbornness and grief regarding that damn shield. 

You’d taken a devastatingly hard hit from Walker—a fractured orbital, a split lip and a dislocated shoulder. All preventable—if only Bucky kept better track of you before you showed up in that warehouse alone. Left to fight the shadow of what was once a symbol of hope for some—another man playing dress-up in something that will never belong to him. 

It was just their luck Bucky and Sam arrived in time—preventing you from becoming another red stain of violence splattered over that shield. 

James Buchanan Barnes is not afraid of much—but fuck. Seeing you crumpled over the concrete floor, all bloodied and struggling to raise a hand to protect your face… It was the same feeling as injecting his veins with a pure shot of adrenaline and anger shrouded in fear. He promised Steve he’d look after you… 

And as Sam carried you out of that warehouse you had the gall to tenderly tell them that you were just fine—as if your mouth weren’t full of blood and a face blooming with patchy bruises. The jealousy that sparked through Bucky’s chest when you clung to Sam’s chest did nothing to help that dark festering pit inside his ribcage he’s attempting to suture back together.

Bucky clenches his jaw. At least you’re asleep now. Curled up against the window, holding your injured arm in a way that limited the turbulence from jostling it. It’s the first time Bucky would describe you as fragile. He know’s you’re anything but that—stubborn mostly—yet most of all brave. It’s what Steve admired most about you—what Bucky loves most about you too. That vibrant spark flowing through your blood and how you’re not afraid to shout along to your favorite songs despite the odd looks you get. Bucky envies how self-assured you are, how you’ll never lose yourself because you know just where you’re headed. He wishes he still had that sort of drive instead of all this uncertainty and guilt clouding each muscle and fibre in his body.      

Bucky doesn’t realize the jet has landed until Sam stands and and places a large hand over your shoulder. Your face scrunches as you whine and curl further into your seat. “C’mon, kiddo.” You grumble something inaudible. “You want me to carry you?”

The delicate plates of vibranium clink together as Bucky’s hand tightens into a fist, jealousy flaring hot and bright. He quickly stands, too fast to be considering anything less than awkward. Sam’s brow quirks. “I can do it.”   

“It’s cool, man,” Sam says as he scoops one arm under your legs and the other around your back. “I got her.”

Bucky bristles. Whatever. 

It’s not like you and him have anything together. A one sided plague of affection that you’ll never know about—he wants to tell you. Fuck, the words burn through his tongue and collect like ashes between his teeth and yet they are never voiced from self sabotage. There’s no possible way to voice how you’ve haunted his thoughts and his dream since the moment his eyes met yours. How he’s memorized the lines of your smile and the sweet sound of your laugh, the sweep of your lashes and the rhythm of your steps. Bucky would know you deaf, blind, numb, in this world or any other twisted reality. 

He had said that he wasn’t afraid of much, but that’s not entirely true. Eternity, oblivion, crowded rooms, being alone too long. And you. You terrify him. You have the power to pluck at the very strings of his soul and unravel him completely until he’s no more—and you don’t even know it. Bucky Barnes is less afraid of dying than he is of loosing you but that fear never once provides him the courage to tell you. You may not be a scribbled name in his book, but he still hopes that one day he’ll earn the chance to strike his cowardice and put to rest the wretched ache in his heart that he feels for you. 

He wishes he told you in Wakanda, after the Blip, Riga, and right this instant. He watches Sam carry you out of the jet—what’s a little more time?

                          -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The sun is beginning to melt into the horizon, turning the expanse of water into molten gold and shimmering blues. The hazy humidity from the late afternoon heat collects at the back of Bucky’s neck and the light breeze does nothing to cool. Bucky sighs and swipes at the bead of sweat creeping down his forehead with the back of his hand—he glances up. 

A ghost of a smile creeps across his lips. You’re exactly where he and Sam left you three hours ago. Surprising to be quite honest—you never did like to stay in one place for longer than ten minutes. You’re a pain in his ass, simply said.  

But now—now you’re haphazardly splayed out on the lawn chair you were forced into, a juice box loosely held in your good hand while the other still remains in the sling. He can’t tell if you’re asleep—Steve’s sunglasses do an excellent job of hiding your eyes. Yet as Bucky wanders closer, your head rolls to your right in greeting. 

“It’s rude to stare, y’know,” you grumble, lifting the juice box to your mouth. Your lips purse around the plastic straw. “And before you ask—yes, I have a very important job I’m currently overseeing.”

Bucky quirks a brow. “What—hogging the lawn chair?”

“No—“ You huff. You gesture with your juice box at the large cooler your sandaled feet are propped up on. “I’m the booze master. God of the ale, destroyer of sobriety—“

“Alright, Booze Master,” Bucky interrupts with a snort. “Why don’t you bestow upon me a beer, your majesty.”

You tap your index finger over your chin as a lazy smile fixes itself over your lips. “Granted.”

You slide your legs off the cooler and with a pained grunt you shift forward. Bucky shoots his arm out and steadies you back against the chair by your shoulder before you get any further. Your face pulls into a grimace.

“I got it, kid. Relax.”

Bucky pops open the cooler and fishes out a beer and pops the cap off between his left index finger and thumb. You watch with a frown, “I could’ve done that for you.” 

Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes and takes a seat on the cooler. The bitter fizz floods his tastebuds as he takes a sip of his drink, a tangible silence blanketing the space between you. He gets it—people like he and you can never settle for complacency. As if the rest isn’t deserved despite the bloody knuckles and the shattered glass that slices through skin—the bruises and the broken bones. None of it is enough—not worthwhile to preserve yourself when other’s so desperately need your help. 

Or maybe it’s penance. 

Bucky sure as shit finds himself swallowed by the black maw of guilt each and every day. Battling the never ending shadow of doubt that clings to his soul like glitter to a an old carpet. Bucky believes it’s safe to say that you’re the same—every good deed you do added to the imaginary scale weighing against the bad despite it feeling hollow and insurmountable. Paying in blood to equate the amount you’ve spilled. A hopeless battle you both insist on fighting. 

Bucky sighs through his nose, bends at the waist and collects both your ankles in his left hand. You let him lift them both and settle your legs over his knees. You shiver, an eruption of goosebumps rushing up your skin at the cold metallic shock of Bucky’s vibranium thumb scrapinh over your bare flesh.

Bucky’s lips tilt down ever so slightly. “Did I hurt you?”

“Never,” you rush to say before he has the chance to flee. “S’just cold.” 

His hum reverberates low in his chest as those cerulean blue eyes fall to his hands. You clench your jaw until your teeth ache as his left thumb continues to stroke over the delicate skin covering the joint of your ankle. This is…new…

You’d been close with Steve and Sam, and by proxy Bucky—in some weird adjunct way. Compared to Sam’s teasing bumps of the shoulder and that infectious laugh far more addicting than the golden liquor of the sun, Bucky is frigid. Still attempting to shake off the whole Winter Soldier thing that’s molded onto his bones like stubborn permafrost. Touch had always been tricky with him—even a friendly pat over the back or a simple tap to the harm had him tensing under the touch—muscle and steel bunching to prepare for a harsh blow that would never arrive. Never from you.         

Bucky rarely sought out your physical comfort—you were always the one to initiate those friendly touches even if he was the type to just sit and ignore you like a grouchy old cat barely clinging onto that ninth life. The first time he breached that fragile barrier was in Wakanda—something in Bucky cracked and split into a cavernous ravine of nebulosity. Stitches shred apart then stapled back together as he grabbed your arm and wrestled you into a bone-crushing hug. You didn’t need to ask to realize he cried the entire time, gripping your shirt like a lifeline while he shuddered and sobbed into the crook of your neck. To him everything from the rain to silk sheets felt like shrapnel and the stars tasted like old blood and the past of things long gone—yet you were familiar. 

A comfort for the much needed healing of the scattered pieces of a man. You don’t mind helping him pick up the tidbits and reattach them with veins of silver. It’s the least you can do. 

The second time occurred after the loss of Steve. Some part of you had been wrenched out with his departure and he never bothered to return it. It doesn’t matter anymore—the hollow ache had been soothed with the Winter Soldier clutching you to his chest until you drifted off into a fitful sleep. A tether to a new reality you both partake in. 

Which brings you to now. There’s no cathartic reasoning behind his touch…it’s simple…a risky leap of faith into unknown territory. Bucky’s eyes lift to meet yours—curiosity swimming in those icy irises. You don’t mind—in fact you quite like the calloused warmth of his hand and the opposing chilly metal one tentatively exploring your exposed skin. 

“You have a scar here,” Bucky murmurs, skimming the thumb made up of flesh and sinew over the mottled skin occupying the crease of where the top of your foot meets your ankle. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I fell on barbed wire.”

“Clumsy,” he chides, quirking a dark brow. 

Your shoulders bounce with a huff. “I was like—twelve when it happened, James.”

His mouth quirks in a half smile, quite liking the validation of his name in the way your mouth speaks it. He wonders if you know the weight of granting you that leeway of calling him that. Shit—he doesn’t care what you call him, everything sounds lovely when you say it. 

There’s another silence—holding your breath until something splits and shatters into a million pieces. You’d be a liar if you said you didn’t want anything more than just friendship with Bucky but fear of rejection is a tricky thing. You take the easy way out and offer him the chance of something more on a silver platter. 

“Bucky?”

His fingers whisper up your shin as he inclines his head.              

“I’m tired. Drive me back to Sam’s?”

“Sure thing, doll.” 

                            -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Bucky holds the door open for you as you stumble in, escaping the hazy southern heat. He disappears into the kitchen as you make a beeline straight for the couch, sighing loudly once the plush cushions meet your back. You lazily lift your head once you hear his familiar footfalls nearing. 

With him he brings two Otterpops, one blue raspberry and the other cherry. Once he hands it to you he takes a seat on your left, close enough that his thigh and shoulder bumps against yours. “Don’t tell Sarah’s kids that these were the last ones.”

You roll your eyes and promptly stick the Otterpop into you mouth. “‘M ain’t no snitch.”

His low chuckle reverberates through his chest. The silence that follows isn’t an awkward one as you enjoy the cold treat—it’s filled with the humming cicada bugs outside and the breeze through the wind chimes. Comfortable with the normalcy—just a couple of regular old people enjoying life for a suspended amount of seconds.  

Once you finish the Otter Pop, you crumple the plastic up and rest it on the coffee table. He does the same—hints of the blue syrup sticking to the cracks of his plush lips. You force yourself to avert your eyes. You cheeks heat with a flush as you rush to occupy your mind with anything but wild fantasies of Bucky’s mouth. You lean forward again, pointedly ignoring the way Bucky’s eyes track your movements as you shuck off your sling, the prickle of unused muscles and bruised ligaments rushing through the limb. You wince as you slowly roll your shoulder. 

The muscles in Bucky’s jaw clenches. You sigh—he’s still blaming himself for your injuries. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not everyone has freaky healing powers, Buck,” you snort. You rush to appease him when he frowns. “It’s getting better though. Still can’t sleep on it—but eh.” 

“I’m sorry.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. No matter how many times you tell him he’ll never believe you. That’s something only he can fix. Doesn’t stop you from telling him anyway. “Stop blaming yourself for my idiocy. I made my choice and paid the price for it.”

Bucky’s eyes drop to his hands. “Can’t help it, sweetheart. Steve told me to look after you.”

Your heart constricts within your chest like a fist. You inhale and reach out to rest your hand over his wrist. “Funny—he told me the same thing about you.”

It surprises him—his dark brows furrow as his mouth parts, but nothing comes forth. Grappling with the right words that fit with what he feels. He’s still learning how to give his soul a name that fits. Learning how to take the dark, twisted bramble of his heart and make it into something that doesn’t ache each time it beats. He’s still learning how to look himself in the eyes, point to himself and say that there’s nothing frightening in there. Not anymore. No more. 

You suck in a breath and muster up the embers of courage. Here goes nothing— 

You cup Bucky’s cheek, the scrape of stubble welcome against your warm palm as you gently turn his face to look at you. His eyes drift to yours when the mumbled syllables of his name tumble from your lips. His eyes are framed with dark circles of wildflower bruises, his small smile a moonbeam stark against battered skin. You’ve dreamt so many times of swallowing it whole and pressing him close enough that your heartstrings become entangled with no hope of separation. But that’s something for him to decide. 

You drop your hand cradling Bucky’s jaw, but before your hand completely falls Bucky surges forward. His large hands rush to cup your face, swallowing your noise of surprise as his plush lips fall onto yours. The syrupy flavor of a Blue Raspberry Otter Pop he stole from Sarah’s freezer lingers on Bucky’s mouth, mixed in with the smell of old leather and cracked cardamom. Bucky nips at your bottom lip, tugging once and then rolling it between the blunt enamel of his teeth. Despite all the bad jokes regarding his age and senior citizen status—fuck he’s a damn good kisser. Compared to him you feel clumsy, sloppy, but no matter how hard you search for his distaste he doesn't seem to care in the slightest—if anything he’s pulling you closer. 

Bucky’s kisses may taste like the middle of June and a first love, but desperation lines every action like a wound with jagged edges. It’s a slow process learning to be free, but one day he’ll transform into starlight—and instead of a kiss like fire, it’ll be like touching your lips to a constellation’s aureate mouth.   

When Bucky pulls away, sucking in air and resting his forehead on yours, you catch a whiff of his hair. Freshly washed and smelling a bit like Sam’s shampoo. Your lips quirk. You’ll make sure to keep that a secret from Sam.

You pull back just enough to meet his eye, resting your palm over his vibranium hand that still cups your cheek. “Am I the first person you’ve kissed since the stone ages?”

His lips pull into a cheeky smile. “Maybe.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, skating your palm down the front of his shirt, the heat of his skin near searing through the fabric. “I guess we have a lot of catching up to do, huh?”

Bucky’s lips smother your small moan as he drags you into another kiss. You can feel his smile as he murmurs his agreement between desperate kisses and the enticing warmth of his tongue skimming along yours. The next time you part for air, Bucky drops his strong hands from your face to instead wrap them around the curve of your hips. He tugs you over his right thigh with ease and breathes a gentle sigh of your name, beginning to pepper kisses over you cheek and down the slope of your jaw.

Bucky reaches your ear and carefully nibbles the cartilage, his voice a warm scrape in your ear. “I want you.”

It’s such a simple phrase…and yet…it tears through you and pools like a heavy weight right to your center. “Then take me.”

Quick as a strike of a match, you’re tipped backwards, cradled right between the arm of the couch and the back of it. Heat rushes through each limb and gathers in your cheeks as Bucky’s vibranium fingers skate up your chest and curl around the column of your throat—that hardened soldier he’s tried to bury bleeding through the cracks of his resolve. You don’t care. You gasp into his mouth as he squeezes ever so slightly while he pushes a firm thigh between your legs. Shit—this is how you’re gonna die—grinding on Bucky’s muscled leg while he’s got a hand around your throat. 

What a way to go.    

With his other hand he grips the meat of your thigh and pulls you higher, grinding the rough material of his jeans covering his crotch into yours. You whine and arch into him. You need more. 

You both stay here for a good while up until it feels like you’re ready to burst at the seems if you don’t have him now. Bucky is no better—cheeks flushed as he fumbles with the zipper to relieve the noticeable bulge straining against it. Impatient and needy, you shoo away his hands and do it yourself, easily sliding your warm hand down his navel and over his boxers to palm at his cock. Bucky’s hand twitches around your neck, a sweet groan filling the air when you softly squeeze him through the elastic.

“Fuck, you’re gonna…” Bucky trails off and buries his nose into the crook of your neck. “Gonna make me cum in my pants if you don’t—don’t stop.”

While the thought is tempting, you want this to last just a little bit longer. Rush after the glorious high of just being near him, his kisses, everything about him. Bucky grunts at the loss of your hand and mouths a wet trail of sloppy kisses up your neck and returns to your lips. When you part he sweeps a stray strand of hair and tucks it behind your ear. He smiles softly.

“Can I try something?” He breaths. Before he can even tell you what his idea is, you’re happily nodding along. “Wanna taste you. Been thinking about it ever since Wakanda.”

Oof. His words shoot straight your center. “Bucky—why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

His mouth quirks. “You make me nervous.”

Rolling your eyes you plant a kiss on his forehead and grant him his simple desire. Bucky sits and slides to the floor, close enough that he’s still able to hover over you. You lift your hips as Bucky tugs your shorts and underwear down and off your legs. Besides the general anxieties of being half naked in front of an incredibly attractive man and performing something so sinful on a friend’s couch—there’s a strange stroke of pride that alights through each of your vertebrae. A powerful man willingly dropping to his knees to please you. 

Bucky shoots you a smile and slides his hands around your ribcage, bends forward slightly and captures you mouth in a deep kiss. He parts and nips down your jaw and over your throat, sliding his tongue over the marks he leaves with his teeth as if to soothe the slight sting. You whine and arch into him as he slides lower, leaving an obvious trail of bruises and teeth marks in his wake until he reaches the collar of your shirt. Bucky moves his palms under the fabric to grab at your breasts, the flats of his fingertips rolling over your nipples that peak through your bra. You suck in a shaky breath when Bucky catches the pebbled bud between his forefinger and thumb, the hard vibranium of his fingers scraping over it. A low hum rumbles through his chest as he leans forward to playfully nip at your collarbone.

“I wanna see you naked.” Bucky admits as he slips his hands out of your shirt. You shiver as those chilly metal fingers gently come to rest on the outside of your bare thighs. 

“Not here, Buck,” you sigh. “T-they—fuck—they can come back any minute.”

Bucky quirks a brow, eyes dropping between your legs, then back up with a smirk. His plush lips part, yet before he can disprove your silly point—that your bare ass is already out and taking off the shirt would barely make a difference—you interject. 

“Shut up.”

