#subtle physical touch between men falling in love with each other will be the death of me

[chiara1294]

I’m just gonna leave these here ……….

[caesthetix]

A LITTLE FEAR — Pt. 1 The First Hello

↪Jean Kirstein mini-series

↪content; canon universe, description of violence, season 4 spoiler, forbidden love, marleyan!reader, scouts!jean

"I would love to know a world without fear."

The night was quiet as the moonlight became the only thing that lit up the space you were in. No sound could be heard, save for the subtle heartbeat that penetrated your hearing.

It was so chilly today, notifying you that it was almost time for winter. You never really loved the weather to say the least, because most of the time the room temperature could drop so much even when you had a heater turned on in every crook of your house.

You hated how your fingertips could feel so numb that you wondered if they were still there. You hated how you needed to cover your body, layer after layer just to keep you warm. You hated how you had to drink the hot chocolate that you made within two minutes or else it would go cold already.

But maybe this year, you had something that you loved from it.

A small hum coming from his lips, with how your head was laying on his chest, you could feel how the sound reverberated through it. His arms draped loosely around your body, securing you there in his embrace as his finger caressed your skin.

This was the warmth that you had longed for, a physical contact which you always seek. The one that could make you feel like everything would be alright, one that made you feel — safe.

"What do you mean by that, hm?" He asked nonchalantly, but you knew him enough to hear the serious tone from his composed gruff. His usually smooth and silvery voice now sounded a lot breathy, perhaps caused by how the clock was ticking right at one am.

You didn't look up at him as your eyes fixated on the moon outside the window. Though your mind was now wandering around, mulling if you wanted to have a deep talk tonight. Yes, you had talked a lot about humanity with him before, something that always made his orbs shone a little brighter.

But what you were going to talk about tonight was something more than just a dream or how the both of you saw the world you were living in. There was something more that you needed to know from him. Because somehow you had a gut feeling that something big would happen and alter your relationship with him.

Well, would alter whatever bond it was that you shared with this man called Jean Kirstein.

You shrugged softly before wrapping your arms a little tighter around his torso, snuggling your head at the crook of his neck before you speak up.

"You know, a world without war, a world without discrimination, without a judge from the outside," You trailed off, licking your lips as you continued, still not facing the man you spent the last few weeks with. "Without having to lie and hide who you really are."

There, that was the response that answered your curiosity. It was just a millisecond but you could feel how his body jolted a little. There was nothing in between you and him, you could hear his breath hitched, you could feel how the arms around you twitched.

And without him needing to say anything else, you knew it was there.

"How," He gulped down, and once again, you could feel it. It seemed like he was pondering if it was the right thing to ask, if your words were just a random opinion instead of a statement. But he knew you too, and he knew how smart you were. "How long have you known?"

You didn't move away, and perhaps that fact was enough to make him calm down a little. Your head was still positioned on top of his chest as if you hadn't just cornered him with your words.

"The second night." You even said it so easily. He whispered a low what? under his breath, but you could hear it with how you were literally skin to skin with him. "Don't worry, you are smart to cover all your tracks." Your fingertips trailing on his chest, tracing the marks that now looked like a permanent part of him. "But you could never hide this."

He chuckled a little at this, realising the slip in his cover. You didn't know what was on his mind, perhaps he blamed himself for exposing himself to you, or he wished he didn't fall for your charm. Neither way made you feel any better though.

"So my mistake is sleeping with you.” The way he said it was ambiguous. You knew that he just mumbled that to himself, yet you couldn’t understand if it was a question or realisation. And somehow with that choice of words, you could feel a pang in your heart as you were reminded by the truth.

You and him, it was all just a mistake.

A mistake that both parties knew. A mistake that you both understood yet turned a blind eye over it. There was nothing that could justify the rendezvous that you had with him. He was an Eldian, a man that could turn into a monster if given the titan spinal fluid, even worse, a Paradis citizen.

Then there was you, a pure marleyan, one of the people who wanted nothing but extinction to the island of Paradis. But you had another worst side, and that was the fact that you were the youngest commander of the airborne unit, one that belonged to the Marleyan Military air force. 

You were someone who had full control over dozens of airships and hundreds of troops. You were someone who sent people to the front line, bringing them to their death for your greedy country to get more and more, always unsatisfied and wanting another land to conquer.

You were even worse than him who just wanted the freedom that your country took away by force.

But you couldn’t help yourself as he slid into the barstool beside you that day. With his gentle smile, trimmed facial hair, and those magnetic brown orbs that glinted brighter under the dimmed light. You remembered how you let out a small gasp by just taking a proper look at him.

Lots of men and women threw themselves at you but never once you batted your eyes on them. But goddamn Jean Kirstein and his alluring complexion, making you stumble over your own words when he asked you a simple question — your name.

It needed you a minute to finally relax under his piercing gaze, and it only needed an hour for you until you let him take you away from the prying eyes of Marley. You gave in into his touch, calloused hands that rivalled yours. His breath reeked of alcohol and yet you let those plump lips steal the air out of your lungs.

You thought it would only happen once in your lifetime. That rendezvous was shared between two drunk human beings who got attracted to each other. Yet the two of you somehow stood in front of the same motel the next day.

And the day after.

And the day after that until you moved it to your apartment.

And for you, what you had with him was anything but a mistake.

You swallowed a huge lump, gaze hardening as you stared into nothing. He hadn’t said a single word ever since then, and you wondered if he was as disconcerted as you inside. But despite the truth that had been spoken, the two of you still huddled under the warmth of your cashmere blanket.

“I didn’t see it as a mistake, Jean.” You finally confessed, and you never been this scared in your life. You had been through a lot, watching Marleyan titans devour the enemy, scattered brains on the battlefield, and yet you were never once afraid you would be like them someday.

But this, this confession, this fucked up truth about your feelings and what he would do to it was a lot more terrifying than dying in war.

“I see.” You still held your breath even though you already got your answer. It was still grey, you didn’t know what he was thinking right now, not yet. “I, too, don’t have any regret over us.” And that, that answer was enough to paint it white.

You subconsciously snuggle closer, tightening your embrace as you didn’t want to let him go. There was a dream, deep inside your heart that someday everything would end with the whole world united to walk forward together. Without the need for destruction, without the need to shed another blood on their lands.

And just once, just when you were with him was the time you could feel that dream. You could succumb yourself into another world when you laid in his arms, thinking that the two of you were just a normal citizen who would do mundane work when the sun was up, and cuddled up together for every night that came.

But you knew, since the time you traced the marks on his skin when you were sober, when you recalled what your warrior friend told you about his time in Paradis and the gear that made him have permanent marks all over his body, you knew that what you had with him was just a small nirvana that your own mind created.

It wouldn’t last, you knew damn well it could never last. And even though he didn’t say anything, as someone who supposed to be the only one who knew about the truth, he decided to keep on going and entangled himself with you. 

For weeks, for weeks he had been here in Marley, doing whatever he needed to do behind your back. You both acted as if you did not belong to the different sides at war, talking and enjoying each other's company and sharing a glass of wine before he went back to his place when the sun was still hiding behind the horizon.

“I have a question.” He cleared his throat, deep in thought as his eyebrows scrunched from either confusion or disbelief. “Why did you tell me about Marley’s plan? Why did you share the war plan with me? Me, your enemy.”

You pondered, why indeed? At some nights he would ask you some questions. But there was nothing too explicit on it as you recall. He would just ask you about your day, about how tiresome your work was, or ask about your condition when you looked so stressed some of the days.

It was just a simple question, yet you always answered some of them with a long answer as you slipped in some information about war here and there. You didn’t do it subconsciously, of course, you were always being sus and never shared work-related topics with anyone outside of the military.

“Because I want you to live.” But he was an exception and perhaps he knew that already. “Even if it’s not significant, I want you to have more chances to be alive.”

You cursed the universe for giving you a chance to love like this. To care for a man that could be killed by your country, or even worse, die by your hand. Was there anyone like you too? A Marleyan who fell in love with Eldian, not just Eldian in Marley even, but the devils themselves.

Being a part of the Marleyan Military means that you knew the truth. You knew how many mindless titans that your country sent to Paradis, and the fact that a few years ago the colossal and armoured titan was successful to breach the wall, that would mean a lot of the citizens of the island lost their lives and home.

And you didn’t dare to ask him about how many family and friends that he had lost.

“You do know that you could be executed for sharing a war plan, right?” He asked with worry lingering in his voice, yet he sounded a little exasperated, couldn’t believe that you would jeopardize either your occupation or your life for him. “You are so reckless, I swear to God.” But at the same time, he was thankful too, because it really showed him how much you care.

“Hmhm, I don’t care.” You just shrugged it off, deep in thought as you thought that the execution was worth it. “I should have died in one of the wars that I went to, yet here I am. Embracing the fact that I might be in love with an Eldian devil.”

He squeezed your body tighter for a while there, just after you said those words. Life was short, you understood that well for becoming a commander at such a young age and had been through a lot of hell. But unlike a lot of people who decided to keep their heart at bay or threw it away, you chose to keep it.

Just because you were going to die soon, didn’t mean that you shouldn’t enjoy what life had given you.

You cared and loved your friends because you knew someday you wouldn’t see them again. You had a routine where you just sat on the porch and greeted your neighbours because tomorrow you might not be coming back. You made sure to send your family a letter here and there because who knows it would be the last.

And now, you felt a strong emotion for this man that you never had before with anyone else. It was not platonic, you actually wanted to attach yourself to him without force. It was what they called romantic love, and at this point, you didn’t care anymore that having this feeling could lead you to death.

“Are you going to attend Tybur's speech tomorrow?” This question piqued your interest. You wanted to hope that perhaps he would like you to enjoy the festival with him before that. But something tugged at your heart, telling you to be careful. And this was the first time you ever felt the need to be cautious around him.

“Sadly, no.” Yet you remain as calm as possible. “I want to attend it, but duty’s calling in another post.” Now you pondered about it, every other squadron would be there, including the general himself. Yet somehow not you. “I had to check on the newly arrived airships, sucks how it’s on the same day as the speech.”

You were rambling on and on about it, ignoring the sigh of relief that slipped from Jean’s lips when he knew you were not going to be there. Deep inside your heart, you wanted to ask why did he throw the question at you, having a feeling there would be something going on.

But what you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you, so you decided to keep your mouth shut.

Jean could only look at you with a frown plastered on his face. He knew that something was going to happen tomorrow. If what Eren wrote in all his letters were right, then he didn't want you to be there. He couldn't bear to see your corpse.

No, it was not that. Watching you die was something that would happen either tomorrow or some days later. But what he couldn't bear to see was your face when you knew he was one of the people behind the attack tomorrow, he was one of those people who fought with Eren Yeager, the enemy of your nation.

He could picture your face with disappointment lingering on your face. Because he knew with the plan that they had tomorrow, he wouldn't just kill the military but also the innocent citizens who had been oppressed all their lives in Liberio.

Right now he wanted to tell you that, he wanted to open up to you about the plan. But you were a commander, and if you shared the information to any of the higher-ups, that meant the attack tomorrow had a high possibility to fail.

Yes, he couldn't jeopardise that. As much as he wanted to keep you safe by telling you the reason why you shouldn't be there, he decided to keep his mouth shut. After all, what he didn't say wouldn't hurt you, right?

"Hey, love?" Jean called out, using the nickname that no matter how many times he had called you by it, always send a shiver down your spine. You let out a small hum to tell that you were listening, fingers trailing softly on his arms. "I need to go now."

"What?" You immediately looked at him, propping your body with an elbow as you searched for his smirk that was usually there when he teased you. But you found none. "Why? I mean, you always stay until around four, what change?"

He sat up in bed, both eyes casting down his lap as he tried to avert your gaze. Your lips jutted a little, trying to understand why. But then again, maybe his lips were sealed. Perhaps he had to attend a late-night meeting, or his leader started to get suspicious over the two of you.

"My comrades needed me." But that subtle answer was the only thing that he gave before he planted a kiss on your forehead. "Just sleep, I still have the key that you gave me. I will give it back to you next time." You frowned at that as he didn't give you any other explanation.

You sat there in your bed, eyes never leaving the tall figure as he snatched his clothes from the ground, wearing them one by one as he turned his back on you. 

Never once you felt like this, scared, over the unknown of tomorrow. You had tried to embrace the fact that you would never know what happened next. But with him, as you put a piece of your heart inside his soul, you started to get worried more often. And somewhere along the way, a little seed of fear started to plant deep inside your heart.

"Jean," You called out as he dusted his clothes, not wanting to see any wrinkles on them. "Why do I feel like I am not going to see you again?"

He stopped. His fingers that were currently buttoning up his suit halted as he listened to your question. You waited for him to say something and moved your body so you sat at the edge of the bed instead, wondering if he knew that something big would happen or not.

"Hey, it's not, okay?" Jean cleared his throat and turned to you. A gentle look was there as he walked toward you and kneeled to level his gaze with yours. "We will meet again, we have to meet again." You didn't know if it was him trying to reassure you, or he was reassuring himself. "I promise." But either of them, you would take it.

So you closed your eyes, erasing all of those fears and anxiety that crept in your mind. His lips captured yours, not in a passionate and rough movement like it used to, but instead, it was soft and felt so delicate.

And you wished you could have stayed like this forever, in his arms as you knew that with him you felt safe. That everything just became complete ever since Jean Kirstein came into your life as if he was some kind of guardian angel despite the nickname that was given to his race.

Yes, you could have stayed like this forever indeed. Safe, and perhaps loved.

But then you saw it as you were called back to Liberio sooner than you expected to. You saw it, all the collapsed buildings and how the rubbles trampled the innocent citizen. Everything was red, the scent of rust metal suffocated you as it was the only thing that you could smell.

No one told you about what happened here. The general was dead, all the higher-ups from Marley Military were wiped clean. There were so many countries joining this grand speech, and as you strolled around to see if there were any survivors, your mind started to speculate about who would have done something like this.

Then you heard a cough, someone, someone was alive. You point your flashlight to the source, finding an Eldian Unit leaning his body to the big rubble. He was gravely wounded with a huge gash trailing from his shoulder and down to his abdomen, and somehow you wished it killed him, so he didn’t have to suffer.

Having been through so much war, you already get used to seeing such cruelty. Wounded by a bullet and died in the spot, getting bombed as the body scattered around the ground, you had seen so much that nothing impacted you anymore.

But this wound — you snapped back to real life, not letting any horrendous thought filling your mind. You immediately checked for his pulse, it was weak but it was still there. 

“You need to keep your eyes open, soldier.” As a figure with authority, you couldn’t waver. “I am going to get you to the paramedic. Just stay still as I lift you up, and keep your eyes open.” You didn’t wait for him to answer you as you gently slipped your arms to pick him up.

“They were flying, commander.” He whispered, one hand gripping tight on your arm as if to stop you. “They looked so free up there, some with blades, and some with guns in their hands.” But you ignored it and stood up, securing his body in your arms as you started to run.

“Keep your eyes open and save your energy. Just live for the next few seconds.” You commanded, and he was just staring at the sky, somehow accepting his death already. “We are close, and you can be—”

“Commander,” He whispered out. “Have I become a good warrior? Have I redeemed my filthy blood to Marley? If I go now can I be free?” The questions rang in your ear, and you ran even faster since you knew he could be saved.

But what if he didn’t want to be saved from the start?

“Yes.” You answered without looking down at him. “You have become a good soldier in the army, you proved yourself that you have been so strong.” There was a little smile on his face as you said that, and you decided to slow down your pace. “And you will be free, you can do anything you want if you decide to go.” Because deep down, you knew he wanted it.

Your legs went limp as you realised he was gone. With a smile on his face and eyes opened as it looked up. Either to you or toward the sky, you didn’t know that. But you fell forward after that, with his body still secured in your arms. You didn’t cry, you lost so much and you thought tears were already dried.

You scrutinized him one more time, a solemn smile tugged at your lips as you slowly closed his eyes, wanting him to rest in peace. Your finger slowly traced the gash on his body, making your lips shaped into a thin line as your thought from last night was answered.

No matter how calm his eyes were before you closed it, it bore into your soul as it mocks you with a reminder.

“Are you going to attend Tybur's speech tomorrow?”

That the one who made you feel safe last night — was the same who would be responsible for the nightmare which happened today.

↪Back to Wall Maria

↪Send an ask if you want to be a citizen of Paradis (taglist)!

[eddiemxnsons]

OUTSIDE — Edward ‘Hillbilly’ Jones

REQUESTED BY: @ourmiraclealigner —

hi! i really loved your take on the last request and was wondering if you could write something else when you get the chance? where the reader is really struggling with everything she’s seeing on peleliu and hillbilly tries cheer her up? maybe she gets hurt and doesn’t call for help?

TRIGGER WARNING: Blood, mental illness, suicide ideation

TAGLIST: @noneofurbusinez

SHE TOLD HERSELF that the floods of crimson fear were merely awry brain chemicals, her amygdala pinged, and then attempted to analyse the situation as an bystander; pondering how a military officer — not a human — would take action. They certainly wouldn’t be cramped ass to ankles in a mud-sodden foxhole, questioning every man lost and if there was an absent step in each incident, a step that would have yanked their golden souls away from Death’s irate tendrils. Where had she gone wrong? She had lost so many men — friends — in this ardent bitterness festering on the Pacific island.

The darkened island was an empire of misery and fear for Y/N; memories of death tucked in with the foliage, playing a macabre game of hide and seek behind trunks with murmurs of young men’s hysterical implores to a savior that wasn't there. A ripple in reality was at her fingertips as she discarded a mournful, muddied foxhole for an equivalent agony beneath the rich canopy of kaleidoscope trees, rifle haphazardly swung on a strap between her shoulder blades. The moon beamed like a flashlight clenched in a steady hand as the stars brushed the curved branches, her weary eyes fixated on the corpses abuzz with hungry flies. And upon the forest floor so woven with ancient tree roots, was subtle streams of crimson, no longer a softened light from nature's bouquet above. And the overwrought young girl in her had emerged with the ghosts behind the trees, the boogeymen of a child’s unconscious mind.

And she momentarily surrendered her obligation of nightly patrol to the small girl misplaced amidst the decaying corpses of men. A fleeting feeling rumbled in her core as if the rumpled yet headstrong woman that stalled in the rain had vanished, a young girl with braids at the facets of her freckled face, and a simper of gold in her absence. Perhaps the war was all a dream. She’d awake in her bed, murmuring of the story her conscious had trudged her soul through. Her soul that wouldn’t be dilated red with the blood of her men. Yet, imagining this itself was a fantasy and was sanity laying in madness.

She’d continuing traipsing her normal patrol with a burdensome soul, a ledger stark red with blood that wasn’t as easy to scour away like blood upon skin. A mental imprint of the young men that cursed her existence from whatever beyond existed. Ones that could pluck her through a ripple of reality, have her on scarred knees imploring for forgiveness beneath the twilight.

An absentminded hand clutched the golden cross stowed under the threadbare collar of her jacket; a dangling sheath of metal that she had prayed over too many times for her aching chest. God wasn’t here. This was a breeding ground of devastation and only the Devil could prosper amidst the chaotic sorrows of humanity’s war. Raindrops accumulated along its frayed edges as she stared at it from beneath rain-sodden eyelashes. She felt a fool for adorning it, a fool for providing false hope.

Y/N weakly lowered herself to a moss-encrusted log, every inch of her body felt as if it accommodated lead weights, her legs cramping with agonizing spasms. The frustrated gulp she took burned her larynx as she gasped for breaths of the humid air, crying despite her distaste for succumbing to this fear.

The ghostly, sweetly bloody fingers of soldiers that failed to be successes of her miraculous hands traced delves into her shoulder blades. They were ambassadors from a misery far away from the comprehension of the sane. The copper sourness exuded from the flickers of their souls in her peripheral, their wounds not healed in the bittersweet glory of the afterlife, rather stark against the ivory complexion of their drained bodies.

Y/N’s throat clawed with the irate exhaustion of her very being to implore for salvation from this eternal hell. Her hand clenched the front of her uniform just as if she was holding what remained of her soul from rotting into the abyss of a lamenting chest. She needed it to stop. Her piteous tears were waving flags of surrender, oval sorrows to the surviving company beyond the slick horizon — to Edward Jones.

