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lady-divine-writes · 4 years ago

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Kurtbastian fic “Always and Forever” Chapter 3

Summary: After the death of their daughter Grace, Kurt and Sebastian drift apart. Kurt wraps himself up in his grief so tightly he starts to push Sebastian away, and Sebastian, feeling himself shoved aside when he needs Kurt most, cheats. They make the decision to start over, to leave New York City and their pain behind, and start over again in a house Upstate. Sebastian buys Kurt a "fixer upper" and gives him free reign. While redecorating the room that will be his studio, Kurt comes across something interesting underneath the wallpaper. It starts to become an obsession for Kurt - an obsession that begins to replace Kurt's love for his husband, which Sebastian is holding on to by a thread. Can Kurt and Sebastian break through the pain and the hurt and find a way to fall in love again?

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Chapter 3 (4753 words)

Kurt stares out his studio window at the neighborhood below. It’s 10:15 a.m. and a Tuesday, so it isn’t as if the place is teeming with activity. Everyone living on Colony Lane seems content to stick to their own spaces, abide by their own schedules, and go about their lives without much interference from the world outside.

Kurt hates to hand it to Sebastian, but that’s what he wants as well. Isolation in a quaint fixer-upper is precisely what he needs.

Another point for Sebastian.

Damn.

He seems to be racking them up lately, while Kurt…

Kurt can admit that he’s not trying as hard as he should be, but he’s giving himself permission to be selfish. There shouldn’t be a timetable for bouncing back from loss, and Kurt got the double-whammy.

Sebastian gave him betrayal to get over, too.

Kurt knows that he should deem repairing his marriage a priority, but he also needs to do what’s right for him.

He hasn’t figured out what that is yet, but it'll come to him.

Underlying childhood guilt has him believing that he should introduce himself to the neighbors. Etiquette and all that. It’s what his mother would do. Every time his family moved, and there had been a handful of times, Kurt’s mother would bake a batch of cookies for the neighbors. She'd put a baker's dozen into colorful cellophane bags, tie the tops with curled ribbon, and take them door to door to say hello. She wouldn’t wait for people to show up on their doorstep with a casserole and a smile. She believed in being proactive. She would tell him, “New neighborhood, new life. Go out and be a part of it.”

But Kurt doesn’t want to, and the neighbors seem fine with that.

It’s been three days, and Kurt and Sebastian have only gotten one visitor – the technician who came to fix the heating. Of course, the neighbors could be waiting for them to get settled. Then they’ll pounce over with perfectly iced Gingerbread Bundt cakes and Chicken Kievs, church invites, and Girl Scout cookie order forms, like a swarm of Stepford Wives.

Kurt doesn’t care about being proactive, and his mother isn’t around to scold him for behaving like a hermit.

That may sound harsh, but it's true.

The clouds pulling together in the sky overhead, threatening rain, give Kurt an excuse to shut himself away and work on the house - an excuse he can ply without the assistance of a tragic backstory. With his laptop open on the floor in front of him, he browses those websites that feed his design fetishes: Ethan Allen, Neiman Marcus, Anthropologie.

But he's not the least bit inspired.

He’d decided to start small, take things room by room instead of attacking everything at once. But he gets stumped, staring at the screen in front of him, unsure whether the chair he’s been mulling over for the past half hour is gorgeous or gaudy.

He should focus on bringing the living room together since it’s where they do the bulk of their entertaining, provided they ever start entertaining again. And he should do something about the master bedroom, which, for the moment, houses a bed, a TV, and a dresser within the confines of four ashy walls.

Opinions on the topic vary, but Kurt has always felt that the bedrooms are the heart of the home. They’re sanctuaries where dreaming, planning, and affirmation happen. He only has the one to worry about, so he should put extra effort into making it comforting, relaxing, sensual on the off chance he ever plans on touching his husband again.

The jury is still out on that one, unfortunately.

The kitchen, he’s not looking forward to decorating. Aside from his studio, he and Grace spent much of their time together in the kitchen. They baked daily: cakes, cookies, bread, and anything else they could slop onto a baking sheet and shove into the oven. They also made jam, pickled fruit, and taught themselves (using YouTube videos mainly) to prepare various types of cuisine. Some were a hit, others a miss, but it was always an adventure.

Kurt had done something similar with his mother and her collection of vintage cookbooks, congregating around the kitchen island in the afternoons to shed the angst of public school, and spread the wings of his stifled creativity. He and his mother discussed everything in the kitchen while sifting flour and creaming butter. It was a tradition he had so looked forward to continuing.

Now, he’d rather not be bothered going into the kitchen again.

He could pick a page out of the IKEA catalog and recreate it. That should offend him. It did when Sebastian suggested it the first time Kurt redecorated their penthouse. But Kurt hardly cares. It doesn’t matter as much as it did. He can’t remember the last time he stepped into the kitchen and prepared anything more elaborate than toast and coffee, maybe dry scrambled eggs. Sebastian took over cooking duties after Grace died, which, nine times out of ten, means ordering out, if for no other reason than he gets to leave the house to pick up the food.

He knows Kurt appreciates the time alone more than he does a home-cooked meal.

Then there’s Sebastian’s office, which Kurt is decorating for the first time. He has tried to start a shopping cart for it numerous times, but, unlike the windfall of ideas he had for his studio, he can’t get into a groove. He remembers a time when thinking about decorating Sebastian’s office put a hundred ideas into his head.

Currently, he has only one.

The cheap, vomit-worthy, knock-off furnishings of the no-tell hotel room he pictures whenever he thinks of Sebastian sleeping with another man.

Kurt shivers in disgust. He wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy.

The room or the infidelity.

But how would Sebastian react if Kurt decorated his office to look like the business suite at the Marriott?

Kurt snickers, envisioning the sitcom-worthy shock that would erupt on Sebastian's face if he presented that to him.

"As you can see," Kurt would say, strolling through the room with his head held high atop the straightest spine pettiness can deliver, "I have chosen the most flame-retardant carpet available in subtle hues of tan and beige, a color combination well suited for concealing cum stains. This ergonomic, curved leather loveseat, for when you want to get adventurous with your afternoon romps, which, at your age, requires plenty of lumbar support. Plus, it cleans up in a snap with just a Clorox wipe, so that's a useful feature. Faux fireplace, faux aquarium, faux chandelier... are we sensing a theme? And in the corner, I've provided you a foldout of your own, for when you bring... ahem... work home."

The grin on Kurt's lips slides when Sebastian, wearing a gutted expression, pops to mind. It's an expression that Kurt didn't believe possible for Sebastian till their daughter died. He's only seen it once. He doesn't want to bring it back.

He sighs.

Revenge-dreaming isn't helping.

It isn't as satisfying as he thought it would be.

He’s not breaking through his creative block anytime soon. He puts his plans for the other rooms on the back burner and decides to spend time picking out furniture for his studio. With the exception of his sewing machines, he didn’t bring anything from his penthouse studio here, so he’s starting over fresh. He switches tabs and starts filling his online shopping cart with the basics: a new drafting table, a cabinet, a chair he’ll have to custom-upholster, a bolt of drapery fabric he can repurpose to make a bedspread (if he goes through with his plans for a foldout), and a few other miscellaneous odds and ends, nothing worth wasting too much brain-power over.

The clunk-clunk of Sebastian stacking cans in the kitchen cabinets reaches Kurt upstairs, as does the water running in the sink while he washes dishes and the squeak of the sticky pantry door when he fixes it. Kurt plans on redoing the kitchen and giving the entire room a facelift. Sebastian knows that. But repairing the door gives Sebastian something to do.

Sebastian has been considerate enough to let Kurt do his thing undisturbed for the morning. Kurt’s reluctance to talk to anyone extends to Sebastian, which Sebastian understands. He’s keeping his distance. But it’s nice to hear him puttering around the house. It gives Kurt comfort, the same way listening to his father snore in the middle of the night helped Kurt feel less alone after his mother died.

He may want to be left alone, but it’s nice to know that he’s not alone.

Especially not today.

Today did not start out good for Kurt.

Kurt woke up later than he’d intended, and when he did, he couldn’t remember where he was. Sebastian had woken up and gotten out of bed hours earlier, leaving Kurt alone to sleep in. Kurt climbed out of bed and wandered around frightened, hands crawling along the walls, searching for something familiar. Footsteps passed somewhere underneath him, and he froze. He didn’t want to venture downstairs because he didn’t know who could be there. Maybe someone had broken in, or worse - this was somebody else’s house, and Kurt was the intruder.

His heart raced. He started hyperventilating. He went from room to room, trying to figure out where he was and why he was there. It wasn’t until the second time he went into his studio that he began to remember. He saw his bag on the floor and, beside it, his sketchbook. He remembered sitting in there the day before, making plans. He remembered the wood grain of the floor, the dusty glass, the tree outside, the wallpaper, and that ripped corner by the window, which Kurt refuses to acknowledge any more than he has to.

He feels it behind him, like the sun on his back, trying to get him to turn his face to it, but he refuses. Of all the things he needs to deal with, that ripped corner and the word beneath it don’t make the list. It isn't doing the palpitations in his chest any favors.

It confuses him.

It angers him.

It saddens him.

It makes him consider what could have been, forces him to face everything he's lost. He didn't succeed in running away from his problems. He ran headlong into brand new ones.

But this is his house. He has to get used to it.

These episodes aren’t uncommon. They crop up whenever Kurt needs to adapt to change. They’re unexpected, like mines in fields he discovers he’s been running through when a second ago he was picking flowers in the park or strolling down the street.

It's their unpredictability that is the true torture.

They show up even on his good days.

His life for the last ten years revolved around his daughter. When she was a baby, he adjusted his work schedule to match her sleep schedule. They had the money to afford the best nurses in New York, but Kurt didn’t want that. He didn’t want his daughter raised by a governess. He was as hands-on a parent as there ever was.

As Grace grew, her schedule changed, and Kurt adjusted: daycare, Gymboree, kindergarten, ballet, elementary school. He dropped her off in the mornings, then picked her up in the afternoons. They spent the rest of the day going over her homework until it was time to make dinner, which they did together.

That was the great thing about being a designer and freelance editor. Kurt could work from anywhere, and, aside from doing consultations at Vogue, he could work any time.

When Grace became sick, her doctor visits and her medication regimen dictated Kurt's schedule, then her chemo.

Towards the end, there was only one item written in Kurt’s schedule - lie beside his daughter in her bed, holding on to her for dear life.

And not just her life.

His, too.

In sickness and in health, Grace kept Kurt’s life regulated.

Things flipped drastically when she died.

He felt adrift. Detached from the life he had gotten used to, he didn’t know what to latch on to. His internal clock would wake him up at six to get Grace ready for the day, only to find himself walking into a vacant bedroom. At the supermarket, he would grab her favorite cereal out of habit and put it in his cart, even though it wasn’t on the list. He would jolt when he'd come across a song he thought she’d like or saw an advertisement for a movie he thought she’d enjoy.

He has yet to stop the automatic deposits from his bank account to hers, her weekly allowance piling up on top of birthday and Christmas money. She had earmarked it for college (her decision, not his). Now it waits to be donated to the children’s hospital that took such incredible care of her. He doesn’t have the heart to empty it. She was so proud of it.

He doesn’t know what it will do to him to see the balance at zero.

But the worst moment of all, the absolute worst, was when he tried to go back to work right after they lost her.

There are many moments after Grace’s death, during Kurt’s own struggle for acceptance, that blur together, but this one he remembers so vividly, it brings a lump to his throat and tears to his eyes.