His shoulders bounce with a chuckle. “You have such a way with words, y’know that?”

You make a noise low in your throat and reach out to sharply tug his ear. He easily bats your hand aside, hooks his hands under your ass and hauls until you’re all but hanging over the edge of the cushions. You squirm, unable close your legs or to relieve some of that burning tension collecting in your core as Bucky lowers himself and wedges his shoulder between your thighs. He slides his hand over your calfs and wrestles them over his broad shoulders—earning a perfect view of your pussy. You’re already wet—worked up and running on borrowed time. You roll your head back onto the back of the couch and clench your jaw. You don’t want to rush him but Christ—you really don’t want Sam or Sarah to find you like this.   

It feels like ages before Bucky’s lips touch your belly and then your navel with his warm tongue. With a grunt he shoves your shirt up to your breasts and circles your bellybutton with the tip of his tongue—his enhanced strength easily pinning you down as you jerk and giggle.

Bucky picks up his head and grins. “Try and hold still, doll.”

No sharp retort comes to mind. Fuck—he’s already got you so expertly wrapped around his finger. 

Bucky hums, satisfied with your weak nod and continues on.  

Bucky’s bare fingers trace minuscule patterns into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, coaxing out a shiver that rushes through your body. They tickle towards the apex of your thighs and settle close enough to reach your aching center. He pauses for a moment and while you know he’s there, you curse when you feel his thumbs softly part the lips of your soaking cunt. They gently work up and down, smearing your wetness around but never enough to give you any friction as your body adjusts to the feel of flash and vibranium. You bite back a groan as your hips unconsciously twitch. 

Unsatisfied with simply touching you, Bucky shifts his weight to better reach your core. “Fuck—you’re so pretty.”   

There's a moment just before Bucky swoops down, face hovering close enough that you can feel his sticky, warm breath fan across you inner thighs. Anticipation grips your heart with an iron hold, and then— Bucky licks a broad stripe from the base of your cunt all the way up to your swollen clit. His mouth is molten, tongue like liquid velvet as you shudder and grab at his hair. Bucky grunts against you as you drag him closer by the short strands—greedy for any and all touch he gifts you. Bucky’s mouth slips around your clit, sucking and tracing circles over the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your eyes flutter shut as a quiet moan wrenches free from your vocal cords.  

He trails lower, sucks on your labia, and makes his way down to your soaking entrance. The wet heat of his tongue circles your cunt, skips over it completely to catch the wetness before it leaks over the couch. Bucky opens his mouth wide and groans in appreciation, devouring your pussy like he’s been denied this his entire life. Desperation lingers on his tongue and all you are is the honey sweet taste of salvation. 

“Shit—Bucky,” you cry, throwing your hips forward in search of more friction.

It's perfect. So fucking delicious. 

You tense as the vibranium tips of his fingers, two of them, press at your entrance, teasing the clenching ring of soft muscle before sinking in. The chilly digits slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle and when he draws them back, they're slick with your wetness. With a self-satisfied grin, Bucky thrusts them back in, then out—setting a steady pace that makes everything ache with desire. It leaves you just hovering over the sharp edge of ecstasy, the catch of his knuckles and imperceptible metal plating dragging along your walls pure torture. Fuck—he’s going to be the death of you—

Bucky’s mouth dips down a second time and sucks on your clit and with a few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls, your body seizes up tight. You're flying off that edge, faster than a fucking freight train. You cum onto his tongue and fingers with a strangled cry of his name, sparks of blurry white lining the edges of your vision as your back arches. Bucky continues to lick you through your orgasm, even as you buck and squirm in his iron hold. Supernovas implode behind your eyelids as heat, hotter than wildfire and jet fuel spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're shaking, lucid enough to hear Bucky murmur his praise—feeling the vibration of his groan, as he licks up the flood of your wetness over his tongue. 

Your brain swims in hazy bliss as you float back to reality. He's still curling his fingers into your pussy and it damn near hurts. You're too sensitive. Nerves rubbed raw and still throbbing—but you're too fucked out and still riding the waves of your orgasm to push him away. Bucky is all too happy to remain between your legs—takes this opportunity to tilt his fingers into your cunt faster, suckle and lave his hot tongue over your clit that burns from overstimulation—somehow you're back at the very edge again.

It's sharper than a vibranium razor against bare flesh. Your thighs shake around him as he twists his fingers inside you and bumps agains that tiny, little patch of nerves. You cry out as an orgasm floods through you veins, rupturing each cell in your being with molten pleasure. Your core pulses around Bucky’s fingers, fucking you through it until those burning waves of release eventually cease to a fading throb. You whine and push at his forehead because he's still going. You panic a bit—fucking hell, he’s gonna make you cry—but he pulls away, his mouth and chin wet with your slick. 

“Feel good?” Bucky purrs, resting his cheek on your thigh. 

If judging by the way you thighs still quiver and your chest heaves—then yeah—it felt good. 

Cheeky bastard.  

“Get up here—“

You grapple with his shirt, fisting the thin fabric, but he’s heavy and your entire body feels like jello. Your grip strength is all but laughable at the moment as Bucky clambers back onto the couch and grabs both of your legs, slotting his narrow hips between them. One leg is stuck against the back of the couch while the other hangs off the edge, foot skimming the hardwood floor to accommodate Bucky. Not the most comfortable but fuck it—who cares.    

Bucky grunts when you lift your hands and hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, tugging them halfway down his legs with a sharp yank. Already a dark patch of wetness stains the fabric of his boxers, the impressive bulge straining against the elastic and begging to be released. Your eyes meet his icy blue ones as you slowly pull his boxers over his cock. It bounces up towards his navel, thick and beautiful just like the rest of him. 

Impatient, Bucky’s fingers curl around your wrist and presses your open palm against his cock. He’s thick and heavy in your hand—perfect. The bead of precum that pools at his flushed tip smears against the inside of your palm as you experimentally roll your wrist, fascinated with the feel of his foreskin rolling over the steel heard flesh with each stroke.You give his a cock a rougher squeeze, a bolt of liquid heat settling in the pit of your stomach as a stifled moan reaches your ears. 

A sharp hiss of hair passes through his clenched teeth as you lightly tug on his cock. From the base up you pull, fixed upon the throbbing flesh, flushed and pulsing and all for you. His cock bobs when you let go—he huffs out a disappointed noise. “I need you, Buck—please.” 

Your previous two orgasms did seemingly nothing to soothe the growing ache for him. It prickles up your spine and singes through every nerve and bone—you whine and arch your hips, trying to touch your slick cunt to his cock. Bucky growls your name and pins your hips to the couch with ease. 

With his left hand, Bucky firmly grips your jaw, his stare folding into something serious. “You sure?”

Your tongue runs over your bottom lip. You grin. “Do your worst.”

Bucky curses and readjusts your calf slung over his hip and grips the base of his cock. You shudder as he runs the blunt head through your folds, slicking himself up with your arousal. You mewl and dig your nails into the flesh of his forearm as the wide tip of him pushes into your entrance—he shudders as you clench and arch. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s certainly not small in any way shape or form. You’ll feel him for days afterwards as your cunt swallows inch after inch. 

You both groan as he finally bottoms out. His jaw clenched tight as sweat beads at his hairline. Shit—he’s gorgeous—struggling not to loose control the moment he’s buried inside of you. You allow yourself to adjust for a moment but your own impatience rakes down your spine with claws of scorching arousal. You rock your hips in curiosity and squeeze around him. 

“Fuck—“ A ragged moans severs his words as your gentle rocking tilts into abrasive jolts. At this angle it’s difficult to fuck yourself onto his cock, but the measly thrusts are meant to tempt him. His left hand shoots to your throat, the chilly metal a stark contrast to your flushed skin. You dip your head back, exposing more of your supple skin—all his for the taking. 

You dig the heel of your foot into the small of his back and grab at his shoulders—tempting him into fucking you already. You’ve waited long enough. Bucky snarls your name, hooks one hand under your ass and pulls his cock nearly all the way, out only to slam back in with devastating force. There’s no time to adjust or gather your obliterated thoughts before Bucky sets a pace, desperate and feral. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end after being denied for what seems like a millennia—and maybe it has been. Bucky shifts, widening his knees as much as he can to sink lower onto your body—his soft hair tickles your cheek as his choppy exhales burn hot over your skin. 

Bucky turns his head to steal a kiss, open mouthed and catastrophic. No words are exchanged as he fucks into you with brutal strength aided by that damn super-soldier serum—there’s no need for them, not now anyway. You complete each other without the spoken utterances—still both a work in progress. Though most things are you suppose—constantly remaking yourselves, but instead of smashing the haphazard pieces back together alone—you have one another. You bury your hand in his hair and cry his name.  

You choke out another groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter and damn—you really hope nothing gets on this stupid couch. You don’t want to explain that Sam. 

Electric heat sears down each vertebrae in your spine, blazing through each and every vein with the brilliance of a wildfire escaping the edges of the forest. This is gonna ruin you. Bucky’s hand reaches between your bodies and rubs tight, controlled circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a calamitous surge of warmth that sweeps your very soul off its feet. Your nails dig into Bucky's back as you shake and fumble for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor. 

You have no time to recover because he’s still going. Thrusting into your pussy with violent slaps that echo through the room and will more than likely leave bruises against your ass. Through the pressure of his hand over your windpipe—threatening to cut your air off completely—you garble out his name. Bucky drops his head to his chin, the weight of his gaze landing between your legs, watching the way his entire length disappears inside of you. When he raises his head he molds his mouth to yours. The soft, wet kisses rapidly morph into pricks of his teeth, his gravelly moans so pleasing to hear. 

You arch and tilt your head back as he presses you harder into the couch. The vibranium hand latched onto your jaw, works it open and slides a thumb past your plush lips. You lave your tongue over the digit—the metallic tang flooding your tastebuds. “Good girl—m’close. A little longer.”

Bucky’s panting breaths mingle with yours as his pace turns vicious. Chasing his high that he so desperately needs. Overstimulation bites at your nerves, but with a gentle tug to the soft strands of hair on the back of his neck and a sweet whisper of his name, Bucky bursts. His moan jumps up an octave, eyes slamming shut as he buries his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder as he cums. He’s shuddering in your arms as his hips erratically jerk, hot spurts of his release coating your insides. You whine and tilt your hips up to prevent it from spilling onto the couch. 

Finally he slows to a stop, ragged breathing filling the air as the heat and weight of his body becomes a welcome comfort. Eventually that warmth grows stifling. He lazily pulls away, observing gaze drinking in each inch of bare skin exposed—the marks and the light sheen of sweat. You hiss as he curiously drags his thumb over the bite mark lingering just above your collarbone.

He parts his plush lips but before he can apologize, you interject. “Don’t—I like the reminder.”

Bucky shakes his head and drops down to tempt your lips into a lazy dance. “You’re a weirdo.”

You smile and cup his cheek. “I’m not the one with a staring problem. You know that you can’t kill people by glaring, right?”

Bucky kisses your cheek, your jaw, and then the dip of your throat. “You don’t ever shut up, do you?” 

You shudder as his softening cock twitches inside of you, another coal of desire flaring in the pit of your stomach. You flash him a coquettish grin. “Maybe if you give my mouth something to do, you’ll finally get some peace and quiet.” 

Something dark and dangerous flickers within those eyes. You shiver as one hand returns to your throat while the other draws teasing patterns over the outside of your thigh. He draws in close, nips at the shell of your ear and chuckles darkly. “You’re on.”

[officialwagnerrant]

Wagnerrant Review #6 - Tristan und Isolde

Work: Tristan und Isolde Bayerische Staatsoper Date of performance: 31.07.202

Team Director: Krzysztof Warlikowski Conductor: Kirill Petrenko With: Jonas Kaufmann, Anja Harteros, Okka von der Damerau, Wolfgang Koch, Mika Kares, Manuel Günther, Dean Power, Christian Rieger

Review: @beckmessering

Here’s an entirely hypothetical question: when not very familiar with an opera, is a Regietheater production with hotly anticipated role debuts the best opportunity to form an emotional understanding? Answers may vary, but take it from a someone whose opera education had a shamefully large Tristan-shaped hole: Krzysztof Warlikowski’s Tristan und Isolde at Bayerische Staatsoper is a production to to gnaw on – conceptually elusive and a puzzle with many pieces, but finally a great reward in scenery and in music.

Jonas Kaufmann lends Tristan his well-known baritonal timbre, although it’s not quite as prominent as usual. His voice is dense and rich, though not artificially darkened, and brings delicate piani as well as strength to the role. The third act with Tristan’s near-incessant monologues of increasing volume and intensity provide an audible challenge that doesn’t leave Kaufmann’s voice untouched: he sounds somewhat taxed by the time he’s finally allowed to collapse once and for all. Granted, it’s a punishing and brutal feat; the sheer amount of energy required to sing oneself to death likely isn’t equivalent to the amount a badly wounded man would still have. Kaufmann thus doesn’t quite look to be on death’s door despite a shirt soaked in progressively darker shades of red, but he nonetheless he provides a well-grounded interpretation of one titular character. He steers away from classic hero territory into something more nuanced and disconcerting if one only looks closely enough – Isolde, for that matter, hits the nail on the head when she replies “Frag deine Furcht!” to his “Und welchen Feind?”. He’s scared – or perhaps haunted by thoughts that won’t leave him alone, unable to keep his hands and his gaze still when not singing. He doesn’t outright long for death, but from the very start, he sure doesn’t seem at ease with life, either. Something isn’t quite right with Tristan – and just the right person is needed to unleash it fully.

That just-right-person is Anja Harteros as Isolde, who deserves perhaps the audience’s grandest ovation. Vocally, she is still in excellent shape until the last measures of her delicately sung Liebestod, having preserved her gleaming heights and pristine sound over all three acts. Her middle register, uniquely crystalline and incredibly poignant, could conceivably serve to distinguish her voice from thousands. Yet her singing by far isn’t too pretty to show feelings – Harteros’ voice suits a seething young woman with a rich inner life that progressively unfolds throughout the opera. “Lass’ uns Sühne trinken!“ is an actual threat, one that Tristan wholeheartedly embraces. After losing herself in love in the second act, she reemerges from it lonely and bitingly aware of it. Her grief, like her rage, is controlled yet bone-deep, and it inevitably leads her to die. Perhaps something wasn’t quite right with Isolde, too.

Wolfgang Koch sings Kurwenal with a vivacious, robust baritone that energetically prizes life – a great contrast to Tristan’s inclinations. However, Koch stays far from acting clownish, particularly in the third act, where he wears the worry about his friend on his sleeve, but ultimately remains powerless against Tristan’s impending death. While the latter ecstatically sings himself into delirium, Koch remains comparatively static, demonstrating his character’s inability to help and by extension, vastly different attitude towards life.

Okka von der Damerau’s Brangäne is a well-meaning figure trying her best to put Isolde at ease in this admittedly highly tense situation. While initially reminiscent of a caring aunt, the two women’s bond becomes far more sisterly in nature once the first act’s dialogue – or perhaps conspiracy – around Isolde’s secret potion stash unfolds. She braves the act’s finale with top notes of impressive volume and provides a surprisingly bright, silvery metallic sound for a mezzo. Considering the standout dynamic between the two women, it’s perhaps fitting that her voice blends so smoothly with Isolde’s and even elicits comparisons to a soprano’s sound.

Mika Kares as King Marke packs much disappointment into his clear, well-articulated bass, though it’s about far more than the good old besmirching of honour – this betrayal is personal to him and runs deep. Regrettably, he’s given little to do once he has discovered the wrongdoers in each other’s arms except stalk back and forth between Tristan and Isolde, so he resorts to various pronounced eye movements that verge on accidentally amusing. Brangäne’s single look of horror upon assessing the scene says more than any eye movement could.

Kirill Petrenko’s conducting is fluid, gentle, a statement in and of itself never at the cost of the singers. He crafts the prelude into an intensely lyrical treat, promising much and delivering on that by keeping the orchestra’s sound light yet rich enough to satisfy. He eschews heaviness, but never at the expense of intensity. Particularly the tense moments of the first act are played out very well, and the performance is audibly a successful collaboration between singers, conductor and orchestra: the singers are never drowned out, the orchestra makes its mark, and Petrenko himself brings both together with excellent timing to savour a spectrum of emotions.

Director Krzysztof Warlikowski transplants the setting into a wood-panelled room with high ceilings that traps all characters within its high ceiling, allowing them little escape from what troubles them. This room serves as a continuous backdrop throughout all three acts, although each act adds elements uniquely suited to the current happenings. During the prelude, two silent dancers dressed as almost frighteningly life-like dolls, one male and one female, appear. Their movements are tentative, childlike, evocative of a fragile state as they interact and cautiously touch each other. In the second act, a projection that previously illustrated the view outside a ship’s porthole serves as perhaps an emotional window into the lovers’ psyche. It shows grainy, black-and-white footage of Isolde sitting – waiting – alone on a bed, suggestive of a security camera’s spying eye. In the film, Tristan enters only during “O sink hernieder” and the two sit silently next to each other sans any eye contact, while the real-life Tristan of course has of course entered the stage some time ago. While both of these elements receive their resolution in the final act, the act two film is already subtly reflective of the singers’ actions onstage. While the first act was far more dynamic in terms of interaction, much of this movement disappeared once Tristan and Isolde fell in love, causing the lovers to remain comparatively static during their time together. This takes some time to notice and even more time to get used to, but it allows for much inference on the nature of this love. It’s of the paralysing sort, and it can’t coexist with normal life and regular interaction. There is wallowing in this love or interacting with the rest of the world – but ultimately, a choice will be have to be made. It’s a consuming love, yet clearly not of the physical or even romantic sort, judging from the frequent lack of touch and eye contact – perhaps it’s more of a kinship, a matter of two people having found a part of themselves in each other that they had lost. In any case, the concept avoids the stylisation of Tristan and Isolde’s love as something bright or pure – they may be enraptured, but their state of intoxication doesn’t induce wishful thinking in the audience. The music, more than anything else, connects the lovers with the onlookers. It’s a maddeningly subtle concept of interaction that can easily be taken as stiff or confused with lack of ideas, and the only time it doesn’t pay off is during King Marke’s confrontation in the second act, where Mika Kares isn’t given enough space to physically communicate the emotions of the normal world.