Y/N wanted a life with him, oh, how she did. Yet, didn’t desire to be cradled in a life where she was broken and bruised, wrecked from the inside out by war. And that’s why she remained crouched against the fallen trunk, alright with letting the forsaken souls of soldiers take her away, take her away from the death and more dying men. She had nothing left. Ashes of a soul gradually vanishing with each final breath of a fellow soldier. It’s not what her company deserved. It’s not want Edward deserved.

All she could hear was the obnoxious banging of her heart as she peered up with her lungs clenching in her chest almost immediately; a soldier — Japanese — huddled alongside a bullet-ridden tree trunk, glowering at her, eyes searing holes into her soul. Even in the murky shadows, Y/N’s weepy eyes found his finger cramping on the trigger of his rifle.

Yet, she remained there, back constrained against a rooted tropical plant with her own rifle trembling in bloodied hands, a clasp weakening to relinquish the weapon to a congregating puddle. Her mouth was open, but it was an oblivion of silence, not even a single wisp of breath as the pair of them mounted within a tense stare-off. Her bloodshot eyes trickled over the defined, silver corners and edges of the enemy’s rifle — her gateway away from this crimson hell. She wanted to scream at the shadowy soldier to pull the damned trigger, to hush the sullen memories. Pull the trigger, kill the tarnished soul beneath. Dying was quicker than falling asleep. Her achy eyes eased shut, fingers cramping in fragility to renounce her weapon and surrender to a bullet.

Yet, the meager burst of life in her decayed soul desperately thrashed and penetrated the water’s surface her mind was submerged in, writhing against a lotus of misery. It begged for the life she could live, clamored how she wasn’t a bad person. Bad things occurred around her, but she wasn’t a rotten soul for it. She is a categorical victim of war, constantly drowned in tidal waves of guilt, regret, pain, anger. But, she did everything she could have to save those boys.

Y/N heels are what landed roughly first into the crumbly dirt as she anchored jellied legs upon the soiled ground, boots noisily striking rolling pebbles littered in the grass. She cast a hand out to seize up her rifle in a mirror position to the enemy sewed between the foliage. She was the best shot in the company, yet the trigger-happy soldier opposing her trembling stance was a faster one.

Her stomach lurched at the recognized poignant screech from the discharge of a rifle. A successor to shots that silenced golden laughter and made dull lively gazes. Y/N heaved herself absentmindedly backward to elude the contempt trajectory of the approaching bullet. Her boots slipped shortly on slick algae in the shallow water of a stream, trudging through soupy sand until she was struck frozen.

The blast into the gentle air had collapsed into her shoulder and the utter velocity of the meager shard of metal propelled her to the ground. Her chin plummeted through a dense mound of congealed mud, specks of nature’s grime embroidering with the blood splattered across her cheek. Distantly, her bewildered mind detected the silent atmosphere being hindered by fleeing footsteps, a harsh murmur from a foreign land. The soldier thought she was dead.

Her gaze was alight with so much perplexion and despair as she strained to ease herself onto her back, breaths aching her throat. The gaze poked out from eyes swathed with a solidfying concoction of blood and mud, yet her shivering hands trailed to her wound rather than to scrub away the blinding, burning substances.

Cramped fingers shakily reached to apply pressure to what she could access of the wound. She gasped through gritted teeth at the impressive surge of agony trembling her petite frame, her blood now painting her clammy palms.

“Fuck, fuck,” she panted incredibly fast, securing her hands to the accessible portions in a last desire for survival. She was a thoroughly trained medic, yet all that knowledge that was typically at her fingertips, was dissipating with her fading resolve to save herself.

A hollow feeling bloomed at the center of her chest almost immediately at the stark crimson soiling her hands and the brilliant white of pain ricocheting from her shoulder. Dying. She was on a path ending with the turbid shadow of Death. Dead, dead, dead. She was going to die — nobody would be coming. This is what she had wanted, trekked out into the gloomy forest with whispers of intention for death. Yet, was it selfish to forsake Death and proclaim the worthiness of her life? To say she couldn’t leave another soul behind in despair?

However, there was essentially nothing at her dispense to stanch the bleeding without proper assistance. I’m so sorry, Ed. She’ll see him one day. Take your time. I’ll see you on the other side, was her farewell penned to the company’s golden boy in a letter that’ll never be physically scribed. She had touched him for the last time, kissed him for the last time, smiled at him for the last time, spoke to him for the last time, loved him for the last time.

Her mind was prospering with a bitter fire of panic, her chest saturating with this tightening feeling of misery, letting it scorch her from the inside; was this how all those young men felt as they held her hand and cry for their mothers as they bleed out from shredded wounds on their bodies?

But, she never screamed once for any of the troopers that she knew were beyond the rain-sodden horizon — never once in palpable desperation for Edward. She craved death so badly just mere minutes before, and to wish away the desires only festered karma to strike. There was no eluding Death. This was all inevitable and attempting to play God by saving herself, someone not much worthy of living, was foolish.

Her GI-issued uniform was saturated with the rain water and the tickles of sweat emitting from her clammy skin, and it only was anchoring her further into the cradle of sludge. Her free hand reached for the swaying cross on her blemished collarbone, a glance from sore eyes squinting to the cloudy sky for salvation. For a wish that God saw her through a tranquil demise, a desire that he vowed to her that her family — Edward — would fare well without her.

With the smell of Death soaking through and through her skin, perhaps even grazing her rattling bones, she knew she was being anchored into a dusky conscious. The hand planted around the curve of her shoulder uneasily limpened and greeted the plunge of blood that swirled into the rain puddle beneath her. Ragged breaths careened from her glass chest and absentminded fingers poked and prodded at her dog tags suspended beneath her collar. Her mouth was dryer than a sandbox beneath the summer sun whilst her mind contemplated through races of agitation and sorrow being casted. The frustration was a burning rod weaving between the bones of her ribcage, cooking with the shared gaze between her and the sky.

A cacophony of disturbed dirt and pebbles shot through the tension like the bullet bound to the muscles of her shoulder. Her agitation shattered into petrifaction, absentmindedly maneuvering her tender body further into the ink of the shadows. Had the soldier returned to confirm his belief? The belief that she was long dead?

“Y/L/N!”

It was her relief for the patrol that had her ambling amidst the forested graveyard in the first place. Her relief being, by some divine yet sadistic logic, Captain Haldane and Lieutenant Edward Jones. The bitter realization urged her diminishing strength to wrench herself up to sit behind the tree, entirely absent from their view. However, whilst she careened herself up to a sitting stance, she screamed regardless of her resolve to suppress the mind-numbing anguish for the sake of herself and the soldiers not at the mercy of the prowling Japanese.

Y/N fastened her hand over her mouth hastily, clenching her teeth on the begrimed arch of her palm to subdue her whimpers as her wound scraped against rough mounds of bark on the trunk.

Their heels are what landed roughly first into the crumbly dirt adjacent to her shoddy hiding place, skidding a few feet in shell casings, shredded leaves, and rocky sand before a flash of camo green slashed through her spotty gaze. Edward collapsed into dampened dirt amidst the cluster of puddles, blood, and grime whilst Haldane hastened off to retrieve a corpsman. Edward’s expression was consumed with petrification as he regarded her bloodied body heaving against the concave of the trunk. There was so much blood and dirt on her baggy uniform and what skin was exposed.

“Why didn’t you fucking call for help?” He hissed harshly in the midst of recovering a clod of gauze from his jacket, hastily dressing it across her wound without forewarning.

If more strength could have been mustered, she would have nudged him aside and tended to her wounds with more experienced hands, but she was pinned to the ridges of the trunk with her entire body churning with waves of agony. Her chest was heaving and she couldn’t get any word uttered through her clenched throat, the pain superiorizing the need to talk. He rose a few meek fingers on her cheek to shift her amiss gaze to himself, her instinctively subsiding into the meager touch.

Her eyes were just as remarkably expanded as his as they steadied eye contact with one another, and it seemed incredulous now to call her the most dangerous in the regiment when she trembled like an ill child.

“I didn’t because...because....I can’t handle any of this anymore....” she babbled nearly incoherently despite their close proximity, “Just g-go....let me go. I-it’s okay....”

Edward glanced to her with stern glint in his narrowing eyes, “You stop that talk. There’s no outcome in which I leave you here to die. And don’t pity the dead ‘round us now, don’t believe they are dead because of you. None of them are. Their deaths - their blood — that’s all soaking the Jap’s hands, not yours. I see how you pull out every stop to save the lives of these men. You don’t see the wounds, you see the person around them.”

His present hand shifted to skim the rough patch of his thumb across the begrimed apple of her cheek whilst the other one exerted pressure to her wound. And she couldn’t refuse when his hands drew her head into the crook of his neck, embracing her tight to make her cracks remain together. Her leaden arms encompassed his torso whilst easing her cheek to his chest, the aloof ruckus of an approaching medic and her captain resounding behind them.

And she’d go on.

[gayoperatorgunclub]

ULTIMATE SHIP MEME: MontaDoc Edition? Pretty please? Or any MontaDoc content. I crave it. Much 💕

of course!!!!!!! sorry this has taken so long, but i sincerely hope you enjoy it!!! 💝💝💝

General:

Rate the Ship -   Awful | Ew | No pics pls | I’m not comfortable | Alright | I like it! | Got Pics? | Let’s do it! | Why is this not getting more attention?! | The OTP to rule all other OTPs

How long will they last? - for fucking EVER!!!!!! 

How quickly did/will they fall in love? - two words: mutual. pining. this period, often referred to as the “Beginning of Operation: T.E.A.M. D.A.D.S. (Temporary Employment As Masters of Dad And Dad Sweethearts)” however, unbeknownst to anybody else in rainbow, by the time Operation: T.E.A.M. D.A.D.S. had begun, gustave and gilles had already been together for a couple of years. how did they actually get together? about six months after the GIGN joined rainbow, gustave was in the middle of a mountain of paperwork when he heard someone clear their throat. he spun around to scold whoever it was for coming to medbay when they were sick (despite the fact that he was coming down with a nasty cold), only to be greeted with gilles leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe. “gustave. you look as though you’re about to meet death for dinner. how can you expect to take care of others when you’re not taking care of yourself?” gustave just sighed and shook his head, muttering something about leaving him be for another couple hours so he could finish his paperwork, but gilles has other ideas. in mere moments, gustave goes from standing over his desk, organizing some files, to being held in gilles’ big strong arms. “wh- gilles! i-” he was cut off by his own yawn, and gilles smiled at him fondly. gustave felt himself blush, and he squirmed a little, but let gilles carry him to the GIGN quarters. as soon as it seemed like gilles was going to leave, gustave pulled him down for a kiss, then pushed their foreheads together and whispered “you’re going to carry me all this way and not even stay to make sure i don’t go back to my office?” gilles just grinned at him, climbing into bed beside him and wrapping his arms around him. 

How was their first kiss? - ROMANTIQUE! and smelling of sickness but what can you do

Wedding:

Who proposed? - monty!! he decided to cook a romantic candlelit dinner at their apartment, and when he sees gustave come home from work, all ragged and exhausted, yet still with a glimmer of determination and subtle joy, he says the first thing that comes to mind: “will you marry me?” gustave froze, his cheeks still rosy and his hair sprinkled with snowflakes. “will i what?” gilles realized his mistake and flushed, stammering a response before gustave was standing in front of him, staring at him scrutinizingly. “gilles.” he started, reaching to intertwine their hands, bring them between their chests, “what did you say?” gilles gulped, then steeled himself and got down on one knee. “gustave kateb. love of my life, light of my days. the man i want to wake up next to every day for the rest of my life. the man who i adore with every fiber of my being. would you do me the honor of being my husband?” 

Who is the best man/men? - for monty: bandit! for doc: lion (everyone but them thought it was a joke until the day of the wedding). dominic and olivier’s dual best man speech is the stuff of legends. there were tears, there was laughter, and there was an almost excessive amount of thinly-veiled sexual innuendos at various people in attendance (including both grooms; the best men were both drunk of their asses) 

Who is the bride’s maid(s)? - they actually fight over who gets to pick twitch! meanwhile rook is in the background like D: (don’t worry, it’s decided that he and twitch will be ring bearer and flower girl respectively) for monty: dokkaebi. for doc: finka 

Who did the most planning? - they both did! though gustave focused on food and flowers, and gilles focused on the guest list and the venue (but they ran things by each other before any final decisions were made)

Who stressed the most? - gilles! he was so worried about their families not getting along that he actually prepared a “leave my husband and his family alone or so help me i will never speak to you again” speech

How fancy was the ceremony? - Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.

Who was specifically not invited to the wedding? - gilles’ racist, homophobic, french nationalist uncle (no one in the family likes him, so it wasn’t a big loss) (this uncle also made a surprise appearance at the family dinner where gilles introduced gustave to the rest of his family, and started yelling about “godamn immigrants” and other such bigotted statements, before gilles’ sister physically dragged him out of the house and threw him out the door. afterwards, up in the guest bedroom, gilles quietly tells gustave that it’s okay if he wants to leave, or break up, or anything, and gustave just laughs and tells him that if he wasn’t prepared for family members to express their distaste, he wouldn’t be dating a white man. he pressed a kiss to gilles’ temple, before whispering “although, he was right about my being an immigrant; it’s just that i was born in Paris and immigrated with my family to algeria, not the other way around. A for effort, though”)

Sex:

Who is on top? - gilles!!!! although gustave will occassionally ride him 👀👀👀

Who is the one to instigate things? - gustave is lowkey horny 24/7, but if gilles walks in on him bending over to get something from a cabinet, or tilting his head all the way back while drinking from his water bottle, thereby showcasing the way his throat moves as he swallows, he will lose his shit 

How healthy is their sex life? - Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now

How kinky are they? - Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

How long do they normally last? - okay i’m gonna change this one to an explanation of some things from below. i personally think doc lowkey a freak, and gilles is happy to oblige him if that’s what his lapin wants (although he’s not entirely sure how he feels about this “overstimulation” and “post-orgasm torture” and “cock & ball torture” stuff. specifically, he’s not sure he likes hurting gustave, but, while he probably won’t admit it out loud, he secretly adores making gustave cry. when he’s so helpless and powerless and mindless, and he’s begging for something, but for what he doesn’t really know. maybe it’s the knowledge that gilles is in complete control, that gustave trusts him to do this, to make him hurt and cry and just melt, the knowlege that gustave is completely reliant on him for his pleasure, his pain, and everything in between. it’s a heady thing, and gilles isn’t sure how he feels about it, but he’s pretty sure the warmth in his chest and the warmth in his gut are good signs 

Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms? - unless they’re doing some of the things mentioned above, or mayhaps some denial 👀👀👀 then yeah, everyone gets the same. they’re very considerate when they’re just doing vanilla 

How rough are they in bed? - Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.

How much cuddling/snuggling do they do? - No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

Children: btw, the rest of this is kinda set in a post-retirement au (idrk i just want them to have a farm and be peaceful). give it whatever context u want tho, i was just havin fun

How many children will they have? - they will have four cats and a dog, as well as 2 horses, a donkey, 5 cows, an alpaca, a rabbit, some ducks, a flock of sheep and goats, and the occasional visit from a herd of deer from the forest surrounding their little farm

How many children will they adopt? - since humans CANNOT, i repeat, CANNOT, give birth to the animals listed above, they’re all adopted

Who gets stuck with the most diapers? - no one. the animals potty train themselves

Who is the stricter parent? - gilles sneaks them treats while gustave lectures them about dietary habits, so take your pick 

Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school? - whenever gilles leaves to run errands, one of the goats goes into a depression so deep and miserable that they’re utterly inconsolable until he comes back. once they hear the sound of the car in the driveway, this lil goat, lovingly named “Bastard” by gustave, will climb onto the roof of the house and scream his joy over gilles’ return to the heavens 

Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)? - they tag team on things like feeding the animals and cleaning out the barn, but gustave is much more organized about it

Who is the more loved parent? - the cats, dog, one of the horses, donkey, alpaca, rabbit, goats (except for Bastard), and deer all prefer gustave, though gilles is adequate in the event that gustave is busy with something else (although the alpaca and donkey hate his guts, and will escape their pastures to break into the house and be near gustave. gilles maintains that they’re both devil-spawn, but gustave says he’s just being dramatic and that Thamin (alpaca) and Albalatin (donkey) are complete angels who could do no wrong)

Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings? - animals have NOT unionized. yet. 

Who cried the most at graduation? - idk if this counts, but when Bastard finally figured out how to get himself down from the roof after getting himself onto it, gilles cried for an hour

Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law? - gilles lowkey does whenever thamin and albalatin escape to go out into the world and commit crimes, but only to make sure his husband doesn’t get upset when he finds out his precious creatures are hell beasts. certainly not out of anything resembling tolerance or *shudder* like 

Cooking:

Who does the most cooking? - gustave, but gilles can make a mean bowl of cereal

Who is the most picky in their food choice? - gustave. gilles will eat something straight from the garden and gustave is like “DID YOU CHECK IF IT WAS RIPE?????? YOU COULD DIE FROM THAT YOU KNOW, THEN WHERE WOULD I BE???” 

Who does the grocery shopping? - gustave. gilles is something of a hermit in their town, and people often remark about the “sweet, kind doctor and his utter brick wall of a husband” 

How often do they bake desserts? - whenever Bastard goes a day without doing something Bastardous 

Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater? - both lowkey prefer salad, since they care for many animals that would often get used for their meat, and they can’t bear to think about hurting any of their babies

Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner? - gilles. the people in town helped him when he burst into the little grocery store all panicked like “I NEED TO MAKE MY HUSBAND A SURPRISE DINNER BUT I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO MAKE” 

Who is more likely to suggest going out? - gustave. gilles like being at home, but city-boy over here thinks that restaurants are a weekly luxury

Who is more likely to burn the house down accidently while cooking? - neither. it was thamin and albalatin, attempting to frame gilles for yet another felony

Chores:

Who cleans the room? - gustave. everything is color coded. sex toys included 

Who is really against chores? - gilles. gustave films him whenever he actually does clean and yells things like “go white boy go!!” and sends them to twitch for her T.E.A.M. D.A.D.S. scrapbook 

Who cleans up after the pets? - they both do, but gilles gets stuck with shit duty more often than not

Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug? - gilles, once. gustave walked in, sniffed the air, then glared at him until he actually swept whatever it was up and threw it away 

Who stresses the most when guests are coming over? - gustave “we can’t have guests over, the house is a mess” kateb

Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning? - Bastard. he then proceeded to eat it

Misc:

Who takes the longer showers/baths? - gustave and his hour-long skincare routine 

Who takes the dog out for a walk? - gustave, bc sadiqi the dog (not to be confused with sadiqi the kitten), or Big Sadiqi (kitten sadiqi is Little Sadiqi) is his, gilles, and he will not allow his precious boy to be influenced by such creatures as Bastard 

How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays? - they get little sweaters for the animals. that is all

What are their goals for the relationship? - joke: gustave always says “the White Man’s money” despite the fact that his family is richer than gilles’. woke: mutual happiness, comfort, and healing 

Who is most likely to sleep till noon? - gustave. after 11 am, thamin and albalatin decide they’ve had enough and break in to lay down on the bed next to him. gilles banishes himself to the couch for a week

Who plays the most pranks? - Bastard, thamin, and albalatin. although gustave did dye the sheep’s wool (while it was still attached to them) different colors and patterns and, for the ones who were perfectly content to sit still and be held, replicas of famous paintings (his favorite artist is monet, in case you forgot that he’s french)

[redrobin-detective]

*sees your posts on Zukka* You. Keep talking. (Listen I love this a lot)

Listen, the Sokka/Zuko friendship was always one of my favorite platonic relationships in the series but in my latest dip into atla, my brain suddenly decided to focus on Zukka.

The boys start out shy, neither really willing to admit that they may be feeling that sort of thing for another boy, for a friend, for a former enemy. But as time passes and reality that they may very well die fighting the Fire Lord closes in on them, they decide to take the risk and take the plunge. Their love is subtle, it’s found in extended sword practices that end with gentle touches to bruised skin, its seen when Sokka grabs Zuko’s hand to show him something and “forgets” to let go, its that comfortable, slightly dreamy eyed look Zuko gets when Sokka begins going into one of his crazy plans. Despite the threat of looming death over them, they feel happy and content in each others company.