He was in the middle of a brainstorming session with his team. His boss Isabelle was there. She had dropped by with a box of cronuts and a grande nonfat mocha. Kurt hadn’t been eating. Everyone could tell. But Kurt overlooked the signs – the sharper than normal angle to his cheekbones and chin, his collarbone that showed through his skin a little too much, his hands that never stopped shaking. He had waved the food away when she offered.

An hour later, he was on his third one.

The tension of his presence in the office so soon after his daughter’s death slowly dissipated, making way for the familiar, though attenuated, back and forth banter he had so missed. Without knowing it, he was paving the way for a potential comeback. He wouldn’t have a line up for a while, and he would need to keep an eye on fashion trends as they came and went in his absence. But this, this felt so natural, so normal, it almost seemed like it was. He got caught up in the rhythm of this impromptu jam session. He smiled, he laughed.

He felt alive again.

Somewhere in the middle of outlining a rough schedule, he glanced down at the time on his phone. Mid-sentence, he got up from his chair and walked over to get his coat off the hook by the door.

“Alright,” he said with a chuckle over Chase’s last clap back at a jab from his boyfriend Ian, “thanks for everything, you guys, but I’ve gotta run. We’ll talk about this more when I come in tomorrow.”

The room went pin-drop silent. Kurt didn’t notice.

“Where are you going?” Isabelle asked, getting up from her seat on the corner of his desk and approaching, knowing that he would need her in a second, the way she always knew. Kurt has referred to Isabelle as his Fairy Godmother ever since he first walked into Vogue fresh out of high school and trying to find a foothold in the hectic Gulf Stream that is New York City. She became his pillar of support, a sympathetic ear, and a clear head whenever he needed one. She had thrown his bachelor party. Hers was the condo he stayed in the night before his wedding. She’d hosted Grace’s baby shower.

Also, Grace’s wake.

She didn’t have children of her own and didn't plan on it, but she loved Grace as much as anyone.

And hers was the shoulder Kurt cried on when he found out Sebastian had cheated.

Kurt looked at her, confused, wondering why it was that everyone around him seemed to be holding their breath. “I just… have to go pick up Grace. From school. I’m going… I’m going to be late.”

Isabelle shook her head and put a hand on his. “Sweetie… ”

It took Kurt a second.

Even after one person gasped and another sniffled, with Isabelle’s sorrowful eyes staring at him, begging him to remember so she wouldn’t have to say it, he didn’t catch on.

When he did, it hit him like an electric shock straight through his body, rendering his muscles useless, and he crumbled to the floor. Isabelle held him for over an hour in that spot until Sebastian arrived. Kurt didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to go to their empty penthouse and face the truth about his empty life. He wanted to stay at Vogue with Isabelle and live in that moment where everything was alright again for one shimmering second, even if it wasn’t real.

But he had to go. He had to leave with Sebastian, who had hurt him, back to his home, even if it killed him because even though he felt like his life was over, everything else continued on. People lived, and people died. The sun set in the evening, but in the morning, it would rise again.

He just didn’t want to be a part of it anymore.

Not without his Grace.

He was cried out by the time Sebastian got him home. Sebastian undressed him, helped him with his cleaning and moisturizing routine, and then put him to bed. It was Friday evening when Kurt shut his eyes and went to sleep. He lived that horrible moment at his office over again a hundred times before he opened his eyes. And when he did, it was Sunday morning.

Like this morning, but to a greater extent, when these attacks happen, locked in his own brain, sifting through the pieces to find one big enough and sturdy enough to hold on to, Kurt loses time.

In a blink, hours go by, sometimes a day. He’ll climb in the shower in the morning, turn the water on hot, and by the time he realizes it’s cold, it’s close to noon. He has sat at the dining room table for breakfast, staring at a bowl of oatmeal, and when he found the will to pick up the spoon, the oatmeal was old and stiff, and it was dinner time. He’s gone to bed on Monday and stared at the black behind his eyelids till Wednesday.

As far as Kurt knows, it’s only around lunchtime, but he glances at the clock in the corner of his screen to make sure.

12:45.

He breathes a sigh of relief. He double-checks the date to make sure he has a reason to and sighs again.

Still Tuesday.

Kurt switches back to the IKEA tab he’d been laboring long but not hard on earlier. He looks at the shopping cart he’s been steadily filling, scrolls through his selections of personality bereft, assembly line furniture, and groans. This isn’t him. This house, this blank slate, should be an endless fount of motivation.

But he's numb.

Maybe he's rushing into this. He should give this house and the neighborhood time to grow on him before he sentences it to the mundane.

He needs a break. (Kurt Hummel need a break from shopping? Since when?) He flips to a new page in his sketchbook. For shits and giggles, he tries drawing a sketch for his husband’s office. He starts with the easy part – Sebastian’s desk. Sebastian didn’t leave that in the penthouse, so Kurt will make it the linchpin and design around it.

Things flow surprisingly easily from there once he gets started, with a pencil in his hand writing on paper instead of working on a screen: an ornamental rug, a matching leather chair, burgundy velvet curtains, a chainmail style Tiffany desk lamp, 1930s art deco décor with a soupcon of Persian flair. But he doesn’t want the room to be too dark. No. Kurt wants nothing in their house to be dark. He adds a Salento chandelier over the open portion of the room and a sweep of color – one wall, opposite a window, a lighter shade than the rest. He doesn’t know what Sebastian’s office looks like, but there has to be a wall in there that will fit the bill.

An enamel and copper vase, a Khatam inlaid photo frame, a few Negar Gari…

Kurt stops.

Would Sebastian want that? The softer elements countering the strict lines of the art deco pieces, what could be described as feminine influences, are Kurt’s signature touch. But might Sebastian prefer the art deco without Kurt’s fingerprints all over it? Isn’t that what Sebastian meant by Kurt being heavy-handed with the pastels?

Back in high school, Kurt had decorated his bedroom so that he and his stepbrother could share it. He'd skipped school so he could complete it in one day. He’d worked hard on it, trying to fuse a masculine air with his theatrical influence. What he thought was an eclectic representation of the masculine and the feminine turned into a Moroccan-themed disaster.

The word his stepbrother chose to use at the time was faggy, but there were ulterior motives behind it.

Sebastian made jabs in high school about Kurt not wearing boy clothes, comments that adult Kurt recognizes as the teenage boy equivalent of pulling Kurt’s pigtails. But at the time, they stung. Sebastian wouldn’t have made those comments if there weren’t a grain of truth to them, would he?

Sebastian has never retracted those statements, so as far as Kurt is concerned, they stand.

Kurt flips his pencil over and starts erasing. He’ll pare down the extras – trade the Tiffany lamp for a banker’s lamp, replace the rug with something more Brooks Brothers than Pier 1.

Maybe he should just opt for another IKEA recreation, but that feels like copping out, going back on his word.

He could always ask Sebastian. He swears his husband has passed by a few times, his footsteps rising and falling outside his door, but Kurt didn’t think anything of it. He figures Sebastian is passing through on his way to get something from the bedroom that he needs downstairs. Kurt doesn’t imagine the man is pacing the hallway, even if he is, trying to find a way to tell Kurt that lunch is ready. Little things like lunch, innocuous things, have become huge divides over the past few months. With anyone else, Sebastian has a history of railroading over them, hurt feelings be damned.

But Sebastian has learned his lesson. He paid a hefty price learning it, too.

Contemplating between clearing his throat so that Kurt knows he’s there and letting another meal go cold, he sees Kurt’s head lift up. It seems like an opening. Whether or not it is, Sebastian takes it.

“Lunch is ready.”

“Mm-hmm,” Kurt mumbles, brushing eraser shavings aside.

“Are you… are you coming downstairs?”

Kurt erases again, then pencils something on a sheet of paper that Sebastian can’t see. “Hmm… mmm?”

It sounds like a question and an answer, but since Kurt doesn’t follow it up with anything, it most likely means that Kurt will be skipping lunch… again. Sebastian knocks idly on the door frame, giving Kurt a second longer to tell him for sure.

“Alright.” Disappointed, he turns to leave. “I guess I’ll come back up at dinner then.”

Kurt doesn’t know why the thought returns when he wasn’t even thinking about it, why it decided to nag at his brain when he had been able to ignore it for this long, but that’s the way his brain works now. His thoughts don’t always travel straight paths. They twist and turn, taking one thing and linking it to something unrelated. Erasing the ideas he’d sketched out, removing every inch of himself from Sebastian’s office, made him think about how eager he was to be rid of that word darling from above the window, and that ripped corner returns to his mind with a vengeance.

Well, as long as Sebastian is there, he might as well ask.

“Sebastian?”

Sebastian pauses in the doorway, not daring to move. “Yes?”

“When was the last time you were here?” Kurt raised an eyebrow at the idea when it originally came to him. When would Sebastian have come to this house that Kurt didn’t know? They traveled Upstate once a year, but they always did it together as a family. And while they were here, Sebastian rarely ventured out alone. Sebastian isn’t the kind of person who would buy a house sight unseen.

Unless he had found it during one of his outings with Grace. Which would mean that Grace had seen the inside.

Grace would have seen this room and thought it would be hers, thought that they would someday live here, and Sebastian hid that word darling by the window for her and not Kurt.

The thought is so painful, it makes Kurt want to tear his nails out with his teeth so he’ll stop thinking about it.

Sebastian keeps his eyes locked to Kurt’s profile so he won’t miss the moment Kurt decides to look at him instead of the floor, the wall, or the ceiling.

“I found this house online. It wasn’t even on the market when I stumbled on it. To be honest, I’d only driven by it once. I hadn’t been inside until we moved in.”

“But you saw the inside,” Kurt asks. “Otherwise, how would you know about this room?”

“I took a virtual tour,” Sebastian admits sheepishly, “but it was extremely thorough. I’ve seen the blueprints, gone over the permits and the zoning. I had Tristan from the office look over the place when he came up to visit his folks. He facetimed me while he was here.” Sebastian furrows his brow. “Why? Is something wrong?”

Kurt’s heart beats regular again. Grace hadn’t seen it.

Thank God.

His eyes find the torn section of wallpaper, but they don’t stay there. He doesn’t want to clue Sebastian in about it if Sebastian doesn’t already know. He wants to uncover this mystery on his own. If Sebastian gets to keep secrets, big ones at that, then Kurt wants this one for himself.

“No, no. Nothing’s wrong. I was just curious, you know. Wanted to understand your process. Why this house, why this neighborhood, that sort of thing.”

Kurt’s sentence comes out choppy. It’s odd how awkward talking has become for them. Sebastian used to think that the two things they had mastered were talking and fucking. They did both together with such ease. There were never any boundaries between them, emotionally or physically. Even when they were cutting each other down, which they did in the beginning, they did so with such finesse.

Not like now, when Sebastian is walking on eggshells and Kurt doesn’t want to hear half of what he has to say.

“If you come down for lunch, we can talk about my process. If you’re curious, that is.” Sebastian watches Kurt expectantly, waiting for an answer.

And while Sebastian does, Kurt looks at his sketch – Sebastian’s office, the same way Sebastian always has it decorated. This is Sebastian without him and Grace: bland and emotionless, no light, little color, and no joy. Nothing exciting, nothing nuanced, nothing to indicate that he and Sebastian are together.

Not even those snapshots he’s so proud of.

Kurt hasn’t decided whether that’s a bleak picture or not.

“Sure. I’ll be down in a sec,” Kurt decides because he does and doesn’t have an answer to that one. It changes as the day changes, and the days change too quickly.

“Alright. I’ll be waiting.” Sebastian walks away, or Kurt thinks he does. He checks the time on his clock. It’s closing in on 2.

Kurt glances up at the window, the dangling wallpaper bouncing with the breeze coming from a draft near the ceiling. It would be so easy to tear it down – grab an edge and rip, be done with it once and for all. It might even feel cathartic, exposing whatever is underneath it. But lunch is ready. He’s already left Sebastian waiting long enough.