The place of Tristan’s youth in the third act finally unites the previously introduced ideas: Tristan awakes at a table surrounded by dolls seated at a dinner table and dressed like the one representing him in the prelude. As he recalls the early death of his parents, the suggestion that he grew up in a boarding-school atmosphere and carried the burden of being orphaned plants the core idea that he comes from a place of loneliness. Absent a place of emotional safety and affection, his outlook on life is shaped by the inner fragility and unsteadiness he was instead endowed with, and causes him to escape into a love – or a construct – that opposes this life. The question of whether his love is static and at odds with life by nature or rather by Tristan’s nature remains somewhat open, but both are conceivable. During Isolde’s Liebestod, the projections return, showing the lovers lying side by side on the bed again while the room floods with water. As the two inevitably drown, they gaze into each other’s eyes for the first time while the film turns colourful. What initially seems oddly romanticising of death and clichefully pleasant becomes exceptionally poignant when seen as the lovers’ attitude towards death and final fulfilment rather than the director’s views.

It’s an interpretation that becomes more wrenching the longer one thinks about it – multi-layered, elusive, and it refreshingly strays from unduly heroic characterisations that don’t fit the story well. Admittedly, the focus is somewhat aimed at Tristan, and by necessity of the set, much of the psychologization of Isolde in the first act has to occur in the same setting Tristan’s mind will eventually be dissected in. Partially bound by the story and partially by the staging, she can’t be given the same due, which, considering Harteros’ standout Isolde, is a slight shame. Nonetheless, the production doesn’t feel uneven, and when adding music and singers, it becomes a harmonising whole entity. I myself may have closed my eyes in an attempt to fall in love, and I don’t see anything more befitting this opera.

[highonchocolate]

Take Two: The Guardian in Gotham Chapter 12

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He’s a little boy again, laughing and racing through the halls of the Mansion, surrounded by the auburn warmth and love of his mother. Her green eyes, so similar to his own, sparkle down at him as she smiles. He reaches out for her, beaming hopefully, but as soon as he touches her, she crumbles, form blurring and fading. The warmth around him vanishes with her, and then he is alone. Stuck in the cold, silent, Mansion, a gilded cage for him to perform like an exhibit on display. He almost never catches a glimpse of his father, seeing more of Nathalie than him. Piano, fencing, Mandarin, photoshoots, the never ending cycle of activities goes on and on. He is a puppet, a doll. Dancing to their tune. He meets Ladybug, bounding across the rooftops, and the warmth sparks anew. It’s a different kind of heat, red, not the oranges and yellows of before, but still bright. He jokes and laughs, and keeps quiet to preserve the peace. Then, their identities are revealed and his world comes crashing down again. Chloé tells him about sexual harassment, screaming at him for being such an asshole to Mari, and he feels the familiar, numbing, cold creeping up his spine. What had he done?! He...had done… He goes to Ladybug-Marinette-and gets on his knees and apologizes. He apologizes for being too loud as Chat and too quiet as Adrien. He apologizes for not being there, for leaving her struggling in both aspects of her life, just so he could keep the warmth a little longer. But she smiles at him, and says they’ll work on it, and the fire blazes anew. He still loves her, but not in the same way. She is his sister, his sibling, someone to care for, and protect. She is not his lover, but his friend, and somehow, that's all he ever wanted.

--- He opens his eyes with a nostalgic smile on his lips. His eyes are wet, and he tastes salt on his tongue. He reaches out to his other half, his family, and she reaches back, grabbing him in a tight embrace. He hears the green hero telling him he’s not an enemy, but he ignores him, clutching Marinette like a lifeline. As Chloe steps forward, he loosens his hug, keeping his arm around her shoulders instead and turns to watch. She saw how they cried, relieving whatever horrific memories they had been subjected to. As she squeezed her eyes shut, blackness enveloping her, she couldn’t help but feel the familiar tingle of fear wrapping around her like a cloak. --- She is five again, watching as Mommy and Daddy scream at each other. Mommy’s mouth is open in a snarl, and Chloé can’t help but think she looks like a scary monster from her bedtime stories. The one that eats people. Seven years old, and every day they’re yelling at each other, screaming and shouting mean words in the other room. She hears Mommy say ‘This was all a mistake!’ And she huddles under her blankets, pulling Mr. Cuddly closer to her chest. She hears a door slam, and her Mommy is marching away to the helicopter, and there are suitcases being loaded inside. She sees her yellow suitcase is not in the pile, and Daddy is still standing on the roof, not in the helicopter. Her heart skips a beat and she clutches Mr. Cuddly even tighter as she stands beside Daddy and watches Mommy fly away. Does Mommy not love me anymore? She is eight and her Daddy is running for Mayor. He’s too busy to spend time with her, so he buys her a phone to say sorry. She takes it, but there is a weird feeling in her chest, like something is missing, and it doesn’t disappear as she sits alone in her room, playing some mindless game. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Daddy spends less and less time with her, buying more and more gifts to try and make up for his absence. The gifts fill her room, but they don’t fill the empty space in her heart. Sabrina tries, but Chloé knows she doesn’t really like her. She’s only doing it because Chloé gives her gifts too. Then Marinette comes along, and Chloé feels her hatred grow. How come her parents spend time with her?! What makes her so special? ... Why don’t my parents spend time with me? So she huffs and bullies and wraps herself in a cloak of thorns, keeping everyone at arms distance so that she won’t be let down and left alone again. She has Adrien, of course, but she knows she is using him. And he lets her use him, moving through the motions like a doll. 

Then Ladybug soars through the sky, catching her as she plummets from Stoneheart’s grasp, high above. Bright blue eyes and signature red, and Chloé watches from below as she flies, wishes and dreams kept secreted away in her heart. 

She finds Pollen’s comb, and suddenly her wildest dreams have sprang to life. She is a superhero! She can stand beside Ladybug and Chat Noir, and everyone will love her and her parents will be proud, and maybe now they’ll stay…But Ladybug is mad, and everyone hates her, and she knows Mommy Mother is already disappointed. So she carves a wall of ice and frost around her heart, and wraps her thorned cloak tighter around herself.

And then a Miracle happens, and Ladybug forgives her, and adds her to the team permanently. And they reveal their identities, and she apologizes to Marinette and Adrien because she knows she was wrong, and they give her a second chance. 

And her heart is racing and she can’t hear properly because the only thing she can understand now is the simple thought running through her brain over and over.

Permanently? They’re staying? I’m staying? They won’t leave me..?

And they are a family now, and she is loved, and there is Kagami, looking at her with that knowing glint in those deep brown eyes, reaching over to pull her into the warmth of her arms, and finally, finally, that empty space is full again. 

---

She saw the familiar darkness of her closed eyelids again, signaling the mind search was over, but she kept them shut for a moment longer, savoring the memories, the love. Only, she didn’t need to savor them, she remembered, because they were right here.

And so she opened her eyes, and saw her friends standing right there, arms already outstretched to pull her into their comforting embrace. Grinning, she let two sparkling tears roll down her cheeks. Only two, for the childhood she never fully had, and the family she finally found. 

Kagami was a creature of discipline, and as she closed her eyes, she willed her breath to stay even, her heart to continue its pulse, and her hands to remain steady. 

---

“Again!” Her mother’s harsh demand cracked through the air like a whip, sending ice skittering down her spine. Her face stung from where it had scraped on the concrete, it’s cold temperature soothing her scratched skin. Her arms trembled, refusing to bear her weight as she struggled to push herself up in time to block the next blow from her mother’s boken. With a grunt, she parried and thrust, only to fall flat on her back with a grunt.

“Again!”

A whirl of movement, then her knee screamed with pain-

“Again!”

She stood on shaky feet, raising her foil, only to get knocked down seconds later.

“Again!”

“Again!”

“Again!”

So she rose, and she fell, and she rose again.

Nothing she gave was ever enough. She bled, and she cried, and she worked herself to collapse, only to be rewarded with another training session, harsher criticism, and higher standards for her to meet. Nothing she did was ever enough. She was weighed down by the expectations of her mother.

And then she met Adrien, and she knew they were only forced together for their parent’s benefit, but how she longed for his love. For any love.

So she told herself she loved him, and he loved her, ignoring how she felt nothing as she looked into his eyes. She knew she was stubborn, and had a tendency to do things on her own, but even after she messed up as Ryuko Ladybug gave her a second chance.

It was...surprising to say the least. She had expected a scolding, and harsh, cutting, words, but instead she had revived another try, and words of encouragement. She felt a smile tug her lips upward, as she stood and charged into battle. And then, to her surprise, she was given a permanent place on her team. They never expected her to work herself to exhaustion, they accepted what she gave, only pushing her gently. And it was after their identity reveal, when they were talking about romance, and crushes, and that sort of thing did she realize she wasn’t messed up.

“Well, I’m totally bi,” Marinette giggled from where she lounged on a nearby chaise.

“Really? Nice. I’m lesbian as fuck.” Chloé spoke as she braided her hair.

“Ay, it’s a fellow gay!” Luka called from his seat on the floor.

“Aro and Demiace over here my people!” Adrien exclaimed, throwing up peace signs.

“Lesbian? Bi? What do those mean?” Kagami asked from her perch on the bed.

“Oh! Well bisexual is basically me liking men and women, lesbian means you’re a woman that only likes women, gay is a man that only likes men, and aromantic means you feel no romantic attraction towards someone, and demisexual means you need to form a strong emotional connection with someone before experiencing sexual attraction.” Marinette explained.

“Oh,” Kagami frowned in thought. “So it’s not..bad to like other women?” 

“Of course not!” Chloé exclaimed, looking scandalized at the thought.

Her friends had taken it well.

Her mother, however, did not. Although most Japanese were okay with homosexuality, Tomoe Tsurugi wanted a biological heir to continue their bloodline.

“You’re just confused, Kagami. This is why I don’t like you spending time with those friends of yours. They talk about all these things, and suddenly you start thinking that you are like...that. Stop this foolishness at once.”

She hadn’t raised her voice, but the disdain was clear in her tone. And with those words, the fragile shell of joy she had built around herself shattered in the face of rejection.

She opened her eyes, feeling as though someone had reopened her scars and left the wounds bare and bleeding on display.

Her eyes were dry, and the salt of tears was not present on her lips, but she felt bad though she had cried for hours. With a small shudder, she grabbed Chloé’s hand and allowed herself to be pulled into a warm embrace.

And then it was Luka’s turn, and there was no hint of nervousness on his face as he closed his eyes.

---

Scenes burst to life behind his eyelids in a flash of color and sound. He was five again, creeping down the hallway on their boat in the direction of the muffled sobbing emanating from his mother’s cabin. “Maman?” He questions uncertainly, pushing open the door and allowing a thin ray of light to shine on his mother’s tear-streaked face. “Maman are you okay?”

Anarka’s head jerked up at his voice, hands coming up to wipe at her cheeks.“I’m fine, baby. Mama’s just feeling a little sad today. Why don’t you go play with Jules, huh?”

“Okay Maman. I love you!” He walks back to his room on small feet, knowing even then, that his mother’s sadness stemmed from larger problems. Six years old and he still struggles with speaking to other kids. Miss Adeline says he’s just shy, but he isn’t. It’s just hard to find the right words to use. 

So he uses music to speak, and in every strum of his guitar there is a word; in every measure, a sentence; every song is an expression, an exclamation, a lament, that conveys more than words ever could.

He still struggles with the words sometimes, and he focuses on all his friends too much, so sometimes he forgets to focus on himself. But that’s okay, because everyone tells him to be empathetic, and put other people’s needs before his own, so that’s what he does.

And then Ladybug asks him to be Viperion, and he can’t say no. So he accepts, and watches time and time again as his friends and family die before his very eyes, bodies slack, eyes unseeing, blood everywhere. But he knows she can’t bear this burden alone, so he keeps marching on. 

And on.

And on.

He opens his eyes to the still-haunted faces of his friends, looking at him with concern.

He gives them a smile to assure them he is fine, he is not and then turns to Martian Manhunter with a polite expression on his face. “Now that we’re all cleared, what’s next?”

---

@laurcad123, @liquid-luck-00, @toodaloo-kangaroo, @stainedglassm

[angelqueen04]

Hamliza Month, Day 19

@megpeggs @historysalt

Pain Summary: Alexander races back to Philadelphia after receiving a terrifying letter. Warning/Note: Discussion of miscarriage, references to/implied depression (hence why there is no preview for this one and everything is under behind the Keep Reading link). The angst and sadness is strong in this one, folks. Fair warning.

Among other reasons for wishing your return is Mrs. Hamilton’s earnest desire. It seems she has had, or has been in danger of a miscarriage, which has much alarmed her. But Doctor Khun by whom she is attended with Doctor Stephens, assures that she is in no danger. However she is extremely desirous of your presence in order to tranquilize her. [1]

The words, read only once, still managed to burn through his mind. A miscarriage. This had never happened before, not once. Eliza always maintained excellent health when she was carrying their children. She seemed to blossom, keeping a rosy, healthy color about her cheeks as her belly grew. The births were always painful, that was true, but she came through each time without cause for alarm. Why was it different now? What had happened?

He really ought to be truthful with himself. He knew what had happened, what was different. Barely a year ago, both he and Eliza had nearly lost their lives during the yellow fever epidemic. It had only been thanks to the miracle of Ned’s tender care that they had survived. Then, there had been a great deal of sickness among the children, particularly little Johnny, which had only added to the stress Eliza labored under.

Then, of course, there was Alexander himself. Though he had done as much as he could to aid her in caring for their children while they were ill, he had seen even then that Eliza was not doing well. Then he had insisted on accompanying the army as they dealt with these rascals in the back country. She had asked him not to go. Just once, but she had asked. When Alexander had insisted that he had to go, if only because of Henry Knox’s lengthy and irritating absence from Philadelphia, she had fallen silent and not brought the subject up again, not bothering to argue with him.

He could still remember his last sight of her as he’d ridden off. Pale almost to the color of milk, a strange thinness about her person even though he knew she was eating regular meals. She’d looked exhausted, despite her frequent efforts to rest whenever possible.

Her condition had not improved in his absence. Mother Schuyler and his brother-in-law, Philip Jeremiah, had visited Philadelphia while Alexander had been away, and they had been much alarmed by Eliza’s fragile health. They had even tried to convince her to travel back with them to Albany, where she could rest among and be supported by the family. She refuses to leave without you, Philip wrote, and will not hear of the children leaving either.

Hurry back, brother. End this and come home.

Alexander recalled wincing when he read of Eliza’s refusal to leave the state without him accompanying her. He could guess very easily as to why she refused to go, even if she had not confessed her reasons to her mother and brother. So, he had had done his best to hurry things along, but everything could be handled only so fast. After Philip’s letter, there had been little news. Eliza wrote to him when she could, but she said little of her health, focusing instead on the children. She said nothing of him coming home either. The tone of her letters was brittle, almost wooden. It had only increased his disquiet, but there was little he could do except keep doing what he was doing so that he could return home.

And then, finally, came the letter. Knox said Eliza was ‘extremely desirous’ of Alexander’s presence. Knox wasn’t known to exaggerate in his choice of words, and really, they had only confirmed the unease he had been living more and more with as the weeks passed.

She needed him. She had needed him before, but he had still gone away, so certain that he was indispensable to ending this crisis with the whiskey rebels. So he’d left her alone in a way he had never done before while she was carrying a child.

And now that child was gone.

Alexander could feel the tears stinging his cheeks as he guided his horse onto Market Street, the setting sun shining now directly into his eyes. He barely noted passing the Presidential Mansion, his focus solely on locating a familiar gate in front of a lovely house of red brick.

He spotted the hitching post first, the one Alexander had ordered installed in front of the house for the use of guests or government officials that might arrive there on horseback. It was deserted at the moment, but that meant little. The doctors might have arrived on foot, or their horses may have been put in the barn behind the house, particularly if their stay was going to be of some duration.

Bringing his horse to a halt, Alexander vaulted off of his horse, and stumbled a bit when he landed hard. It had been a long time since he had done something like that, and he was no longer twenty-one. Getting his feet back under him, he looked toward the men of his escort, who had actually managed to keep up with him. Tossing one of them the reins of his horse, Alexander turned on his heel and strode to the front door.

Someone must have been watching for him, because the door opened before he could even reach for the knob. In the doorway stood Ned, stripped down to his waistcoat and breeches, with tired, dark-rimmed eyes. “Ham,” he greeted solemnly, stepping back to allow Alexander to enter the house.

“How is she?” he demanded as he entered the front hall. He struggled out of his military coat, both because it wasn’t needed – the house was more than sufficiently warm – and the sudden feeling that it did not belong, that it was almost insulting to be wearing it in this house of mourning. Eliza had not wanted him to go, had not wanted him out there risking his life when his family needed him here, but he had insisted on doing so, had insisted on playing soldier again, to relive the glories of his youth.

Well, he had, and now he, they, were paying the price for it.

Ned, to his credit, didn’t try to delay or prevaricate in his response. “Mrs. Hamilton is resting comfortably upstairs,” he said. “Mrs. Washington has been here for some hours, sitting with her so that she is not alone.”

Alexander barely waited for him to finish before he started to move toward the stairs, but was brought to a halt when Ned’s hand closed around his arm. “Ham, wait.”