But then Sozins Comet blazes, Fire Lord Ozai falls and Fire Lord Zuko rises. Suddenly they’re not two dumb runaway teen boys in the woods where no one else can see them, now they’re leaders and war heroes standing there on the world’s stage. Now the gentle relationship, one that’s just getting onto its feet, is no longer a source of comfort but of stress and anxiety. Zuko only wants what’s best for his Nation and falling in love with a Water Tribe Chief’s son is not what was needed for stability in a wartorn nation. Sokka feels strangled by Zuko’s new position (a painful reminder of Yue’s own entrapment prior to her death) not to mention his terror when he realizes just how many people want to new Fire Lord dead.

They bicker back and forth about what to do. Sokka, for once, is the emotional one. He loves Zuko and he won’t let war or peace or anything in-between keep them apart. “I’ll just move to the Fire Nation and be your Fire Lady” Sokka says flippantly but his eyes are dead serious. Zuko is torn apart because the idea of waking up every day to Sokka sleeping next to him tangled in silken red sheets is as close to heaven as he can imagine. But the Fire Nation needs to be united now more than ever, he needs a noble woman by his side and legitimate heirs to secure his position. As much as his heart wants to be with Sokka, he knows it cannot be. “Maybe if it were a hundred years ago, or a hundred years from now,” Zuko responds exhausted from carrying the weight of disappointment in his heart. “But things are delicate right now, we can’t start another war.”

They go back and forth for months, Sokka slaves over a betrothal necklace made of volcanic glass and offers it to Zuko on bended knee. With all the willpower of someone who is all too used to self-inflicted suffering, Zuko turns down the offer but keeps the necklace. He stores it in the locked drawer by his desk and pulls it out during moments when he can’t help but ask ‘what if’. Eventually it comes to a head, both men sit down and take each others hands and discuss their future.

“I know you want this now but imagine in 2, 5, 10 years,” Zuko pleads, stroking his thumb across Sokka’s tanned hands. “You’ll see the Fire Nation as it is, with all the warts that have grown in the past 100 years without the fond tolerance of someone who grew up there. You’d remember that we are the people who killed your mother, tried to kill your entire culture. One day, you’ll look at me and remember that I am one of them and suddenly find yourself trapped in a country you hate but promised to serve and all because of me. I can’t let you do that, to yourself or to my people.” It’s a heartbreaking but eye-opening conversation. Zuko cannot leave his position and Sokka would be miserable as a Lord in the Fire Nation. They hold each other one last night, their last kiss long and meaningful to imprint the taste of each other on their lips and then pull back for the final time.

Zuko marries first, a woman he really likes and can help solidify his nation. Sokka is there the whole time, sad but also weirdly happy at the dopey loving look on Zuko’s face that used to be only for him. He thinks its called healing. They imagined the break-up being so much worse but they simply shifted back to their sword fighting without kisses afterward and gentle teasing though not draped across one another. Suddenly it was less of a burden to be together, no more worrying about being caught doing something compromising or the fate of their future. They were free to be Zuko and Sokka again, people who really, really enjoyed the others company. 

They remain the best of friends for the rest of their days. Sure they look at each sometimes with more heart than they need to and sometimes Chief Sokka will still reach for Fire Lord Zuko’s hand and “forget” to let it go for an extra few seconds, as if his muscle memory still thought they were dirty kids in a dirty war. Their wives and friends will exchange fond looks when these slip-ups happen, love that strong never quite goes away, simply finds new ways to blossom. So maybe the servants are extra attentive to the Southern Water Chief when he visits and former Chief Hakoda slaps the Fire Lord warmly on the back as he would his own son. 

Zuko is there the day Sokka dies, young and far too soon. The Lord of Fire cries as he hadn’t since his Uncle had passed not too long before. He tries not to cry too often, not just for appearances but because the tears that run from his burnt eye sear and sting with unimaginable pain. But that pain seems paltry compared to the beating ache of his heart as his best friend and one of the loves of his life lays dying. 

“I thought you bent fire not water,” Sokka quips, still following their usual script even at the end. He suddenly breaks pretense and holds Zuko’s pale hand to his cheek, leaning in to kiss the worn and wrinkled palm. Its a ghost of what could have been and even decades later both men still wondered what would have happened if Zuko had chosen to wear that necklace instead of hiding it away in a drawer. “Thank you for letting me love you.”

“I’m sorry I turned you down, I wanted it so badly, back then you were all I ever wanted-” Zuko says through shaking sobbing tears, all breath control, and control in general, lost in the face of the inevitable.

“You walrus-seal brain,” Sokka smirks, “I loved you when we were friends, when we were lovers, when we were fellow rulers, when we were husbands and fathers; I love you now when you’re gross and dripping snot everywhere. We didn’t lose anything Zuko, we still had each other and we were still happy. Not a bad way to live a life.”

“No, I guess not,” Zuko responds, leaning down to brush his lips against Sokka’s forehead. He no longer had claim to the other man’s lips but it felt less like a tragedy compared to the decades they’d had side by side as friends. One form of love wasn’t superior to another, it just meant you got to be with someone in a whole new way. “I’ll send your wife and daughters in. Goodbye my love, say hi to Aang and Uncle for me.” 

He spent that night huddled beside Suki, Katara and Toph as another of their own left them. He grieved the loss of large hands grabbing his arm, the clang of clashing swords, that sarcastic southern drawl Sokka never quite grew out of. But he did not lament the past. They had, in the end, made the best choice for themselves and their respective countries. When they’d been young, love had been about giggling kisses and wandering hands but love, real love, was not defined by its physicality. It grew when two souls drifted together and in the space between them built a home. And so long as he breathed, that home he’d made in his heart between himself and Sokka would always be lit and warm.

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 80

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Title & Song: 505

Summary:  Genevieve comes home from the hospital. The journey to her recovery begins, but there are so many more things besides bruises and broken bones to worry about healing. Alfie tries to push back his own trauma from the event he's in denial over, and the whole house has to watch as things get worse before they get better. Song is 505 by The Arctic Monkeys.

Warnings/Tags: Language. Canon typical violence. References to assault and violence. Near death experiences. PTSD. Suffering/Physical Pain. Fluff. 

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

Alfie had kept his word so far. Every time Genevieve would open her eyes to escape the mixture of horror and fantasy that kept circling in her subconscious in her sleep he would be there.

When the memories of what had happened would become less fuzzy, would creep into her dreams, he’d be there holding her hands as she fought out of the drug-induced slumber she felt held prisoner in to keep her from hurting herself. She’d make unsettling noises during her fits. Feet kicking and arms twitching and flailing as her face pained and winced, eyes rolling under their purple lids in the misshaped sockets for the violence she was reliving.

Sometimes the dreams would be pleasant though. An escape to another timeline where none of this had happened. She’d make hums of approval in her sleep, nuzzling into her pillow and it would make Alfie sigh with relief. She deserved some respite from this reality he thought, and he was happy she could find it. If she stirred his hand would always find hers. Even on the rare occasion, he’d be able to fall asleep, back aching and twisted in the chair by her bed he’d keep hold of her as if someone could steal her away without him knowing again. When she would wake from her pleasant dreams he’d be there with his ruffled hair and haggard face, a soft glance she’d meet as he’d stroke her swollen hands. She liked to touch his face in these tender moments they shared. The back of her hand, the knuckle of a finger lightly against his scaled features and wiry beard. She’d give him an affectionate smile, one he’d seen in the mornings before her eyes would close again, him placing her hand back onto the bed as it started to slowly lower when she fell back into her peaceful distraction.

Within a few days with no seizures or signs of internal bleeding, she’s given the go-ahead to be released. Instructions for her care are given to each Alfie, Claire, and Aggie as they were life-threateningly important. She was out of immediate harm from some things, but plenty could still go wrong. Alfie schedules home visits with the doctor ahead of time and even has Ollie hear the orders for her medicine. He was taking no chances at anyone that would be near her not knowing what the fuck they were doing.

With the state of her still being so very fragile, still multicolored from injuries and barely breathing without pain, although the morphine did help that part, she couldn’t exactly walk out on crutches for her twisted ankle. Alfie commandingly insists on being the one to handle her. She did admittedly respond best to him. He has her taken out of the hospital by a back entrance via wheelchair. He wanted all the details of her situation to remain a secret for now. No one that didn’t already know, needed to know how bad it was. He didn’t want word getting out to the community they were a part of, her students, here children at the home. He wanted to keep that ideal version of her alive and well, as he still had faith she would return to it one day.

Despite the fog she found herself in, she tried to keep her head up as they drove out of town. There was a distinct smell to the air and as they were on their way out of the city, the swirls of smoke could be seen in the rear view mirror.

He sees her focusing, her nose twitching like a rabbit. She raises her hand, a single finger pointed behind them with a subtle tilt of her head in question as she could still not speak.

“The smoke?” He asks.

She moves the pointed finger up and down as an indicator for her answer of yes so she didn’t have to nod.

“That was me, love.” He says with a noisy exhale, turning her head from it gently. “I had everything he owned burnt down and everyone in it killed.” He has no remorse and a fling of hunger for the day left in his eyes. “Seems me 'n Tommy’s men burnt down near half of fuckin London. For you, love. No one is gonna mess wif a Solomons. ‘Bout time us Jews started remindin’ these goyim what we’re capable of. Didn’t survive this fuckin long through slavery and oppression to lay down on the cusp of birth of fuckin' Nazi’s.” He shakes his head, brow low and lips tight as his mind only thinks of more things to worry about. He closes his eyes before turning back to her and kisses her forehead. “I’d set the whole fuckin' world ablaze for ya love. If I had to have ya live on a fuckin' island somewhere to escape the flames yeah? Nuffin else but you and ours matters now, eh? Now you lay your head down darlin' and have ya little lie down and I’ll keep ya steady 'til we get ya home, yeah?” He offers, having her place her head on his shoulder, his large hand cradling it and her hip like a baby in his arms. He rests his cheek against her hair and breaths her in, keeping his lips to her when he’d inevitably get emotional with her in his arms all small and helpless now. With the lack of sleep and the strain of the events of the past few days, he’d been a mess. He’d been moody, even more so than usual. He'd neglected himself entirely. Not eating or sleeping of his own doing, always thinking, always worrying. It was starting to take more of a toll on him than he would admit to himself. But he was blinded by his compulsion to protect his love. Following the advice to be delicate with her the best he could.

Her home wasn’t exactly wheelchair friendly, but Alfie certainly didn’t mind carrying her back into the house, the chair brought in behind them as he keeps his eyes on her in his arms, anyone else not existing as far as he was concerned when she was within his eyesight. He has pillows brought and piled high on the bed for her, a little bell for her convince on her nightstand. He leaves his cane by the bed to aid her when she would inevitably need to use the loo.

The time spent with her unconscious he’d spent wisely with Ollie. Preparations of his own taken for the business to keep moving along without him. Despite the always nervous young man’s suggestion to keep his affairs as usual to keep up appearances, he was met only with a  smack to the face as he was reminded he needed to understand that Alfie's word was rule and the rules would be changing now. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about his business, the tracks, the money, he still very much did. But for now, there would be a noticeable lack of Solomons around. He’d had his close call and it wasn’t going to take another one to make him see where he was needed. Ollie was a big boy and had been his second for years now. Ollie could handle it. At least until the threat against Gen’s well being was passed. But as the doctor had said, it was one day at a time.

The first step was to get her comfortable again. The bath proves difficult for both of them. He wanted her to feel clean, to smell like she had before the hospital, flowers instead of sterile. Neither of them spoke, Genevieve still having much difficulty doing so, and Alfie not wanting to say the wrong thing. His usual approach with humor to serious situations with her wouldn’t work his time and he didn't want to confuse the poor dear. As it turned out it was very easy to do in her currently still unstable state. She only makes sounds of pain when he touched her and his hurt shows on his face. She doesn’t meet his expression as she feels varied, swinging emotions as she’s faced with her naked body for the first time since being rescued. The bath water helps distort it, but she can tell even with her blurry eyes that there was plenty of distortion without the filter of waves from the water. Her swollen joints and skin that held reminders of the events that were still hazy to her, they were both left with undeniable proof that even if they didn’t know exactly what happened, that it had clearly been worse than either knew. For the first time in their relationship, they sat alone together in a heavy, uncomfortable silence. The things unsaid about the events that had unfolded sat like an invisible barrier between them, neither wanting to share how it truly made them feel. For the first time there was a disconnect between them, even Gen in her hazy mindset knew he looked at her differently, just as she was looking at herself. With a confusing mixture of pity and guilt.

Alfie does his best as the gentle touch she needs doesn’t come first nature to him. He brings her one of her favorite gowns, all silk and lace and slight enough to be able to keep watch on her injuries. But she makes a small sad noise and pushes it away when he brings it to her. She would’ve said she didn’t want something so lovely on this body, that it would only remind her of how she was before, but she couldn’t, and Alfie's expression remained puzzled. She didn’t need to try to be who she was before just yet. That version of herself was so far away, possibly even unobtainable now she felt. She wanted simple, to keep her mind calm. She needed comfort to offset the pain. She tugs on his shirt, damp from carrying her to bed. His intuition has never been such a highly valued skill to him as he retrieves one of his shirts from a chest of drawers and puts it on her gingerly, limb by limb. It smelled like him, it felt like him rubbing against her skin and let her chest bindings breathe. This is what she needed, not her silk and frills. Alfie sees a calmness take over her face as she strokes the fabric over her thighs. His darling needed him, needed comfort now. He had to attempt to let go of trying to do things his way. But that was never his strong suit.

After getting her set up in bed, she falls asleep quickly from the full day she’d already had in comparison to barely moving in the hospital. She sleeps soundly, seemingly heavy as she lies in a nest of pillows like a little bird.

He’s called from the bed, a phone call from Ollie already. He’s hesitant to leave her, but he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. He’d had the phone removed from her room to make sure her rest wasn’t interrupted by it. He wanted her in quiet and calm with nothing that could disrupt or startle her. So he agrees to leave for only a moment.

When he returns, trying to shed his annoyance for Ollie’s tendency to panic and over question his own decisions he finds the bed empty and panics. Flashes of the night she disappeared come to him, his heart in his throat as all the hairs stand up on his skin, an anxiety attack on the verge of blooming like a boy after the war. He had his own issues from the abduction to deal with it seemed.

He hears a pained sound, something like a hurt animal, and as he approaches swiftly he finds just that. His little kitten on the floor and struggling to breathe, the cane by her side. Her arms shook and failed time and time again to hold herself up as she cried with croaked grunts from her bruised neck.

He calls her name over and over, she keeps her eyes screwed shut, teeth clenched in pain as her hands cling desperately to his forearms. “Gen you stubborn thing.” he sighs. He shushes and coos, pulling her up against his chest and setting her back on the bed. His big warm hands on her face and hair, wiping away tears and he instructs her to slow her breathing. “That’s it love breathe slow. It’s only pain. Don’t let it make you afraid.” He says in a kind tone,  a hand to her wrist to feel her pulse.

At last she opens her eyes, her breathing wheezy and her posture slumped from the pain in her ribs. She opens her mouth and tries to speak and he shakes his head, putting his thumbs over the rough, broken skin.

“Don’t try to talk.” He instructs sternly. “Catch your breath and I’ll fetch the paper after. No rush now is there?”

She gulps and continues moaning with every exhale, feeling overwhelmed. Her hand reaches out and points to the bathroom as her head spins.

“You were trying to get in there, eh?” He asks, brushing her hair out of her face and she wiggles her finger to indicate he was correct. “I had a call and left for just a moment, thought you were deep asleep. You know better than to try to walk yourself in your condition.” He voice grows weaker with his pushing back of his frustrations, feeling another wave of guilt wash over him. “You wait for me to help you, yeah? Don’t go tryin’ so hard alone. We’re not there yet.” He plants a kiss to her forehead, lingering there as her hands move to his forearms. He feels her breathing steady, her hands stop trembling and her rest her weight against him. “That’s a good girl, yeah?” He says with an affectionate and very light stroke to her back. “Ya needed to take a wee love?” He says with a more playful tone, holding her chin up as she answers with her eyes looking to the bathroom doorway. “Well, we can manage that now can’t we? Right. Let’s get ya up. Ya ready for your Alfie to carry you?”

She mouths yes and raises her arms slowly to around his neck. The soft nuzzle into him as he grunts and lifts her, babying her the entire way makes her feel better in the moment. He was there. He was staying through every ugly bit of it and she didn’t need to worry about him right now, only herself. Whoever that was presently. She felt like a different person or no one at all at times. The mix of head injury and medicine leaving her confused, disoriented, bewildered and to say the least, spacey most of the time.

After settling her back into bed, he can tell she’s hurting badly, little whines with every exhale as he settles in next to her. He gives her another small dose of medicine to take the edge off. He couldn’t stand seeing her in pain and knew inside her was nothing but. It was only the first day of her being home, of the official start to the road of recovery and he knew it was going to be harder than he had initially imagined. But what he hadn’t expected was for it to be far worse before it got better.

Sleeps takes her quickly. She’s sucked into a dark undertow and deep into a very vivid dream. She comes to with a blink, as if she had been plunked into this new place. The first thing she notices is that there is no pain. A warm sun hits her skin which after inspection looked to be blemish free, her hands only wearing a wedding band and diamond ring and no bandages.

“Papa!” She hears, her head quickly turning towards the sound and having no dizziness from it. She’s surrounded by large green hedges that are dotted with flowers. They rise too tall for her to see over, but she can clearly hear the laughter of children beyond them. With fingertips dragging on the surface of the thick bushes as she walks, she follows the path before her and hears the laughter, sprinkled with the sound of birds throughout it. “Mama!” She hears called out, and she somehow knows the happy sound is for her. Her bare feet move quickly over the well-kept paths, a sense of happiness, of joy as she moves to a jog, her dress soft against her legs as she moves.

She emerges from the maze to a wide open garden of grass, trees and ivy wrapped lattice, bird baths and statues along the space that was nestled in the valley of a yellow-green rolling hillside the tall grass swaying in the distance. A young child runs in front of her, catching her attention.

She quickly hitched up her dress and chases after, running through the garden. One child disappears behind a corner, to reveal two as she rounds it as well.

“Mum!” She hears an older girl laugh, her long dark hair swishing and a crown of flowers atop of her head as she moves with the small child. Another corner, another child, all seeming to be different. All in their own little clothes, varying heights, hair colors, and styles. She chases around the hedge maze until there are five of them, then they move as a small herd, the older ones helping the younger as they fall and squeal.

She calls out for them in her pursuit. But their faces stay hidden from her. Even she stumbles, the soft, dark auburn hair of a little boy in shorts moving just out of reach. She comes back into the clearing, a white house now at the other end of the stretch of grass and an easily recognizable man standing with his little glasses on his nose, cane in hand, and a lovely booming voice calling out for her.

———

“Genevieve!” Alfie shouts as Aggie rushes out of the room and to the phone. “Wake up love, come now, stay with me.” His voice breaks as he holds her in his arms, his panic pulsing through his exhausted body.

He’d noticed her fall so still, not resting himself as her little tumble earlier had shaken him up. As the night went on she grew far too still for his liking, he could no longer see her chest moving up and down and that had sent the shouting and panic throughout the house that they sat in now. Her pulse was there but weak, his eyes wild and voice so angry as Aggie told him the doctor was on his way.

————

“Chanah!” Alfie's warm voice calls out to her. A sense of rightness, of contentment, follow as the small herd of children also hear him and let out their various sounds of approval as they head towards him ahead of her.

“Ari!” She calls out with a beaming smile.

“Papa!” One of the boys responds as he stumbles on his still young legs towards the inviting outstretched embrace of Alfie.

————-

“Ari.” Genevieve’s voice is a whisper, if he hadn’t been holding her head to his he would’ve missed it. He chokes back tears as he kisses her face and holds her hand, once again not thinking about having to let her go once the doctor arrived.

———-

The five children like broken stair steps range from an older girl, probably a teenager to a young boy and girl who looked to be barely even 6. The girls had bows and flowers in their hair and the boys had grass stains on their pants and messy hair. They looked a portrait of perfect to her. They kept moving just out of reach of Genevieve’s hands, the dreamscape making the run to meet Alfie go on for so long, and her frustration grew. She began feeling desperate to touch them, to feel them and know they were real, to see their faces and tell them sweet, loving things. But they kept out of her reach and she kept stumbling towards them with now filthy feet from the ground.

With the edge of the back porch of the house reached by the kids, Alfie ruffles their hair and looks a picture of a proud father. A little girl in his strong arms, her face buried in his neck as he laughs at another small boy wrapping his little arms around his leg. For a moment the thought crosses Genevieve’s mind that this might be heaven.