He leaves that mystery for another day.

#kurtbastian #sebkurt #sekurt #sebastian smythe #kurt hummel

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fatsalpakistan · 1 year ago

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Basic Life Support | Apr 28 | Lahore

Basic Life Support (BLS) program is for participants to gain or improve knowledge and skill proficiency in high-quality CPR skills. In our hands-on approach, students participate in scenarios and learning stations to become a Lifesaver! BLS reflects the latest resuscitation science and treatment recommendations published and conforms with the American Heart Association (AHA) Guidelines Update for…

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chicagosfinest2021 · 4 years ago

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A prime example of men displaying ashy/dusty behavior.

So I don't know how many of you watch the TLC network but there is this program on there that's been airing for a few years now called "My 600 LB Life". Unlike the other "reality" shows on TLC it's actually more of a documentary as it actually features a real bariatric surgeon (Dr. Nowzardan) based in Houston, Texas and the many many morbidly obese patients he tries to help them lose weight, approve them for weigh loss surgery, as well as setting them up with therapy/counseling.

First off I just want to say that I am not one of those people who is okay with shaming morbidly obese individuals and calling them "lazy slobs" like they aren't human beings. One of the reasons I enjoy this show is for the psychological aspect of it, and as I've discovered one of the main reasons most of the patients on this show got to be their size is because they use overeating as a way to cope with past trauma, much in the same way other people may use drugs and alcohol to deal with trauma and losses they have yet to learn how to heal from.

Moving on to my initial observation though, I've been watching this show for about 4-5 years and I recently noticed a disturbing pattern. Not with the actual patients but with their spouses/partners, specifically the men. It's not the case in EVERY episode, but I caught the "phenomenon" at least 4 or 5 times.

The patient in question in the scenario will be a morbidly obese woman. She is unfortunately so large that she has limited mobility if at all, and otherwise cannot care for herself, in which case her husband/boyfriend/partner has become her primary caregiver: he cooks or brings her all of her meals, bathes her, helps her to the bathroom, dresses her, etc, so she is completely dependent on him. Oftentimes the partner will explain that he has always had a preference for bigger women and upon meeting his wife/girlfriend did not have a problem with her size. Sometimes he'll add that he liked her personality, her smile, etc. When describing his relationship with his partner he'll of course talk about how she is completely dependent on him for everything, and even though they cannot be a normal couple and cannot be physically intimate that he still loves her and will do anything for her to make her happy and doesn't know what he'll do if he loses her.

Sounds innocent enough right?

Now cut to the two of them making it to Dr. Now's office in Houston. Long story short, the patient is weighed, he tells her what she needs to do to lose weight in order to be approved for weight loss surgery, forbids the husband from continuing to be an enabler (essentially telling him to stop buying is wife/gf junk food, cooking her large and unhealthy meals, etc), and the doctor handing them a diet plan that needs to be followed for the next 1-2 months before her next check up. This is often the point where the husband/bf will put his 2 cents in and say that he isn't sure if he thinks his partner will be able to lose the weight or something to the effect that he will "try to be as supportive as he can".

But here's where they really start to show their true colors...

A few weeks after the check up the wife/gf will be talking about her progress and how she's doing pretty okay as far as trying to exercise and sticking to the diet. Then she'll add how she's not getting the type of support from her husband/bf that she'd thought she'd be getting. Her partner is either unwilling to abide by her diet plan, doesn't want to help her exercise, or just tries to block her overall progress with his negativity. Basically as the episode continues, the more progress the woman starts to make (from losing weight, to getting the weight loss surgery, to becoming more mobile and independent) the more irritated and frustrated her husband/bf becomes.

I counted at least 4 or 5 times that the husband or boyfriend actually leaves his partner during her weight loss journey and he doesn't make an appearance for the rest of the episode.

Now when I first saw this happen the first few times I was genuinely perplexed. Why wouldn't someone be happy/excited at their partner's weight loss progress let alone want to help them?? Not only are they taking care of their own health and becoming more independent, but are also trying to repair their own relationship with their partner so they can be a "normal" couple and do all the things that normal couples take for granted. What would prompt these men to get upset and make the situation about THEM and THEIR feelings? Then after much thought I put it together: these insecure, pathetic dusties felt like they were being "left behind" as soon as it became clear that either their wives/girlfriends weren't dependent on them anymore OR they became fearful that once she lost enough weight and gained enough confidence that she would realize that she could do better and leave him.

Many of the morbidly obese women on this show were clearly preyed upon by men who knew that she was desperately seeking companionship and incapable of caring for herself (not to mention she was probably getting disability checks because she couldn't work). Consequently many of their male partners *knew* they were unremarkable and had probably gotten used to being rejected by women and needed to find someone who *wouldn't* reject him, so they went for the women that would be the most likely to be happy with just the bare minimum attention and validation. These guys were more than happy to be enablers and help these women nearly feed themselves to death, because as long as SHE *can't* go anywhere, HE'S not going anywhere. But as soon as the women started losing weight, gaining confidence, and became more self-sufficient, the men suddenly (in their minds anyway) felt like they no longer had a purpose. Instead of thinking "I can't wait for us to be able to go out on dates, and go on trips, and be a normal couple" they thought to themselves "Well what's going to happen to me if she loses the weight and no longer needs me? What if other men start to become attracted to her? What if she becomes happier and decides she doesn't need me to complete her after all? Where does that leave me??"

My point is, ladies while not ALL men are this insecure and pathetic, they are out there. They aren't so much interested in caring and providing for a worthy woman as they are looking for women to exploit so they can feel better about themselves. That's why it's so important as women to build ourselves up and validate ourselves and be our own biggest cheerleader, because if you come off as being desperate or as having limited options, some lonely creep will try and convince you that he's the best thing that could ever happen to you when actually YOU are the prize. Take care of yourself and make yourself happy first; a real man will see what you've got going on and try to add to your happiness. He will see that you could probably have any man you wanted and he will do his best to prove that he is worth of you. Insecure men will see a woman who knows she has options and if he's not willing to step his game up, he will pass you by (which is exactly what you want).

I don't care how wealthy, or attractive or impressive a man may seem on the surface, none of them is worth sacrificing your dignity.

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being-robin-is-magical · 4 years ago

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I’m finally gonna talk about my OCs so here we go! The images are from these picrews 1 2 3

Kate Malone: Knight

So this is my new daughter, I love her.

Her hair is an ashy brown colour and her eyes are basically grey.

Her hair is very choppy and goes down to the nape of her neck. She cuts it herself whoever it gets too long.

Full name is Kaitlyn Ashia Malone, daughter of Rehka el-Nazir and Elijah Malone in 2004

Unlike Will, she can actually put up a pretty good fight with whatever heavy weapon she can find nearby. Though, she’s good at hand to hand as well.

When she was 15 (the same year the Red Angels started) her parents died in a house fire. Before that, they had a really good relationship and were very supportive of her.

They both worked in a factory in the narrows to keep a roof over her head and she joined them as soon as she could.

The factory is where she learned how much she liked working out. Specifically, she enjoyed lifting.

Which led to her being a bit of a gym rat later in life with Jason.

As Knight, she dresses in light blues and greys with a sharp, pointed mask without a cape.

Meta: the name Knight came from the Arkham Knight, the game. Similarly, Genesis came from Arkham Knight: Genesis, the comic.

She is Pan-Ace but has only ever dated one other girl when she was younger.

Her favourite superhero, including her family, is Supergirl

Prefers tea over coffee and Will fight about it with Will

5’7”, a tall girl, another reason to make fun of Will

If you’re interested in reading more about her, check out the Red Angels Series HERE!

#I’m talking about my OCs #Kaitlyn Malone #Jason Todd #Red Angels AU #picrew OC

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hockeysweetheart · 5 years ago

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When I was in need of Help you were there

When You left I cried Tears

When You said you couldn’t hold on you did

When You speak in front of a crowd everyone listens

When You almost died I knew I couldn’t let go

When You gave your blessing to move on I couldn’t without you.

When I needed someone to hold on to you where there

When I wake up in the night from horriable dreams your arms to comfort are close by.

When You see me fall you pick me back up

When you saw me for who I am you still loved me

When you were taken away I was broken

When we kiss it feels like nothing us is in this world but us.

When you smile I smile.

When you cry I am the shoulder you can lean on

When I fail your always supporting me

When I lost everything you were still there

When you said you loved me I loved you to.

When you bake or paint its you create something speical

When you talk about me you make me feel like your the one

When I told you I am expecting you were overjoyed I know I said I’d never Bring Kids into this broken world but you showed me those wounds can be fixed when we have each other. I feel like if I was to bring kids into the world it would be with you no one else.

Below are moments where Katniss Notices Peeta

. I watch him as he makes his way toward the stage. Medium height, stocky build, ashy blond hair that falls in waves over his forehead. The shock of the moment is registering on his face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless, but his blue eyes show the alarm I've seen so often in prey. Yet he climbs steadily onto the stage and takes his place.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Peeta and me to shake hands. His are as solid and warm as those loaves of bread. Peeta looks me right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it's just a nervous spasm.

But this seems an odd strategy for Peeta Mellark because he's a baker's son. All those years of having enough to eat and hauling bread trays around have made him broad-shouldered and strong. It will take an awful lot of weeping to convince anyone to overlook him.

I don't know why, but this rubs me the wrong way. "What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour," I snap at him. "Tell him that. That's not nothing."

"He can wrestle," I tell Haymitch. "He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother."

What on earth does he mean? People help me? When we were dying of starvation, no one helped me! No one except Peeta. Once I had something to barter with, things changed. I'm a tough trader. Or am I? What effect do I have? That I'm weak and needy? Is he suggesting that I got good deals because people pitied me? I try to think if this is true. Perhaps some of the merchants were a little generous in their trades, but I always attributed that to their long-standing relationship with my father. Besides, my game is first-class. No one pitied me!

It's weird, how much he's noticed me. Like the attention he's paid to my hunting. And apparently, I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either. The flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the bread.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," says Peeta. "It didn't show," I tell him.

Finally, I fill a plate with rolls and sit at the table, breaking oil bits and dipping them into hot chocolate, the way Peeta did on the train.

Peeta looks striking in a black suit with flame accents. While we look well together, it's a relief not to be dressed identically.

Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. I start to take a step back, but then I let him, deciding for a moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness. A friend would do that, right?

"I do the cakes," he admits to me. "The cakes?" I ask. I've been preoccupied with watching the boy from District 2 send a spear through a dummy's heart from fifteen yards. "What cakes?" "At home. The iced ones, for the bakery," he says. He means the ones they display in the windows. Fancy cakes with flowers and pretty things painted in frosting. They're for birthdays and New Year's Day. When we're in the square, Prim always drags me over to admire them, although we'd never be able to afford one. There's little enough beauty in District 12, though, so I can hardly deny her this.

"Peeta?" I whisper. "Where are you?" There's no answer. Could I just have imagined it? No, I'm certain it was real and very close at hand, too. "Peeta?" I creep along the bank. "Well, don't step on me." I jump back. His voice was right under my feet. Still there's nothing. Then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown mud and green leaves. I gasp and am rewarded with a hint of white teeth as he laughs. It's the final word in camouflage. Forget chucking weights around. Peeta should have gone into his private session with the Gamemakers and painted himself into a tree. Or a boulder. Or a muddy bank full of weeds.

Oh, right, the whole romance thing. I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips. I remember my father doing this very thing to my mother and I wonder where Peeta picked it up. Surely not from his father and the witch.