He tugged at the other man’s grip. “Not now, Ned,” he said impatiently. “I need to see my wife.”

Ned didn’t relent, however, meeting him with an equally firm gaze. “You need to collect yourself first, Alexander,” he said. “You’ll do Mrs. Hamilton no good if you go rushing in there and disturbing her from the sleep she needs to preserve her health. Plus, there’s more that you need to know.”

Alexander wanted to shrug his old friend off and continue on his way to reassure himself of his wife’s survival, but his words struck him. Eliza needed to rest to get better. He shouldn’t disturb her. This was about what she needed, not him.

“Fine,” Alexander said through gritted teeth, and allowed Ned pull him into the dining room. There remained a fair bit of food on the table, looking like the remains of a buffet. There had been others here, but must have left before his arrival. At Ned’s gesture, he sat down at the table, eyeing the food warily. He wasn’t hungry.

“You should eat, Ham,” Ned said firmly as he joined him, seemingly reading his mind. “The last thing anyone needs is you fainting from lack of food.”

He shot his old friend an impatient look, but decided not to bother arguing. He picked at some of the meats and bread, avoiding the fruits.

“The children?” Alexander asked suddenly as he began to eat, the silence of the house falling heavy on his ears. Surely there should have been some noise coming from them? It was too early for them to have gone to bed.

“The President took them to stay at the Presidential Mansion,” Ned informed him. “He thought it best so that Mrs. Hamilton wouldn’t be disturbed.” He paused before adding, “Young Philip proved himself very responsible, keeping his younger siblings in hand.”

Alexander nodded. Under any other circumstances, he would be pleased by the news that his firstborn had handled himself so well. When he finally finished what was on his plate, he made to stand, asking, “Are you satisfied now, Ned? Can I see my wife now?”

“Just a minute, Alexander,” Ned said. “It’s important that you know her condition before you go up there.”

He stilled. Her condition? What did that mean? Was Eliza in further danger? “What is it?” he demanded.

Ned took a deep breath. “While I know that Secretary Knox’s letter intimated that Mrs. Hamilton suffered a miscarriage, Dr. Kuhn and I are more inclined to judge it a stillbirth. The babe was well formed, but was small, too small to have survived.”

Alexander closed his eyes. Poor, poor lamb, he thought, fighting back a wave of tears. He’d focused so much on Eliza that he had not given the child much thought. “What was it?” he asked. “A boy or a girl?”

“A boy,” Ned responded, his expression shifting from professional to sympathetic.

Another boy. They’d hoped for a girl this time, to give Angelica and Fanny a baby sister on which to dote, but they would have welcomed a son with equal joy. In either case, he and Eliza hadn’t had the chance to discuss names. Their poor boy would go into the grave without anything to mark his existence.[2]

Taking a deep, shaky breath to stem the tide of tears, he whispered, “I’d like to see my wife now.”

Thankfully, this time Ned didn’t try to stop him when he stood and strode toward the stairs.

Just as Ned had said, Mrs. Washington was with Eliza, having pulled a seat close to the bed. An embroidery hoop sat in her lap, but it was clear she had given up on working on it, perhaps due to the fact that only a single candle was lit in the room. The older woman looked up as he pushed the door open further and stepped into the room. A relieved expression crossed Mrs. Washington’s face.

“Ah, Colonel,” she said upon seeing him, “I’m glad to see you’ve returned.” She glanced toward the bed. “She’s been dreaming, and calling for you.”

Mrs. Washington was kind enough to quickly vacate her position and depart, leaving Alexander standing at the foot of the bed, staring down at his sleeping wife. Though the candle provided little in the way of light, he could see how, if anything, Eliza’s color seemed worse than it had been when he’d left. Her dark hair had been braided back away from her face, but that only emphasized how gaunt and haggard she looked. Even with her eyes closed in sleep, he could see the furrow of her brow, and Alexander knew that if he touched her cheek, he’d feel the clammy sensation of dried tears.

“Oh, love,” he murmured, drawing in a ragged breath. Sliding around to the side of the bed, Alexander unbuttoned his waistcoat and shrugged it off, tossing it carelessly onto the chair Mrs. Washington had left behind. After removing his boots, he crawled into their bed and curled himself around Eliza’s side, draping an arm over her and gently pulling her close. He buried his face into the crook of her neck.

Her belly was still swollen, he realized, like the baby was still there, though Alexander knew from experience that that would soon fade. Eventually, Eliza’s body would begin to return to its normal shape, and although the marks of her pregnancies would remain, there would be no other sign that there had ever been a sixth Hamilton child.

 She’d had to deal with this all by herself. While Alexander recognized that she had had the support of friends like the President and Mrs. Washington, and the care of talented physicians like Ned and Dr. Kuhn, Eliza had still been alone. Who had been here that could truly share in her grief and sorrow?

Who should have been here? He should have, but he hadn’t, placing the suppression of a bunch of unruly rascals over Eliza’s health and wellbeing. Oh, there had been many good reasons, all of which Alexander listed to Eliza before he left, in his own head in the ensuing weeks he was away, and on the frantic, harried race back to Philadelphia.

But now… lying here, cradling Eliza’s frail, fragile form in his arms, he realized just how hollow those reasons were. Alexander should have been here, taking care of his wife during her time in need. But he had turned his back on this duty, the sacred duty of any husband, and now God saw fit to punish him for it.

The tears came silently and, while part of him fretted about disturbing Eliza, once they started, he had not the strength to stop them. “I’m sorry, my Betsey,” he whispered into her neck, clutching her even more tightly to him. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Alexander held her close all through the night. He must have slept at some point, because when he opened his eyes, he found, first, that the dawn’s earliest light was beginning to creep through the window, second, that he was lying on his back and, third, Eliza had shifted away and now lay on her side, her back to him. Tremors shook her body, and he could hear the sound of repressed sobs.

He sat up hurriedly and reached for her, saying, “Betsey?” He pulled at her shoulder gently, urging her to turn back to him. He could feel the stiff resistance in her body for a moment, but then it gave away and she let him bring her around to face him.

Eliza’s cheeks and eyes were flushed and red from crying, and he wished he had a handkerchief to wipe away the tears. Instead, Alexander gathered her back into his arms, cradling her close and letting her bury her face in his chest while he rested his chin on top of her head. He rocked her as he would rock one of their children when they were ill, trying to soothe her even as he struggled to keep his own grief in check.

They stayed like that for a while, remaining undisturbed by the outside world, for which Alexander was grateful. Much as he longed to see his children, right now it was their mother who had to be his first priority. She had suffered his neglect, his disrespect, for far, far too long, and this was the terrible, terrible result.

“We’re going to leave, Betsey.” The words flew from his mouth before they’d even fully formed in his head, but as they settled into his thoughts, everything began to take shape. Correspondingly, her shaking body stilled in his arms. “I’m going to start writing my resignation.[3] I’ll submit it to the President, and I’ll start making preparations for us to return to New York.” He leaned back and looked down into her face. “We can perhaps stay with your parents for a time? Would you like that?”

She stared up at him with watery eyes, and he was not blind to the naked skepticism in them. He winced, knowing that she had a right to be doubtful. Alexander had talked of resigning before, had made vague promises that they would return to private life, but he had never followed through. He had made excuses for it, citing this or that crisis that required his guiding hand. Eliza had endured and soldiered onward, even as their continued residence in a city that she had never truly warmed to wore on her. She’d even endured a scolding by letter from Angelica when she heard the rumors of Alexander’s considered resignation from public service, though he didn’t think she ever responded to it.

“It’s time to go home,” Alexander said, and then he pressed his lips to her forehead. “I know you have cause to be suspicious, darling, but I truly mean it. We’re going home.”

Eliza did not respond, but she slowly sank into him, relaxing into his embrace for the first time in months. She buried her face into his chest, and her fingers gripped his shirt in the grip of someone who had been drowning, but now had something to keep them afloat.

Alexander refused to disappoint her. Not again.

-----

[1] Henry Knox to Alexander Hamilton, 24 November 1794.

[2] In truth, we don’t know the gender of the baby Eliza and Alexander lost at this time. No record was ever left that I know of, not even where they might have buried the poor mite. I chose to go with the baby being a boy because it seemed more likely to me. Out of eight children who came from successful births, six were sons, indicating that, on a physical level, Alexander was more apt to father boys.

[3] Alexander Hamilton to George Washington, 1 December 1794.  Alexander certainly did not waste time, did he? Knox’s note above was dated November 24th, and literally within 7 days, Alexander had received it, raced back to Philadelphia to Eliza, and then wrote his dated resignation, which I imagine Washington received that same day or close to it, given its important contents. One week.

[stellarcat52]

Timeless Blue Chapter Two

Okay so apparently I’m just gonna add this little bit to every chapter as a little authors note. So chapter two is here, and as I stop caring about what canonically is happening in whatever scene in writing, the more the style will reflect my normal writing style. On that note, does anyone care how much I deviate from the canon? Like change potentially important plot details aside? Cause uh... yeah I don’t have the greatest impulse control and might mix this with another Au I had in mind. Either way, I hope you enjoy.

Krel, Douxie, Claire, and a crystallized Jim free fall through the rift. Thanks to Douxie’s anti-gravity spells, no lasting damage aside from a crack in Jim’s crystalline savior was dealt.

Krel landed behind Douxie and beside Palchuck, barely being missed by Jim falling from the trees above a moment later.

“What happened?” Steve groaned from under Jim.

“Well,” Douxie started, “I just conjured and anti-gravity spell to slow our fall and keep us from dying. You’re welcome.”

“Douxie? Where is the flying castle?”

“Oh fuzz buckets.”

Knights in metal armor surround them, shouting and communicated within their own ranks.

“This means, we’re lost in time.”

“Time?! I know the geezer said the answers were in the past but time travel shouldn’t be technologically possible for any species yet!”

“What manor of sorcery is this?” A mounted knight demands.

Douxie reaches back and grabs Krel’s hand, “Don’t use your serrator, just follow my lead.” He whispers to the Akiridion, the message being conveyed to the other two as well. However, Steve freaking out did not help their case.

Douxie and Krel look up to see the Knight had taken off his helmet. “Sir Lancelot, um...”

“He’s so handsome..” Steve said, earning a questioning look from Krel and Claire before a sword was pointed at them.

“Wait! Aren’t you Merlin’s errand boy?” Lancelot’s sword crept closer to Douxie’s neck. “I hope you can explain why you are associating with a troll.” Lancelot points to Krel with his blade.

“Hey!”

“Apprentice, first of all, and Krel is not a troll.”

“He’s like an angel man.” Steve daydreams, leaning a little too much on Jim’s encasement. The green material shatters, waking him from his life-preserving sleep. “Woah!”

Douxie jumps up and away from Jim, Krel instinctively reaching for his serrator before remembering Douxie’s words.

“The devil-?”

As Lancelot leans back towards Jim, a red and black armored troll arm breaches the air.

“What? How did I-?”

“Jim! Are you okay?”

“Troll! Troll! To arms!”

Jim is met with two very different reactions, a hug from his girlfriend, and multiple swords being pointed at him.

Douxie starts to jump to protect Jim, a blue hand grabs the edge of his shirt too late to stop him. Douxie proceeds to try and convince Lancelot that Jim is a good troll, which is much harder to convince him of than Krel not being a troll at all.

“You will hang before the king for your insolence.”

====

Jim communes with Claire, Douxie, and his very reluctant cage-mate Krel to try and learn what’s going on before the group is brought before the king. Ending with a promise from Douxie that he’d explain everything once everyone was safe.

After a quick reminder to let Douxie handle this, introductions and explanations are due. Thankfully, Steve was more than happy to shut up once Krel reminded him there was no service in the dark ages and that if he said something wrong he wouldn’t be able to say bye to Aja.

“This is Claire of house Nuñez, and Steve of Palchuckia, a village idiot and uh knight in training.” Douxie starts, pointing to each person as he spoke, “and believe it or not, this is Prince Krel from house Tarron of Cantalupia.” Douxie cautiously opened the cage, bringing Krel out and implying Jim should stay there.

“I have not heard of Cantalupia.” Arthur watched every movement Krel made, from every step he took before standing behind Douxie to every subtle nerve driven shift in his weight.

“That’s to be expected. Before now-“ Douxie quickly gets cut off.

“I’ll have this supposed prince explain it to me.” Arthur snapped. “Explain why you are here, Prince Krel of Cantalupia.”

“Alright, well as the errand boy here explained, I am not a troll. I was cursed to appear like this and have been looking for a wizard to remove it. I would like to formerly request permission to stay here alongside my companions.” Krel gestured to Claire, and Steve, who were giving the Akiridion strange wide-eyed glances.

Arthur pointed Excalibur at the sunny patch in the middle of the floor. “Prove you are not a troll first. Step into the sunlight.”

Krel steps forwards, being followed by a pair of not-so-subtle knights every step until he stands in full daylight in front of the king. “I am no troll, or is this not enough to prove to you my story?”

Arthur’s tensions fade, his grip no longer iron on the hilt of Excalibur. “Alright.”

“Now that that is out of the way, I believe this beast deserves an explanation too, errand boy.” Lancelot pulled Jim out of the cage, forcing him to kneel in the shadows where everyone could see him. “He is most definitely not a cursed prince as your friend here seems to be.”

Douxie lets out a hissing breath, clearly not able to explain the troll. Thankfully, Arthur’s immediate rage was not aimed at anyone proven to not be a troll.

“A troll! I thought I made it very clear your kind is not welcome here when I banished you.”

“Don’t you mean betrayed?” Morgana steps out of the shadows, pushing her way into Arthur’s focus. “You gave the woods to enchanted creatures like these, would you break that vow?”

“These beasts care not of my vow. Especially not spies of Gunmar.”

“Stop calling me a beast!” Jim lunged forwards, held back by Lancelot and another knight. “Wait, Gunmar?”

“Uh, your highness,” Douxie coughs, “it’s good to see you again.”

“And who are you?”

“Hisirdoux, Merlin’s apprentice. I assure to you, he,” he gestures to Jim, “is no threat.”

“That is my judgement to make boy.” Arthur thunders.

Morgana lights up her hand, a ball of golden magic wandering as she speaks. “Trolls are born of magic, and you are of blood. How is their nature a crime?”

Krel had seen something like this before, the students standing up for him and Aja when Colonel Kubritz was looking for them in school.

“When they ravage our lands and take our loved ones from us? I made these laws to keep this fragile land together, and they will be abided.” Arthur shouted. “Leave the wood, the penalty is death. Bring this monster to the light.”

As Jim was carried to the light, protesting and claiming he wasn’t a troll, the entire group went to save him. Douxie attempting to reason with Arthur, Krel using his four arms to try and avoid being grabbed as well and prevent Jim from joining him under the sun, Steve starting to rush forwards but being cut off, and Claire protesting as she was grabbed just as quickly.

Everything happened too fast to understand. The shadows crept out of the corners and flooded where the light should be. In the corner of Krel’s eyes, Claire seemed to have blackened sclera until the light was gone, and the future Trollhunter was safe. Arthur, of course, blamed Morgana, who seemed to be the only person who wasn’t from the 21st century to realize it wasn’t her who had done this. Claire defended her boyfriend, claiming his innocence even if he was a troll.

“Evil is not inherited, it does not corrupt one species more than another. Claire is right to believe a troll, despite how evil you believe them, can be good.” The Extraterrestrial spoke.

“That means nothing Prince. This is my kingdom and I shall not fail it. These beasts are still dangerous, we are still at war."

“If you give into your fear, that is failing.”

“The girl and the prince speak truth. Please listen to them brother.”

Krel gives Douxie a questioning look, not seeing the family resemblance. Douxie shrugs, nodding but understanding where Krel was coming from.

“Fine.” Arthur decided. “I will show the troll mercy. He will live... in the dungeon.”

“Jim!” Claire attempts to follow as he is taken to the dungeon, being stopped and comforted by Douxie.

“As for you, Hisirdoux, shouldn’t you be with Merlin?”

“Well, yes, but you see...” Douxie raked his mind for something to say “I was-“

“I apologize, your highness, but Hisirdoux was busy attempting to help me. I have communicated with him and he intends to help me get back into my original body. If it is impossible, I’ll understand, however. While we are here, if I appear human or not, I do believe my friends and I can help with this war that Hisirdoux has mentioned before.” Krel flares at Douxie as this war had not been mentioned before, who in response glares back as the Akiridion had just interrupted him. “In my country, I am known for my intellect, and I do not wish to take from someone without returning something.”

“So in exchange for me helping him and his curse, he, Claire, and Steve, will help us in the war.” Douxie summarized, not entirely sure if Krel is capable of getting his point through with his sudden usage of fancier tongue.

“Alright. Sir Steve will work with the knights, Prince Krel I believe should work with you, Hisirdoux, and as for mistress Claire?”

“I will take her. I’ve been in need of a new handmaiden.” Krel sees the pleas of help and burning anger in Claire’s eyes as Morgana steps up for her.

“Alright. Now go, I have a kingdom to protect.” Arthur ushered them away.

“Okay Krel what was that?” Steve hissed before the separated, the threat of not seeing Aja again still holding its effect. “Last I checked, you didn’t act like a prince much.”

“Theater practice at school.” Claire starts. “Krel has gotten very good at improv.”

“You are in the play?” Steve was astonished.

“Yes, while you have been too busy complaining about Eli and Aja going to Akiridion-5, I was increasing my knowledge on human culture, of the present and the past, or would it be the future and the present.”

“It doesn’t matter. Krel, you did amazing. I was here during this time and I still wasn’t as fast as you to know what to say!”

“Did you just say you were-are here?” Krel asked.

“Oh fuzz buckets.”