With the thought the oldest turns, her face coming into view now. She was strikingly beautiful. With dark hair dotted with flowers, the same Genevieve had been chasing earlier, and similarly, as the girl just a touch shorter than her who stood next to her, face still toward her father.

“Mum.” The girl says with a sweet voice that came from lips that looked like Alfies, Gen’s large eyes looked back in their mirrored image over the same rounded nose with Alfie's stormy blue pupils looking back at her.

“Yes, cheri?” Genevieve responds with a fluttering of her heart in her chest as the girl steps closer.

“I’m sorry.” She says with a kind smile.

Genevieve is confused, their hands reaching out, just a hair's width from touching.

“Chanah!” She hears Alfie shout, her head whipping fast to him as he motions her to come towards him, children still swarming him.

She gives a nod and a smile and moves to turn back to the girl but as fast as she’d turned her head, she was gone. She could almost feel the heat from her hand when it had almost slid into her own. She looks around, startled and upset, wondering where the lovely girl had gone.

“She’ll be alright, love.” Alfie says, motioning her towards him, he's missing his usual assortment of jewelry. Only a gold wedding band on his aged hand with it's faded crown tattoos. The little girl in his arms puts her own around his neck and squeezes. “Not time to meet her yet.” He says with an almost cheerful disposition. “You’ve still got to meet the others.” He says, turning and bouncing the girl, the boy now sitting on Alfie's foot as he walks with a waddle. The older girl that was left now walks with the older boy under her arm, rubbing his back affectionately as they move toward the house. Gen turns to look around the garden, still worried about the girl who disappeared. “Chanah!” Alfie calls out and she ignores it, feeling her heart race and her breath shorten. “Chanah love, come back to me!” His voice sounds different now. More demanding. “Chanah!” He shouts again with anger and she turns to look his way, a sharp dizziness taking her over as it feels like an omniscient hand yanks her from where she stands.

Her eyes open back into the reality Alfie had been dealing with while she was having her most curious experience.

“Chanah! Fuckin ‘ell girl ya gonna kill me wif 'is.” He says bending over her body on the bed.

She tries to say his name and only gets out “Ah-“ as is standard.

“Shhhh catch your breathing up love. Ya medicine put ya a bit too far under. Had to pull ya out of it dinnit I?” He holds her like a child as her eyes with their mixed pupil sizes loll around in her head.

“W-wuh-“ She grunts out.

“Hand us the paper there Agatha.” Alfie instructs, holding the ice water they’d been applying to her skin for past few minutes. “Ya need somethin'?” He asks, putting the pen gently into her hand.

“Ch-chi-“ She stutters and rasps, writing ‘children?’ On the pad.

“What are you on about love? There’s no children.” He doesn’t hide the confusion on his face as he turns to the doctor for answers.

“She’s most likely having trouble distinguishing real life with dreams as she comes out of it. Fairly common occurrence.” He says with a flat delivery.

“There’s no children, love.” Alfie whispers softly.

She whimpers, writing ‘where are the children?’ again as Aggie starts to cry at the state her lovely Genevieve was in. She thought of her as her own and seeing her suffer in any way, especially in a way she could not help hurt her deep down into her soul.

“There’s no children, love.” Alfie says with a more stern delivery, as she sweats and groans in his arms, wanting to struggle to get back to that lovely place but she’s so weak. Each toss of her head sends nausea flooding over her, her eyes showing white as the room spins. Nausea gives over to actual vomiting as Alfie leans her over the side of the bed where a bucket sat just for such an occasion. He shoots another questioning glance to the doctor.

“Also very common.” He nods. “Could be her stomach rejecting the excess medication, could be from the head injuries. Severe dizziness is common in cases such as these. It will pass.” His bedside manner wasn’t the best, but his reputation was and Alfie could easily forgo a  sugar-coated delivery for fast facts.

“Let it out, love.” He says softly, rubbing her back and keeping her hair out of her face. This was worse than any other time he’d seen her sick whether from drink or violence. The sounds that escaped her were gruesome and churned his stomach just as much as hers was.

But the sounds faded, she passes out again, limp in his arms like a classical painting of tragic lovers. He holds her close, keeping her warm as she chills, speaking to her as she groans and shifts in her unrest. All this was reminding him of the war. The constant feeling the other shoe was going to drop at any moment, the tension and paranoia. He couldn’t sleep, he could barely allow himself to blink, lest she take a turn for the worst. Deep sleep and shallow breathing were part of the new medication she was on. He could’ve been told that one hundred more times but it didn’t make the terror that shot through his core when he thought her dead any easier to handle. Or the frustration he felt at the strong rise and fall of his own emotions he was not accustomed to.

She sleeps, but it is not peaceful. Her mind trying to rewire and heal, skipping and making missed connections, leaving her in a disturbing mix of memory and dream inside her own head. He stays up, swearing to himself she would not fail because of him. He kept watch like an ancient guardian relic over her. A slumped and bent, red-eyed and scaled skin gargoyle over her in the dark of the room, the fire casting them in uncanny low light. The sight of them was frightening, and only Agatha and Claire dare enter the room.

The two women, shunned by Alfie in his slow descent into madness it seemed watched on helplessly. Claire was by far the most optimistic of them all. She recalled Gen’s brother after the war and knew things like this happened. Setbacks were all part of the road to progress.

“Although you might think it insensitive of me to say so, I can’t help but look upon this scene as she would if she were us right now.”

“What do you mean dear?” Aggie says with a wrinkled nose.

“The lighting, the love, the tragedy. She’d be a big enthusiast of this would she not? The drama and aesthetic. I only wish I could capture it for her.”

“Why on earth would you want to recall this hellish night?” Aggie’s confusion clear in her voice.

“Because I know she’d think it would make a lovely painting,” Claire replies with a sigh, an almost happy look on her face as she watched on from the darkened hallway. “Gen would find the beauty in this madness. Since she can’t...we must.” She says confidently with a nod.

“That’s a beautiful point dear. We would all be best to keep it in mind the coming days. I fear this is not the end of the ugliness of recovery.”

“It is not. And we will. We will tell her of this when she’s better. And she will be. But healing from this will be unpleasant. She’s strong but not inhuman. We know what those men did to her, and when she remembers I don’t know how she’ll respond. We could be looking at another wave of rebellion again like last time.” Claire’s lips pursed.

Agatha sighs and slumps. “I hope for everyone’s sake you’re wrong.”

“Oui. So do I.”

Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

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[tespuco]

PotC Liveblog: Dead Man’s Chest

I’d been looking forward to rewatching DMC for some time. It was the movie that canonized my OTP and inspired so many amazing Sparrabeth fics. I fondly recalled seeing it in theaters with my family, my eyes and shipper heart growing bigger and wider with every subtext-laden appearance of Jack’s compass. I remembered feeling personally betrayed by Elizabeth’s death-kiss, like the writers had deliberately buoyed my hopes only to ruthlessly crush them. Unlike CotBP, I had only seen DMC once before, and I couldn’t wait to appreciate the complicated Jack/Elizabeth dynamic with more mature eyes.

Boy, was I disappointed. Not by the Sparrabeth, thank the gods, but by literally everything else.

Is it just me or was this movie composed of a bunch of standalone scenes and set pieces strung together? Did they bring in Tim Burton just to direct the visuals of the interrupted wedding scene? Why does the Turkish prison sequence look like the opening cutscene to a high fantasy RPG videogame with the brightness setting turned down to zero?

OK I laughed at Jack popping out of the coffin and using a femur as a paddle, but I’m confused about everything else

Oh look, the crew’s on the verge of mutiny again, and this time it is Jack’s fault

Listen, I have Ted Elliott’s compass meta tattooed on my heart, but in retrospect the “Why is all the rum gone?” scene was probably too subtle. The audience doesn’t even know at this point how the compass is supposed to work. Maybe if they had the balls to actually include the deleted Sparrabeth scenes in CotBP, Jack’s emotional turmoil wouldn’t have seemed so opaque!

Still, a character being Vexed about their affections/feelings and doing a poor job of managing that vexation is my idea of high romance

(and both Jack and Elizabeth are quite vexed with each other indeed)

I CANNOT believe I had to sit through an uninterrupted half hour of racist filler that does absolutely fuck-all to advance the plot while ticking at least four boxes on my postcolonial bingo card what the fucking fuck

Let’s tally the cinematic sins: unfunny physical comedy in a style that would’ve been more suited to animation; indigenous cannibals speaking in unrealistic, buffoonish gibberish; said cannibals worshiping our hero (and later a dog) as a deity; and worst of all--

All the brown men that Gibbs hired as extras additional crew for the Black Pearl in DMC were put into a separate cage from the recurring white characters from CotBP (btw Anamaria is absent without even a throwaway line of explanation) because apparently even barbaric islanders know and practice segregation

And so segregated, the crew enters the stupidest, most contrived rat race up a cliffside with each other that ends with the brown people’s cage falling into the ravine THEREBY GETTING RID OF ALL THE CHARACTERS OF COLOR IN ONE FELL SWOOP

Also egregious racism aside, I’m put off by the film’s rather cavalier attitude towards gratuitous loss of life? Idk I feel like in the midst of all the action and adventure CotBP knew how to handle death and violence with the appropriate modicum of gravity and horror

Meanwhile on the island Gibbs is just like “oiya we’re standing in cages built from the bones of our former shipmates ha ha”

As for Jack - Jack has yet to save a cat or anything else besides his own skin, so he’s rapidly losing the goodwill he accumulated in the first film

holy shit yet another Elizabeth Swann-related realization about my sexual awakening: her look as a cross-dressing stowaway - pretty, delicate features in a boyish, flat-chested, slender form - is literally my sexuality 

She’s literally pulling the strings of all the men on that ship! What a puppet-master queen

Tia Dalma’s interest in Will and the “touch of destiny” line is an interesting bit of foreshadowing that doesn’t get any payoff in this film. DMC and AWE have been criticized for being impossible to watch as standalone films, but I think there’s something to be said for a universe that strives for internal continuity and demands more than a casual investment in its proceedings (a related but distinct model from the MCU)

If you gave me half a reason to I would ship Jack Sparrow with anybody and everybody. Look at the flirtatious lines and looks he exchanges with Tia Dalma!! Give me that story! (Actually, artaxastra did, twice: once in her standalone Creole!Jack origin story, And All of Them True, and once again in Gods and Heroes, a Jack/Calypso interlude in her Outlaws and Inlaws ‘verse)

Tia Dalma’s acceptance (and release) of Jack’s payment for her services tells me two things about her that I really like: (1) she’s like a magpie that collects interesting miscellany (witty tricksters, cunning pirate lords, undead monkeys). and (2) she’s not interested in caging creatures (the foreshadowing!!)

FINALLY WE GET SOME JACK/ELIZABETH INTERACTION

God bless Keira’s face and acting choices!! The chemistry!! All the little smiles and smirks they share!!

How doth she look at thee? Let me count all the ways: her amused, tentatively credulous smile at Jack’s storytelling and posturing over a magical compass and chest, while Norrington scoffs disbelievingly in the background; her having to bite her lips and walk away before Jack notices her giddiness because she literally cannot handle their flirting; her little laugh as he gently rebuffs the idea that he’s a good man

Also “I have faith in you. Both of you,” were her parting words to Will and here she gets a chance to tell Jack in person yay

Their little dance of “persuasion” is hot and all (Jack literally looks like he has to bite back a groan and whimper), but I’m really here for the banter (“Friendly?” / “Decidedly not.”); they get each other, and, under the right conditions, can communicate so effortlessly

“Why doesn’t your compass work?” - alright so ofc I love the legendary “curiosity” exchange, but I’m so confused by the abrupt transition in their conversation here? Like why didn’t she follow through and tug on that line of inquiry?? The “Because you and I are alike” line that follows makes no logical sense in context (ETA: I guess it could suggest that Elizabeth already knows why the compass doesn't work for him, because he's torn between doing the right thing and the selfish thing... But at this point she doesn't suspect him of lying to her, so...idek)

“You’d never put me in a position that would compromise my honor” - my god what a TEASE my queer heart

Oh, Norrington, what’s happened to you?? What happened to serving others, not just himself?? :(( It kinda confuses me that he goes on about the “dark side of ambition” and the “promise of redemption” when he’s the one who voluntarily resigned from his post...

Norrington carrying both shovels while Jack just poses prettily though lol

JACK’S COMPASS FINALLY WORKS FOR HIM BECAUSE THE TWO THINGS HE WANTS MOST IN THE WORLD--THE CHEST AND ELIZABETH--ARE IN THE SAME PLACE AND HE KNOWS IT

idk I guess some people find the three-way swordfighting scene hilarious but I’m with Elizabeth on this one: men are stupid 

ugh this script makes no sense

I’m so fucking confused by the narrative logic here: if Jones is dead, there’s no one to call off the Kraken?? But isn’t Jones the one calling the Kraken in the first place, to settle Jack’s debt? So if they killed Jones, wouldn’t the debt be null and void? NO JONES, NO KRAKEN, DUUUH.

OK but Jack is really unlikable in this film, last-minute “heroic” acts notwithstanding. Give me fix-it fics please

I mean it’s rather telling that by the time Jack returns to the Pearl there are only enough survivors to fill a single longboat. Oh yes he “saved them all” - the few that were left!!

This script has more holes in it than the Pearl does right now: everyone unquestioningly follows Will’s orders like he’s the captain (what happened to the dork who shouted, “Aye! Avast!”?? And there’s no evidence that since his engagement post-CotBP he’s practiced any sailing)

I mean it’s like no one but Elizabeth even noticed Jack was gone; the moment he comes back Gibbs chirps, “Captain, orders?” as if he never left. This coward just abandoned you all!!!

“It’s only a ship, mate.” - This is actually just the saddest line, and I’m glad Elizabeth was there to witness it because if there’s one thing she took away from their fireside conversation in CotBP it’s that the Black Pearl is more than a ship to Jack; what it really is is freedom, and here Jack’s set to lose both

And that’s what Elizabeth--not the Kraken--definitively takes from Jack: his freedom. Not just his ability to run away from his fate, but also the chance to take a stand and face it. (I like to think that, more than the murderous act itself, is what he finds so hard to forgive post-DMC. The darker Jack in salr323′s oneshot, Perfidy, written post-AWE, articulates this eloquently: “You know nothing of my debt, love, nor of my payment. But had you allowed me a nobler death, my account might have been lighter.”) His last act of defiance entails reclaiming what choice he has left: slipping slickly out of his shackles, hat on, “hello beastie,” into the monster’s maw.

Ugh they could have given Jack’s whole arc with Davy Jones such PATHOS instead of waiting until the very end--he struck a deal with the devil in all his youth and despair and hubris; now the bell is tolling and he realizes 13 years is nothing, no time at all, and he’s not ready to die; not today, not ever--yes it’s selfish and dishonorable (Will’s willing to square the debt of a father he hardly ever knew; he wouldn’t have blinked at paying his own) but how human is that? to fight and run even as the flames lick your heels? 

omg Jack is the jackrabbit

The irony of that eulogy still gives me feelings tho: “Guess that honest streak finally won out.” Elizabeth wrested away Jack’s control over his own story, so now she has to write it for him. When she toasts, “He was a good man,” it’s in both unearned homage and recompense. 

“And the world is a little less bright.” - OK but that’s too much. Moving words from Gibbs, but here it’s like he’s speaking directly to/for the audience, and not in a good way. It’s too obviously meta, and especially out of place in a film where Jack did not shine very bright at all

In-universe, it’s not very believable that two pirates like Pintel and Ragetti--who mutinied against Jack before, without a hint of remorse!--would now risk their lives to save him

Honestly if Disney wanted to include familiar faces/fan favorites in the supporting cast for AWE, they could’ve easily written a more realistic line like, “what the hell do we have to lose?” or some more selfish motive, none of these panegyrics

btw who are the native people standing in the swampwater? holding candles with mournful tears in their eyes?? no seriously who are they??? (I dearly hope such a striking tableau was meant to hint at Jack’s history with Tia Dalma and the residents of this bayou, but the more cynical part of me thinks: “Now hiring: extras of color, to play the part of human candlesticks lit in exaltation of an ambiguously white man” The writers get no benefit of the doubt from me after forcing me to sit through that cannibal island act)

It sounds sadistic of me but seeing how anguished Elizabeth is after claiming she’s not sorry gives me life

She keeps crying, and can’t even bring herself to drink Tia Dalma’s concoction against cold and sorrow! She just fakes a sip, which is such a great little character beat, because it shows she doesn’t think she deserves the remedy! She’ll just have to live with it...

That is, until Will decides he can’t stand the sight of her grief, and opens up Pandora’s box for her despite just catching her passionately kissing another man: “If there was anything to be done to bring him back, Elizabeth...” He really is too good for this world

And Elizabeth MUST know there’s a price, that she’d be staking not just her own life and happiness but her betrothed’s, and yet selfishly, always selfish, she says, “Yes” 

BARBOSSA!!! Still the most epic character reveal ever. I still remember the theater bursting into gasps and applause, good times

[peepingtoad]

¬ romance headcanons. repost; do not reblog!

name:  Jiraiya nickname:  Ero-Sennin, Jira, Raiya, and probably a whole host of others he doesn’t know about.  gender:  Cis male romantic orientation:  Yes sexual orientation:  Yes

preferred pet names:  He likes anything, really. Anything is fine with him, even if it’s mildly insulting, because someone cared enough to give him it. He’ll try and get creative, funny and oddly specific when thinking of pet names for others. They usually end up being more like titles.

relationship status:  Almost always ‘painfully single’ or ‘it’s complicated’

favorite canon ship:  Uhhh. The unrequited love towards Tsunade and how he deals with that is something I love, to be honest, as much as I ship them being happy together. I guess that’s as close to a purely canon ship as we get with him!

favorite non-canon ship:  Sannin OT3 (though is that not basically canon pff), Jira/Oro and Jira/Tsu. Those are my big ones that I came into this loving, tbh, also give me a Sakumo or someone else similarly aged and male for young man Jiraiya to explore his bisexuality with. Like, gimme. Hit me up with that shit. Even though the Sannin get almost nothing in terms of other shinobi their age!

opinion on true love:  He believes it exists, and to be honest he kinda fears it. To him, it’s the sort of unconditional love that will see you do anything for that person, which is scary for someone who lives primarily for himself and has such lofty ideals that he doesn’t want anything to get in the way of. What if the person he loves to that degree is the wrong sort? He’d find it more challenging to stick to his ideals if it came at the detriment of someone he was in love with. But you’ve gotta give him props, because he’d try his best to meet in the middle :P

opinion on love at first sight:  Not love, only lust--though in his excitement at seeing someone particularly eye-catching he might think ‘oh wow, I love her!’ (and let’s face it, it’s usually a ‘her’ because he’s weak to an amazing rack). He does, however, believe it’s possible to feel a spark of interest or intrigue that compels one to find out more about a person. He believes that people can naturally gravitate towards each other through some force that can’t be seen or explained.

how ‘romantic’ are they?  He finds falling into affectionate, lovey-dovey behaviour very easy, because he lives for that ‘honeymoon period’ (which is pretty much the extent of any relationship he has). He likes to buy gifts for love interests and write little poems/love letters for them, so in that sense he’s quite cheesy in his romance. However, it can sometimes come across as pretty shallow because he goes into a relationship with such an ‘all in good fun’ attitude, not seeking anything serious out of it. When he’s truly fallen for someone his love is a lot more quiet and intense, manifesting in ways such as always keeping an eye out for them/potential threats to them at all times, and pretty much bending over backwards to make sure they’re happy. He's romantic to the degree that when separated from his loved one, the strength of his love can feel like Actual Death crushing down on him, and if it existed in their world he’d probably spend long candlelit hours listening to the entirety of Disintegration by The Cure on repeat and pining while writing poetry. And worst thing is, he’ll enjoy the sheer self-indulgence of being so hopelessly in love. So in short, he’s pathetically romantic :’)

ideal physical traits:  Regardless of gender he tends to go for a softer, ‘prettier’ face, but it hasn’t stopped him from making eyes at a handsome manly-man. One preference is long hair over short--on any gender. A huge turn-on for him, again in any gender, is a more shapely hip as opposed to narrow, particularly with a nice dip to the waist. A curving spine with good posture (unlike his own). Smooth skin with minimal hair is a plus. Also... kinda more appearance than bodily trait, but a certain flair in terms of style goes a long way with him.

ideal personality traits: Fun-loving, adventurous, healthily competitive, a sharp sense of humour, passionate about a cause or hobby. Someone who can keep up with him in all his wild impulsiveness and throw aside responsibility, but also rein him in when it’s needed (and possibly even be a little controlling). Somebody with that perfect balance of clinginess/independence. In fact, someone who has a tendency to be cold/aloof can be very appealing to him because it offers him the challenge of getting to their softer centre.

unattractive physical traits:  Honestly, just poor grooming/presentation/hygiene. Unloved hair, nails and skin is a turn-off. Other than that he can easily be attracted to a variety of different bodies/faces.

unattractive personality traits:  Judgemental, harshly critical (particularly of him), close-minded, resistant to trying new things/taking risks. He’s an optimist though, so he’ll often seek out the attractive traits in people and focus on those.

ideal date:  Wine and dine all the way, followed by a nice scenic walk, stargazing (and, date permitting, getting a little frisky somewhere ill-advised).

do they have a type? Not particularly--if he clicks with someone in conversation, chances are he can go from ‘meh’ to ‘would bang’ very quickly.

average relationship length:  Ahahaha. Up to six months, I’d say. When he was in his teens he may have had one or two girlfriends for a year or so, but as he gets older he’s on the road too much to hold down anything long term, and to be honest he doesn’t even want to risk trying.

preferred non-sexual intimacy:  Use him as a chair. Get in his lap, snuggle into his chest, wrap your arms around his neck. Pet him. Pet each other. Face touches. Share baths (though that may well become sexual). Drink together and get all passionate about interests.

commitment level:  Basically nonexistent, without heaps of development. Nothing personal~ (on the other hand, he’s ridiculously committed to his fellow Sannin, in both friendship and if a relationship was to start with either of them. Go fig.)

opinion of public affection:  Fun and sexy, with a partner willing to engage. He loves to show off who he has on his arm. Still, the point of anything more than your typical PDA is to keep it clandestine, to see how much they can work each other up in the most subtle of ways. In general, he tries to restrict it to an arm around the waist/shoulders but he often gets ahead of himself--he might need to be told off for being a little too gropey in public. He really couldn’t care less about seeing others’ PDA! Good on them!

past relationships? He’s not had many meaningful ones, just a looooong string of flings, shorter relationships that fizzled and one night stands. When he was a teen, I think he had a couple of girlfriends until he didn’t, probably was in a relationship with the person he lost his virginity to. In his late teens/early twenties, probably didn’t want to be tied down and experimented with men too (especially tempting when he was sent places far from home). During his longer stints away from Konoha (between his return from Ame and Minato’s death, and again between Minato’s death and coming back to Konoha/meeting Naruto), I suspect he may have held a couple of relationships for a few weeks or months here and there, possibly a few willing booty calls at any given time, but things were all so fucked that his heart wasn’t really in them. In short, Pretty Much Nonexistent!