I fumble. I'm not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don't want him to die. And it's not about the sponsors. And it's not about what will happen back home. And it's not just that I don't want to be alone. It's him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread.

I make Peeta put his jacket back on. The damp cold seems to cut right down to my bones, so he must be half frozen. I insist on taking the first watch, too, although neither of us think it's likely anyone will come in this weather. But he won't agree unless I'm in the bag, too, and I'm shivering so hard that it's pointless to object. In stark contrast to two nights ago, when I felt Peeta was a million miles away, I'm struck by his immediacy now. As we settle in, he pulls my head down to use his arm as a pillow, the other rests protectively over me even when he goes to sleep. No one has held me like this in such a long time. Since my father died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else's arms have made me feel this safe.

I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me.

Peeta's a whiz with fires, coaxing a blaze out of the damp wood. In no time, I have the rabbits and squirrel roasting, the roots, wrapped in leaves, baking in the coals.

I also want to tell him how much I already miss him. But that wouldn't be fair on my part.

Catching Fire...

Words. I think of words and I think of Peeta. How people embrace everything he says. He could move a crowd to action, I bet, if he chose to. Would find the things to say. But I'm sure the idea has never crossed his mind.

"So what's wrong?" he asks. I can't tell him. I pick at the clump of weeds. "Let's start with something more basic. Isn't it strange that I know you'd risk your life to save mine ... but I don't know what your favorite color is?" he says. A smile creeps onto my lips. "Green. What's yours?" "Orange," he says. "Orange? Like Effie's hair?" I say. "A bit more muted," he says. "More like ... sunset." Sunset. I can see it immediately, the rim of the descending sun, the sky streaked with soft shades of orange. Beautiful. I remember the tiger lily cookie and, now that Peeta is talking to me again, it's all I can do not to recount the whole story about President Snow. But I know Haymitch wouldn't want me to. I'd better stick to small talk. "You know, everyone's always raving about your paintings. I feel bad I haven't seen them," I say. "Well, I've got a whole train car full." He rises and offers me his hand. "Come on." It's good to feel his fingers entwined with mine again, not for show but in actual friendship. We walk back to the train hand in hand. At the door, I remember. "I've got to apologize to Effie first."

I go to my compartment and let the prep team do my hair and makeup. Cinna comes in with a pretty orange frock patterned with autumn leaves. I think how much Peeta will like the color.

Peeta, who spends much of the night roaming the train, hears me screaming as I struggle to break out of the haze of drugs that merely prolong the horrible dreams. He manages to wake me and calm me down. Then he climbs into bed to hold me until I fall back to sleep. After that, I refuse the pills. But every night I let him into my bed. We manage the darkness as we did in the arena, wrapped in each other's arms, guarding against dangers that can descend at any moment. Nothing else happens, but our arrangement quickly becomes a subject of gossip on the train.

I don't want to dance with Plutarch Heavensbee. I don't want to feel his hands, one resting against mine, one on my hip. I'm not used to being touched, except by Peeta or my family, and I rank Gamemakers somewhere below maggots in terms of creatures I want in contact with my skin. But he seems to sense this and holds me almost at arm's length as we turn on the floor.

When I open my eyes, it's early afternoon. My head rests on Peeta's arm. I don't remember him coming in last night. I turn, being careful not to disturb him, but he's already awake. "No nightmares," he says. "What?" I ask. "You didn't have any nightmares last night," he says. He's right. For the first time in ages I've slept through the night. "I had a dream, though," I say, thinking back. "I was following a mockingjay through the woods. For a long time. It was Rue, really. I mean, when it sang, it had her voice." "Where did she take you?" he says, brushing my hair off my forehead. "I don't know. We never arrived," I say. "But I felt happy." "Well, you slept like you were happy," he says. "Peeta, how come I never know when you're having a nightmare?" I say. "I don't know. I don't think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just come to, paralyzed with terror," he says. "You should wake me," I say, thinking about how I can interrupt his sleep two or three times on a bad night. About how long it can take to calm me down. "It's not necessary. My nightmares are usually about losing you," he says. "I'm okay once I realize you're here." Ugh. Peeta makes comments like this in such an offhand way, and it's like being hit in the gut. He's only answering my question honestly. He's not pressing me to reply in kind, to make any declaration of love. But I still feel awful, as if I've been using him in some terrible way. Have I? I don't know. I only know that for the first time, I feel immoral about him being here in my bed. Which is ironic since we're officially engaged now. "Be worse when we're home and I'm sleeping alone again," he says. That's right, we're almost home. "No, I'd have told you," I say. I pull his hand up and lean my cheek against the back of it, taking in the faint scent of cinnamon and dill from the breads he must have baked today. I want to tell him about Twill and Bonnie and the uprising and the fantasy of District 13, but it's not safe to and I can feel myself slipping away, so I just get out one more sentence. "Stay with me." As the tendrils of sleep syrup pull me down, I hear him whisper a word back, but I don't quite catch it.

Peeta comes by every day to bring me cheese buns and begins to help me work on the family book. It's an old thing, made of parchment and leather. Some herbalist on my mother's side of the family started it ages ago. The book's composed of page after page of ink drawings of plants with descriptions of their medical uses. My father added a section on edible plants that was my guidebook to keeping us alive after his death. For a long time, I've wanted to record my own knowledge in it. Things I learned from experience or from Gale, and then the information I picked up when I was training for the Games. I didn't because I'm no artist and it's so crucial that the pictures are drawn in exact detail. That's where Peeta comes in. Some of the plants he knows already, others we have dried samples of, and others I have to describe. He makes sketches on scrap paper until I'm satisfied they're right, then I let him draw them in the book. After that, I carefully print all I know about the plant.

It's quiet, absorbing work that helps take my mind off my troubles. I like to watch his hands as he works, making a blank page bloom with strokes of ink, adding touches of color to our previously black and yellowish book. His face takes on a special look when he concentrates. His usual easy expression is replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside him. I've seen flashes of this before: in the arena, or when he speaks to a crowd, or that time he shoved the Peacekeepers' guns away from me in District 11. I don't know quite what to make of it. I also become a little fixated on his eyelashes, which ordinarily you don't notice much because they're so blond. But up close, in the sunlight slanting in from the window, they're a light golden color and so long I don't see how they keep from getting all tangled up when he blinks.

One afternoon Peeta stops shading a blossom and looks up so suddenly that I start, as though I were caught spying on him, which in a strange way maybe I was. But he only says, "You know, I think this is the first time we've ever done anything normal together." "Yeah," I agree. Our whole relationship has been tainted by the Games. Normal was never a part of it. "Nice for a change." Each afternoon he carries me downstairs for a change of scenery and I unnerve everyone by turning on the television

I order warm milk, the most calming thing I can think of, from an attendant. Hearing voices from the television room, I go in and find Peeta. Beside him on the couch is the box Effie sent of tapes of the old Hunger Games. I recognize the episode in which Brutus became victor. Peeta rises and flips off the tape when he sees me. "Couldn't sleep?" "Not for long," I say. I pull the robe more securely around me as I remember the old woman transforming into the rodent. "Want to talk about it?" he asks. Sometimes that can help, but I just shake my head, feeling weak that people I haven't even fought yet already haunt me. When Peeta holds out his arms, I walk straight into them. It's the first time since they announced the Quarter Quell that he's offered me any sort of affection. He's been more like a very demanding trainer, always pushing, always insisting Haymitch and I run faster, eat more, know our enemy better. Lover? Forget about that. He abandoned any pretense of even being my friend. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck before he can order me to do push-ups or something. Instead he pulls me in close and buries his face in my hair. Warmth radiates from the spot where his lips just touch my neck, slowly spreading through the rest of me. It feels so good, so impossibly good, that I know I will not be the first to let go. And why should I? I have said good-bye to Gale. I'll never see him again, that's for certain. Nothing I do now can hurt him. He won't see it or he'll think I am acting for the cameras. That, at least, is one weight off my shoulders. The arrival of the Capitol attendant with the warm milk is what breaks us apart. He sets a tray with a steaming ceramic jug and two mugs on a table. "I brought an extra cup," he says. "Thanks," I say. "And I added a touch of honey to the milk. For sweetness. And just a pinch of spice," he adds. He looks at us like he wants to say more, then gives his head a slight shake and backs out of the room. "What's with him?" I say. "I think he feels bad for us," says Peeta. "Right," I say, pouring the milk. "I mean it. I don't think the people in the Capitol are going to be all that happy about our going back in," says Peeta. "Or the other victors. They get attached to their champions."

Peeta would lose it if he knew I was thinking any of this, so I only say, "So what should we do with our last few days?" "I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you," Peeta replies."Come on, then," I say, pulling him into my room.It feels like such a luxury, sleeping with Peeta again. I didn't realize until now how starved I've been for human closeness. For the feel of him beside me in the darkness. I wish I hadn't wasted the last couple of nights shutting him out. I sink down into sleep, enveloped in his warmth, and when I open my eyes again, daylight's streaming through the windows."No nightmares," he says."No nightmares," I confirm. "You?""None. I'd forgotten what a real night's sleep feels like," he says.We lie there for a while, in no rush to begin the day. Tomorrow night will be the televised interview, so today Effie and Haymitch should be coaching us. More high heels and sarcastic comments, I think. But then the redheaded Avox girl comes in with a note from Effie saying that, given our recent tour, both she and Haymitch have agreed we can handle ourselves adequately in public. The coaching sessions have been canceled."Really?" says Peeta, taking the note from my hand and examining it. "Do you know what this means? We'll have the whole day to ourselves.""It's too bad we can't go somewhere," I say wistfully."Who says we can't?" he asks.The roof. We order a bunch of food, grab some blankets, and head up to the roof for a picnic. A daylong picnic in the flower garden that tinkles with wind chimes. We eat. We lie in the sun. I snap off hanging vines and use my newfound knowledge from training to practice knots and weave nets. Peeta sketches me. We make up a game with the force field that surrounds the roof - one of us throws an apple into it and the other person has to catch it.No one bothers us. By late afternoon, I lie with my head on Peeta's lap, making a crown of flowers while he fiddles with my hair, claiming he's practicing his knots. After a while, his hands go still. "What?" I ask."I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever," he says.Usually this sort of comment, the kind that hints of his undying love for me, makes me feel guilty and awful. But I feel so warm and relaxed and beyond worrying about a future I'll never have, I just let the word slip out. "Okay."I can hear the smile in his voice. "Then you'll allow it?""I'll allow it," I say.His fingers go back to my hair and I doze off, but he rouses me to see the sunset. It's a spectacular yellow and orange blaze behind the skyline of the Capitol. "I didn't think you'd want to miss it," he says."Thanks," I say. Because I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and I don't want to miss any of them.We don't go and join the others for dinner, and no one summons us."I'm glad. I'm tired of making everyone around me so miserable," says Peeta. "Everybody crying. Or Haymitch ..." He doesn't need to go on.We stay on the roof until bedtime and then quietly slip down to my room without encountering anyone.The next morning, we're roused by my prep team. The sight of Peeta and me sleeping together is too much for Octavia, because she bursts into tears right away. "You remember what Cinna told us," Venia says fiercely. Octavia nods and goes out sobbing.

Peeta's in an elegant tuxedo and white gloves. The sort of thing grooms wear to get married in, here in the Capitol.

We walk down the hallway. Peeta wants to stop by his room to shower off the makeup and meet me in a few minutes, but I won't let him. I'm certain that if a door shuts between us, it will lock and I'll have to spend the night without him. Besides, I have a shower in my room. I refuse to let go of his hand. Do we sleep? I don't know. We spend the night holding each other, in some halfway land between dreams and waking. Not talking. Both afraid to disturb the other in the hope that we'll be able to store up a few precious minutes of rest.