The group separates, although partially unwillingly. Steve goes with Sir Lancelot, Claire with Lady Morgana, and Krel with a very nervous Douxie.

Part one Part three

[pikachu78109]

Hey-o! This is sort of like a sequel to the first Pokémon SWSH long read I did with the Galar boys being in an abusive situation. I will provide a link to which you all can check out, if you want. This long read will deal with the after effects and how these boys carry on with themselves. Some of these long reads will involve some PTSD, severe separation anxiety, and depression. This will be a lot more dramatic than the original, but if this long read makes you feel uncomfortable, then feel free to skip this one. I’ll see you all in the next long read!

Milo (PTSD)

-It’s been about three months after the incident involving you and Milo’s abusive ex. Despite everything that happened, you still couldn’t believe that someone would treat Milo, whose sweet and gentle, like garbage. During the time spent after that awful night, you stayed close to Milo. Being a fragile person, you worried how Milo would carry himself forward. He showed improvement here and there, even going so far as to attend therapy to help coax his mental strain from the abuse that, sadly, made its mark onto Milo. Oftentimes, you stayed over at Milo’s place and tended to him and his Pokémon. For the first few weeks, Milo hasn’t been able to farm or battle any Gym Challengers. In fact, the Turffield Gym has been closed for weeks due to Milo’s long road to recovery. After some time to heal, Milo was encouraged to reopen the Gym and pick up his farm work again as a way to cope, to keep his mind from lingering back to that dark part of his conscience. You had your worries, of course, but trusted that Milo would be able to care for himself better now. That said, you often had the urgency to check in now and then to see how the gentle giant was doing. On good days, you would see Milo out and about with his Eldegoss and Yamper, taking care of the fields or the flowers per usual, an easygoing smile on his face as he watered the plants or carried bales of hay alongside with his younger brother. When he struggled, you would step into help but instead Milo would shake it off, telling you that he’s fine and that he was feeling a bit tired from the huge amount of farm work he’s been doing.

You took his word for it, telling yourself that you were worrying way too much. Still, the doubts you had always found ways to creep up unexpectedly. That afternoon, you were outside sitting underneath a Berry tree, keeping to yourself by drawing while your Butterfree fluttered about, flapping its wings softly around the leaves. Milo was off in the fields close to you, doing his usual routine by rounding up the Wooloo for the upcoming Gym Challenge match. You glance every now and then to see how he’s doing, noticing if anything was off. You didn’t like how your suspicions got the better of you, because doubting and worrying is going to cause you to get sick. Thinking that Milo’s okay, you went back to your sketchbook and continued to draw. A few minutes later, you heard some rustling nearby and looked over to see Yamper scampering over to you, its face panicked.

Yamper pulled at your shirt’s sleeve, tugging you forward towards the direction from where it came. Standing up, you quickly followed Yamper in the golden strands of the fields. About three inches away, you came to a sudden stop to see Milo on the ground, holding his head in his hands and noticed that his hat was beside him. Grabbing his hat, you went over and kneeled down in front of him. Laying his hat down, you gently took his hands away from his face and peered down to look him in the eye. You could hear him breathe heavily, shaking each time he took in air. You gently pulled Milo into your arms and held him softly, stroking his hair while you felt his strong arms wrap around your waist. About five minutes later, you felt Milo pull away from your body and you peered down to meet his tear streaked face. His eyes were a red and his breathing struggled to stay calm and maintained. Cupping his face, you wiped a few tears from his cheeks and asked what was wrong. Milo choked out a response by replying back with an “I don’t know,” Nodding your head, your eyes wandered around the field, wondering if anyone else has caught notice of Milo’s breakdown. Thankfully, the fields weren’t that busy. You helped Milo up and guided him back to the Berry tree. Settling him down, you placed yourself besides him and leaned your head against his shoulder. You could feel Milo begin to calm down and noticed him move his head down to stare at his hands. You wanted to ask more questions, but didn’t know if Milo wanted to answer them in fear of another breakdown. Instead, all you could do was wait for him to steady himself mentally.

Milo moved his focus onto you and opened his mouth to say that he suddenly thought about that night where you stopped his abusive ex. Surprised, you looked up at Milo and came to the conclusion that he had a flashback to that event. You read about people having traumatic experiences that result in post traumatic stress disorders. Flashbacks could result in the trauma and, for Milo, he experienced one out of the blue. You reached up to brush his bangs out of his face with which Milo responded by taking your hand and kissing it sweetly. You told Milo that he should talk to his therapist about what happened, because at the moment, you were a bit stunned to hear what Milo has said. Milo promised you and told you to not worry, that he’ll get it handled quickly. Both of you spent a good hour sitting underneath the Berry tree after that. Neither of you wanted to move away, but when Milo realizes that the Gym Challenge match will start soon, he begins to get up to leave. You decided to follow him, holding his hand tightly, in fear of what would happen if you decided to let go.

Piers (Suicidal Depression)

-Things haven’t been the same since what happened that night. Piers didn’t talk much about what happened to him and the events that followed, but you knew why he didn’t want to say anything. Piers isn’t a touchy-feely type of person, meaning he doesn’t like to open up about his thoughts and feelings to anyone. He would rather preserve his laid back, ‘I-don’t-give-a-sh*t’ attitude than reveal how he actually feels. You completely understand this well, but at the same time, couldn’t help but think that this mentality of his will soon backfire and hurt him more. But ever since that sh*t storm that occurred with his ex, you didn’t want to come off as too overprotective towards Piers. He doesn’t want anyone worrying over him, not you nor his little sister. Still, with any chance you got, you would check in to see how the rock star was handling himself. On most days, you wouldn’t see Piers at all. You would get word from Marnie that Piers has been holed up in his room, sleeping longer than he normally does, and would only come out to eat or use the bathroom. This made you worry more, because you knew Piers all too well. He doesn’t sleep in, despite him staying up way later than he should (usually goes to bed at around three in the morning) and Piers doesn’t like to be cooped up in his room all day.

You started to think if Piers was dealing with something that acquired most if not all of his attention. Assuming this, you decided to make a trip over to his place to find out. Upon arrival, you went inside and headed towards his room, knocking on his door lightly. After a few more raps, you were met with nothing but silence. Not wanting to leave, you gently turned the doorknob and quietly opened the door to peek inside. Piers’s room was pretty typical for any rock music fan or metal head. The room was dim, posters were plastered everywhere around the walls, there was some clothing strewn about the place, and there was Piers microphone stand leaning against the closet door waiting to be played. Stepping inside, you quietly tiptoed over to Piers’s bed and peered down at his sleeping body. His hair was let down and the blanket that covered him was being pulled tightly by him. You could hear Piers snore softly and inched closer to get better look at him. As you did, you could barely make out the dark circles under his eyes and noticed that they were glistening with tears. You were taken aback by the sight of Piers crying and reached over to tentatively wipe them away. As if by instinct, Piers shifted from his sleeping position and woke up to see you hovering over him. Blinking sleepily, he asked what you were doing here. Not knowing what to say, you replied that you haven’t seen him in days and wanted to make sure that he was okay. Piers yawned and sat up, exposing his skinny pale arms and more of his tousled black and white locks.

As his blanket shifted downward, Piers grabbed hold of it and buried his arms once again underneath the covers. He gave you a glazed look and offered a tired, lazy smile. He responded that he was feeling kind of sick and didn’t want to go out because he was feeling like crap. However, you had a difficult time believing in what he said and sat down on his bed, brushing his hair out of his face. Piers sort of stared down at his covered knees, paying no attention to you fiddling with his hair. While you continued to move his hair away, you brushed a strand away from his shoulder. By doing so, you noticed something imprinted on Piers’s neck, sort of like a bruise. Leaning in closely, you narrowed your eyes to look at it more and confirmed that it was a bruised mark of a hand. Once again, you asked if Piers was really okay and gently stroked his cheek, taking notice of how cold it felt upon your warm fingers. Piers stiffens at your touch, as if feeling your warm fingers was foreign to him, despite you hugging and kissing him multiple times before. Just before Piers started to come up with a lazy answer, you moved your hand down to his blanket and pulled the covers down, only for it to reveal his arms which were covered with bandages, some old while others new. Staring with complete shock, you carefully inched your hand to grasp Piers’s wrist to examine it more closely. Piers didn’t say a word, already feeling a wave of guilt washing over him as he felt your gentle fingers trace over his cuts. You asked what had happened and Piers managed to swallow an incoming knot in his throat. He mumble a few words, some of which were hard to make out. You were, however, able to come to the unfortunate realization that these cuts weren’t caused by some accident on the pavement or from any petty fights with strangers.

You shifted around his bed, digging your hand underneath his pillow. Upon searching, your fingertips met with something cold and metallic. When pulling the object out, you were stunned to find out that it was a pocket knife, the blade barely closed and had a speck of blood staining the metal. Piers sort of looked away from you, his eyes kept downward and his hands once again buried beneath the covers. You closed the pocket knife completely and stuck it inside your pants back pocket. You couldn’t quite grasp why Piers kept the knife or why he’s been using it, but you could figure out that he’s been dealing with a lot since the incident with his crazy, drunken and drugged ex. There wasn’t much left to say afterwards. Both of you kept quiet and you gently pulled Piers towards you, having him lay on your chest while he tries to calm his shaking body. Having you piece together the scenario, you promised yourself to make regular check ins to see Piers everyday. And always made sure that there were no more cuts on his arms made.

Raihan (Trust Issues)

-For the most part, your relationship with Raihan was going smoothly. Ever since the incident with his controlling ex, that experience has led you two into becoming closer than ever. And because of that negative experience involving his ex, Raihan has swore off dating apps and cautions against using them to anyone whose looking for a date. You really found yourself being proud of Raihan for sticking to his advice, because normally he would very seldom follow it. You often made sure that he’s doing okay though, because despite shaking that awful experience away, you felt obligated to see if the selfie king was handling himself better. On most days when you two are together, Raihan wouldn’t pick up his Rotom phone and immediately take selfies. No, no; he would spend time talking to you, cuddling you, just in general spending time with you because he enjoys your company. He hasn’t opened up to anyone about his previous relationship since he doesn’t like drama and he didn’t feel like it would be a good time bringing it up.

It felt as though it wasn’t something that needed to be addressed publicly to his friends or to the people who follow him on social media. It has made him a lot more reserved, to say the least? Still, if Raihan ever felt the need to talk about his past abuse, then you were his go to person. You always lended an ear and often would be the person to calm his nerves with a cup of tea or something sweet to eat. You always wondered to yourself why Raihan doesn’t talk to a therapist about this, but you didn’t want to be rude and allowed Raihan to spill the details about his previous relationship. You were, by no means, a certified therapist and you didn’t know what advice to offer Raihan. All you could do was sit and listen and occasionally ask a question, if necessary.

Still, you knew that this couldn’t keep going and that Raihan has to talk to a trusted therapist sometime, because you didn’t know how to handle these kinds of situations. So, you sat him down one day and told him directly that he needs to set up an appointment with a therapist because seeing a therapist would be a far greater help. Raihan, at first, sort of blinks and then laughs a bit, as if you told a joke. However, once he realizes that you’re serious, he stops laughing and becomes dead silent. You can see how the color in his cheeks diminish slightly and his body language becomes stiff. You asked if he was okay and Raihan replies that he doesn’t want to see a therapist, at least not right now. However, you told him that this kind of conversation involving his ex was starting to get concerning and you added that seeing a therapist can help address the issues and what needs to be done. Raihan will start making excuses, saying that he doesn’t have time to visit one (which was BS, considering that he spends most, if not all of his time, with you) or that talking to you helps him decompress those kinds of thoughts all the time. You raise an eyebrow, doubting this.

You understood what Raihan was feeling though. A person meeting with a therapist for the first time might feel apprehensive, maybe even dismiss the thought of meeting with one. However, the benefits of meeting with a therapist can result in getting treatment or possible ways to overcome any obstacles that might’ve occurred beforehand. Feelings of anxiety or doubtful are common and Raihan was no exception. Refusing professional help can cause further harm than one might assume, and that’s what you feared for Raihan if he doesn’t at least meet with one. At this point, Raihan becomes visibly upset and grasps both of your hands tightly, his palms trembling and sweating. He tells you that he doesn’t like to blab his deepest feelings towards strangers and doesn’t want to be seen as a weak person by admitting to those feelings. You lean in and press your forehead against his and reassure him that he’s not alone in thinking that way. That people can be hesitant in talking to strangers who happen to be licensed professionals who care about the mental wellbeing in others. Raihan tries calm himself before continuing. You cut him off by moving your hands away from his and cupping his face. You asked if it would make him feel better if you went with him to his first appointment. Upon hearing that, Raihan nodded and quickly hugged you. You told him that you would go with him for a couple of appointments, but will sit out for the rest of them. Raihan begrudgingly agreed and continued hugging you, not wanting to let go too soon.

Hop (Overprotectiveness)

-It’s been awhile since the two of you spent any time together. That said, after the Gym Challenge ended, you found yourself spending a lot of time with Hop lately and somehow after the incident involving his bullying ex, your relationship with Hop has taken off. Nowadays, both of you would spend a good amount of time either talking or playing video games whenever you came over. Usually, you wouldn’t offer up the invitation to hang out with Hop rather it is the opposite. Every now and then, your Rotom phone would blow up with texts coming from Hop, some of which asking if you want to hang out, if you wanted to talk, or if you wanted go somewhere. There were times where Hop would ask very little questions that seem to border on the lines of annoying, such as when you wake up tomorrow morning or what time you plan on going to bed. It got to a point where you would tell Hop to chill with the questions because it was giving you an headache, which Hop immediately backed off for awhile. On days of which the two of you would be out and about, Hop always walked a bit closer than usual. He would probably close the gap by holding your hand or, if he’s feeling a bit daring, wrap an arm around waist in a protective yet loving manner. You didn’t mind, but there would be points where Hop’s close contact has made you almost trip or stumble while walking.

Whenever you two would be out in public, you would find yourself getting noticed by a lot of people, because during your Gym Challenge, you miraculously defeated Leon in a intense match. Hop would start to get a bit tense and pull you closer to him, not wanting the media to kidnap you away from him. You sort of had to reassure him that everything is okay and that you’ll be right back, to which Hop would begin protesting by holding your hand tightly and refusing to let go. You would have to keep convincing him that you would return shortly and after a few minutes of going around the issue, Hop would relinquish his grip albeit hesitantly. This happens so much that you would have to let Hop know ahead of time of what was going on and keep promising him that you’ll get back to him quick. However, this proved difficult for one occasion. While in Wedgehurst, you and Hop were just walking through town when someone spots you a few feet away. It’s clear that they are a fan and wanted to say hi to you. Upon seeing this, Hop linked his arm tightly around yours and began to steer you away from the fans line of sight. You started to ask why Hop did that, to which Hop replied with that he didn’t want anyone interrupting their day. You told him that the person only wanted to say hi, yet Hop stubbornly ignored this and continued leading you away from the group of fans. Feeling irritated, you pulled your arm away and gave Hop a look that was a mix of irritation and slight anger. You snapped at Hop to stop being overly protective and that if he didn’t want them to meet with fans, then they shouldn’t be spending the day together.

Hop would start to come up with some lazy excuses, despite his voice beginning to shake and his movements starting to cause him to lose it. Instead of listening, you turned around and headed back to do a quick meet and greet, leaving Hop for about five to ten minutes. After meeting with fans, you sort of wandering around by yourself, not wanting to meet back up with Hop since you hadn’t quite simmered down just yet. You decided to pull out your Rotom phone and was shocked to see so many texts coming from Hop. There was nearly twenty-five texts at least and you read them all entirely. Some of the messages ranged from short to the last one being lengthy, describing your departure from him as ‘upsetting’ and ‘frightening’. You sort of mulled over those words in your mind and decided to search for Hop before it gets to be late. Searching around Wedgehurst, you couldn’t find Hop anywhere, even asking Sonia if she has seen Hop lately, only to be told no. 

This worries you greatly and you thought that maybe Hop went back home or something. Thinking this, you made your way to his house and came to a surprise when you saw Hop sitting at your doorstep, his knees pulled close to his chest and his head face down into his arms. Coming closer, you nudged him gently and Hop looked up, startled. You could see a wave of relief wash upon Hop’s face and you noticed that his eyes were slightly red, which meant that he has been crying. You sat next to him and leaned your head onto his shoulder and apologized for leaving him like that. Hop choked out that it was fine and that he probably deserved it anyway, going on to tell you that he felt tense during the moment. You gave Hop a kiss on the cheek and told him that you’ll always be there for him and that you would never leave him like that again. Hop tries to be understanding towards your words, but there’s always a part of himself that doubts this and can’t help think of the opposite, no matter how many time you reassure him. Still, Hop promises to retain more self control and distance, but he will always stay close but not too close.

Leon (Panic Attacks)

-About a couple of months after the incident involving Leon’s abuse, you found yourself taking care of the ex-Champion by helping him rehabilitate. This didn’t bother you at all, because you really found yourself enjoying Leon’s company. Leon himself found himself feeling the same way and often times stay close to your side, not wanting to miss a single minute of being around you. On most days, the two of you would spend hours either going around town to shop for supper or just take a casual stroll and just talk until it gets to be late in the day. You really found yourself getting to know Leon more and more, as well as being trusted with sensitive information about the abuse that Leon had to endure from his ex. During the evening, Leon would sleep next to you, finding comfort in your soothing aura and cuddling close to you, his arms wrapped around your body as if your were fluffy Wooloo. You didn’t mind, of course. Sometimes, though, you did worry about Leon and how he has been handling himself in case if you were to leave on your own. That hasn’t happened yet, but you would try to bring that topic into discussion and ask if Leon will be okay if you were to step out for a few minutes by yourself. Leon would respond by saying that he can take care of himself fine and that you shouldn’t worry. It was a sincere answer, but that didn’t prevent you from having doubts. So, you decided to see if what Leon said to you was true. 