[adventuesofanescort]

Adventures of an Escort: Vol. II

Opening Scene: 

[animated] *inspired by Sleeping Beauty* Song: Rendition of Disney SB - The Gifts of Beauty & Song / Maleficent Appears / True Love Conquers All 

Madeline dances across the screen, each time reappearing with someone different (alternating between Gabriel & Travis)

Transition:

Screencap of the date, time, & cosmic location in the universe

Loma Linda, California, United States of America, Earth, Milky Way Galaxy, 3rd Plane of Existence

Transition:

Set up the scene with stills from botanical miniature/doll versions *inspired by Hereditary & Dinner with Schmucks taxidermy mouse scenes* 

Main Character: Madeline Ophelia Rusalochka, Age 16-17

Incarnates: Magdalena, Mary Magdalene, Maddie from Hush, Aurora, Venus, Aphrodite, Vesta, Pandora, Athena, Artemis, Lilith, Kali Ma, Eliza from Daughter of Smoke & Bone Series, Rose Quartz from Steven Universe, Snow White, Princess Tiabeanie from Disenchanted, Sophie from Howl’s Moving Castle

Appearance: Lightskint, warm brown loosely curly hair, skinny, innocent school girl appearance 

Seemingly sweet and docile young ballerina and violinist, private catholic student. Trilingual (Hindi, English, and Arabic), works at the library, frequently master-bates in public or with inappropriate items. 

Lives in small renovated shed with her strict, religious parents living in the main house, possibly with a young sister whom she adores. 

Spends her time writing, drawing faeries and mythological characters, and gardening. She keeps an epi-pen by her when doing it because she is deathly allergic to bees. She grows aloe vera to rub on her self harm scars. She does a lot of laundry, hanging clothes on clotheslines.

She has an extremely aggressive side to her, and is diagnosed with mild terrets, OCD (strict daily routine down to the minute, intrusive thoughts, counting steps, & self harm) & paranoid schizophrenia (voices constantly whispering that They are watching, safety advice and exit strategies, inappropriately sexual and blasphemous thoughts, nonsensical secrets of the universe, telling her that she is a prophet and a descendant of gods, etc). 

Madeline hallucinates messages from Heaven coming from the lips of those around her, in random moments, so she has a hard time following conversations or knowing what is and is not reality - often seems standoffish because she’ll choose to just not respond to people if she doesn’t trust herself to know exactly what they said. 

She has a constantly feeling of being watched and actually is by fae, creepers, & paranormal phenonemon. She thinks she has 10 different stalkers in any given moment, and does experience strange attacks from random men/zombie hallucinations. Scary paranormal things are always happening to her, with dark figures in the corners of her room when she steps in, and faces popping out at her when she turns the lights on, plus people in the rearview mirror of her car smiling, etc. She makes wards to hang around her house and garden, and frequently smudges, prays, and casts spells for protection. 

She has two best friends - they spend time smoking weed at the lake and exploring the orange, pomegranate, and avocado groves. 

She drives distractedly throughout the entire film, and the audience feels extreme tension in the anticipation for her to crash, but she never does.

She’s in a lame boring relationship with her goody-two-shoes neighbor Gabriel whom she has known forever. He’s always trying to initiate awkward car sex but she doesn’t want to take his virginity, so she always stops him.  

Gabriel, Age: 16

Incarnates: Angel Gabriel, Dionysus, Jesus, Krishna

She cheats on him for money during “after school tutoring sessions” with her Latin teacher who's into BDSM. He kills himself on her 17th birthday. 

*Smiley Library where Madeline works* 

Notes: there is scary engraved faces and lions heads in the pillars and a beautiful garden courtyard* Best location ever. 

When her teacher dies, she takes up private violin lessons during that time lost instead. She begins weekly violin lessons from Travis, and instantly develops a crush on him - to which he pays little to no mind. 

Travis, Age: 23 

Alias: Lucifer, The Morning Star, The Angel Michael, Ares, Mercury

Personality: Aggressive, mysterious, abusive, extremely acceptive, protective & loving. 

One day, Madeline sleeps outside in the tent. She falls asleep stargazing, and wakes up in sleep paralysis with lots of yellow eyes staring in from above the tent. There is a creak in the gate and all of their heads turn abruptly towards the noise, and they scatter. She is still unable to move when someone or something sneaks in to the tent and rapes her. She passes out, and is unsure in the morning if it really happened. Walking back to her home from the backyard, she is startled by her neighbor Gabriel who grabs her by the wrist. They ride to school together. 

In her music lesson later on, Travis notices a bruise on her wrist. He asks about it, and she says her neighbor did grab her there earlier, but she doesn’t know and begins to cry. He sits beside her and consoles her. She’s wearing a tea length dress, and he begins starts touching her thighs, slowly hiking it up and rubbing on her. As her sobs subside, he notices more bruises between her legs, and pauses. He tells her “That’s enough [crying]. We only have 5 minutes left of class. Play.” She sniffles, straightens her, regains composure back. He fingers her while she cries silent tears. 

They begin an extremely physical relationship, violent and sexual. He trains her to reach full blown orgasms while playing the violin impeccably. At times he’ll slap and taunt her when he’s angry or if he’s annoyed at her, and she’ll fly at him punching and slapping until he restrains her. He sometimes makes weird and ominous comments like “You’ve always been mine” or “You’ve always been such a fighter” as if he's known her for a long time. 

She likes him because he keeps her grounded, and she never has to pretend anything around him. He also seems to see and hear both her schizophrenic thoughts and the paranormal phenomena around her. He even suspiciously seems to be influencing, if not causing them, as it is all significantly less active when he’s around. But above all, he is her protector and one of the only people she views as an equal, as she has a habit of expressing subtle narcissism and vanity (despite glaringly uncouth thoughts of superiority). 

He seems to love her more than anyone else, akin to an extremely protective brother’s love. He operates as if him loving her is a fact of the universe and possibly an obligation, rather than a feeling or conscious choice, which she finds comfort and security (permanence) in. 

Her parents can never know she and Travis are together. The audience feels the constant anxiety/dread of not knowing when they are going to get caught. 

Her parents eventually do find out and are disillusioned and disgusted by her nature. They put her in sex addiction counseling and intensive therapy. 

During her first solo therapy session, her psychologist claims to be a psychic and inserts other misplaced spiritual things into the conversation. At the end of the session, the therapist gives her a tarot reading on her past, present, and future. She says Madeline is of the highest of royalty. She is in grave and targeted danger. And in her future lies death & self destruction, from which creation will surely be borne. 

She tells her things about all directions of time existing stacked on top of each other, and some of her words echo the thoughts the voices tell her. She lives creeped out. 

One night, Madeline experiences extreme stomach pains and cramps. After hours of pacing, pain, and debating if she should go and get help - the pain finally breaks. She’s sitting on the toilet, trying to push out poop it seems, when her eyes suddenly widen and she abruptly scoots herself from the seat. 

Madeline gives birth on the floor, and there is a graphic splat/thump of the bloody tiny stillborn baby that comes out of her. The baby moves a little, but she doesn’t care/pretends not to notice.

She buries the child in a decorated shoebox in the garden backyard. In the morning, she finds the plot dug up in an unnaturally neat circle with a ring around it, and a perfect mound of dirt next to it. The shovel is shown in the middle of the garden, thrown unceremoniously. She plants Lilly of the Valley (Mary’s Tears) there.

Note: Lily of the valley is a symbol of humility in religious painting. It is considered the sign of Christ's second coming. The power of people to envision a better world was also attributed to the lily of the valley.

It is night. Madeline is holding a small white bear, looking off into the distance expressionless, eyes glossy with unshed tears. Travis appears at her door. He immediately knows that she isn’t pregnant anymore, and demands answers. She doesn’t reply, ignoring him and steeling herself. He pushes her off the bed, asking what did she do over and over. He gets on top of her, screaming at her with his lips inches from her ear, spit flying. She kicks and struggles, trying to move her face back and forth and using her hands to protect and make space between them. He finally gets off of her, and she scrambles up, wiping hair and sweat and spit from her face. She’s out of breath, disheveled, and her bottom lip is torn and bloody. He looks at her and steps forward. She steps back and he punches a hole in the door, making her jump. She grabs her shovel, brandishing it, and tells him to get the fuck out.

Madeline takes up boxing, 

Transition: 3 months later caption, 11am. Pretty embellished wreath or wood panel covers the hole Travis made. Madeline opens the door and the text falls away. 

She goes into her backyard, wrapping up her fists, and using a punching bag and stand in her backyard. She puts on music and goes ham, quieting out the rest of the world. Creatures lurk at the edges of the garden, approaching slowly, getting closer as the song crescendos. There is a looming figure about to reach out and touch her, with two smaller dark figures crouching in its wake. Madeline spins around, punching the hair, but catching nothing. She yanks out her headphones. She is alone, all is still. She looks around, angry and uneasy. The beautiful noises of nature pick up around her. The wind begins to roar, making the chimes sing chaotically. She looks to find a nebulous sky with two moons. She blinks and the chaos ends abruptly. The sky is normal, and all is calm once again. But it is now night. The caption says 6pm. 

Scene ends abruptly.

She is trying to unlock her door, and pauses - listening to her sister laugh from inside the house. Her eyes soften at the noises, and then widen again just as a gloved hand claps around her mouth and nose, covering it with white cloth. She falls limp and someone picks her up her slack, throwing her into the passenger seat of a security vehicle. She catches a glimpse of the man right before she passes out. It’s her weed dealer, who’s business is actually a front for a human trafficking ring. 

Setting: 12123 South Figueroa.

She comes to, alone in a room, wearing a lacey nightgown. There are vicious ghosts in the room that scare her, and she goes running out of the room to the outside. She takes in her surroundings for a moment until she sees and hears terrifying zombie sounds approaching her. She’s chased up the stairs and runs into an apartment unit, walking in on Travis violently fucking a prostitute. The weed man bursts in, apologizes respectfully to him by name, and yanks her out of the room. He tells her they don’t have much time and he tries to make her look presentable. Women and girls are all standing uniformly down the apartment stairs, like mannequin displays. Weed man positions Madeline on a step, and slaps her, telling her to stay still and look pretty or else. He yanks her hair from her ponytail. 

A black cars rolls up the driveway and an old fat man climbs out of the backseat. Wheelman schmoozes, talking up the girls, and taking him through the list of girls - they are all named after a particular goddess. Weedman introduces Madeline as Aphrodite.  Inspecting his options, the man scans the girl’s bodies and settles on Madeline. 

Weedman grabs her and pushes her inside a unit with him, telling her to play nice. 

The old man immediately starts kissing on her. He sits her on the bed and begins to have his way with her. She has seemed catatonic since seeing Travis. As things escalate, and he begins to be rough with her. She wakes up a little and starts to protest, but sensual choking turns to strangling as the song rages on. 

Madeline struggles with all her power. The strangling lasts for two minutes in an extremely uncomfortable and gruesome fight for her life. 

She dies as the song comes to an end. 

The Funeral 

Song: Dream Sweet in Sea Major by Miracle Musical 

Madeline’s body is in glass coffin placed in the middle of a greenhouse cathedral. The audience has only a view of her and the backs of funeral goer’s heads, who are sitting in single chairs arranged in ominously straight lines. The presence of flailing charred bodies struggling beneath the chairs flickers in and out.

Credits (Funeral Contin’d):

[animated] same song plays as credits roll

Madeline’s glass coffin is in the middle of a meadow. Nymphs, fae, animals, dwarves, the trees, and other mythological figures slowly start appearing at the edges of the clearing. More creatures show up, tentatively entering the foray and paying respects to her. A teen girl with dark hair stands looking aloof. A small blonde haired boy in a white cloth shirt and too-small pants hops from foot to foot near her. 

A dark figure, who was before almost imperceptible, is watching from the sidelines head bent, eyes intent on Madeline’s face. He steps into the clearing and every head turns her way. He spreads his black wings and holds the stance, as the song reaches a crescendo: “above a blinding star” (5:37)

The screen goes dark and all is silent for a moment. 

Easter Egg

Screencap of the date, time, & planetary & universal location in the universe: Soddom & Gamora, Gaia, Olympia, 5th Plane of Existence

[not animated] The screen opens from the middle, revealing a close up of freckles. The picture zooms out to reveal Magdalena in her pink haired glory sitting on a ledge like a gargoyle, with her huge wings folded behind her. She is scanning the scene below her, eyes narrowed. She hones in on something and gets ready to leap off her platform.

The screen goes dark. The end. 

[like-a-bag-of-potatoes]

Live Fast, Die Slow - Part Three

A/N: This is written for @spnangstbingo, the third part in this series. Some parts of this will not be a square from angst bingo, but most will. Feedback is ALWAYS highly appreciated. Sometimes when I'm going through a writers funk, I go back an I look at previous comments and feedback, and it helps me get inspired again. Betaed by the lovely @thorne93.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Characters: Reader, Dean, Bobby, John.

Square Filled: Mechanic AU

Warnings: Angst, talk about injuries, cliffhanger. 

Wordcount: 2730

Itallics are flashbacks

Catch up HERE

By the time February ended, I was no longer able to keep the press off my back, I had to make a statement and with that a decision whether or not I'd go back to competing. I still hadn't been in the driverseat of a car, and frankly, I was scared to death to go back.

After a lot of thinking and consulting with Bobby, I decided to try. Even if the mere thought of being back in a car scared me, the thought of never going back was even scarier. I had worked so hard, and so had Bobby, John and everyone else on my team, and I wasn't about to let them down. I sat down at a press conference and I told them that I was ready to start training, and that we would see if I could make it back to where I was when I crashed.

“You know, sooner or later you have to go back to the track,” Bobby said from behind his newspaper.

“Can we go today?” you asked, feeling the nerves rising in you before you had even said the words out loud.

He lowered the paper to look at you, a subtle smile hiding under his unkempt beard. “Absolutely,” he said excitedly.

You stood inside of your garage, next to your new car, and looked out onto the empty track. It was strange how a place that had given you so much solace over the years now brought nothing but fear. You couldn't see the turn where you had crashed, but you knew that it would take you only ten short steps forward and it would come into view. The sound of Bobby and John's voices drowned out as you took your first step forward. This wasn't just about stepping back onto a track where you had an accident, this was about taking back something that the crash took from you, this was the first step in taking control of your fear.

Bobby and John had stopped talking as they watched you walk onto the tarmac, your head hung low, your eyes focused on the spot right in front of your feet, your hands in your pockets. Your heart pounding in your chest so hard that it made your ears ring, your blood feeling like ice as it made its way through your veins. Never had you felt a paralyzing fear like that before.

With one last deep breath you turned your head to look at the spot where you crashed, and the instant your eyes landed on the turn you could hear the sound of your screeching tires followed by a loud crash in your mind. Both Bobby and John where paying close attention to you and they could see you flinch. It was hard for both men to watch you, but they knew this was something you needed to do on your own.

Your legs felt heavier than they had done during your physical therapy as you walked towards the place where it had all happened. The turn felt like it was a million miles away, but at the same time it was too close. As your legs carried you across the track you tried to keep your eyes on anything but the wall you had landed in. You listened to the birds chirping in the trees, your nose taking in the smell of rubber and gasoline, your eyes focused on the small flowers growing in the grass in between the tarmac on the track.

You used to feel more at home here than in your own apartment, you used to spend more time here than in your own apartment. You used to love this place more than anything and anywhere else in the world. You didn't anymore though.

Now this was a place that nearly took your life. A place that deformed you, both physically and mentally. This place that once felt like home was tainted, ruined, broken. And so were you.

Standing in front of the concrete wall it felt like all the air was sucked from your lungs. In your mind you saw your car hit the wall, over and over again. One hand ran over the creases on the wall that your car had made, stopping only when they hit a spot with black paint on it. You subconsciously rubbed the left side of your face that was held together by steel plates. There where creases on your face just like the wall from the surgical scars, ones that would probably never fade completely.

You had never been concerned about the way you looked, it had always been about the sport for you, about the car and about the race, never about your appearance, but now… the scars on your face was all you could see when you looked in the mirror. In some ways you felt like that was what you had been reduced to, like that had become your new identity, the way the world saw you.

In your mind you where no longer the best female race car driver in America, you where the girl that crashed. And it was literally written all over your face.

You fell to your knees and hid your face in your hands as you let the tears fall from your eyes. How long you sat there, you didn't know, but after a while you could feel a large, heavy jacket being wrapped around your shoulders before a strong hand landed on your back.

You didn't need to look up to see who it was, you would recognize the smell of that jacket and the comfort of that touch anywhere. He didn't say anything, he just sat there next to you and rubbed soothing circles on your back as the quiet sobs raced through your body.

Eventually you sat back on your heels and your eyes met the familiarity and the safety of Dean's emerald gaze. There was a mixture of compassion and worry on his handsome face that instantly filled you with guilt.

“Thank you,” you said meekly, averting your eyes from his as you moved to sit on your ass.

“Anytime,” he said with a slight smile as he mirrored your movements.

He sat so close that your shoulders were touching, and without thinking you leaned into him and rested your head on his shoulder. It felt so natural, so comforting, and for a little while you let your guard down and accepted the safety that he brought you.

I didn't make it into my car that day, or the following week for that matter. I had to find a way to get comfortable just putting my feet on that track before I could jump back in the driver’s seat of my car. I didn't speak anymore with Dean after our little moment either. I just couldn't look into his eyes and pretend like it didn't happen, and I certainly couldn't have a conversation with him about it, so I did the very mature thing, and ignored him.

The next Monday was the first time I got inside of my new car. John and his team had done a terrific job on it, it looked and preformed just like my old car had done which was strangely comforting and terrifying at the same time.