I rush over to where he lies, motionless in a web of vines. "Peeta?" There's a faint smell of singed hair. I call his name again, giving him a little shake, but he's unresponsive. My fingers fumble across his lips, where there's no warm breath although moments ago he was panting. I press my ear against his chest, to the spot where I always rest my head, where I know I will hear the strong and steady beat of his heart. Instead, I find silence.

Peeta and I sit on the damp sand, facing away from each other, my right shoulder and hip pressed against his. I watch the water as he watches the jungle, which is better for me. I'm still haunted by the voices of the jabberjays, which unfortunately the insects can't drown out. After a while I rest my head against his shoulder. Feel his hand caress my hair. "Katniss," he says softly, "it's no use pretending we don't know what the other one is trying to do." No, I guess there isn't, but it's no fun discussing it, either. Well, not for us, anyway. The Capitol viewers will be glued to their sets so they don't miss one wretched word. "I don't know what kind of deal you think you've made with Haymitch, but you should know he made me promises as well." Of course, I know this, too. He told Peeta they could keep me alive so that he wouldn't be suspicious. "So I think we can assume he was lying to one of us." This gets my attention. A double deal. A double promise. With only Haymitch knowing which one is real. I raise my head, meet Peeta's eyes. "Why are you saying this now?" "Because I don't want you forgetting how different our circumstances are. If you die, and I live, there's no life for me at all back in District Twelve. You're my whole life," he says. "I would never be happy again." I start to object but he puts a finger to my lips. "It's different for you. I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard. But there are other people who'd make your life worth living." Peeta pulls the chain with the gold disk from around his neck. He holds it in the moonlight so I can clearly see the mockingjay. Then his thumb slides along a catch I didn't notice before and the disk pops open. It's not solid, as I had thought, but a locket. And within the locket are photos. On the right side, my mother and Prim, laughing. And on the left, Gale. Actually smiling. There is nothing in the world that could break me faster at this moment than these three faces. After what I heard this afternoon ... it is the perfect weapon. "Your family needs you, Katniss," Peeta says. My family. My mother. My sister. And my pretend cousin Gale. But Peeta's intention is clear. That Gale really is my family, or will be one day, if I live. That I'll marry him. So Peeta's giving me his life and Gale at the same time. To let me know I shouldn't ever have doubts about it. Everything. That's what Peeta wants me to take from him. I wait for him to mention the baby, to play to the cameras, but he doesn't. And that's how I know that none of this is part of the Games. That he is telling me the truth about what he feels. "No one really needs me," he says, and there's no self-pity in his voice. It's true his family doesn't need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. "I do," I say. "I need you." He looks upset, takes a deep breath as if to begin a long argument, and that's no good, no good at all, because he'll start going on about Prim and my mother and everything and I'll just get confused. So before he can talk, I stop his lips with a kiss. I feel that thing again. The thing I only felt once before. In the cave last year, when I was trying to get Haymitch to send us food. I kissed Peeta about a thousand times during those Games and after. But there was only one kiss that made me feel something stir deep inside. Only one that made me want more. But my head wound started bleeding and he made me lie down. This time, there is nothing but us to interrupt us. And after a few attempts, Peeta gives up on talking. The sensation inside me grows warmer and spreads out from my chest, down through my body, out along my arms and legs, to the tips of my being. Instead of satisfying me, the kisses have the opposite effect, of making my need greater. I thought I was something of an expert on hunger, but this is an entirely new kind. It's the first crack of the lightning storm - the bolt hitting the tree at midnight - that brings us to our senses. It rouses Finnick as well. He sits up with a sharp cry. I see his fingers digging into the sand as he reassures himself that whatever nightmare he inhabited wasn't real. "I can't sleep anymore," he says. "One of you should rest." Only then does he seem to notice our expressions, the way we're wrapped around each other. "Or both of you. I can watch alone." Peeta won't let him, though. "It's too dangerous," he says. "I'm not tired. You lie down, Katniss." I don't object because I do need to sleep if I'm to be of any use keeping him alive. I let him lead me over to where the others are. He puts the chain with the locket around my neck, then rests his hand over the spot where our baby would be. "You're going to make a great mother, you know," he says. He kisses me one last time and goes back to Finnick. His reference to the baby signals that our time-out from the Games is over. That he knows the audience will be wondering why he hasn't used the most persuasive argument in his arsenal. That sponsors must be manipulated. But as I stretch out on the sand I wonder, could it be more? Like a reminder to me that I could still one day have kids with Gale? Well, if that was it, it was a mistake. Because for one thing, that's never been part of my plan. And for another, if only one of us can be a parent, anyone can see it should be Peeta. As I drift off, I try to imagine that world, somewhere in the future, with no Games, no Capitol. A place like the meadow in the song I sang to Rue as she died. Where Peeta's child could be safe.

push people aside until I am right in front of him, my hand resting on the screen. I search his eyes for any sign of hurt, any reflection of the agony of torture. There is nothing. Peeta looks healthy to the point of robustness. His skin is glowing, flawless, in that full-body-polish way. His manner's composed, serious. I can't reconcile this image with the battered, bleeding boy who haunts my dreams.

I'm light-headed with giddiness. What will I say? Oh, who cares what I say? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He'll probably be kissing me anyway. I wonder if it will feel like those last kisses on the beach in the arena, the ones I haven't dared let myself consider until this moment. Peeta's awake already, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I'm disappointed that mine was not the first face he saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features register disbelief and something more intense that I can't quite place. Desire? Desperation? Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his feet, and moves toward me. I run to meet him, my arms extended to embrace him. His hands are reaching for me, too, to caress my face, I think.

At a few minutes before four, Peeta turns to me again. "Your favorite color...it's green?" "That's right." Then I think of something to add. "And yours is orange." "Orange?" He seems unconvinced. "Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset," I say. "At least, that's what you told me once." "Oh." He closes his eyes briefly, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. "Thank you." But more words tumble out. "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces." Then I dive into my tent before I do something stupid like cry.

He looks well. Thin and covered with burn scars like me, but his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look. He's frowning slightly, though, as he takes me in. I make a halfhearted effort to push my hair out of my eyes and realize it's matted into clumps. I feel defensive. "What are you doing?"

"You're still trying to protect me. Real or not real," he whispers. "Real," I answer. It seems to require more explanation. "Because that's what you and I do. Protect each other." After a minute or so, he drifts off to sleep.

"Leave me," he whispers. "I can't hang on." "Yes. You can!" I tell him. Peeta shakes his head. "I'm losing it. I'll go mad. Like them." Like the mutts. Like a rabid beast bent on ripping my throat out. And here, finally here in this place, in these circumstances, I will really have to kill him. And Snow will win. Hot, bitter hatred courses through me. Snow has won too much already today. It's a long shot, it's suicide maybe, but I do the only thing I can think of. I lean in and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. His whole body starts shuddering, but I keep my lips pressed to his until I have to come up for air. My hands slide up his wrists to clasp his. "Don't let him take you from me." Peeta's panting hard as he fights the nightmares raging in his head. "No. I don't want to..." I clench his hands to the point of pain. "Stay with me." His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. "Always," he murmurs.

"I think...you still have no idea. The effect you can have." He slides his cuffs up the support and pushes himself to a sitting position. "None of the people we lost were idiots. They knew what they were doing. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow." I don't know why his voice reaches me when no one else's can. But if he's right, and I think he is, I owe the others a debt that can only be repaid in one way.

Through the water in the glass, I see a distorted image of one of Peeta's hands. The burn marks. We are both fire mutts now. My eyes travel up to where the flames licked across his forehead, singeing away his brows but just missing his eyes. Those same blue eyes that used to meet mine and then flit away at school. Just as they do now.

I yank my head back in confusion to find myself looking into Peeta's eyes, only now they hold my gaze. Blood runs from the teeth marks on the hand he clamped over my nightlock. "Let me go!" I snarl at him, trying to wrest my arm from his grasp. "I can't," he says. As they pull me away from him, I feel the pocket ripped from my sleeve, see the deep violet pill fall to the ground, watch Cinna's last gift get crunched under a guard's boot.

Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that. So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real."

They play in the Meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs. It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not much.

#thg #hunger games #catching fire #CatchingFire #mockingjay #The Hunger Games #katniss everdeen #Katniss #Peeta #Peeta Mellark #everlark #cf #katniss and peeta

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juleswolverton-hyde · 6 years ago

Text

Wolf Song | Bangchan x Reader

Genre: Smut, Fluff, Werewolf AU

Pairing: Werewolf!Bangchan x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of past violence, wounds and blood, dom!/top!Bangchan, oral (f, receiving), unprotected sex (ALWAYS do it safely, lads and lasses), love confessions, swearing/cussing, our lovely werewolf is basically on his rut.

Summary: Shock has the power to erase horrific memories that denial keeps trying to nullify with reason. However, what if it appears the explanation lies beyond the boundaries of the natural? And what if your brother’s best friend is the reason for the damage that has been done?

Moreover, can human tears really be blamed for the crimes of a wolf song?

Masterlist

Sometimes one can experience the extraordinary link between life and death when circumstances almost take away the former, leaving solely a corpse to mourn due to being rescued too late.

If help comes too late.

‘Is she okay? Please tell me she’s okay.’

Or a mind is saved just in time.

‘She’s fine.’

‘Let me see her.’ A familiar voice is on the brink of crying behind the closed door. ‘Please, Jisung, I need to make sure.’

‘She needs her rest. I could stop the bleeding before we got to safety but if I hadn’t been there you’d...’

Silence.

Speaking.

‘You’d have killed her.’

Loathing invisible fists.

‘Killed my sister.’

‘I- I didn’t mean to- I never wanted-’

‘I know, Chan. Let’s just wait until she wakes up, alright?’ There should have been hatred lacing the edges of the rhetorical question but there is not, merely genuine concern prepared to forgive.

‘Jisung, could I... could I please wait at her bedside instead? I’m alright now, I think. I don’t feel the wolf anymore.’

Feel the wolf anymore?

Beside the worry for a sibling, though, there is a graver version for it as well which is directed more towards an old friend than the injured party meant to be asleep. ‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as I can be.’ Melancholia blends funnily with reassurance in the light voice that comes around the house often yet has never been conversed with properly. After all, when it visits, it is because of the resident squirrel and not his sister. She is but a third wheel, a sidekick.

‘I’ll make some breakfast.’ Footsteps heading towards the stairs, turning around before ascending the steps. ‘Oh, and Chan?’

‘Yeah?’

‘We’re cool.’

The low chuckle sounds happier than it would have otherwise after a bickering fight, containing an odd sense of relief. ‘Good.’

Lashes flutter shut swiftly at the door clicking open and just as softly closing as padding feet approach. Wheels roll over wood, the fake alabaster leather desk chair pulled over to be put beside the bed. Touch is awakened by the warmth enveloping the hand resting on the pastel pink and mute grey sheets. And it takes all strength to not give away the truth by flinching thanks to feeling plush lips pressing against the back of it, safely wrapped in calloused palms speaking in a quivering heart-wrenching fashion. ‘I’m so sorry, Y/N. I never meant to- fuck. Why am I like this? Why can’t I fucking control myself?’

‘Chris?’ The act is broken up, sensing the heavily shaking shoulders barely suppressing sobs. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I- I’m sorry fo- for waking you.’ Ashy brown locks might partially obscure earthly irises, but the shock running through the panicked sadness remains evidently noticeable. It makes digits ache to reach out and soothe the negativity yet refrain from doing so as it would be inappropriate.

I am a third wheel. Nonetheless, this seems personal. What happened that we’re like this?