During a normal afternoon, you told Leon that you were going out to get a few errands done. He reacted casually and didn’t do anything else except nod. He said little, which you hoped wasn’t a negative thing. As soon as you left, you hurried away and started to make your errands. For the first few hours, nothing happened. Your phone was kept on silent most of the time and weren’t any issues that would fill you with worry. By the time you finished up your errand trip, you decided to call it a day and head back home. When you started walking back, you felt your phone vibrate and you checked to see who it is. Apparently, your phone revealed about ten to fifteen messages, all coming from Leon. You stopped walking and took the time to read each one, each message displaying some form of distress. You turned off your phone and sprinted back home, worrying all the way for Leon’s safety. Upon returning, you nearly busted yourself in and immediately dropped your bag at the threshold, calling out Leon’s name as you did. There wasn’t an answer, which made you concerned. Searching around the house, you saw your Wooloo huddled by your bedroom door, looking slightly shaken. When Wooloo saw you, it quickly headed toward you, their cries sounding nervous. You picked up Wooloo and opened your bedroom door and saw that your bed didn’t have any blankets on the mattress.

Confused, you walked closely and went around the bed, only to see Leon huddled on the floor, the blanket covering him tightly. You crouched down and pushed the blanket down away from Leon’s face. You noticed how stiff his body is and could hear him breathing rapidly. He laid there, curled up in a ball, his eyes shut and tears rolling down his cheeks slowly. Gently, you placed Wooloo down and grabbed hold on to Leon’s shoulder, pulling him up slowly. By feeling your touch, Leon opened his eyes and saw you in front of him and quickly hugged you, much to your surprise. You then ask Leon what happened, to which he replied that he worried too much and ended up almost passing out. You didn’t think that he merely passed out, but not wanting to talk about this further, you helped Leon get on to the bed, where he starts to calm himself down. You brushed his bangs away from his face, noticed that his forehead was a bit damp with sweat. As you continued to help Leon calm down, you felt Leon grab hold of your arm gently and asked if you got any of his texts lately. You said that you have and apologized for not replying to them sooner, that you were too busy running errands to check your phone. Again, you asked if Leon was really okay and sat beside him. Leon didn’t say anything, but deep down you knew that Leon didn’t want to say anything. Whatever happened was something that you wanted to make sure never occurred again, but still, it concerns you with what might happen if you went on another errand run, leaving Leon by himself in an empty house.

Part 1 of 2: https://pikachu78109.tumblr.com/post/189423756441/idk-i-feel-like-writing-something-dramatic-or

[lady-divine-writes]

12 Days of Blasphemy - Golden Rings (NC17)

Summary: Crowley has multiple ways of dealing with his anxiety. His mail suit of golden rings, forged over time, that turns him from his demon self into a golden statue, an object of his Master's pleasure, is one of those. (1096 words)

Notes: Written for the '12 Days of Blasphemy' prompt 'golden rings'. NSFW. Dom Aziraphale, sub Crowley. Warning for objectification and anxiety.

Read on AO3.

“Chains have been traditionally used to defeat demons, you know,” Aziraphale quips, holding open the waist of Crowley’s rather unique mail suit so the demon can comfortably step in.

“Bringing up old lovers again?” Crowley teases. “Because under the circumstances, now may not be the best time.”

“Hush, you. You know full well that you’re the only demon I have ever considered sullying the temple of my celestial body with.”

“And I feel honored.” Crowley glances down the length of his body, appraising the fit. “Do you think the angels playing guard dog down in the bottomless pit are doing anything close to this?”

Aziraphale shakes his head with what could be seen as hypocritical disapproval at the thought as Crowley steps into the other leg. The soles of his feet meet hard, unyielding metal, resting atop an even more hard and unyielding stone floor. “Had you asked me that a few months ago, I would have said definitively not. But now, seeing what we’ve seen of angels …” He says the word with mild disgust “… I can’t give you anything close to an answer on that.”

Aziraphale tugs the trousers up Crowley’s legs to his waist, then holds them as Crowley settles down into his throne. Aziraphale straightens the suit as Crowley sits in it, smoothing the “fabric” against his bare skin. Then he helps him with the hauberk of it, lowering it carefully over his head and fitting his arms through the sleeves. The gloves come next, and then the hood. A snap of Aziraphale’s fingers seal the edges together until separate entities become a single seamless outfit, covering Crowley from head to toe, with one exception.

That exception becomes stiffer, brick red and flushed, bobbing with anticipation as Aziraphale looms, hands on hips, to watch it grow. He steps back, chuckles fondly at a sight that brings him back all the way to The Kingdom of Wessex.

“Wot?” Crowley asks.

“You are, my dear, as the kids say, extra.”

Crowley smirks, slitted eyes glowing beneath the lip of his mail hood. “Give me some credit, angel. I was extra long before being extra was even a thing.”

Aziraphale smiles at his snarky demon – the bristly, abrasive, and yet distinctly fragile love of his existence. “That you were. That you were.”

The suit Crowley wears is made of hundreds of interlocking golden rings - a creation cobbled together over time, centuries in the making. He’d collected the rings himself one by one, trophies of the temptations he’d been the most proud of: priests, politicians, police officers, teachers - people the public trusted, in positions of power, which made their brand of Evil all the more detestable. He hadn’t gone and turned fine, upstanding citizens rotten. He’d found humans who were already corrupt at heart. He simply robbed them of their safeguards, their sense of self-preservation. Then he gave them a little push, engineered their downfalls in a way to ensure they wouldn’t get away with their dastardly deeds.

Once he had the rings, he’d had the bright idea to make a hauberk out of them.

And he did.

But once that was completed, he couldn’t be stopped.

He had so many rings – some plain bands, some ridiculously ornate – he had to do something with them. He couldn’t get rid of them.

Not these.

Evil clings to greed and humans are too easily swayed. Normally that wouldn’t concern him to the point of protecting humans from it. They’ll do what they’ll do regardless.

Time has taught him that.

It just felt wrong setting them up to fail in this particular way.

It felt too familiar.

For Aziraphale’s purposes, this suit is an unexpected blessing. When Crowley first requested Aziraphale tie him down, Aziraphale was intimidated by the thought. He learned how, of course, but weighing Crowley down works so much better. Less of a chance of Aziraphale getting caught up in the line himself … which, regrettably, has happened once or twice.

Or three times.

The links of Crowley’s suit make the demon easy to move and manipulate.

To subdue.

But it also comes with an interesting side-effect.

It keeps Crowley calm.

The weight of it pressing in on him, grounding him, keeps his mind from wandering.

And Crowley needs calming today, having run into Hastur and Gabriel while walking the streets of Soho, within an hour of one another.

They didn’t seem to notice him. They definitely didn’t stop to make polite conversation. By all outward appearances, they had no business with him. When he returned to Aziraphale’s bookshop, he was fine.

But then he wasn’t.

At first, he had difficulty explaining to his angel what had happened that sent him rushing into the back room and straight into a bottle of brandy. The encounter had swiped his words away.

But Aziraphale knew what Crowley needed.

He needed to stop existing as himself for a while.

And Aziraphale, slightly shaken himself knowing there’d been an Archangel and a Duke of Hell in Soho, for however brief a time, was more than happy to oblige.

Once Aziraphale pulls the hood over Crowley’s face and seals it shut, he’ll be Crowley no more. He’ll become an object, an idol - a golden statue commemorating the Serpent of Eden.

A place holder for Aziraphale’s favorite stress relief, which he’ll get to use and torment for as long as he sees fit.

“You’re sure this is what you want?” Aziraphale asks a third time to be sure.

“Yes, Sir,” Crowley answers, the addition of the Sir proof that he’s made up his mind.

“Me, too. Now, once I put this hood over your head, we’ll begin. If you want me to stop …”

“I know what to do.”

Aziraphale nods. “All right. Here we go.”

“Angel?”

“Yes?”

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale, one last time while he still has permission to do so. “May I have a kiss?”

Aziraphale smiles softly. “Of course, you may.” The angel bends over, leans close, and presses his lips against Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale kisses Crowley tenderly, reassuringly, and Crowley kisses him back.

When Crowley’s kisses stop, Aziraphale pulls away.

Crowley’s eye are closed.

Aziraphale kisses him again but he no longer responds.

That’s Aziraphale’s cue.

Aziraphale lowers the hood. It falls against Crowley’s face, the outline of his brow and nose and lips visible, but nothing beyond that, no detail to separate him from any other human male shaped thing.

With a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers, the hood connects to the rest of the suit at the neck.

And Crowley disappears.

[wackygoofball]

Moodboard: Jaime x Brienne - The Host AU

Jaime knows his days are counted when he is brought into one of those white-tiled rooms at the enemy’s HQ.

The Souls be damned.

At least the others escaped, he saw to that when the Souls stopped them on a mission. Tyrion and Davos will have taken Arya, Pod and the rest back to the hideout by now, so at the very least the rebellion can continue without him.

While not surprised, Jaime is still less than pleased to meet Stannis Baratheon, one of those bastards who decided to side with this alien race that invaded Planetos and takes over people’s bodies as they please to assume leadership over the world as they know it. Stannis let a Soul willingly take over, a Soul known as Melisandre, or as the rebellion calls her, “the boss bitch”. While Melisandre leaves him more or less in control over his actions, Stannis is just like them, and that means to Jaime that he has to go like every other bloody Soul.

Though sadly, that will soon include himself, as Stannis informs him. They will make him a Host as well. Jaime fights against the procedure as best as he can – because sure as hell will he go down fighting – but as he finds the Soul they brought in manifest itself inside him, he suddenly hears a none too kindly voice cursing him to stop the folly.

Listen. If you let me in, I will get you out of here, the voice tells him. But of course, Jaime doesn’t buy into that cheap kind of trick.

Because that’s some bullshit, lady.

You must understand this one thing: They will have a Soul inhabit your body no matter what you do. The only choice you can currently make is to let me in or wait for someone who does not ask first. I understand that you have no reason to trust me. And I don’t ask you to. I am asking for a truce.

How would I have a truce with some alien I don’t even know?

The name is Brienne and I am trying to help you – but all of that will be over soon if you don’t do anything. You can’t withstand much longer.

I am strong enough.

Right now you are not. I can ensure that you will remain conscious, just inside your own head, but I have to take over or they will realize the ruse. That’s all I have to offer, but I can promise you that I will bring you back home, even if it kills me.

Well, funny enough that will kill me as well, so I don’t fancy that alternative much.

Jaime, well aware that he is out of alternatives, lets “Brienne” take control, which puts him into the “backseat” of his own mind while Brienne calls the shots, telling a very pleased Melisandre and Stannis that she completed the mission and awaits new instructions.

“I am glad to see that you finally prove to be the god soldier you are supposed to be, Brienne, one who knows her place.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Though actually, not so much. Brienne stands true to her word and flees from the HQ the first opportunity she gets. And contrary to what Jaime feared, his mind remains alive, as Brienne did not seek full control over his mind and body, even though he will make sure to use any opportunity to be an ass about it.

And so, the long walk back home begins. In the middle of the Dornish desert, the rebellion built an underground haven to live and plan future strikes against the Souls taking over.

Though I still don’t understand why you are helping us.

Haven’t you heard? I am more of a rebel myself.

How comes?

Disagreements with the management.

Just that? Really?

I wasn’t the only one. We rebelled against Melisandre. She betrayed all ideals us Wanderers used to stand for.

Wanderers?

That was what we were before she made us nothing but Souls. We wandered across galaxies and tried to save life as we knew it.

By playing puppet master with people?

By learning what it takes to be human.

Jaime cautions Brienne that she won’t have an easy welcome, granted that they even make it to the desert without being caught – or nature killing them before they reach the hideout. He tells her that they have better chances by not telling the rest of the team that he is still in there but instead inform them that she took a hold of his body and that his consciousness supposedly faded in the process but that she wants to join their side and help them take down the HQ. As things currently stand, Jaime can’t take possession of his own body again, and until he can – which is a big what if – they’d do best not to upset the others any more than they will be anyway.

After all, Souls are not to be trusted.

On the verge of dehydration, the two reach the hideout. Though there is, as expected, no warm welcome, even less so when Arya decides to knock them in the back of the head when she catches the silver circle in Jaime’s eyes, which is a sure sign that a Soul took possession of a Host. Davos tells her to leave him and bring him to the hideout instead. As expected, Brienne is the hideout’s most wanted, and not in a good way.

Arya is perhaps most against them. As Jaime explains to Brienne, the reason why she has even more misgiving for the Souls than most others is that they killed nearly all of her family, safe for her “stupid sister” who joined Stannis for all they know.

As the two try to make a plan for how to go about their new situation, Brienne makes a point that they won’t ever trust her intentions to actually start a revolution amongst her own kind if she doesn’t do anything to prove her loyalty to their cause. Jaime is at a loss, but Brienne eventually comes to the conclusion that Sansa may be the key. She saw Sansa at the HQ and hopes that maybe they can convince her to come back with them. She may have important intel and it would help them to get Arya onboard.

Maybe.

You don’t know how to inspire confidence, you know?

I am just not fond of lying.

Which explains why you are so piss-poor at it.

While the mission proves more than dangerous, they eventually succeed in bringing Sansa Stark back home. And along the way, the two have to realize that they fight much better together than apart, even though it demands of Jaime to adapt his ways of fighting and support rather than lead.

Arya actually starts to trust Brienne thereafter, if cautiously so, even though things are tensed between the sisters even after the reunion. And while those two work through their issues, Jaime demands some hard truths from Brienne at last, as she tends to evade questions about who she truly is and what this is all about. In the end, Brienne has to give in.

We were very much like you. A humanoid race from a faraway planet, trying its best to live our lives.

Wait, you had an actual body before? You weren’t always those white, glowing parasites?!

While I tend to disagree with the description, yes, we weren’t always like that.

Then why did you all decide it was time for a makeover?

Not all of us took on this shape. We were selected few. The Wanderer Program was founded to save our world from extinction. Fewer and fewer children were born in every generation until we reached the breaking point. Our race grew sterile, if you will. And life as we knew it was on the verge of destruction. The Wanderers were meant to travel to faraway galaxies and find species like us, analyze their physiologies and social interactions and find out how they manage to battle global sterility. For such travel, we had to give up our bodies. They couldn’t possibly survive such a long trip across worlds. We wanted to find life again. Or so we thought… because some of us had a different idea. They wanted power. They wanted to exploit life. And they realized that the Wanderer Program, which succeeded to alter DNA in such a way that the soul could transcend the body, were the means of gaining control.

Power is a bitch.

I believed in the program, in what we did. Until I saw what they did to Renly.

Renly Baratheon?

Yes, he was my Host before we two… teamed up involuntarily.

To put it mildly. What of Renly, then?

He was no part of the rebellion, you may know. Yet, he was against Stannis and his practices. Through Renly, I learned more and more about what was behind the program I once joined in an effort to preserve life, not destroy it. Other Souls of the program formed a group, but one of them reported us… and as a result, the Hosts were all brutally murdered while we were still connected.

So you… witnessed Renly’s death as your own.

Yes. He died because of me. And after that, they put me in detention, telling me that I’d only ever get out if I learned my place. Until the day I met you. And that changed everything.

So what’s the goal for you now? Once we take on the HQ? What’s the next step?

Go back home and fix our problems. Pick up with where we left off with our mission. I found such goodness in people. I saw human compassion, friendship, love. And that is what I’d want to take home, even if I failed to find a solution to my race’s plight.

You are definitely the strangest Soul I ever met.

And you are the strangest Host I ever met.

Perhaps a truce is possible after all.

Only time will show.

And while Jaime and Brienne continue to bond, crisis is underway when Brienne learns of Tyrion’s “experiments” to separate Host and Soul, killing both in the process. Brienne is absolutely mortified, as Jaime knew about this, but didn’t ever tell her.

Though they soon have to leave that aside as well as the rebellion’s next strike is moving forward fast. Along the way, they learn some shocking news that may transform the very nature of their mission to a full-fledged rescue mission of a kind no one ever thought would happen as Souls have to fight for Hosts and Hosts for Souls.

Brienne and Tyrion form a fragile peace, though she leaves Tyrion with a baffling message before she heads out:

“I can help you complete your research, but only to my conditions. Once it’s all done.”

Though only time will show if she can reveal that information to him and if, indeed, the soul can transcend the body.

Or rather, if love can.

[fuwafuwamedb]

Dodging Death Pt 6 (Hakuno, Caster Gilgamesh)

Previously: 1 2 3 4 5

____

Ah, of course.

Magic retainer to lover.

Hakuno stared at the man a moment before she averted her gaze to her drink.

There was nothing to fear here. No, there was a more obvious explanation, one that would explain why Cu hadn’t fully listened and why she wasn’t really reacting strong enough to someone suddenly appearing where her cat had just been standing: she was drunk.

It wasn’t a big deal.

Whatever bottle she’d been partaking in, even though it was such a small amount, was no longer going to be drank in her home. In fact, she was going to go completely and one hundred person sober from here on out. She’d eat right, no more sweets-

…Okay, like one dessert a week.

She’d have one dessert a week instead of indulging in the daily sweets. She’d exercise and train from here on out. She knew Emiya was doing archery with Sakura. Rin did boxing a bit and sojutsu with Cu Chulainn. She could do one of those things. Or maybe she could become a boxer. She could get some serious arm muscle and start really working out.

That’d be cool.

Yeah, she’d learn to box.

“Hakuno…”

The point was, she was going to be a better person. She’d finally lost it. She had imagined her cat transforming into an obnoxiously attractive guy. She was no doubt panicking because, on some level, she’d had unprotected sex with a guy who-

“Shit,” Hakuno breathed.