I didn't drive it that day. I sat in the car for about half an hour with the engine running, clutching the wheel until my fingers grew numb, but I could not will myself to put my foot on the throttle. Same thing happened the day after, and the day after that. It didn't feel like it was getting any better, it didn't feel like I was getting any better, and it just fuled my ever growing anger.

It was Wednesday evening and I was back in my small apartment, beating myself up for being such a coward, when Dean showed up at my door.

Dean was looking up and down the hallway as he waited for you to open the door. You were watching him through the little peephole in your door while strongly considering not opening up. Eventually you did though, the curiosity as to why he was there getting the best of you.

“Hey,” he said with a soft smile as you opened the door.

“Hi.” You stepped aside to let him inside, and he took you up on the silent invitation.

For a moment the two of you just stood there, looking at each other in silence as if neither of you knew what to say to start a conversation.

“What are you doing here, Dean?” you finally asked with a sigh. Keeping him away from you was going to be really hard if he didn't stop showing up at random all the time.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said with an apologetic tone in his voice. “I know you don't want me here, (YN), but I just have to get this off my chest. If you just listen to me I'll promise I'll leave you alone afterwards.”

“Okay,” you said while turning on your heel and headed back to your living room. “Can I get you anything?” you asked as he took a seat on your couch.

“No, thank you,” he said.

You took a seat on a chair facing the couch as you waited for whatever came next. This could be anything. It could be Dean yelling at you for how you treated him. It could be about wanting to get back together. It could be about him giving up on you completely… it could be anything and you really just needed him to get to the point already.

“I was let go from my job last week,” he started, keeping his eyes on the floor. “I don't know if Bobby told you…”

“No he didn't,” you interrupted.

“Anyway. I started applying for new jobs and earlier today I got an offer,” he finished, finally looking up at you.

“Well, that's good isn't it?” you asked, confused as to why he seemed so gloomy.

“It's in Florida.”

The last words broke your heart. You had no right to feel that way, it was you that had pushed him away, and with that you had given up your right to feel betrayed right now. Florida was basically as far away from you as he could get without leaving the country. Had you really driven him that far away?

“Wow. That's gonna be one hell of a commute,” you joked, hoping to lighten the mood, but failing miserably.

“They need an answer by the end of tomorrow,” he continued, ignoring your little joke.

“Are you going to take it?”

Dean fell silent for a while after that, his jaw clenching as he searched for words to offer you next.

“Dean,” you pushed softly after a while.

“It's a good job,” he said, getting to his feet before he started pacing the floor, “and it's great money,” he continued to reason.

“Okay,” you dragged. This was it. He was actually going to move to the other side of the country. Your entire body filled with fear as you waited for him to continue his reasoning, your eyes blown wide as you followed his every move.

“And right now I have nothing keeping me here,” he said, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second.

“What about John and Sam?” you asked, your heart hammering in your chest as you screamed in your mind ‘what about me?’.

“Sam is busy with school and Dad is busy at work. Besides, with the pay their offering me I can afford to fly back here every now and then,” he said.

You couldn't get a read on him, which frustrated you. There was no way for you to know if this was something he was happy about, something he wanted, something he didn't want.

“Why are you telling me this, Dean?” Was he there to say goodbye? Was this the last time you were going to see him?

“Because I need to know where I stand with you before I make a decision,” he blurted out, probably a little louder than he intended. “I know that isn't fair to you, and I know that I have no right asking you this, and I know that you’re still trying to get back to normal, but I can't go to Florida if there is even a little sliver of hope for us,” he rambled. “I need you to tell me that I can go, that we are done.”

He looked so defeated as he said the last words and you could feel the sting behind your eyes as the lump in your throat grew. His words confused you. Was he here because he wanted you to ask him to stay, or tell him to go?

“Oh,” was all you could think of to say. It felt like all the air had been pulled from your lungs. Sending Dean away once was hard enough, but twice? Maybe you owed him this though. Maybe this was one way for you to start making up for how you had treated him. “It sounds like a great opportunity,” you said with as much conviction as you could, even if it took all the strength you had.

“Right,” he said with a slight nod of his head like this wasn't what he wanted to hear right now.

“I'm sorry if that's not what you came here for,” you said, getting to your feet and stepping a little closer to him.

“No… it's fine,” he tried to assure, but the hurt in his voice was evident.

“I wish things could be different,” you offered.

“But they’re not,” he shot in before you could say anything else.

The two of you stood there for a moment, eyes locked, just a few feet apart, both searching for lost words. This was it. This was really it. Dean was about to walk out of your life forever. You had wished for this, you had asked for this when you laid shackled to a hospital bed, you had begged him to leave and he had obeyed. He had respected your decision and he had given you space. All of these things he had done because he loved you, because he hoped that if he gave you what you wanted, you would somehow find your way back to him at some point. He was ready and willing to wait for you as long as it took.

  But you had done what you did out of love as well. You didn't want him to feel like he was trapped with you, that he had to stick around because you were going through something so difficult. You didn't want him to feel obligated to drive you too and from your appointments and help you out with day to day chores while you recovered. You didn't want him to have to look at the person he loved and see how completely she had changed, both physically and mentally.

“I better get going,” Dean said eventually, pointing his thumb over his shoulder towards the door.

“Yeah,” you said with a sigh.

You followed him to the door and opened it up for him, leaning against it with your hand on the knob. There was nothing more to say to him, so you remained quiet.

“I'm sorry things ended like they did,” he said, probably surprising himself as much as you.

“I am too, Dean. You were nothing but good to me, and I treated you badly. For that I am sorry,” you said.

“Can I just ask you…. Why did you break up with me?”

“I don't know,” you lied. “I did a lot of things I'm not too proud of,” you admitted.

Dean just bobbed his head as he turned towards the open door again. “Goodbye, (YN).”

You watched him as he passed you and stepped through the door, his head hung low on his shoulder as he walked away from you.

“Dean?” you almost yelled, your voice startling even you. He turned around, his emerald green eyes filled with sorrow. “Don't go,” you whispered, so low that you weren't sure he heard you.

The silence that followed was deafening, and the next few seconds proved to be the longest of your life.

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[theolddarkmachine]

I’ll Take the Blame, You Take My Conscience- Ch. 7

“You love him.”

It wasn’t a question. Panic burned the back of Shiro’s throat as his eyes widened at the statement. He had known his feelings for Keith for some time now, but he knew better than to act on it, aware that he was nothing more than a friend in his best friend’s eyes. It was better for everyone if he just kept it to himself. At least, that’s what he had thought. Then he’d started noticing small things, like how sometimes Keith would let his hands linger on his skin for a fraction longer than he needed to, or how he could feel his gaze tracing the long line of his body when he thought Shiro wouldn’t notice. He’d been planning on telling Keith how he felt at the party. It was amazing how quickly things could change.

“Let him go, Shiro. He’ll need a tool, not a lover. And your love will only make him weak.”

AKA the one where Keith is the leader of a Yakuza clan, Shiro is his ever loyal tool, and they’re caught in a gang war.

Amazing commission by prllnce!

Previous Chapters

AO3

AND I'M BACK! Honestly, I'm never gonna wonder if any of my chapter plans are gonna be long enough or not, because they always end up being sooooo long. Oops. Fun drinking game: Take a drink every time I use repetition. haha just kidding please dont do that you may die

Helpful terms: Sumiyoshi-kai- The second largest Yakuza family. Rivals of the Yamaguchi-gumi family. Shinku no Raion- Keith's clan. Means Crimson Lions. A clan in the Sumiyoshi-kai family. Oyabun- Clan leader. Saiko-komon- Chief advisor to oyabun. Waka gashira- Middle men between oyabun and clan members. Kobun- Clan members

*************************

The hospital room was shrouded in darkness and filled with the sharp scent of antiseptic and the solitary sound of Shiro’s heartbeat. Keith sat beside the bed, body slouched against the hardened synthetic cushioning of a generic recliner, eyes veiled with the shadows of exhaustion. It had been five days since the rescue, and of those 120 hours, Keith had slept a total of 15 of them, most of them coming only when his body forcibly shut itself down long enough to recharge to get him through another day of sitting at Shiro’s side.

Adrenaline and pure, unadulterated fear had fueled him through the first 24 hours as he and the rest of his waka gashira had sat in the too bright waiting room. They were battery acid in his veins as their energy made him buzz against the confines of his skin as he counted the minutes that passed. Each tick of the clock had been another boxcutter between his ribs as the surgeons worked on Shiro, the blades digging deeper and deeper into his skin until he felt he’d bleed out. That same volatile combination of acid and blades was what had caused him to push Shiro’s doctor against a wall when he’d finally emerged and told him only family was allowed to visit in the ICU.

I am his fucking family, he’d spat, words nothing but razorblades and barbed wire as he’d pressed his forearm into the man’s throat.

Keith rubbed a tired hand over his eyes to push down the vision of the doctor’s purpling face as he’d stared at him in fear. After being pulled off by Hunk and Pidge, Lance had pulled the surgeon to the side flashing an apologetic smile and a wad of money that the doctor quickly pocketed before begrudgingly leading them towards where Shiro was.

You’ll have full visitation rights, he’d stuttered as he’d eyed Keith as if he was a feral beast before he disappeared. Each time he’d returned since, he had given the oyabun that very same stare as if he wasn’t sure Keith would be able to keep himself from attacking again.

Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure either.

The exhaustion and fear had worked his nerves until they were nothing but raw, frayed ends that had Keith constantly dangling over the edge of his own sanity. It was the exact reason he found himself alone now, having already lashed out at his companions as if they had anything to do with Shiro’s dormant condition. Echoes of their raised voices still rang in his ears as he’d spat acid filled nonsense, seeking only to destroy whatever it was his words could hit. It didn’t come as a shock when they finally stormed out, one-by-one, each throwing one last lingering look over their shoulder before their forms disappeared through the door. He knew they kept at least one in the waiting room at all times in case any trouble should arise, but none of them had returned since, leaving him alone with nothing but his thoughts and the quiet of Shiro’s dimly lit room.

The silence was deafening the longer he sat there, watching the rise and fall of his saiko-komon’s breath and keeping track of the sharp spikes on the heart monitor.

It’s just a matter of waiting now, the doctor had explained when Keith had asked why he still hadn’t awoken. There was no way of knowing for certain what traumas Shiro had been through, x-rays and CT scans only showing the physical damage. It was the mental traumas that kept him deep within sleep as his body attempted to protect him from the agony he had been through. So Keith waited, fear and anger forming a deadly combination in his veins as he sat dutifully at Shiro’s side keeping time by nothing else than the beeping that echoed off the bare white walls.

“C’mon, Takashi,” he breathed, placing a careful hand over his best friend’s, trying to ignore how cool it felt under his touch. “Come back to me.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

His own heart beat painfully in his chest as Shiro continued to lay as still as the dead, no other proof that he was alive other than the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. Keith’s vision started to swim in and out of focus as he started to count the breaths, the room falling way around him as he allowed himself to fall into a trance.

Rise. Fall. One.

Rise. Fall. Two.

Rise. Fall. Three.

In a perfect world, Keith would never understand the kind of oppressive weight that came from waiting. It was a heavy stone on his shoulders, draining his energy and filling him with all the thoughts of things unsaid that stood between him and his best friend. His fingers tightened around the cool hand under his as he bit back the frustrated sound that was quickly rising in his throat. If only there was something he could do. He’d kick and scream and kill whoever he needed to if it meant he could pull Shiro from deep within himself.

“Come back to me.” The words were fragile and cracked as they dripped from his lips like glass shards.

The sharp rap of knuckles against the door startled him as he jumped back from the bed, spine hitting the back of the seat as he pulled his hand away from Shiro’s.

“Now what did you do to the hospital staff?” A familiar voice asked, accent lilting over the words filled with curiosity and subtle humor. As his heart calmed, Keith couldn’t stop the weak smile that tugged on the corners of his lips as he turned his attention to the doorway.

“Nothing they won’t recover from,” he rumbled, eyes appraising the red-haired man that was striding into the room. It had been years since Keith had seen Coran. After Daiki’s death, the former saiko-komon had become a weak shadow of what he had once been, having lost the sun that had made him strong. He’d offered only to stay with the clan long enough to help settle the new oyabun into his position before stepping aside for Shiro to take his place. The request of a mutual excommunication from the clan was one Keith was more than happy to give him as one of his first duties as the Shinku no Raion’s head. Coran had earned the peace after all he had given to the clan, and all he had lost. When he’d last walked out of the temple, leaving nothing behind but a weary smile cast over his shoulder as he went, the older man had looked tired. The kind of tired that turned men into card houses that could be knocked down by the first breeze. Keith hadn’t recognized the man that had left. He had become a perfect stranger, only familiar thanks to the comfortable foreign tone of his voice and his copper colored hair.

Standing before him now, he almost looked as if he were whole again, standing taller against the the hospital room backdrop. Though grey tarnished the sides of his ruddy hair, his azure eyes had regained a hint of the spark that they’d once carried when he’d stood side-by-side with his father.  The mere sight of him mad Keith feel like a child again, looking up at his father’s righthand man with admiration as he waited for Coran to tell him what to do. For just a moment, he allowed himself to imagine that nothing had changed, and that his father would still come striding in with all the answers that would lead his lost soul.

“I’m sure they would beg to differ. That doctor about cried when I let him know who I was here to see,” Coran replied with a small chuckle, stopping just on the opposite side of Shiro’s bed. It sounded strained, almost as if the older man had questioned at the last second if laughter was welcome in the room. Keith watched as he looked sadly over the sleeping Raion between them, noting the way the small laugh died on his lips and his breath turned sharp when his gaze landed on the stump of Shiro’s arm.

“They tried to keep me from him.” He said it as if it was the only reason he had needed, all too aware of how it would sound to the former saiko-komon. At one point he might have cared. The ticks of a heart beating filled the silence as they both waited for the other to speak over the building intensity between them. It was the type of quiet that preceded a lecture, filled to the brim with a calmness befitting the moments before a storm.

“I heard about the rescue,” Coran finally said, taking the initiative as he turned his attention back to the oyabun. Keith could tell by the way his shoulders tensed that he could see the dark circles under his eyes. They stood so angrily against the pallor of his skin that even he had started to avoid reflective surfaces to keep from seeing them. He wasn’t sure if it was the pitying look that they warranted or the words the ex-Raion had spoken that put him on edge, pushing more acid into his mouth and coating his teeth with it. His eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest.

“You know, when you’d asked to leave the clan, I had been under the impression you were cutting ties with everyone.” Keith’s voice was flat as the terseness of his exhaustion turned the words into blades. Another pregnant pause stretched before them as Coran sighed, raising his palms in the universal sign of surrender.

“The last time Shiro came to the hospital instead of just being seen by the doctors at the temple was when I brought him here just after I found him,” he said, speaking slowly as if Keith was an animal he was trying to calm. “I was still listed as his emergency contact in the system, and I saw Lance just now in the hall.”

It was a perfectly good explanation, yet he still felt the adrenaline stirring low in his gut, filling his body with the urge to fight. Keith gave a curt nod, not trusting himself to speak for fear his tone would be filled with the fangs he’d been unable to sheath since arriving at the hospital.

“You two always were inseparable,” Coran continued, a ruddy curl falling over his forehead as he looked fondly between Shiro and Keith, seeing them as they once had been and not as they were now. To an outsider, he may have even looked like the father neither of them had anymore. A small shudder in his chest caused his breath to hitch ever so slightly. They both ignored the sound it made over the sound of the machinery attached to their companion.

“That’s what it means to be a part of the Shinku no Raion. Even now, we would protect you if you wanted it.” Eyebrow quirked, he watched Coran like a guard dog waiting for any false move that would justify an attack. Coran’s shoulders tensed, alerting him to the fact that something was on the older man’s mind, and the fanged beast within his chest already knew it didn’t want to hear what it was he had to say.

“What you did wasn’t protection, Keith. It was revenge.” His truth revealed itself in those three words, shining a spotlight on the monster that had nestled itself deep within Keith’s skin and controlled his every move since Shiro had been taken. It was an ugly, snarled thing that had bred nothing but fury into his veins. Even now, he felt it snapping at the confines of his ribcage. He tried to ignore the sting of betrayal as he imagined what his waka gashira must have told him.

I don’t even recognize him anymore.

He’s a monster.

He’s a killer.

“They haven’t seen my vengeance yet,” he snarled, thrusting the sting of the imagined words into his voice. Keith’s tone was clipped, leaving no room for anything else to be said. Lance, Pidge and Hunk had all already made their cases on the same point. It was what had created the divide between them before he’d forcibly pushed them away. There was nothing that could be said now, the monster already had his mind made up. With the location Hunk had gathered at the warehouse, he would be able to end this war once and for all. Zarkon had a debt, and he would pay it with his life. His thoughts were made of metal and blood as he glared up at the former Raion, jaw set in defiance.

“Just,” Coran’s voice faltered. “Don’t do anything crazy.” Worry nestled deep in his tone as he dropped his gaze. That one word made Keith’s hackles raise. Crazy. Shoulders tensing and nails cutting into his palms as his fingers curled into fists, he glared at the older man, unable to push back the angry fires that were raging within him like hatred powered furnaces.

“Crazy would be letting the Akuma get away with what they did to him.” The words were shrapnel, looking for the soft flesh of any that lay in their way. Hidden within the depths of his anger, he knew his fury was misplaced, only lashing out at Coran for being the only person there to receive it, but he couldn’t stop himself as he coated his tongue with acid.

“Daiki would not have wanted this. He would not have wanted the Raion to fall victim to your revenge.” Coran’s statement was a well aimed arrow that landed its mark. It burrowed deep inside Keith’s heart as if meant to destroy, seizing his breath as he stared at the ex-clansman just on the other side of Shiro’s bed. Keith knew how Daiki would have done things. He could always feel his father’s shadow looming over him like a phantom reminder of everything he needed to be. Everything he did was with Daiki’s legacy in mind, but this was different. The Akuma had already taken someone he loved from him once. He would not allow them to take another. Lashing out like a dog backed into a corner, he growled out his response.

“My father is dead, and because of his inability to finish things, Shiro nearly was too.” It was all venom as he spoke. “I will do what needs to be done to protect what is mine, and any who disagree are not welcome here.”

The dismissal was harsh, hanging over their heads like a guillotine as the oyabun averted his glare down to the man that lay between them, trying to find anything that would anchor the rage rising dangerously behind his sternum. Keith could feel the way Coran’s gaze bore into him as he trained his eyes on the IV nestled in Shiro’s arm. He didn’t need to look to see the way the older man’s mouth would be twisted downward in thought, worried disapproval muddying the blue of his eyes. It was the same look he’d grown all too familiar with during his early teen years when he went through what Shiro had deemed as Keith’s Rowdy Years. The burn of his concerned displeasure was hot on his skin as the steady beat of Shiro’s heart filled the divide that stood between them. Keith knew he would regret the way he spoke later, regretted it already as he heard the resigned sigh and the sound of Coran turning to leave. Tears stung the corner of his eyes as he stared, unblinking, at the tubing that tethered Shiro to saline and pain killers. The older man had to understand the feeling of the dying star that was filling him with radiation. Keith had seen the way Coran had mutated before their eyes after his father’s death.

He must understand why he had to do what needed to be done.

“Be careful, Keith,” the older man said, voice thin as paper as he spoke from the doorway. “Love can turn people into monsters as easily as hate.” Coran’s footsteps faded with the words as he left the room, leaving Keith alone with nothing more than the sound of the heart monitor and his own breathing.

“It’s too late,” he whispered to the empty room. Time passed indefinitely, lost on him as he replayed Coran’s words over and over in his mind. They were angry spirits sitting on his shoulders, their claws sunk deep into his shoulders as they pushed down into him in an attempt to crush him into the ground.

Keith had been born into a world of monsters. Had been trained by the former saiko-komon’s own hand to be one himself. It was an inevitability that he would become one, the certainty of it as obvious as the color of the sky or the changing of the seasons. All he had needed was a catalyst for him to shed the humanity his father had believed in so deeply. His breath hitched as he ruminated on the four letter spark that had lit the fuse.

Love.

Whether it had been hours or minutes that passed, he was unsure as his eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion and the weight of his revenge. Sighing deeply, he lowered his forearms against the mattress of Shiro’s bed as if pushed down by the burden of his thoughts. Dropping his head onto the crook of his arm, ear pressed into his flesh, he let his gaze take stock of his best friend’s sleeping form before settling on the fingers just inches from his elbow. Glimpses of memories past danced over his vision as he saw those very same fingertips pressed to the bow of his lips as he chastely kissed them.