‘I’ve been awake for a while. Long enough to hear you and Jisung talk.’ A laborious and agonizing attempt at sitting up is made, which would have painfully failed had it not been for the veined hand acting as support. It holds the back in place while fluffing up some pillows to lean against, languidly guiding the spine in its soft descent and allowing the stinging in the sides and upper arm to nullify into a dull throbbing again. ‘God-fucking-dammit. There we go. Thanks.’

‘No need to thank me. It’s the least I can do since... since,’ a deep shivering sigh hardly manages to conceal the crack in speech, ‘since it’s my fault.’

‘How do you mean?’ A weak encouraging squeeze asks the fingers still holding on to spill the beans, clarifying what has possibly caused this fuss resulting in heartbreakingly upset messy strands.

I don’t feel the wolf anymore.

However, the explanation can barely be registered by logic. ‘I’m a monster, the reason you’re wounded. I couldn’t lock myself away fast enough.’

‘Lock away? I don’t understand. We had a good night, didn’t we?’ It was a simple movie marathon with the boys, sitting around the glass table set for three and eating ramen and tteokbokki together.

Withal, that was before.

Before the claws.

Before the fangs.

Before the blood loss.

‘I should have gone earlier. If we’d gone out on that stroll later, you definitely could’ve... could’ve-’

It takes some uncharacteristic audacity, but with a soft tug on the hand still held Chan is pulled against the chest. Fingers disentangle as one pair caresses ashy brown locks while free arms warily wrap around the middle, luckily just above the scarlet indentations. ‘Shh, whatever happened, happened.’

‘Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that.’ The big nose often unconsciously tempting to be kissed nuzzles the collar bone, pressing tears into the skin. ‘Wha- What do you remember?’

‘Nothing but fragments.’ It is the truth, solely reminiscing shards of glass and strange night-shaded fur floating to the surface of the memory of furrowed brows. Everything passed in a lightning fashion, too swiftly to recall anything accurately and worsened by shock.

‘Not me transforming?’

‘Transforming? Chris, what are you on about?’

I don’t feel the wolf anymore.

‘Wait, I heard you say something about a beast living within you, but surely you aren’t... no, that’s ridiculous.’ Clinical lycanthropy is a real phenomenon, not the monsters the patients imagine themselves to be.

‘No, it’s not. It’s real.’ A clash of heads is barely avoided as ashen locks rapidly retreat, staring wide-eyed at a disbelieving face.

A light shake clears the vivid imagery pushing through the veil of shock to paint a moving repeat of last night. A false depiction of what happened. ‘I tripped over my own feet and crashed into the glass table. That’s what happened.’

‘Y/N, don’t lie.’ A trusted palm dusted lightly with dark hairs cups the cheek in an uncharacteristically intimate fashion. Withal, it is merely a friendly gesture, devoid of meaning. There is nothing between us. Yet, the pleading tone holds the suggestion of having more value than originally thought although thinking is hard when one is aching. ‘We both know that isn’t what happened.’

‘Chris, you’re not a werewolf.’ Brows knit together in confusion, thinking that if anyone should be delirious it has to be the actually injured party. Nonetheless, the assumption is far from the truth judging by the caressing thumb of melancholic earthly irises.

‘I am. You know I am. Why do you think I have kept my distance?’

‘I simply thought you didn’t like me all that much. Merely saw me as Han’s sister, tolerated me for his sake.’ Never had there been an actual conversation or a proper vis-a-vis like now, always looking away or simply humming in vague acknowledgement while feigning interest. The spark of hope erasing every other heartbeat is unjust, the storm of butterflies raging in the stomach bound to fade away instantly in an emotional negative tornado.

‘No. Jesus, no. I have always liked you. More than that, I am crazy about you since you stumbled down the stairs in one of your brother’s hoodies when I first dropped by.’ Ashamedly, the cheek is left in the chill of the rain blowing in through the crack of the slightly opened window, though the blankets do not provide as much warmth against it as the bubbly giggle falling from roseate lips. ‘However, I have to say that that black hoodie suits you way better.’

Likely done when unconscious, Jisung has replaced the bloodied tight-fitting alabaster shirt with a V-neck - put on in the vain unconscious hope to be noticed - with a favourite piece often dressed in upon coming home regardless of the weather. It might be oversized but it is basically what a comfort blanket might be for others. ‘This one? The one Han got me for my birthday?’

‘It wasn’t him who gave it to you.’ Teeth bite down on the bottom lip shyly looking away, fingers fumbling over each other as words come hesitatingly and stumbling. ‘You just never got the note. It’s from, well, uhm, my own wardrobe.’

At once, cheeks feel as if they burn like fire thanks to the confession and so the collar of the piece of clothing is pulled up to hide them. Withal, for a split second, they are shown again when remembering where the hoodie stems from only to conceal themselves in it again for it is the safest place to hide. The other safe haven is beneath the blankets, but it would look incredibly weird to sit across from Chris like a pile of sheets or, rather, a cheap-looking ghost. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Although, never mind. You wanted to keep your distance.’

‘Only to prevent exactly what happened. I wanted to try getting closer to you at last but stupidly forgot last night was the night of the full moon.’ The timid digits no longer struggle with one another, instead having found a new sort of purpose by plucking nervously at the duvet with an averted sullen gaze. ‘You must hate me.’

‘No, I don’t.’ There is a prominent musky scent as fingers soothe the ones clenching the blanket, folding around them to make the mental ungrounded agony stop. ‘Look at me.’

Because, after all, it is still him.

Still the same koala-like nose.

Still the same kind character.

Still Chan.

‘Babygirl, you-’ The eyes heeding the command widen in shock. The racing heart starts fluttering, floating just as it has calmed down before the slip of the tongue. ‘I- I mean, Y/N. Y/N, you-’

‘You’ve never called me that before.’ The notice comes out on a breath, sounding ridiculously delighted in spite of it not meaning anything. There is nothing but vague friendship between us.

That is all there is.

Or mayhaps not.

‘I- God, this is embarrassing, but- well- uhm, I have many times. But only... in my head.’ All nervousness fades from digits, a warm smile forming as confidence is found. ‘It’s what I call you before everything goes black and I’m lost.’

‘You think of me?’ The novel confession spreads the hot glow of content further throughout, overjoyed at the love which has been hidden until now likely being reciprocated

‘All the time. Even more so on the nights I’m a time bomb.’ A mirthless chuckle sounds in the hush, mocking the violence living within.

‘Since when?’ The question has a double meaning, inquiring about the length of the crush and the age of the beast beneath the skin of alluring musky chocolate milk locks.

‘I’m born this way, but it’s actively been going on since I turned sixteen.’

‘And we met...’

‘The day after.’ A lop-sided smirk forms on a kind whispering mouth, shoulders briefly rising and falling with a barely suppressed airy giggle. ‘Yeah, that long.’

‘Four years. Four years and you didn’t say anything. Then again, no never mind.’ What wants to be said is swallowed, too afraid of the confessional impact to continue talking.

‘Then again what? Tell me.’

‘I didn’t say anything as well. Because you’re my brother’s best friend so I thought it’d be awkward if I would make it obvious I liked you.’ Hence is why the abyss was never fully bridged, always stumbling back after daring to set a step forward. Silencing any topic of conversation popping up in thought each time, the amiable though distant hush had been maintained thus far.

But sometimes the establishing of bridges is merely a matter of time.

‘In a way you did by wearing that hoodie each time I dropped by.’

‘Not consciously! It’s simply my favourite piece.’ Lips purse in defiance, coaxing out a giggle and earning a feverish kiss on the back of the hand. ‘Even more so now that I know where it really comes from.’

Which is followed by an equally hot kiss on the forehead as we both lean in, palms letting go and settling on thighs. Securing each other in a little world of our own, needing nothing else. ‘You have no idea what hearing that means to me.’

‘Chan, whatever you think, you’re not a monster.’ Mouths brush over one another, the nose suggestively nudging the young wolf’s with the underlying suggestion to go beyond chaste actions. ‘You’re not.’

‘Don’t tempt me like this, babygirl. You need to rest and eat some breakfast.’ The grip on the thigh tightens, body contradicting words and betraying having taken notice of the slight shuffle towards the edge of the mattress. Voice has reduced to mesmerizing growling, invoking imaginations that the tone is possessive and meant for a selfishly dreaming girl wanting everything too fast. Although, perhaps it is quite an innocent fierce longing since this is the first time a crush has been answered, not that the emotions simmering within have ever been turned towards somebody else. ‘I’ll go check if Jisung is done cooking.’

‘Please, stay a little longer. We can eat later.’ Fingertips trace the sharp jawline and rise to the cheek where they draw undefined intricate patterns. ‘Just a few more moments.’

‘Really, it’s better if I should go entirely. I think... I think that, hmm~’ Lashes flutter close as the touch is leaned into, a peck on the wrist encouraging of keeping on going. ‘Think that the revelation, hmm, feels good. Reve- you smell incredible. Uhm, yeah, revealing I’m a werewolf is more than enough.’

Unfortunately, the happiness of intimacy does not last as eyes spring open unexpectedly and remove themselves in an instant. Clumsily, the ivory desk chair is rolled away from the bed and gotten up from with a grunting flinch. I’ll tell Han you’re awake and- hrm.’

The cause of the hurt is obvious though it does not invoke any personal awkward feelings thanks to having a brother and thus having witnessed the manly problem many times. In contrast to the familiar atmosphere of the situation, this time bold sensual anticipation overtakes demeanour bit by slow bit.

Fortunately, it has not influenced voice, which remains seriously steady. ‘Uhm, Chan? Are you alright?’

Nonetheless, it has to be said there is a difference between a sibling having to deal with the issue in comparison to Chan dealing with the very same problem. Namely, that in the case of the latter, the mind runs wild as fancy causes an incredible heat between thighs rubbing against each other to find some secret relief as the heat overtakes all.

Which does not go unnoticed by irises turned into basalt. ‘Yeah, it’s just that I’m- that I’m... in... season.’ The way of the tongue accelerates, awkwardness creeping into vocal and physical manner. ‘Anyway, I’m gonna go.’

The steps heading towards the door leave behind too cold of a lonely wake, instinct immediately urging to lunge forward to grab at anything that might lead to a reunion. Clearly, the wounds do not appreciate the effort, the dull throbbing increasing to a pain akin to being torn apart. Nevertheless, the agony is persevered through with hissing audibly, this being eventually what drives Chris to run back and force an eejit to lie in the same position as before. ‘Don’t do that, you idiot! The wounds can spring open again if you move too much.’

‘Sorry.’ Apologetic fingers brush over the arm draped over thighs, revelling in the feel of the soft dark hairs and hot pale skin. The sensations evoke a dreamy tone, glad to be warm again thanks to contact instead of being left behind in the rainy chill seeping from beneath the curtains. ‘You’re like a walking hearth fire.’

‘One of the advantages.’ Instead of pulling back the chair, the young wolf sits on the edge of the bed and affectionately runs his fingers through dishevelled locks. ‘I’m never cold.’

Sincere innocent happiness fades away into suggestion at the renewed closeness in a hypnotizing musky air. ‘Must be nice.’

A pained grunt disturbs the tranquillity when foreheads come to rest against each other and palms wrap around the buff biceps bared by the short sleeves of the onyx printed shirt. Nails dig lightly into the muscle, the action rewarded with a delightful low growl failed to be muffled against the lips. ‘Shit, the things I want to do to you.’

Teeth bite down on the bottom lips of closed eyes fancying what lies on the horizon, hoping speech is honeyed enough to reach it. ‘Whatever they are, I’m sure I can handle it.’

Too fast, this is going too fast. But... I want to. I want this.

‘Not while you’re wounded.’ Through a crack in a lowered voice, the sweetness of the human beneath the influence of whatever beast he carries within shines through.