The man stared at her.

“…How many women do you sleep with?”

If there was a man in her house, which her hand on his chest said there was, then she had slept with someone and not somehow bruised and bit herself. That meant she’d had sex with someone with no regard for consequences.

The man’s jaw dropped, his coughing and pulling back making her feel no better than before.

“Woman, I am not explaining this to you-“

“Are you tested?”

He just stared as though she’d asked something entirely ridiculous.

“Are you tested for diseases? It’s a simple yes or no question.”

“Hakuno, there’s no testing for diseases. One asks their gods to ensure that they are not struck down by illness.”

She cursed, climbing out from under him and onto her feet.

Great. So she’d slept with a guy who didn’t know the first thing about diseases and she’d had that great sex without any regard towards her own wellbeing.

“I could be pregnant with our luck.”

Another big absolute no in her mind. They weren’t doing that. She had classes to attend. She had friends to make and friends to fight with. If someone was going to date her, it would be after they became friends and became close. Emiya had been as close to acceptable as someone had ever become. Since he was a big no, there was no one else.

So, tomorrow morning she’d go and visit the doctor. It was a Saturday. There’d be a few hours at the doctor’s office that she could sneak in during to get a complete workup. She’d ask for some medicine to help prevent this panic from happening again and-

The man’s hand took hers, the blond nearby holding it as though he’d just grasped the most fragile piece of glass in the world.

“…I was not aware that your fertility was so great…”

She shook her head.

“I’m sure I’m probably not,” she told him, pulling her hand away.

They were tabling this conversation. Yes, they weren’t going to be considering that kind of thing when there were bigger problems.

“What’s your name?”

A name would let her know who to look up the next time he came whisking into her home and then scurrying out with the sun. If he was real. She was quite determined to keep that idea far, far from close to mind.

The man nodded, clearing his throat a bit.

“I suppose that this is all quite sudden for you. I hadn’t considered, since you had taken most everything so well, that you would become a bit concerned about a proper introduction. Since I am technically courting you and intend to claim you for myself, it is only just.”

It was only just. The man helped her to sit beside him on the couch and smirked, pressing a hand to his chest.

“I am Gilgamesh, Mage King and son of the god Utu’s child Lugalbanda and the goddess, Ninsun. I rule over the kingdom of Uruk, a kingdom of great prowess and insight. We are the luminaries of the world, the keepers of the great knowledge of the ancients. I defeated the great bull of heaven. I slaughtered the great monster of the Cedar Forest, Humbaba. I partook in the bounty of Uruk’s splendor and rose the kingdom to immense heights to such a level that the gods themselves weep in envy.”

Arrogant.

He was Gilgamesh and he was extremely, unerringly arrogant.

He’s worse than his story.

Hakuno stared at him for a moment, watching him turn that gaze to hers once more as he rattled off his accomplishments. He leaned in closer, that fine face just mere centimeters away from her own.

“I’m Hakuno Kishinami. Student. Librarian. Ancient Studies amateur researcher in the making.”

“Researcher… like on the television?”

Like on…

Hakuno shook her head, “Those researchers are for solving crimes. The only crimes I solve are in artifacts and ancient times. Like- What kind of meaning comes from these old texts,” she motioned at the epic.

“Hakuno.” The man snorted, covering the smirk on his face that said she’d said something incredibly stupid. “If I had my court here, I would forever record the absurdity of your words. Despite your metal horses and your finer technology, I’m afraid you must get your head out of your books and realize that Uruk is just a mere ride or so away from here.”

“The remains of it, maybe.”

She wasn’t dumb. She knew that the remains were out there. They’d made it a historical site and one in need of preservation but-

The man leaned in closer, his frown etching deep lines upon his face.

“Excuse me?”

“Uruk. Its remains exist.”

“What are you talking about? I came from there a mere month or two ago.”

No, she’d plucked her cat off the street a mere two months ago.

“Hakuno,” Gilgamesh moved closer yet. “Uruk cannot be destroyed so easily in two months’ time.”

“This isn’t funny. You can stop this and just tell me your real name.”

The man glared at her.

“Uruk’s been gone for centuries. Millenia. It’s… Hold on.”

She grabbed her laptop, against her better judgement, and turned it on. While it was booting up, she went for her drink, but the man downed it on her, setting her glass down harder than it needed to be set down.

She pulled up a selection of images, opting for the visuals since words probably wouldn’t mean much.

The man simply stared at it.

“…What is this?”

“Uruk.”

“My Uruk has the center ziggurat. There are channels running through the districts to ensure flowing trafficking of goods from one area to another. I have districts with smithies and breweries…”

“You may have had that at one time.”

But he didn’t have that now.

The man pulled the computer into his hands, looking at the keyboard and the mousepad in a strange manner. His fingers pressed to the screen, jumping a little at the fact that she had a touch screen.

“It’s ah… Let me show you,” Hakuno offered.

The man was either a brilliant actor or insane.

As she navigated the sights, showing him the images on the screen, she found him pulling her into his arms. Anything they’d discussed before was permanently tabled. His eyes were running over the images. His face was paling to the color of bleached sheets. Those red eyes were looking at the words, his voice barely getting out the question of what everything said.

“Uruk fell.”

He felt so still.

Hakuno glanced up at him as she read through the downfall of the kingdom. She could feel those fingers digging into her person as she described what she read.

“You should know some of this. There’s a large excerpt on the death of the advisor, Siduri and about the blasphemous clay being, Enk-“

“Don’t.”

Hakuno felt him reach in front of her, closing the laptop and setting it on the floor. His arms pulled her closer to him.

“Don’t speak of this right now. You are a maiden and you allowed me the comforts of your body before. I simply need the feeling of your person against my own. I require your silence and your arms holding me right now.”

That face nuzzled her own. The man holding her shivered and nuzzled her, pulling blankets over their bodies and murmuring softly to her.

“It is always so damn cold in your home.”

“I can’t afford…” Her words stopped at the sight of the king’s eyes closed. There was a wetness that hit her face underneath his.

He’s…

The man could have done anything.

Rage, threaten, scream, grow violent, try to come onto her; all of those things would have had simple answers of calling the police and sending him out of her home. She would have had a drink, called up Rani, complained about the asshole that had come into her home, and gone on with her life. It would have confirmed that the man was insane.

Seeing someone who’d just proudly declared that he pretty much could rule a kingdom and defeat the biggest of enemies begin to look like this…

Hakuno wiped at his face, murmuring for him to release her a moment.

She cranked up the temperature in the house, grabbing the blankets from the bed and bringing them to the living room. She pulled the coffee table closer and, after making a pot of coffee, she wrapped herself under the blankets with the king.

“What is this?”

“Coffee.”

“You enjoy your coffees,” he murmured.

There was nothing not to enjoy about her coffees. She sipped at them, grateful for pouring an ungodly amount of sugar into her drink. The man at her side sipped at his black version of the drink, humming appreciatively.

She set the television to one of those music stations, where it would just play soft music and let them see something just visually pleasing. Her body ended up atop his, nestled into his arms.

“I should find you clothes,” she murmured.

“I have no need for such things right now,” the man murmured to her, burying his face into the crook of her neck. “I have dreamed about holding you for days. Allow me my indulgences.”

“You are not my cat,” Hakuno argued.

“I have seen your naked body more times than I can count on these hands, Hakuno,” the man replied, smirking into her skin. “I know every curve, every dip and inch… I’ve nuzzled this chest you have so many times when I wished to rest.”

The man purred like a cat as he said that last bit.

“Had I possessed you in my time, I would have surely been harassed less about the task of seeking rest. I would have come to my bed far more easily.”

“Mhmm.”

“I know that you don’t like if there’s too much pressure on your chest,” he continued. “You are especially weak to someone moving anything light against your belly and chest though.”

As though to prove his point, he stroked at her stomach lightly, watching her squirm and nearly knock their drinks out of hand.

The mugs were abandoned.

The king pulled her deeper into his arms, kissing lightly at the top of her head.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to argue about his being a cat part of the time. He didn’t seem all that eager to bring it up either. Without that, they were left in a moment of silence, listening to the soft music playing in the background. His hand not holding her close began to brush back her hair gently.

Those lips of his pressed lightly to her forehead, then to the top of her head.

“I found my way here,” he murmured, taking his time to move those hands of his to her back. The man was working miracles on her back, making her sink into his embrace. “I will simply need to recall the magic I used before when we resolve this transformation problem of mine and we can return to my time. We’ll save Uruk.”

“You will,” she corrected, yawning lightly.

“We. Will.” The man tilted her chin up, pausing from his ministrations to look her in the eye. “I cannot promise you that your life will be simple. I cannot promise you that I will senselessly spoil you until you can want for nothing. I learned from a young age that such things cannot satisfy a person.”

That hand stroked her cheek softly.

“What I can promise you,” he continued, “is that there will never be a moment in your life where you are without option. I can promise you the joy that you showed to me upon having your magic freed. I will spend all the time that you wish teaching you how to use that power of yours. I will show you what the ancients, what your ancestors in particular, took great pleasure in while you were forced to live as a mongrel amongst mongrels.”

“You have a kingdom to look after,” Hakuno countered.

“I do.”

“I don’t need to know how to use my magic.” Despite how fun it would be to know, she could always just take pleasure in the fact that she could be lazy about turning off light switches. “Just take care of your people.”

“We will,” he pushed again, pulling her up his person a bit, delving one of his hands into her hair and tilting her face towards his. “I have seen what you are capable of. Harnessing winds to dry my hair, changing the temperature of a space without magic knowledge, harnessing the world’s information into the device you used before; your qualities are endless.”

She had no idea what he was talking about, but it sounded nice when he said it. She leaned into that hand, finding him stroking his thumb across her cheek.

“I thank you for the coffee.”

“Coffee always helps. At least, for me it does.”

She fell asleep, deep enough that she didn’t register anything until the sun started to stream into the room. The body beneath hers began to shake, pulling out from under her and waking her up in time to see the shaking of a light golden coat and the soft mewl of her cat.

Gilgamesh was once more G.

“It was too good to be true that you’d stay human, huh?” Hakuno asked, yawning lightly.

The cool air hitting her chest made her look down.

“…Really, Gilgamesh?”

When had he taken her shirt off? Why had he taken her- But there was a bitemark on her chest, showing just off to the side of her aching chest. Shifting merely told her that she was going to be taking a shower to simmer down this morning.

“We’re having a talk about what can and can’t be done when I sleep,” she warned the pet, stalking passed him with her comforter wrapped around her person. “You can forget about any coffee privileges if you become human at all in the next week.”

She showered.

She dressed.

Taking an extra few minutes, Hakuno found herself looking in the mirror.

Other than a bit of fatigue and a couple bruises she’d need to tuck her turtleneck over, she didn’t look that bad. Perhaps magic helped…

Magician Hakuno.

Now if she could just magic some knowledge into her head.

Wait…

Can I?

Hakuno moved into the living room again, finding G swaying gently to the sound of the music on the television. Those eyes opened lazily, regarding her with mild interest as Hakuno sat down.

Wasn’t this always the dream: to simply press your head to a book and gain all the knowledge through an osmosis kind of thing? The book was filled with translations and grammar rules about Sumerian. If she managed it, then she could really talk to Gilgamesh. She’d never have to study again.

A light, inquisitive mewling came from nearby.

“Just a second, Gil.”

She had to check this out.

She pressed her head to the book lightly.

Memorize.

The rush came like the crack of a whip, like a surge of burning heat speeding through her veins. Words and sentences flashed through her mind’s eye. She could feel her mouth and her throat aching for some reason, like she’d been talking for hours and had groan hoarse. The more she tried to breathe, the more it all hurt.

She could hear G meowing nearby, but she couldn’t fully see what was going on. Opening her eyes just made the piercing migraine increase.

Her body grew dizzy.

The floor was coming up to meet her.

And the world grew black.

[hyperionswrath--archived]

@onepartbrave

Seifer… steadied him. Braced him the instant he went down so he avoided a mean collision with the floor in his inebriated state. Letting that fact sink in fully, it took Squall a moment to register that his comfort bottle had been stolen clean out of his grasp. Stunned briefly at the sheer audacity of the thief in obvious question, he blinked mutely at his own empty hand before swapping his gaze to Seifer’s one now claiming the glass. And then—and then!—the guy went on to chastise him about his drinking habits. So what if he had trouble knowing when to stop due to being an absolute lightweight? It wasn’t his fault his body was unaccustomed to the effects of alcohol due to constant Junctions and healing properties they gifted, thus garnered the same result every time he tried. It wasn’t his fault… so why he felt so thoroughly scolded and conceded to it, he’d never know.

What he did do as a direct result of Seifer’s actions was give the man his worst pout ever. Furrowed brows, downturned lips, looking all the sorry for himself; no feature was left unused.

What a spoil sport…

Deciding to not voice the fact that he rarely puked when intoxicated, Squall sunk down for a sulking session, pout continuing and arms coming to fold over his abdomen since he no longer had anything to hold. Hearing Seifer claim he had no choice except abandonment… yeah, he understood. Didn’t like the theory to its core, but he comprehended why. The period after the war was the most unsettling despite peace being on the horizon. Various figureheads called for the punishment of those involved—Seifer, G.Garden, even Rinoa due to her newfound powers—but he’d put a stop to it all. Popped that bubble before it formed and none could question his order as he was their ‘saviour’, or whatever. He always despised that term, like only he played a part in saving the world. Psh.

He wasn’t running now? Of course not, Squall would follow. Seifer wasn’t stupid, despite how many times Squall’d called him an idiot internally. Intelligent to a fault and he used that ability to terrorise other people, getting under their skin with ease. But not all… he had the power to question orders, see through fragile demands and make better suggestions of his own. It was how they succeeded in their first proper mission together, Seifer taking the lead.

Shaking away those thoughts with a feeble jerk of his head, Squall registered the next statement—question?—delivered. What did he want to ask? Too many things for one drunken night he may forget by morning. Responding with a negative swivel of his head, he tilted his head up from where it’d lolled a little while his mind was occupied with more distant memories. Reservation steeled about not prying further into the depths of Seifer’s mind, he granted the free pass and wished, sincerely, he’d never brought it up in the first place. It was the sole reason they were sitting in the street in the first place.

“…Y’say that like you’re gonna win,” he mused amicably, eyes resting on the pair opposite now and pleased to see they looked a little lighter. Less ‘drowning in my sorrows’. Taking the proffered bottle back, he merely set it on his lap while still being supported by his hand. Not desiring more murky depths when he was attempting to remain ‘problem free’, he broke the extended eye-contact he kept and glanced back to the pub they’d deserted. “…Hungry. ‘m gonna go back. Comin’?”

Leisurely, Squall started the attempt of returning to his feet. Legs feeling leaden, he dropped the bottle to the floor, uncaring about picking it up again, and utilised what he had around him to straighten up. Unfortunately, Seifer was the sturdiest support around and one unsteady hand clamped down on the man’s shoulder while his other scrambled up the wall while Squall rose to his feet. Tingling sensations ran along the length of his limbs, outward from his chest, and he grunted as he tilted sideways, and his shoulder collided with the wall when up. “Ow.”

Naturally, despite being unbalanced as hell and unreliable to stand on his own feet, he released the hold he had on Seifer’s shoulder and held a hand out to the man, offering to pull him to his feet.

Would someone ask him, Seifer had simply said steadying the guy was self-preservation. As if he wanted to take care of an injured and drunk Squall all at once. In truth, he noticed his head started to spin too, the mixture of rum and whiskey not being the best choice of all. Still, he was far from being as curtailed as the brunet who definitely had one up on him right now.

As became even clearer when the blond looked at Squall who pulled a face on him that had him internally curse for leaving behind his coat with his phone in it. No one would believe him when he told them the SeeD hat pulled that expression on him. Gaze lingering maybe a moment or two too long on the pouting lips, he chastised himself for old fancies bubbling to the surface again, shaking his head with another huff. "Don't do that."

Letting the silence which settled between them hang for a while, he made a  point of not looking at the sulking brunet again, instead lacing his fingers in his lap, realizing that the point of talking about their past had been lost to a much too quick consumption of rum on the other's behalf. Part of him felt relief at that, another part just wanted to get it over with it. Why drag out the inevitable? "We'll have to tackle those questions eventually," he murmured thoughtfully, tipping one shoulder in a shrug, signifying that right now, it didn't matter. Nothing much would come from this in Squall's current state. And frankly, he felt that he was on the verge of being too drunk for a meaningful conversation on that topic himself.

Looking up again now and meeting the gaze of stale-blue eyes, registering the dismissive wave of a hand, he granted his former rival a genuine smile because, frankly, it was probably for the best to let this whole topic slide for now. His smile turned into a smirk very close to his usual arrogance a moment later, one hand lifting so he could flick his wrist and pull one of his daggers from the amiger, deep blue swivels of light and magical energy accompanied by crystalline shards surrounding it. "Think I might, I have some new tricks." Of course he was going to brag about it. And of course his mind had already gone places better left unstirred. For example, the fact that the Kingsglaive could always use the prowess of Balamb's famed Lion.

When Squall made to get up again, he let the dagger vanish once more, about to push himself off the floor when the other man stumbled into him, hand seeking purchase on his shoulder (his bad one at that), making him grunt and, as seemed to be his newest hobby, reach for Squall to steady him. The problem with the whole ordeal being that his movements weren't as coordinated thanks to the influence, and the general stumbling around didn't help either so instead of bracing the brunet by grabbing his arms, he overreached and, due to being pushed back from the unexpected assault, was now looking for purchase himself, finding it with his hands on Squalls behind.