Those same fingers digging into his hips, hard enough to bruise.

Those fingers caressing the sharp peak of his cheek.

Keith’s breath wobbled as he blew it out with an unsteady huff, his eyes fluttering shut at the thought of the ghost touches. Shiro would wake up soon, he thought to himself as the room started to slip away into darkness.

He needed to wake up soon, and when he did, he would be okay. Then I can kill them all.

As sleep finally took him, wrapping her strong feathered hold around his shoulders, he timed his breathing by the digital ticks of Shiro’s heart.

***

Footsteps echoed under the awning of the temple as Shiro made his way around the garden like a jungle cat stalking its prey, his eyes hungry as they flickered from the two bodies sparring in the courtyard and the path before him. Lined around the open hallway, standing shoulder-to-shoulder were clansmen that watched the test of strength taking place before them. Copper and onyx twisted around each other, throwing fists and dodging moves expertly as Keith and Coran fought. The latter’s hits designed as a test, while the former’s made up its answers.

If it had been a normal day, it would be Shiro in Coran’s place, enjoying the way his best friend’s eyes would drag over his body as he planned where he’d strike next. On a normal day, he’d be the one that threw his arms around the future leader, ignoring the shock that would run over his ribs at the contact. Normally, Shiro would be the one on the receiving end of a the cocky smirk that pulled the corner of Keith’s mouth up in the most tantalizing way.

If it were a normal day, he’d even imagine what it would feel like to throw Keith onto the ground and kiss that smirk off of his face.

He concentrated on each footstep as he watched the way the sun glinted off the sheen of sweat that coated Keith’s bare torso as he threw another punch. Shiro’s mouth went dry as he imagined the way it must be rolling down the track of his pulse and pooling in the dip of his collarbones.

Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.

Today was Keith’s final test. The one that would prove he was ready to take on the responsibilities of an oyabun. Though he wouldn’t take his spot at the head of the clan until Daiki stepped down, he’d now make calls about jobs the clan went on and headed meetings when the oyabun was away. It was the first step towards becoming everything he was meant to be. Shiro’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the way Keith’s muscles rolled under his skin as he sparred with Coran.

Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bundle of nerves, sapping the anxious waves of emotion that had been rolling off his best friend that morning. It was what kept him walking his circles around the courtyard, unable to stand in line like the kobun that watched the display. Whether they were uninterested, or didn’t even consider the possibility that Keith could fail, Shiro couldn’t tell as all their faces were fixed in blank masks as the pair continued to dance around each other before them. They didn’t truly understand the weight of the test they were privy to.

What looked like any other sparring match, just a saiko-komon training with the next oyabun, could knock everything down as easily as a tempest with a house of cards. Failure would mean excommunication. No clan of the Sumiyoshi-Kai could be led by a leader that didn’t pass, nor would they be allowed to remain within it. Shiro was sure Daiki wouldn’t go so far as to cut ties completely with his son, but Keith would be forced to leave the temple and his father would start grooming a new successor to take his place. A frozen hand gripped his heart at the mere thought of the halls void of Keith’s presence. It was his unfailing smile and liquid eyes that he thought of whenever his mind danced over the word, home. It was the only one Shiro truly knew, having lost his so early. Without him, the temple would lose the one thing that had kept him from being lost. Failure couldn’t be an option. As his breath quickened in his lungs, he counted another set of steps.

Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.

Flashes of his best friend and the man that had taken him in flickered in the gaps of the clansmen and their heavy breathing started to fill the air. A wry smile had twisted Keith’s face into a look of sheer determination as he dodge a kick from Coran, the force of it bringing him close enough to his charge for him to catch the saiko-komon’s wrist and twisting it into a painful looking angle. The sickly rust taste of blood filled Shiro’s mouth as his canine bit deep into his lip as he watched the display, the rhythm of his steps faltering with his anticipation. Keith’s gaze shot up to meet his own through the space between the kobun, a full smile splitting his concentration in two as he held Shiro’s stare. Warmth spread through his chest, its stifling heat nearly choking him as he was blinded by that grin filled with nothing but starlight.

Shiro wasn’t sure when he’d started to feel the shift in their friendship. It had been a slow change, so gradual in its transformation that he hadn’t noticed the sun that burnt behind his ribs until he’d already been left charred. He wasn’t even entirely sure it had completely finished metamorphosing, the plates around his heart still shifting so slowly that he ached with it. All he knew was that everything about Keith was blinding, and yet he didn’t want to look away.

Time stretched for what felt like an eternity as his steel eyes held Keith’s mauve, the swollen star trapped within his ribcage bordering on a supernova.

Neither of them noticed Coran move until Keith landed on his back in the dirt with a thud and a shocked cry. Shiro’s fingers curled into his palm as if his fist could do anything to help the lean body gasping for air on the ground. The thought didn’t stop him from taking a step toward the wall of kobun that stood between him and his best friend, but the heavy hand that landed on his shoulder did.

“Now you’re just the person I was looking for,” a commanding voice said at his back as a thumb dug into his shoulder blade. Shiro felt himself tense beneath the warm palm as he turned to face Daiki. The man’s smile was oxymoronic against the assertiveness of his tone as he loosened his grip and allowed his hand to fall from where it rested as he nodded his head towards the temple’s doors.

“Let’s go for a walk, Shiro.” The command was hidden behind the thin veil of a request as the oyabun started to walk before letting Shiro respond at all. He bit his tongue as he cut his eyes from Daiki’s retreating frame to the match in the courtyard, breathing a sigh of relief as he saw Keith back on his feet. The solid sound of a fist against skin saw him off as he followed his leader through the oak wood doors, stepping out into the clearing that surrounded the temple.

Soft, blush colored buds created a pastel backdrop behind Daiki as he stood waiting for Shiro in the clearing, smile warm and expectant. The cherry blossom trees were in full bloom, standing around the temple like flowered guardians, only moving with the wind that carried its petals over the green grass stretching below them. They were one of Shiro’s favorite things about the temple. Even when they weren’t in bloom, there was something to protective about the way the trees stood, bowed slightly inwards towards the building as if it was the sun.

My dad planted them after mom died, Keith had once told him, whispering conspiratorially as they’d sat on the roof on yet another night spent gazing up at the stars. They’re supposed to remind the clan that life is beautiful, but fragile.

They were beautiful in their meaning, if a bit ominous in their setting. Yakuza knew all too well about the fragility of life, whether they were the ones taking it or having it taken. At the time, he hadn’t realized the significance of the symbolism, only appreciating the beauty of the trees and the purple gaze that admired them. Now he couldn’t help the shiver that ran down his spine as his mind drew back towards Keith standing in the ring of clansmen with his chest heaving and fight burning brightly in his eyes.

“Our boy is doin’ pretty good, huh?” Daiki asked, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his obsidian gaze fixed on Shiro as if he was lifting his thoughts straight from his head. The oyabun’s smile only grew wider as he watched the younger man slowly nod in agreement, eyes twitching towards the temple as if he could see through the walls to the boy he referred to. It was a quick shift, a lost moment before he returned his gaze to Daiki’s glowing form as they exchanged appraising looks.

Everyone always talked about how much Keith favored the mother he’d never known. Having seen a photo of Hikaru, he couldn’t deny the resemblance that was set in the violet of their eyes and the sharp cuts of their cheekbones. Yet as Daiki looked down on him, the sunlight highlighting the flecks of white in his black hair and his mouth quirked upwards, he couldn’t help but think Keith was very much his father’s son. It was more than just a resemblance, but it showed in the way he carried himself, emulating the kind yet strong demeanor that made Daiki such a great leader.

“You know, I was worried when Coran brought you to us,” he said thoughtfully, referring to that night all those years ago that Shiro had lost his parents. The sudden change of topic left his head spinning as he tried to catch up. Daiki’s eyes shone with the light of some inside joke that the younger man wasn’t a part of, and something about it made his chest tighten.

“This life isn’t for everyone, especially after all you went through.” A somber timbre rooted itself in his words as his mouth bent sadly. He dropped his hand on Shiro’s shoulder again, giving it another squeeze. The touch, meant to comfort, twisted a knife of panic deep in his gut as he tried to piece together what it was that Daiki was trying to say.

“He had a lot of convincing to do for me to believe that you joining the Raion would be good for you, but he was certain we could help you.” Breath blew through his teeth in the form of a chuckle as his hand slipped from where it sat and he started to walk the path around the temple. “Imagine my surprise when it was you that ended up helping us.”

“I’m not sure I follow, sir.” Shiro stutter stepped as he followed, confusion thick in his words and veins.

“Did you know Keith wasn’t much of a kids kid?” He paused for just a second, changing his mind almost instantly as to whether or not he needed an answer. “Granted, he didn’t have too many options for friends in the clan, but he never really got along with those he had. Didn’t really get along with anyone to be honest. But then you came around, and boy, could that kid not stop trying to figure you out.”

Husky laughter filled the space Shiro kept between them, listening to his leader’s words as the blistering heat in his chest created a vacuum that crushed his lungs. Trying to drag air into the crumpled muscle, he concentrated on his steps, measuring his breaths against their rising number.

Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.

“You really got him out of his shell, Shiro.” His name was wrapped with fondness as Daiki spoke it. It was the same kind of tenderness his own parents had filled the syllables of his name with, causing his heart to swell with admiration for the man.

“I’m sure he’s just stubborn and wasn’t used to people telling him no,” Shiro laughed, ignoring the way his voice rasped with the dueling affections for the leader and his son. The retort earned him a bark of mirth, Daiki’s shoulders shaking with it as they started another lap around the temple. He watched as the older man shook his head.

“While he is quite the stubborn ass, I don’t think that’s quite it.” Silence preoccupied the air, punctuated by nothing but the occasional rustle of grass beneath their feet as they walked. Several moments passed before he spoke again, his strong voice filling the clearing with sincerity.

“Your parents would be proud of the man you’ve grown to be.”

Shiro’s reaction was immediate as he bit down on the bitter taste of sorrow, imagining what his parents would have been like if they could see him now. Would they have supported the life he’d become a part of? The very same that had ripped them away from him? What would his father think of the clan that had taken him in and taught him everything he knew from his fighting skills to the philosophies of their blood soaked compassion? What would his mother think of the lean boy with the unruly black waves and galaxy filled eyes?

“And I couldn’t have asked for a better saiko-komon for my son.” The sentiment interrupted his string of thought, thick with implication as they kept to their path. Pink petals blew over the breeze, dotting the air around them as Shiro tried to digest the second meaning that had stoked the fires in his chest. Daiki’s onyx gaze sparkled as he flashed a knowing look over his shoulder. Shiro’s mouth opened and closed, arguments dying on the tip of his tongue as he tried to think of anything to say in return. Anything at all that might counter the underlying current of his statement.

He’s just my best friend.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

I don’t lo--

Loud, raucous cheers stilled the lies that were running through his mind as the joyous sound carried over the roof of the temple. The elated noise marked the end of Keith’s test, and the end of his and Daiki’s conversation as the oyabun continued to walk ahead of Shiro back towards the temple.

“Let’s go congratulate our boy, Shiro,” his voice carried back towards the stunned kobun, dancing around him like the blossoms in the wind. Shiro’s pulse continued to ricochet within his veins as he began to follow, throwing his concentration back onto counting his steps in an attempt to calm it.

Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.

Left foot. Beep.

Right foot. Beep.

Left foot. Beep.

Right--

***

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Sharp, digital intonations cut through the haze that had settled over Shiro, pushing everything else deep within an inky black pool. Trapped between memories and an unsettling darkness that chilled him to his core, he would occasionally catch low rumblings that sounded both unbearably close and impossibly distant.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

One voice stood out amongst the rest, cutting through the shadows and roaring over all else. Each time he’d heard it, he’d fought against the ropes of consciousness that held him trapped within the darkness, calling out for the one person he so desperately wanted to see.

Keith.

Shiro repeated the name like a mantra, clutching the syllable to his chest as he worked against the hissing blackness that continued to drag him back down each time he’d made his way close to the surface.

Keith. Keith. Keith.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Falling into unconsciousness had been a slow and calming thing, his heart slowing and his vision fading until there was nothingness, just pieces of memories, darkness and his name.

Keith. Keith. Keith.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Waking, in comparison, was much more violent. It started with an ice like freeze in his lungs that created an ache so deep it felt as if the space the muscle should have been had been excavated completely. Sharp static rolled over his limbs, stinging his flesh as it concentrated itself in his right arm. Bright flashes of light sparked against the darkness as he crawled against the crushing weight of the shadows that had held him down for so long.

It was with a painful gasp for air that Shiro finally opened his eyes.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Welcomed by the the staccato cadence of his heartbeat, kept by the machine by his bed, he fought to drag air into his lungs as he frantically searched his surroundings for a sign of where he was. Plastic tickled his nose as the tubing of the cannula stretched across his face shifted with his movement as Shiro tried to push himself further up into the pillows behind his head. Bags of saline and unmarked liquids hung next to the monitor keeping track of his heart, connected to his arm by more tubing and long needles buried into the vein of his left arm.

Moving to push himself upwards with his right arm to avoid jostling the wiring, he felt himself falter, falling back into the pillows as the mattress was met with the nothing where his hand should have been. Nausea rolled through his stomach as he tried again, praying to feel the sensation of the paper like sheets underneath his body and only feeling the sharp static that was buzzing where his elbow should have been.

His breathing was deafening in his own ears as he looked down at the stump that peeked out just below the hospital gown he was in. Its blunt edge was covered in white gauze, ending just above where the crook of his arm would be. Then it all came back in a crash of memories that blinded him.

The shattering pain of metal against his hand, cracking it apart from the inside like it was nothing but glass.

The angry burn of heated iron pressing into his skin, sizzling as the flesh bubbled around the brand.

The unexplainable agony of a saw’s teeth biting into his muscle as it tore his arm from his body.

A whole new type of fear grew within him as moisture stung his eyes and sobs blocked his airways. Shiro could still see the sinister edge that sharpened Zarkon’s smile as he watched Sendak have his way with him. He could still hear the laughter as the Akuma entertained themselves with his pain. The skin behind his ear was still warm with the acrid breath of Sendak’s words as he’d whispered the horrors he had planned for him, and for Keith.

His jaw screamed out against the pressure as he ground his molars together against the phantom sensations. Short breaths lined up with the quickening beat of his heart as he fought to escape the terror rushing through him.

They would do anything to ruin him. Anything to Keith. He had to warn them. He had to--

A soft hum pulled his senses down to one singular point by his left hip where he noticed the unruly black waves and angled jaw for the first time.

“Takashi,” Keith’s voice was nothing more than a whisper as he sighed and pushed his face further into his forearm. “Stay with me, Takashi.”

The monitor picked up the stutter in his chest as he took in his best friend’s sleeping form just a mere inches from his fingertips.

Keith was there. He was safe.

Shiro allowed himself to trace his profile with his silver gaze, struggling to count the freckles that spread over the bridge of his nose in the dark room. Keith’s breathing was even as he slept, the beat so steady that Shiro began to time his own by the rise and fall of his back until his heart rate slowed and the ache in his lungs settled. The oyabun sighed his name once more as he pushed the upper half of his body into the mattress, his elbow meeting Shiro’s thigh with a soft prod.

“Keith,” he tried to say, voice so hoarse it barely came out as more than a rasp. Frustration drew his eyebrows together as he tried to swallow enough saliva to wet his throat so he could speak.

All he wanted to see was the deep violet of his eyes, desperate to get lost in anything else besides the ghost pains and residual fear that were nipping at the borders of his consciousness.

“Keith,” he tried again as he stretched the fingertips of his left hand out towards the sleeping man and only succeeding in brushing the soft curl of hair that had fallen over his brow. He was so close. Ignoring the uncomfortable pull of the needle in his skin, Shiro pushed his reach further until he felt the heat of his best friend’s skin on his palm and the soft brush of his hair between his fingers. He was rewarded with a soft sigh as Keith pressed up into the touch, eyes fluttering open as his nose found the juncture of his wrist and his lips ghosted over the blue tracks of his veins. Shiro felt himself tremble with the touch, watching as the moment froze around them, the kiss tickling his skin.

Then sharp amethyst stared up at him before Keith pushed himself back into the seat and away from his grasp. His whimper over the sudden loss of contact was disappeared beneath the sound of his own name.

“Shiro?” Keith’s voice was sandpaper, sleep turning his tone into grit as his wide eyes stared at him. Fear sparkled over the mauve as he reached a shaking hand towards his, hesitant as if he was scared any touch would prove that the awakened man before him was just a mirage. The sun caged by his ribs roared to life, its flames licking his insides as Shiro held the stare before he let himself smile.

“Hi,” he rasped. It was nothing more than a single syllable, barely there as he pushed it through the thickness of his throat and passed his teeth, but its effect was extraordinary. The legs of the chair screeched against the linoleum as Keith stood, a hand grasping Shiro’s as he leant into his space, reaching the other hand up to caress his cheek before pressing their foreheads together. A drop of moisture rolled down the tip of his nose and landed against Shiro’s, creating a slick seal between their skin.

Soft sobs shook Keith’s shoulders as he kept them pressed together, his grasp feather soft as if he worried that Shiro would break. He let him cry, pushing his forehead against Keith’s and breathing heavily to bite back the stone that had swollen in his throat. A cruel voice at the back of his mind warned him that it could all be a dream, something conjured by his mind to ease the suffering. If it is just a dream, what a sweet one it is, he thought against the stray voice as he nuzzled into the touch.

“I knew you’d come back to me.” The words were shaky and waterlogged, thick with the emotion that had overwhelmed the smaller man. Warmth was crawling lazily through Shiro’s veins as he breathed him in, smelling the cheap hospital coffee on his breath and the sharp tang of the antiseptic that had sunk into his clothes. This close, all he could see were the black lashes that swept against Keith’s cheeks, soaked with the tears that were falling from his eyes. Shiro went to card his fingers through the dark waves of his hair only to be met by the stinging reminder of their absence. His anger left him in a single hiss of bitterness, the sound pushing Keith back.

Following the line of Shiro’s glare as he stared down at the stump, he made a strangled noise.

“There wasn’t--” he stopped, eyes crushed shut as he dragged in a steadying breath. “There wasn’t anything we could do for it.” Keith remained standing with Shiro’s hand still clutched in his grasp, both ignoring the moisture that still slicked his cheeks. Even in the dim room, he could see the bruise like marks that were spread beneath Keith’s eyes.

What he would give to be free of the wires that kept him from wiping them away.

When he opened them again, Shiro couldn’t help but notice how much older he looked, an unknown burden heavy on his shoulders.

“What happened?” More gravel as Shiro spoke around the dryness in his throat. He watched as Keith’s mouth turned downward in a near snarl, his eyes cutting away for a moment as he gathered himself. It was just a fleeting moment, the strange twisted anger falling away almost as quickly as it had shown itself before Keith launched into a near clinical analysis of that had happened when they’d rescued him from the Akuma. As he spoke, Shiro became lost in the words as he drank Keith as if he were an oasis, standing before him like salvation after he’d walked the desert for so long. Even with the obvious strain of the past week on his shoulders, he still shined with a ferocity that captivated him. Fingers brushed softly over his cheek again as he continued to talk, drawing a small mewl from Shiro’s lips.

“I really should call the doctors in,” Keith said lowly, breaking the spell that he’d unknowingly cast on the saiko-komon. “They’ll want to check you out.” Their skin brushed together as Shiro shook his head, fixing his silver gaze on his love as he spoke.

“Just give me a few more minutes with just you,” he said, voice cracking over the words. Shiro’s eyes were already growing heavy again with the medications that were dripping through the IV in his arm, and he tried to fight against it. He felt the way Keith’s grip on his hand softened as he sat back in the chair with a nod, violet eyes catching the way his eyelashes had fluttered against his cheek.

“You wouldn’t think being unconscious would make you so tired,” he attempted to joke before the oyabun could point out the way his eyelids were drooping. Just a few more moments, he silently begged as the drugs pulled on him. I just got him back. Shiro rubbed his thumb over the joint of Keith’s, enjoying the way it made his fingers twitch with the contact. A lazy smile unfurled over his lips as the darkness between each of his blinks grew longer.  

I don’t want to sleep just yet.