‘You’re likely in more pain than I am at the moment.’

‘It’s not worth risking your health over, babygirl.’ A kiss on the forehead should silence the topic yet it does all but that, pouting in silence begging for what, apparently, cannot be.

‘I don’t think anything’s at stake in my case, considering you’re the one trying to hump the mattress.’ The teasing demon creeps further into attitude and makes it starkly contrast with the exterior that had been shown for four years. Even the tongue is affected by the shift in the atmosphere, speaking after placing a sweetened kiss on a koala-like nose at last. ‘Bet you’d rather hump my leg or rut against my ass. Is that what you dream about whenever you’re in season?’

‘Yea- Yes.’ Hips futilely try to find friction in empty air, moving barely yet noticeably from peripheral vision. Teeth bite down on the bottom lip, hardly muffling any animalistic sounds erupting from the throat uncensored and increasing the temperature of two burning faces.

God, he looks handsome even when he’s desperate.

‘What do I wear?’ What is also endearing aside from finally having an answered crush, is the confession of being thought of even in a perverse manner. Not to say a corrupted sense of love is innate but it might be so regardless though it comes to full bloom as the years pass. Suffice it to note, too, that similar personal thoughts have oft if not always wandered to Chan as well.

‘The hoo- hoodie I, ah, gave you and no- nothing underneath.’

‘Like now?’ It takes a wee bit of effort and awkward wriggling, but eventually, boxers are slid down the legs and tossed on the floor from under the duvet.

Like a true wolf, ashy brown locks turn to the spot where the discarded undergarments lie with a brief sniff of the air. Basalt irises glaze over with a dark haze as they turn back to cheeky ones feigning innocence, secretly satisfied with the hard to miss frenzy that is endeavoured to be subdued. ‘You truly don’t want this. It’s the influence of the pheromones I’m emitting that makes you act this way.’

‘Maybe. But maybe I want that hard throbbing wolf cock inside me?’ Weak hands pull at the jet black shirt clenched tightly, resorting to full begging and thus giving in to the sensual thoughts that keep spinning around uncontrollably. ‘Please, Chan~ I’m cold.’

All sanity is lost at last, all blankets pulled to the empty side of the bed in one rash sweep. The mattress dips under the additional weight of a chocolate milk wolf who remains enough of himself to carefully spread thighs, doing so after pulling up the hoodie that was once his entirely over the waist.

Before any word can be uttered, all vocabulary is erased in an arched back experiencing the cherishing by a wet warmth never thought to feel this amazing. To show appreciation for the firm grip on thighs and act of pleasure, messy strands are affectionately caressed. ‘That’s it. That’s a good bo- ah!’

But the gesture is not received kindly by the youth driven to the brink of madness, canines sinking into flesh to silence the praise with a high-pitched squeak that, hopefully, will not rouse Jisung into bounding up the stairs. The tongue laps the crimson away, soothing the sting before placing an almost laughably apologetic kiss on the wound while growling. ‘I’m not your good boy. I’m your wolf, not some submissive pup. Understood?’ Frantic nodding is rewarded by a predatory smirk, enjoying the sight of being reduced to a delirious mess already. ‘That’s my good girl.’

The renewed satisfaction becomes grander as clear pleasure is found in the helpless mewls as any sliver of logic is erased sliver by sliver, the lover nullifying any trace the second it returns. ‘You taste good, babygirl. Shit, incredibly sweet.’ A rough lick by glistening lips makes the back arch even further, too overwhelmed by the sensation to notice the pain of the wounds. ‘Fertile. Yet, I bet you feel even better.’

Amidst the sensual chaos within, voice is found and found longing for a deeper connection instead of shallow howbeit wonderful teasing. Suddenly shy, a finger curls over the upper lip. ‘Only one way to find out.’

Chan rises from the end of the bed to loom over a body feeling very small though secure in the shadow of the blocked-out light. The tips of digits trace over the timid jaw, placing a kiss on the tip of the nose in pure affection. ‘I’ll try to hold back. Where can’t I touch?’

‘Both sides and the right biceps.’ A comic thumb gives approval of everything else, tone light when speaking up. ‘For the rest I’m good.’

Foreheads rest against each other in the hush filled by the distant sound of an unbuckling belt and jeans pulled to ankles alongside underwear. Although we both know what is about to ensue, Chris nevertheless huskily proposes a final way out. A path that does not want to be taken. ‘We can still stop.’

‘I don’t want to.’ Arms snake around the back of a heated musky neck, wanting the fever to heat a body aching to be touched and no longer take note of the rainy chill. ‘I want- oh, fuck!’

Inch by inch, fanned-out locks are tormented by the manifestation of unchecked desire, tears rolling down the cheeks hiding the truth of the happiness behind the connection. Instinct urges to fight the intrusion, sharp growls holding a concerned undertone buzzing against lips parted in a silent scream for mercy. ‘Try to relax, babygirl. You’re, ah, shit! Hah, heh, you’re clenching very hard.’

‘I’m sorry, it’s just that- dammit!’ Anew, the head is thrown back into the soft pillows as a pain worse than the one of ripped-open skin sears through every nerve. Meek palms clutch the milk chocolate wolf tighter, the feeling of being torn apart kept afloat by a grounding presence. ‘It hurts, Chris.’

A tear is kissed away on a worried whisper trying to suppress the animal beneath the skin, nuzzling the nose after erasing salt. ‘I can pull out.’

‘No, don’t! It’s not- It’s not because of the wounds but the stretch.’

Foreheads come to rest against each other once more, dark irises having gained a bright amber undertone caught between humanity and beast. ‘There’s no rush. Breathe. I’m almost in entirely.’ Nails dig into broad shoulders as the last bit of the physical abyss is bridged. A kiss under the jaw distracts from the odd sense of fulfilment unlike any of its similar emotions. A calloused hand dusted by dark hairs vaguely scented by pine leaves and soil caresses they cheek affectionately, its counterpart clenching the nearest pillow for support. ‘Ha, there you go. I promise it’s gonna feel good.’

Hips maintain a calm steady pace only for a few moments before the wolf is driven mad by being kept subdued in its chase for primal ecstasy. Nevertheless, through the snarled praises and smiles breaking up kisses, there remains the same boy who was met four years ago. The same guy who has dropped by on more than one evening to cook dinner, was there during both Jisung’s and personal graduation ceremony like we were there for his, has always shown up on our birthdays as we always do on his.

It is not the creature of the night.

No, the ashen locks throwing their head back while growling, though the sound borders more on purring, when not resting in close comfort to a girl with love or placing bites on the throat, licking away carmine, can only be one person.

Chris.

‘You’re beautiful. God, our pups couldn’t have a better mother. But... but-’ Unexpectedly, a crack breaks down the wild demeanour and brings a floating mind down enough to rationally register the grave attitude of watery darkened amber making love instead of mindlessly fucking. ‘I- I’m so, so sorry. Fo- For hurting you. I guess that- Your scent must’ve- I can’t remember. One moment I was holding you and the- the next... nothing makes sense. I- I wanted to bring u- us here, hrm, grm, to this point when y- you’d be ready for it. Only if you- you’d like me back, of course.’

The memory of being close must have been erased thanks to the shock and rapidity of events, but one thing has remained certain throughout. And this unwavering point has to be made to the panting face hiding in the crook of an attacked neck, warming it further with tears. Henceforth, palms envelop salt-streaked cheeks and forces for brighter doubting and apologetic gold to see the truth in entirely human honest eyes. ‘I do like you. A lot. Always have. From the- the, ah, the moment we met.’

‘Even when you know what I’m capable of? Do you still want a pack, uhm, wait, that was-’ A snarl rolls from the tongue at the ever-going pleasure, the season not allowing the man beneath the animal to prevent the alternate ego from continuing its bloodline. ‘A family. D- Do you want a family with me?’

‘One day, Chan.’ A kiss on the bridge of the nose is followed up by one on the forehead, both received with an audible rumble bordering on a purr. ‘Let’s take it one day at a time.’

‘You’d look pretty, though.’ A low chuckle is fueled by the futuristic ideal, adorable even though its full conviction is not yet nullified. ‘Belly round, breasts swollen. Glowing brighter than you do now.’

‘We’re still young, Chris.’ A peck is placed on the inside of the wrist, fingertips rubbing through the thin hairs on the veined arm. ‘Later, later we can have a family of our own. Not now.’

The chin is turned back towards illuminated gold, the wolf and boy both already dreaming happily of what will be on the horizon. ‘I’ll hold you to that. One day. You. Me. And our little cubs.’ Every word is accentuated by a sharp thrust, reaching deep to sprint across the last distance to a joyous blank second. ‘One day.’

Lips pressed against each other, it takes merely three more thrusts for both minds to tumble into oblivion and forget everything for a few blissful moments. Musk fades away into a vague forest and fresh deodorant though a trace remains, kisses become lazy as closed lashes steadily regain vision and open to those of the one who has been wanted all this time.

The kind hands of fully human earthly irises help put on the discarded boxer after retrieving a towel from the wardrobe and gently clean up the alabaster mess, each movement making up for the discomfort of breaking up the bodily spell. Once clean and somewhat dressed again, Chris pulls the blankets back over bare legs, drapes an extra fuzzy blanket over the shoulders and places a chaste kiss on the forehead. ‘I’ll go see how Jisung’s getting along. But... did it... hurt?’

‘Yes, though only in the beginning. You kept your promise.’ Fingers entwine and are pulled down for a quick playful peck on the lips. ‘It did feel good. Amazing, in fact.’

Sitting down, a content hum underlines the response, relieved at having kept the promise of pleasure. ‘I’m glad it did because I still felt as if I was too rough.’

‘You can let go next time?’ Though voiced as a suggestion, the certainty nevertheless seeps through. Of course, it cannot be known what losing control will entail but surely it cannot be that bad that it is life-threatening.

‘Not until you’re fully healed and even then I might not. I’m still, you know...’ Teeth bite down on the bottom lip stuck on the end of the sentence, reluctant to finish it and let fragments of horrific memories arise from their jumbled maze.

‘Chris, how many times do I need to say it? You’re not a monster nor do I blame you for the wounds.’

‘You should because I’m-’

‘Shh, let’s stop talking about this.’ Entwined digits are squeezed lightly before bringing them up for a kiss on the back of the wolf’s hand by a calm demeanour. ‘We’ll work things out one day at a time.’

The repeat of an earlier promise is managed with a sliver of a smile, twinkling lights dancing in eyes. ‘One day at a time.’

‘Now, be a good boy and-’ The joking albeit suggestive remark that was to be made gets cut off with an odd sound stuck between a shriek and a moan, ashy brown locks leaning in to sink sharp canines into the little skin which had not been branded before.

‘I’m still not your good boy, babygirl. I’ll never be.’ The more purring than growling tongue dances over the inflicted damage, soothing the pain as hands let go. ‘If I’m one thing, it’s your wolf.’

‘And my, uhm, my... boy... friend?’ Flustered hot cheeks barely dare to ask the question, doubtful of how to go from here after what has transpired.

Fortunately, their hesitance is reduced to none by a hearty chuckle proposing the sweet yet unspoken vision also mentioned in primal madness. ‘Absolutely. Until, one day, I’m hopefully more.’

‘Then let’s wait for that someday with food.’ Lips pout at the distant long-stretched whine of an empty stomach. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘Oh no, I can’t have my girlfriend starve. Let’s see what’s cooking. Or, if he messed up, I’ll prepare something for us. Sadly, you’ll have to wait a little longer then.’ Chan moves away a bit to sniff the air for something that human senses cannot pick up. ‘Although, I think we’re safe. Han’s making pancakes and scrambled eggs. Even he can do that.’