Mortified, he froze up, more than glad that the other had already found purchase on the wall behind them so he could let go - which he did hastily, only to palm his face with his hand, groaning. Much time couldn't be spent feeling utterly ashamed about what just happened as Squall was still scrambling about, despite leaning with his shoulder on the wall. The outstretched hand was regarded with a snort and a nod in the brunet's general direction. "You can' even stand yourself, let 'lone help me up." With that, he pushed off the ground and rolled to his feet, swaying considerably but steadying himself by stretching both arms out for a moment, one hand now groping for the offered hand for extra support. "Damn," he hummed, shaking his head quickly to rid himself of the dizzy feeling the movement had brought about. "Aight, let's get you 'nside." And with that, he pulled unceremoniously on Squall's hand, wanting to steady the considerably more drunk by putting one arm around him so he could lean on him. That way, they would hopefully be able to make their way safely inside and into the warmth again, where food and even more booze awaited.

[saccharii]

Todofam Month, Day 29: Touya

Closure, of a Sort

AO3 link

Todofam Masterpost

@todofammonth

Notes: This is based off of Through the silence of the fireflies by @elofrommars and And Never Again by pariahpirate (can’t @ them for some reason)

Warning: major character death, non-graphic depiction of a corpse

The Todoroki family assume Touya is dead. They’re wrong, then they’re right.

In late January a partially decomposed body washes up on the beach. 

The police come; they rope off the area; they take the body away. This happens more often than the city’s residents think.

The corpse is as pretty as any corpses are after being submerged in the water for almost a month, which is to say, it’s not.

Age and gender are not apparent at first glance, and the police send it to the morgue.

Male, the coroner says, early to mid twenties. In bad health. Large chunks of his skin on his arms, legs, face, and torso have sloughed off. Homicide. A clean penetrative wound to the heart, likely by a sharp implement.

Decades ago, the government made a registry of missing people, including identifying information. This is the only reason the body is identified.

According to the dental records, the body was once Todoroki Touya, eldest son of Endeavor. Fifteen years old at time of disappearance. Missing for nine years. Declared dead two years ago.

At least now they have a body to bury.

Natsuo stares down at his hands. He studies the creases, wrinkles, and scars, and tries not to think too much.

He’s a medical student. He’s seen cadavers—he’s touched them, seen them cut open—but they won’t let him see Touya’s body. They won’t let any of them see.

He knows it’s not the same. The cadavers he works with are fresh and well preserved. A dead body that’s been in the water that long—it’s unlikely he’d even recognize it as human. But a part of him wants to see his brother again, even if it’s just his empty shell.

Fuyumi didn’t look for him.

Well, she did. She looked for him the first year, but she didn’t look for him. She asked around and she went to his favorite places. She gave up. Far too easily she gave up.

When Fuyumi graduated high school, Touya was out there—and she didn’t look 

When Fuyumi went to university, Touya was out there—and she didn’t look.

She got her first job, she had her first boyfriend, and the whole time Touya was out there waiting for her to find him. 

He only died a month ago. When they signed the paperwork and held the funeral, Touya was still alive.

Now she moves around, her skin too tight. She forgets things. She forgets to eat, forgets to brush her hair. She gets halfway through her makeup and wanders off, only realizing when someone points it out. She stops her lessons mid-lecture. Her boss forces her to take medical leave.

She tries to kill every thought.

It leaks to the press, because of course it fucking does. Enji bats microphones out of his face and barks out “no comment.”

Society buzzes. How come there were no widespread searches for the then number two hero’s eldest child? The country didn’t even know he existed until he no longer did.

Enji’s agent is hysterical. She works overtime, and forbids him from talking to the press or giving an interview. It’s probably for the best. She sends out a press release blaming his anger and harshness on grief and guilt, and asks for understanding and privacy.

A homicide. Somebody stabbed his son in the heart and threw his body into the water. (Enji regrets that it took so long for him to think of Touya as his son and not his failure. But regret means nothing. It does nothing. Regret won’t fix any of this.)

He’s going to find whoever did this and destroy them.

(How is he supposed to make amends now?)

Her son is dead. Rei doesn’t know what to think. She mourned him long ago. 

All Shouto remembers of Touya is a head of red hair and a feeling of jealousy and longing. He remembers looking out into the courtyard watching his siblings play. He remembers a flicker of fire in his brother’s palm as he tried to comfort him.

He feels no grief. He feels only a distant bitter pang that he never knew his brother. He doesn’t even remember his face. He had blue eyes, right?

Shouto’s classmates flutter around him, asking him if he is okay. He’s not sure how to respond to them. He’s still learning how to interact with people his age, but he knows enough not to say “I never knew him enough to miss him.” 

It occurs to him that Touya was his age when he went missing. He can’t wrap his head around it. His future seems all set out for him; where will he be in nine years?

The funeral is surreal. Shouto gets to attend this time, as does Rei. They split the ceremony in half so both she and Enji can both pay respects without seeing each other.

The ceremony is different this time. The casket isn’t empty, but it’s kept closed all the same. 

Rei’s therapist says that she’s still too fragile for the bone picking ceremony, so it’s Natsuo, Fuyumi, Shouto, and Enji instead. (Natsuo has a lot to say about that, but he keeps quiet.)

They change the date on Touya’s grave.

They never find out what happened to him. It’s another kind of torture.

Hawks can’t go to the funeral, of course. There’s no reason for him to be there. It’s a private ceremony, anyway.

He knew, nebulously, that Dabi must have a family. A father and mother at the very least. People don’t spring out of nowhere.

Hawks watches the press harass the Todoroki siblings. He watches as they hunt down Todoroki Rei to her hospital. He watches as they speculate.

He can’t look Endeavor in the face. His throat closes up when he tries to speak to him. Endeavor doesn’t seem to notice

He wonders if the commission knew.

[westexhibitionmodule]

Tate Modern Visit

On Thursday the 30th January all the people from the course met up at Tate Modern to hand in our project proposals (for a different module)and choose the method of presenting our final work and after that we went our separate ways to look at artworks at Tate for some inspiration on different ways people exhibit their work. On the ground floor of Blavatnik building there was this exhibition room called 'Impermanence', the name caught my eye, as I was expecting to find something interesting, I was not disappointed: most of it was installation work which is very interesting to me as a third dimension comes into play.

Anya Gallaccio installation preserve ‘beauty’ 1991–2003 is made from about 2,000 red gerberas was truly astonishing. I am also interested in a concept of the decay and a process of dying, especially when it comes to beauty... Installation is a brilliant way to portray such idea, like no other way would, because decay of a real thing (gerbera) is part of the work, it very much plays with viewer's experience if I would have seen it a month ago, these flower would have looked different, metaphorically resembles me what it would be like to see a human being dying, or maybe life itself meaninglessly passing by..it connects the viewer to remember of mortality, so brilliantly large scale piece overwhelms the viewer and makes one face the ultimate fear of coming to an end. There is a lot there and it inspired me how direct is the relationship between the scale of the work and the message, I almost felt relieved submerged in it.

The other interesting one I found was Mirosław Bałka's sculpture of 473 used soap bars of different shapes and colours. Artist is thinking about the intimate relationship with human body and the soap, comparing this pieces of soap to the human skin cells shedding and being washed away. Thinking about impermanence just as in Gallaccio's work choice of presenting work through an installation plays a very important role in relation to time. These bars of soap have been taken out of their usual environment and in a way 'frozen' in time as they are not being used anymore as products, but at the same time, as everything deteriorates in time these bars of soap will too, just not as quickly as in their usual environment of use. Long stacked 'tower' must have been thought through as well, to me it seems to be related ti time again, in a way that we do not really see the quantity of disposable objects we use through time as we dispose them once one has finished we get a new one, this inspire the thought of in a way a collection of time in one appearance. I find Mirosław Bałka's subject matter fascinating, he looks back at overlooked everyday objects and find in them new meanings and expose rich histories they carry within them, I often come across art that is looking at the overlooked and when I think about it I get struck by the important reminder that things that we use everyday are perhaps the most important ones and are worth thinking about.

Ren-Shiki-Tai 1973 is an installation consisting of a series of wooden planks tied together with wire. Six cement blocks support the conjoined planks, which are configured in a shape with four roughly equal sides.Mono-ha (School of Things) was a pioneering art movement that emerged in Tokyo in the mid-1960s whose artists, instead of making traditional representational artworks, explored materials and their properties in reaction to what they saw as ruthless development and industrialisation in Japan

''The thing (mono) cannot exist as an isolated single body. Each singular piece is related and must rely on each other, then the reality of the thing appears. When the related objects are put in sequence, the value of each is realised. Cognitive ability recognises and specifies the thing. The sequentiality of each individual piece expresses the state between the things and also between the thing and cognition.''

(Kishio Suga, unpublished text, December 2008.)

Mono-ha studies materials and impermanence and decay of objects is very much a part of life of every existing thing. Kishio Suga's subject is quite complex, he explores how things relate to each other and how we perceive them things and the state between.Much of Suga’s early work no longer exists as it was site-specific, ephemeral and performative. Museum workers reassemble the work every time it is displayed following the artist's instructions. What caught my eye in this piece was the uneasy sense of fragility in how thin wire was holding these big blocks of concrete, almost a metaphorical sense of fragility of balance.

Rebecca Horn's room

Objects take on a life of their own in Rebecca Horn's work. Her films and sculptures turn familiar materials, gestures and settings into strange, emotionally charged scenes.In the late 60s Horn began to create wearable sculptures. She later used these 'body extensions' in staged actions performed  fore the camera. The isolation and restraint she felt while confined to bed due to illness inspired these works. She designed them to experiment with how the body moves, senses its surroundings and relates to other people.

Through this arch/door I went in, sat down on a small bench and watched Horn's video works. This was the most inspiring for me. This bunker looking round confined space was very suitable for the kind of videos she has produced: for intimate, captivating, slow experience for the viewer. It was important to have no distraction around the screening, I would describe it big enough as a cinema for 2 or 3 people as the screen was large and bench was small. Very appropriate way of displaying the work knowing the intent of the artist to get people to relate to how body moves and senses its surroundings.My favourite thing about Rebecca Horn's art is that sense of different kind of life, alternative way of being or doing things. Isolation could be a way to birth something that nobody has ever seen before if you just confront it and listen to yourself and your surroundings, all kinds of wonderful things emerge, you just have to listen, I really do believe that solitude can not only re-educate one's self, but produce something very real, more real then the reality we know and Rebecca Horn is a perfect example, I thoroughly enjoyed her work. These are couple of pieces I found on YouTube, sadly my favourite Two Little Fish Remember a Dance, 1974 – 1975  (the flow of air from a ventilator makes two goldfish suspended from metal bars dangle about on a hirsute male chest.) was not on YouTube :(

In ‘Touching the walls with both hands simultaneously’ Horn is seen wearing a pair of white gloves with elongated fingers (see Finger Gloves 1972, Tate T07845), extending her reach to the exact width of the room as she walks back and forth on its central axis. The sound of her gloves scratching the walls is amplified in the soundtrack. In ‘Blinking’, the artist shares the room with a white cockatoo and imitates its behaviour by covering one eye, winking and emitting loud sounds. The cockatoo, fairly indifferent to her, moves around the room and interacts with the mirror.

[singapore-movers]

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[angelqueen04]

Hamliza Month, Day 7

@megpeggs @historysalt

Book Prayer Summary: I take the children to church on Sunday...

I take the children to church on Sunday…

The boys follow along behind him in a quiet, orderly fashion, entering the churchyard all dressed in their Sunday best. Alexander does not meet the eyes of many of those still loitering outside the door, despite the deep December chill, instead leading his sons across the frozen ground toward the doors. Reaching out, he pulls the doors open, and steps back to allow the boys to enter ahead of him. Alex goes first, holding firmly onto his youngest brother’s hand, lest William’s high spirits induce him into making a spectacle of himself. James follows but a step or two after, with Johnny just behind him. Johnny, however, stops just inside the door, waiting for Alexander to follow him into the church.

The family is hardly their full complement today. Alexander had left both Angelica and little Eliza at home, the former being far too much out of sorts to attend services, and the younger being simply too young to sit still for so long.

And the last of their little troop… well, he is outside, buried beneath the cold, cold earth.

Before Alexander can follow Johnny to the family’s pew, he is stopped by the reverend. “General Hamilton,” the man greets him, his face the picture of compassion and kindness. “How are you and yours faring?”

Just a few short years ago, Alexander would have had to swallow the urge to reply sarcastically and ask how the other man thought they were doing. They had just buried Philip just a few weeks previous. It did not take a genius to understand that the family was a grieving wreck. Now, though, he feels no such inclination. Reverend Lavely is a good man, well liked among the parishioners – which, Alexander admits, is more can be said of the pompous Bishop Moore. Alexander’s own recent interactions with the man have done nothing to improve his opinion. He says none of this, however, but simply bows his head and replies, “As well as can be expected, sir. Mrs. Hamilton is on bed rest per the doctors’ orders.”

Reverend Lavely needs no other words to understand, thankfully. Instead he nods and says, “I will ask that the congregation remember her this morning, and please let her know that she is in all of our prayers.”

Alexander nods and thanks him quietly before moving to join the boys in the family pew. He sits down in the empty spot left for him with a tired sigh. Prayers will do Eliza much good, he hopes, even in her misery-laden state. His eyes go to the cross above the pulpit, but before another thought crosses his mind, Alexander is distracted by a small disturbance to his left.

“Willie,” Alex hisses at his younger brother, “sit still!”

He turns in time to see his youngest son still fidgeting in his seat. Knowing that this will likely continue to be a problem, Alexander beckons to William. “Come here, lambkin,” he says.

The child needs no further urging and jumps to his feet, all but climbing over Johnny and James in his haste. Alexander stifles a laugh as he notices Alex roll his eyes and sigh in exasperation. He pats his knee in invitation and Willie, delighted, clambers into his father’s lap.

Once the boy is comfortable, Alexander wraps his arms loosely about the boy and says, “We’re here to pray, young man, which means you must be still and quiet, so that the Lord can hear you. Can you do that, be still and quiet so that He may hear your prayers?”

Willie pouts for a moment, clearly disliking the ‘still’ part of his instructions, but then tilts his head, obviously considering something. “Can I play when we get home?”

It’s an understandable question. There hasn’t been much playing, or anything happy, going on at home in weeks. With Eliza needing quiet so that she can rest, all of the children have been forced to restrain themselves to more tranquil activities, a hard thing for a boy as young and energetic as William. The boy has a buildup of high spirits that need to be exercised.

Thankfully, Alexander has a ready answer. “You and Johnny will be spending the rest of the day with Aunt and Uncle Church, and your cousins,” he tells Willie. “I think they will be happy to play with you.”

It is a plan that Angelica had proposed on her visit just yesterday. Being the mother of several sons herself, she knew of their need to shout and play and be rambunctious. At her home, Willie – and Johnny too – could do so without disturbing their mother, or upsetting their fragile sister.

His looks about and his eyes land upon two familiar figures sitting just a few rows ahead, on the other side of the aisle. Angelica and Church must have arrived before them, since he had not spotted them when he and the boys had first arrived. He points toward them. “Look, there they are.”

Willie spots them and immediately starts wriggling, no doubt wanting to go and greet his aunt and uncle, but Alexander holds him in place, giving him a stern look. “Of course, if you cannot sit and attend to your prayers for your mama…” he trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

The boy, to his credit, catches on fast and he nods. There is no more squirming.

Nothing more is said, and soon enough Reverend Lavely begins the service. The man speaks very well, and Alexander allows his words to wash over him. His eyes fall upon the cross once more, and now that his thoughts are no longer upon securing Willie’s cooperation, they go elsewhere. Back home. Back to Eliza.

She has hardly said a word to him in weeks. Oh, she answers the doctors’ questions about her health, about the baby. She might engage in conversation with her sisters when they visit. She will even speak to the children when they slip into the room to see her. But whenever Alexander comes in, she will either pretend at sleep or, barring that, deliberately turn away.

In all truth, he is fairly certain that the last time Eliza deliberately spoke to him was that day, that terrible, horror-filled day.

Who did this?! Alexander, did you know?!

And there was also that scream, that grieving howl that he knows he will never, ever forget.

Her health had already been fragile even before the loss of Philip. Fears of miscarriage had been prevalent among the physicians and family alike, with at least one scare. But the shock of Philip’s death had only made it worse, and the only remedy the doctors can think of, the only hope they can give, is that bed rest may preserve both her life and the life of the baby still settled in her womb.

He vaguely hears the reverend asking everyone to bow their heads and pray, and Alexander does so, though he pays no attention to the rest of the man’s words. Instead, he offers up his own supplication.

Lord, I do not expect or hope for Your forgiveness for all that I’ve done. My sins are beyond count. I do not ask for Your mercy for myself, but for her. Please, do not ask her to suffer another loss. It was Your will that our son should come unto You, but please, allow this new soul to survive. Let him walk this earth which You have made. Let him know his mother’s love, just as Your son knew his mother’s.

I do not expect or hope for her forgiveness either. I know I am unworthy of her. But even though I have wronged her, I love her. Please, give me the words to reach her, to aid her in her suffering.

Alexander prays for the rest of the service, opening his eyes only when Willie slips from his lap and Johnny stands up from beside him. Blinking against the light, he glances at his surroundings. Everyone is rising to take their leave. He meets Angelica’s gaze from where she is standing with Church, and she offers him a small smile.

“Papa?”

He turns his attention to Willie, who stares at him solemnly. “Yes, dearest?”

“I prayed very hard for Mama and for the baby,” he tells him. “Do you think God heard me?”

It’s a question that haunts Alexander himself. Has God heard his own prayers?

There is no way to know. Faith is just that – faith. There is no hard, established certainty.

Eliza believes. Her faith is a cornerstone of her life.

Perhaps that is enough, for now.

He smiles and leans forward, pulling the boy into a close hug. “I’m sure He did, son.”