“Don’t worry, Takashi,” Keith said lowly, answering the words he hadn’t realized he’d slurred. The mattress groaned as Keith propped his other elbow on the mattress and settled his chin onto his open palm. “Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

His words were thick with promise, replaying in Shiro’s mind as he slipped back into the shadows, this time anchored to the world by the warmth of Keith’s hand in his.

****************

[wolvesandfoxes25]

Sansa and Jon: Why?

So, yesterday I made a post, meta, what have you about Jon/Dany, and why I personally don’t think they’ll be together. Now, I’m doing Sansa and Jon.

It’s no secret that I’m a Jonsa shipper. As I said in my previous meta before season 6 came out, I honestly wasn’t a huge fan of Jon’s storyline. It had kinda flat-lined for me, for a little bit. Then Hardhome happened, and I grew interested again. 

Anyway. Before season 6 I didn’t even give Jon/Sansa a second thought. It was ridiculous. They had never spoken. They had no type of relationship (book and show.)

So, why these two? Well, let’s go over a couple of things. Jon and Sansa compliment each other rather well. Sansa is not a warrior, she’s not Ygritte, she’s no Val. But, in the books, it really dug into Jon’s wishes to what he wanted for his future. And it didn’t include fighting. It included having children that looked like his siblings. He lusts after Val, he does not love her. It’s as if he’s projecting what he wants onto her. But he knows he won’t get it. Sansa, in the books wants to return to Winterfell, as Jon does. She also wants to have children that look like her siblings. Weird? Not only that but their many parallels. Sansa started off as a lady, then a bastard. Jon started off a bastard, then a lord. Now a prince. 

Show wise: Their scenes in season 6 are not platonic. The way that they’re shot, the way that they’re acted, (mostly Kit). He looks at her a lot of the time, stares at her really. As if he’s trying to figure out who she is. Because guess what, they never had any kind of relationship with each other. They really don’t know how to act around the other. Like...hmmm...strangers I’d say. Anyway, the scenes. Let’s bullet the scenes here that questionable eye contact, physical contact happened....

1.) Meeting Jon again. (The hug was heart warming, just the point of the fact that two Starks had actually met again brought tears to my eyes.) But Jon, immediately recognizing her bunched up his hand, and moved back. As if he was hit with a force that shoved him backwards. He couldn’t believe it was her! Anyway, this scene itself doesn’t really (to me) have any romantic undertones. Moving on...

2.) After hug scene: Jon and Sansa are sitting in Castle black, sitting in front of a fire. Sansa’s sipping soup and Jon is staring at her. Like, he’s trying to figure her out. Since he has no relationship with Sansa, he doesn’t really know what to say. And he does stare at her, he definitely has a foreign emotions in his features that I can’t quite place in this scene. But then, after, they start to banter back and forth about Winterfell, and Sansa asks him to forgive her. He does, and they laugh. Then, she proceeds to ask for his ale, and he looks at her, in a humorous way. She drinks the ale, then chokes, and he laughs. That is a flirtatious action. See, a brotherly reaction would be...

“Ha. Knew you wouldn’t be able to drink it. This stuff’s terrible.” Or something like that. 

3.)Assembling the North scene: Now, this scene confuses me. 100% Jon stares at her a lot of this scene, but he doesn’t do it in a flirtatious way, he does it in a ‘learning her’ way. He’s trying to understand what she means, and what she wants. Then, when Davos is starting to put down her plans, he starts to get almost agitated, not at Sansa, but at Davos. He cuts in when Davos is done talking to her, telling him there’s more then three houses in the North, there’s two dozen more. Then the part where Sansa says that she has the Stark name. Jon looks at her, then Edd looks at him. Jon looked stunned at what she said. Ed looked at Jon in question. The whole scene is very confusing. I didn’t get it. 

4.)Cloak scene!: Jon approaches Sansa, asking her about her new dress. Now, I don’t know about you, but my husband told me  he NEVER notices what his sister is wearing. Sansa then proceeds to ask if he likes it, blushing slightly, smiling a little bit. Jon proceeds to stammer and say, “I like the wolf bit.” Lol, awkward, and definitely not a brotherly type of reaction. It was more flirting, but in a subtle way. 

Pause! Now, I just wanted to note that in every scene with Jon and Sansa, Sansa is always in the frame. Whether it be where Jon is talking to the Wildlings, where Sansa is present, or when they’re speaking to the houses. Sansa is always in frame with him. It could mean nothing, it could mean something. All I know is NOTHING ever means nothing. Let’s take a look at an example: In season 6, Cersei goes to talk to Lady Olenna, being rather...sweet and understanding with her. Well, at this time, we had no idea what her plan with the wildfire was. To us, Cersei was trying to get back in Olenna’s good graces, and giving her hope in having her grandchildren back. Cersei tries to talk her into staying. And she does this because she wanted her to be in the Sept of Baelor when it blew up. Killing Lady Olenna. 

A nothing scene is always something. 

5.)Wildling scene: There’s not much that happens here. But we do get to see the reactions of Sansa when Jon’s talking to the Wildling lords. She seems rather...okay with the Wildlings. She isn’t turning her nose up. And make note, Sansa is always standing behind Jon. When they’re talking to the wildlings, when they talk to Lyanna, and when they talk to Glover. She only talks when he gives her the “Oh shit, save me,” look. Such as the one he gave her when they met Lyanna. See..that’s another thing. With just a look, Jon can tell Sansa many things. They don’t need words. Which is awesome!

6.)Lyanna scene: They fed off each other’s silence. Jon knew when he needed to step in and Sansa knew when she needed to step in. It’s the unspoken thing they have with each other. It speaks volumes.

7.)Letter scene: Oh, I love this scene! I love it because Sansa really gets under Jon’s skin. And guess who else did that? Ygritte! She challenged him. And Sansa does that for Jon. She’s pushing him to gather more men, and the look of aggravation on his features says many things. One, he might strangle her. Two, oh seven give me strength. Lol, anyway. This scene showed that Sansa does push him, she pushes him to not give up, and to keep trying, keep looking. 

8.) Damnit, I forgot a scene. This one is the hand holding scene! Okay, so after the pink letter is read, Jon looks pretty downtrodden. Sansa pushes him to fight, reaching out and grabbing his hand. Now, this scene was panned in on. Which...if it was meant as a manipulative move on Sansa’s part, I don’t think they would have shown it. Then, when she grabs his fingers, he grabs hers as well, squeezing her fingers. I loved this part.

9.)Glover scene: Also not in order. Oops! Now, this one is important in many ways. One, I thinks it’s a little bit of a foreshadow about the ‘foreign whore’ thing Lord Glover said, in reference to Robb, and I think it could also apply to Jon, if he decided to randomly fall in love with Dany after two episodes. Anyway, they’re talking, and Sansa doesn’t step in until Glover is leaving. Well, he lays into her, letting her know that Robb fucked up. Well, if you watch closely, Jon turns his body towards Sansa and Glover as they’re talking. He’s stiff...he’s ready, just encase Glover wants to overstep his bounds. Jon was on alert, but  he was also paying attention to what Glover had said about Robb. Good! Hope he takes that to heart.

10.) Ramsay scene: Jons death glare. When Ramsay said he couldn’t wait to have Sansa back in his bed, Jon gave him a withering look. And they panned in on his features. To me, if it wasn’t meant to matter, they would have just expanded the scene to include Jon, and the people behind him. He also, at the beginning, offers a duel to Ramsay. Which, I guess could mean anything...?

11.) Tent scene: They argue, they yell at each other. And the candle lighting made me give it a side-eye. Yes, it’s true that Robb and Cat argued, but when they did, they were not in each others faces. They were sitting down, or standing up, yelling almost across the room at each other. Sansa and Jon closed the space in between them, and proceeded to argue...and PANT, might I add. Then, after the arguing, Jon promises to never let Ramsay touch her again. Also, not a brotherly vow. A brotherly vow would have been...

“I swear Sansa, I won’t let him hurt you again.” But no...the sentence was drug out, giving meaning behind every syllable Jon uttered, and the emotions in his eyes spoken volumes as well.

12.) Jon beating Ramsay: Jon goes crazy, unleashing the beast on Ramsay, beating him to death...then, Sansa’s there. Jon looks up, see’s her, and stops punching Ramsay. Now, we could say that he did this because Ramsay was Sansa’s to finish. But, I also think it’s because Jon did not want Sansa to see him that way. But, it also shows that Sansa brought him back from the darkness, with just her presence. Which...is what Cat did for Ned when he was strangling Littlefinger against the brothel. There is also that pause after they’re stopped. Ned is staring at Cat, Jon is staring at Sansa, then they look at their victims and let them go. 

13.) Forehead kiss!!!! it starts off with Sansa showing up, and Jon telling her she should have the Lord’s chambers. Which is a WEIRD thing for the siblings (cousins) to talk about. She proceeds to tell him he’s a Stark to her. And he smiles. Then, she apologizes to him about the KOTV. He stares ahead, then walks over to her, telling her they need to trust each other. Then, he proceeds to lean in and gently touch the side of her head, pulling her head forwards to place a gentle...yet long...kiss on her forehead. After he pulls back, he stares into her eyes for a good 3 seconds, then, stares at her lips before he comes back to himself and pulls away. Now, my thing is...Jon looks uncomfortable after this interaction, he’s walking away from her. And the only reason why he stops is because Sansa tells him Winter is here. After a little bit of flirting with their house words, Jon drops eye contact with her, turning away, and stiffly leaving. 

Ugh! Done! Anyway...I loved all of their scenes together, and some did definitely scream fishy. Or, that’s so not how a brother would kiss their sister. It would be weeeeeird.

Arya’s feelings towards this couple: It’s not secret that Arya and Jon are close...but me personally, I think Arya is going to meet her end...and I say this because if you look at the parallels between Arya and Lyanna, it’s really...eerie. To me these are the parallels...

Cat-Sansa

Ned-Jon

Lyanna-Arya

Bran-Benjen

Robb-Brandon

Ned-Rickard

Rickon- No answer to that one.

I definitely think history is repeating itself, it just won’t play out exactly how it did before. Anway, Arya’s storyline isn’t going to end with a marriage and children. To me, she’s going to die completing her list. Ever since Ned died, which was really when the series began, Arya has been going down a dark path. A path of vengeance...and justice, in her eyes. This path is going to be completed when she’s completed...when her list is completed. 

“Hates a good enough reason to keep going.” The hound says this to Arya in season 4?

Jon and Sansa would make a compelling couple. To me personally, something really big is going to happen to Bran, and he’s going to be called, or taken away from Winterfell. Maybe the new Knight King? That would explain the Benjen parallel, Benjen was a Knights watch man. He got lost beyond the wall. Which Bran did!

I think the last two standing will be Jon and Sansa. Like Ned and Cat were in rebuilding and restarting the Stark line basically. Not only that but the Ned and Cat parallels are constantly being shoved in our faces.

Example: Jon’s hair. Why did it need to be changed to look like Ned’s? Melisandre could have easily just taken his beard hair, as it showed during his resurrection. Why was that necessary?

Sansa is always being compared to Catelyn, not only in looks but in personality as well. Looks, willfulness, and definitely her hair, are Cat 2.0. Jon’s personality, looks, and his hair are Ned 2.0.

So...I am now done with my little meta/rant/example/break down thing...if you’d like to add anything...go ahead.

[poenitentium-blog]

VERY LONG CHARACTER SURVEY.

RULES. repost —— don’t reblog. tag ten people. TAGGED BY.  @theeternalsun TAGGING. @warhybris @adellaenchanted @lidojed @harrcwer & anybody who wants to!

BASICS.

FULL NAME: main: Margarete Anna Maria Lehmann. modern: Margret Anne Lehmann witcher: Malgorzata mass effect: Margret Ana Lehmann-T’Ryla NICKNAME/S: Margo AGE: Late teens to early 20s BIRTHDAY:  July 14th ( year depends on verse ) ETHNIC GROUP: Germanic Caucasian NATIONALITY: Main verse: German immigrant to France, holding dual citizenship Modern/Mass Effect: Northwestern American Witcher/DA: city elf

LANGUAGE/S: Main verse: French, German, English and Latin Modern and all verses like it: English. SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual/Pansexual. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Biromantic/Panromantic RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Single CLASS: upper middle-class. HOMETOWN / AREA: Main verse: Staceburch ( Strasburg ) Germany. Modern/Mass Effect: Seattle, Washington Witcher: Novigrad DA: Kirkwall CURRENT HOME: Main verse: Paris, France Modern: Seattle Mass Effect: Illium Witcher: Various towns heading toward the valley of flowers DA: Skyhold PROFESSION: None? In most verses she’s too young to have really started doing more than small part time jobs. Really loves caretaking for children.

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: brown with reddish undertones lightening to chestnut in the summer, her hair is fine though there is a lot of it and has a gentle wave to it starting near the crown of the head. EYES: light brown with a small amount of gold in the light. NOSE: Straight with a slight curve upward, not quite a button nose but close and notorious for freckles. FACE: Ovular though feeling more circular due to the fullness of her face giving her a more juvenile appearance than her actual age. LIPS: Soft and supple, her lower lip is quite a bit more full than her upper lip which is slightly thin and displays a prominent cupid’s bow. COMPLEXION: Fair with a ruddy blush and coral colored lips. There is some amount of pitting due to acne in her teen years, though it is hardly noticeable until you’re close to her. She is thankfully free of measles scarring, something most of her contemporaries weren’t as fortunate to avoid. BLEMISHES: A few small acne scars, and a birthmark beneath her left eye. SCARS and TATTOOS: No tattoos, but she does have a few scars - most being nicks along her hands from the harder work she’s had to do over the years ( cooking, cleaning, sewing ) causing small imperfections along the flesh of her fingers which she usually hides ( along with her callouses ) inside of her gloves. HEIGHT: 5'5" (165 cm) WEIGHT: 120 lbs / 54 kgs BUILD: Doll like, with arms and torso that gives to the touch. Her hands have a few callouses, a confession that her life has not been one of upper society wealth. Very little muscle, but enough to give away her favor for riding, and the knowledge that for years she's done her own laundry by hand. ALLERGIES: She has a ragweed allergy that strikes every spring. USUAL HAIRSTYLE: Kept up, in a bun on lazy days but usually Margo attempts to keep her hair styled to something that is considered fashionable at the time, usually resulting in a vast series of fancy updos. USUAL EXPRESSION: Relaxed and dreamy eyes accompanied by a small smile. USUAL CLOTHING: A white dress that comes down to her knees, white high socks, gloves, black buckle shoes, and a hat or parasol. It’s noteable these these are normally the clothes of a juvenile girl - one who is not of marrying age, and is the clothing Margo’s mother insists she wear so as to ‘avoid the temptations of lascivious fashion ‘

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR/S: Falling in the eyes of God, disappointing her mother and Valentine, never finding love. ASPIRATION/S: To live a good and God fearing life, and to fall in love and marry the man she loves, children. POSITIVE TRAITS: Purity, Pious, Faithful, Loyalty, Devotion. Always willing to help others, and sees the good in most people. Agreeable and easy to get along with, likable. Loves friends, family, and lovers with equal intensity. Caretaker. Maternal. NEGATIVE TRAITS: Avarice. Longs for better life and standing than she has. Fights between her piety, lust, and devotion. Gullible, easily swayed, has a hard time saying no. Can speak badly of others in the right company, showing Pride in being 'higher' than these others who have fallen.  MBTI: INFP.   ZODIAC: Cancer. TEMPERAMENT: Sanguine SOUL TYPE/S: The Nurturer and The Devotee ANIMAL: Butterfly VICE/S: no physical vices, can display Pride and Avarice FAITH: Main verse: A combination of Roman Catholic and Eastern German Orthodox All other verses: some form of christian, varying by what is most common in the time period. GHOSTS? Yes. AFTERLIFE? Yes. REINCARNATION? Main verse: No. Others: depending on how far down the timeline ( usually 1960s & beyond ) Margo is starting to suspect she’s been alive before, her “soul” retaining some primal knowledge of her previous lives. ALIENS? Yes, in theory. Usually when asked Margo says ‘ when God wills creation all things are possible.” POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: Humanitarian. Leaning Socialist. ECONOMIC PREFERENCE: Craves high position, has gone from middle class to high middle class. SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION: Unmarried single female, that is to say invisible for lack of title. EDUCATION LEVEL:  Verse dependent Main verse: a combination of the parisian school system and private tutor, ending in a first year of college level. Modern : High school and first two years of college before her father dies. Mass Effect: A levels.

FAMILY. ( main verse only, Margo’s family changes with each verse )

FATHER: Deceased. Guenther von Lehmann was a craftsman of great skill of a family of such, amassing great wealth through his own work, and he used it to provide well for his family and wife. A caring and pious man who believed fully in his wife and their love as being blessed by God. MOTHER: Ida von Lehmann nee Schneider was born aristocracy, from a long line of noble or near noble family. At the time there was a distinct focus on purity among the nobility, and when young Ida fell in love with a gentry carpenter it sent her family into a fury. With few daughters to marry off to those of a higher standing they could not afford to completely disown Ida, but they have striken her marriage and the lineage of her children as illegitimate. A tough and stubborn woman she is intensely well mannered and can be warm when it suits her, more pious than her husband she believes deeply in original sin and that all women must live a pious and god fearing life to overcome their natural fault. Harsh with her daughter, and too soft on her son, Ida has attempted to do for her children the best she can, sometimes failing, but not lacking in love or devotion. SIBLING/S:  Valentine Guenter Lehmann: Margo’s elder brother and Ida’s first born, Val is Margo’s senior by almost 7 years. Raised in the same devout household since coming to Paris Val has taken a slightly more liberal view of his faith in all save his sister, who he cares for in a manner very similar to his mother. Since the death of his father and their timely move to Paris  Val has joined the Parisian army, quickly gaining rank and notice for his tactical mine mixed with a genteel and taciturn nature. For all his prestige however he finds himself adrift in Paris’s social circles, unsure of where and with whom he should insinuate himself as he is far more happy with the straight talking men of the army then the unique and subtle expressions of high society love. This is tempered however by his desperate and ill-planned love for Maxima Aurum  Zelda Lehmann: Deceased. The last of Ida’s children could not have been born at a worst time, just months after the death o her husband Ida went into labor. Distraught at losing her husband, and the pressures of her family to remarry a better line, the birth was a difficult one. Zelda was born weak and sickly, and Ida for her distraught and broken heart could not care for the babe, leaving Margo - barely out of childhood herself to care for the infant. She did so admirably, loving the small child as if she was her own, caring for the girl in her mother’s stead. For this gentle care Zelda nearly made it to her first birthday, but a terrible chill and flu outbreak dashed the young child’s hope for survival. Margo has always blamed herself for Zelda’s death, believing if she had been a better caretaker the child would have survived.  EXTENDED FAMILY: None that she knows of, she’s met her father’s brother a few times, but they were far too young for her to remember him clearly. NAME MEANING/S: Pearl. HISTORICAL CONNECTION: N/A.

FAVORITES.

BOOK: She has a particular for fantastic romances, as well as Jane Austen MOVIE: In her main verse moving pictures haven’t been invented yet. 5 SONGS: Mostly church hymns and a few Parisian songs from the time. DEITY: Catholicism MONTH: April SEASON: Spring PLACE: Paris WEATHER: Soft rains and mists SOUND: Church bells SCENT/S: Lavender, Roses, the scents of spring. TASTE/S: Sweets, she absolutely love sweets. FEEL/S: Kindness and charity. ANIMAL/S: canaries and cats NUMBER: 7 COLOR: Sky blue

EXTRA.

TALENTS: The clarinet, sewing, cooking, and caretaking. BAD AT: making good choices, she’s easy to pressure, reading Spanish. For some reason she struggles with spanish always and has a tough time both speaking and understanding it - in spite of how much French and Spanish share. TURN-ONS: Kindness and honesty, people speaking to her in a warm and loving nature, soft touches and kisses, looking into her lover’s eyes, bashfulness. TURN-OFFS: Rudeness, people who are judgemental, being talked down to, overt boldness, pushiness, arrogance. HOBBIES: The clarinet and reading. TROPES: I suck at these, Death and the Maiden, Cosmic Plaything, The Ingenue, Wide-Eyed Idealist, The Power of Love, Adorable Abomination AESTHETIC TAGS: AVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA

FC INFO.

MAIN FC/S: Emily Browning ALT FC/S: Cleo de Merode OLDER FC/S: Margo never lives long enough YOUNGER FC/S: young Emily Browning VOICE CLAIM/S: still working on this! GENDERBENT FC/S: None