The door closes after a final swift kiss, feet ascending the creaking stairs to the kitchen whence the vague sounds of calm conversation between two friends resonate. Lashes gradually unwillingly begin to flutter shut again, lulled into sleep thanks to the exhaustion of something wonderful and the warmth of the bed. Notwithstanding, a familiar chuckle goes accompanied by a renewed entrance and the tinkle of dishware in a breakfast air. ‘At least eat a few strawberries before you doze off entirely.’ The mattress dips under the additional weight as the serving tray indeed containing pancakes and scrambled eggs is put on a tucked-in lap.

‘Why are you sitting there?’ A palm taps invitingly on the empty side of the bed. ‘Get in.’

More obviously giddy than was likely meant to be made known, Chan gets up to walk over to the other side, a slight jump in the steps towards it. The blankets shift as a warm sturdy arm leans against one free of bandages, both helping to tuck in a new couple. ‘I could do this every day. Have breakfast, lie in bed together, working on music or watching dramas.’

‘I’d like that. Can we do the latter now? My laptop’s on the desk.’

‘You just got me to lie down and I’m comfy.’ By means of protest, the buff wolf lies down even more, nudging the arm to raise in order to replace the pillow with the chest to rest on as arms wrap around the waist just above the rough throbbing patches of broken skin.

‘Please~?’ Despite holding the young man close, playing with pine and soil locks, the plead to send him walking one more time remains eminent.

‘Only because you’re so gorgeous and I love you.’ The compliment is given strength by a nuzzle, the vibrations of low purring tickling the sensitive skin of the throat.

‘Bootlicker.’

‘You know you love it.’

A roll of the eyes words the surrender vocabulary cannot or, rather, refuses to voice. ‘Shut up, you giant cheeseball, and get the laptop.’

Feigning discontent, Chan nevertheless gets up to grab the laptop from the desk and starts it up once fully snuggled into the blankets again, head resting where it had before while looking up a drama to start together. However, eating requires sitting upright in order not to spill any syrup and egg on the sheets.

Although, appetite fades fast as half-full dishware is put back on the plate and the ashy wolf turns onto his side, nose buried in the side of the neck as the leg of the girl worried at the little which has been eaten is caught between muscled thighs. Strong arms hold a frozen body close, muscles melting with every hot breath.

Because, apparently, holding back earlier results in transforming into a curious means to relieve frustration by friction.

‘Uhm, Chan? Do we, I- I mean, d- do you need to...’ The sensation of hardening skin pressing against bared flesh distracts too much to be able to form coherent sentences. Henceforth, the plot of the series passes by unnoticed.

Especially at the growling that rekindles the sensual warm wetness and cravings. Notwithstanding, there is an odd fierce denial that wants the digits which have slipped beneath the covers to pull up the fabric of the hoodie once more to stop. ‘Ignore it.’

‘But-’

‘I said. Ignore. It.’ The alluring snarling gains a threatening violent undertone that makes shoulders shiver as a flinch to the edge of the bed cannot be helped, nerves on edge with the urge to flee. Withal, the firm embrace tightens and the brush of stuttering lips searching for an apology gain a breathless higher tone as they speak. ‘I- I didn’t mean to sound like that. Babygirl, I- I’m not in control of myself and I’m so sorry for that just now. Please, don’t be ma-’

‘It’s alright, I know you don’t.’ A rapidly beating heart smoothes back brown messy locks and presses a sweet kiss on them before placing one on the forehead, aware of the truth behind the apology. To lighten the atmosphere to an amiable mood again, a fork is picked up with the unoccupied hand to clumsily gather some scrambled egg from the abandoned plate. ‘But I’ll punish you regardless by stealing your food.’

‘Such a shame.’ Although the sigh is sensual in nature, it is mostly humoured. Like the giggle that turns severe. ‘But, please, really ignore me for a bit.’

‘Do I need to pause the drama?’ Not that it would help either of us understand the storyline more.

‘I- Fuck. To be honest, I, hah, haven’t been, ah, paying attention.’ The dry advances intensify in strength, the mind slowly descending into primality again.

‘Me neither.’ The device is shut down and put on the floor like the serving tray containing the remainder of the shared breakfast. It takes a wee bit of effort and the risk of broken porcelain alongside open wounds, but the reward will be worth it. ‘This isn’t working. C’mon. One more time.’

‘Are you sure?’ Doubt creeps into delirious attitude, hips continuing to snap despite trying to sound rational.

But seems to be nullified as the question is cheekily repeated, certain about the decision to pursue renewed sensual wanting. ‘Are you sure?’

‘You’re asking this of a wolf in season. It’s almost embarrassing to say yes. More than that, even.’ A nudge is followed by a suggestive peck on the rough edges of the latest bite. ‘Take those boxers off, babygirl.’

Heeding they whispered command, limbs find one another again for a second round as underwear and jeans are discarded for the remainder of the day. Sighs and loud chants of the young man’s name sound in the room without a care for the brother downstairs, only silencing completely after fully unravelling thrice and dozing off in strong veined though harmless human arms.

Though the picture cheekily taken by Han and often looked at on the nights of the full moon tells of the opposite. It is Chan being the one to rest peacefully in the arms of the girl and sister belonging to a wolf instead of the other way around. Nonetheless, whatever the truth of the story is, it always ends the same.

Together.

One day at a time.

#ksmutclub #Werewolf AU #Bangchan #Chan #Bang Chan #Chris Bang #Stray Kids #SKZ #werewolf!Bangchan

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magicnights · 4 years ago

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@tiredstudents requested:

Sweet Dreams - Daniel (Arknights verse)

Finally promoting from Intern to an literal operator was a dream come true. You worked hard to show that you can withstand your job, you shown time to time that you are able to apply medics in quick need, && you proven yourself that you grew from an timid boy, to an mature operator.

Despite of your promotion, you were quickly thrown in a mission quickly. Oh god, it’s that one Operator. What’s her name? Oh yeah, W. You were aware of her... antics within Rhodes Island, especially since you couldn’t drag her to get a check up ( it wasn’t just you. It was everyone who was assigned to medic jobs), && not to mention how ‘cute’ she may look, she’s crazy, but like, you need to stay away Crazy.

“Oh heyyy Intern~! You grew up to be a big boy, hm~?” W teases, cue a embarrassed blush on your cheeks, while you grab her cheeks, “Says the one who isn’t grew out of her ‘RAWR’ phase.” You pull. Meanwhile, Kal’tist looks at W, && you, with an serious expression, “Are you two done yet? Here’s your first mission. Don’t delay it. We are already short as is.”

It was ‘supposed’ to be basic. Take out Reunion members, with W. You are her support, aka her medic, while she explodes everything in her way. Oddly enough, you can’t help but feel... Feel like something bad is gonna happen.

When you && W land onto the grassy lands, the sniper warns you that there are already enemies, with a smirk forms. Her eyes glistening some sort of light, as if this is what she LIVES for. “Get ready, Medic.” W warns you. You nod, grabbing any medic supplies, while backing her up.

The fields, once of grassy fields, && full of life, became nothing more than proof of your mission with her. You are scared, but you don’t let that fear drive you away. On the other hand, W laughs, It’s like she LIVES for this, && is energized by seeing her enemies blow up into nothing. “Are you having fun, Medic? Do you see THIS IS OUR MISSIONS!” W smiles, && throwing another one.

You understood how insane she was.

While you were so focused, you didn’t hear the heavy footsteps of a berserker, sneaking up behind you due to W’s loud explosions, yet, you found yourself on the ashy grounds, && hearing the sound of someone’s bones destroyed.

“H...HA! I c-can’t believe this.” W whimpers, still in her creepy cute tone, with that berserker enemy burned into ashes, yet couldn’t feel her back. “I be fine. It just take me a minute.”

That was a lie.

You crawled to her, you couldn’t scream, while applying quick aid to her back, gently making her turn her face to the shy, && panic clear in your eyes.

DON’T DIE.

“Ha... It’s too late for me boy.” W smiles, “You know. I lived a good life. I did things I gotta do, despite some regrets.”

You apply one more.

STOP TALKING.

“I did everything, yeah. Anyway, tell that bitch (Kal’tist) that the mission is done.”

IT’S NOT.

W closes her empty red eyes, smiling, && goes limp. You checked her pluse.

There’s nothing.

You look up the same sunny sky. You let out a scream, so loud that crows fly off of their trees.

You quickly wake up by rolling off of bed, bumping your head onto some textbooks, && wiping off that drool off of your chin. You look at your ID. It still says Intern.

#DARK SUBJECTS TW #I show you the world! ✦ Answered #musesofluck #[ HEEHEE ]

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tierneysinclair · 5 years ago

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“Nobody’s ever been arrested for a murder; they have only ever been arrested for not planning it properly.” ― Terry Hayes, I Am Pilgrim

Basic Information

Full name: Tierney Sinclair Pronunciation: Tier-Knee Sin-Claire Nickname(s): Not if you like to live. Tierney doesn’t do nicknames. Tierney is the only name he’ll answer to. Birthdate: September 8, 1979 Age: 40 Zodiac: Virgo Gender: Cis-Male Pronouns: he/him Romantic Orientation: Straight Sexual Orientation: Bisexual Nationality: American Ethnicity: White Current Location: Miami, Florida Living Conditions: Tierney lives in a small apartment above his new garage. It’s nothing fancy and that’s the way he likes it. Well worn couches, outdated kitchen appliances, wear worn towels. He doesn’t live in the slums but owning only new things has never been a part of Tierney’s lifestyle.

Background

Birthplace: Las Vegas, Nevada Hometown: N/A Social Class: Presents as lower-middle class but has enough money in the bank to be upper class if he really wanted to be. But he never will. Educational Achievements: None. Tierney never went to school. By the time he was released for the testing facility it was too late and too hard to get someone like him caught up. Sporadically home schooled by staff and other people Tierney isn’t the sort of person you want on your trivia team. He struggles with complex math, history, and all other assorted ‘average school knowledge’. Father: Unknown Mother: Unknown Sibling(s): Unknown Birth Order: N/A Pets: None Previous Relationships: Nothing lasts longer than a night. Do one night stands count? Arrests: A lot. By the time Tierney aged out of the foster program he’d been arrested more times than he had fingers and toes. Nothing major, minor mischief and petty theft. It wasn’t until he was picked up by the Syndicate that he started doing bigger crimes. And by then he had the support network to not get arrested. Prison Time: Surprisingly, not a lot. Accumulated, no more than a few months. It pays to have friends in low places.

Occupation & Income

Current Occupation: Hitman for the Blackburn Syndicate & Freelance Motorcycle Restorer Dream Occupation: None. Tierney has a limited view of both his life and the world. The idea of having a ‘dream’ anything is a foreign concept to him. Past Job(s): He was boy once at a greasy diner once. When they found out he’d lied about who he was a week later he was fired. Chicago wasn’t kind to kids with rap sheets and level five rankings. Falling in with the Syndicate has been the only ‘real’ job he’s ever had. Spending Habits: Tierney is a very frugal person. He buys almost everything second hand or used and very rarely spends it on anything new. The only expensive things he owns are his bikes and a flat screen TV. Tierney’s not ashamed to admit most of his money gets spent on bike parts anyways. Debt: Never. Credit cards mean government ability to track him. And being in debt t other people is a one way trip to being killed over it at a later date. Tierney repays any debts he can’t avoid as quickly as possible, but he tends to avoid accruing debts as much as possible. Most Valuable Possession: Some people might say it would be his bikes, and from a purely financial stand point it most definitely is, but according to Tierney it’s the Blackburn Syndicate, hands down.

Skills & Abilities

Physical Strength: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Tierney works out twice a day, every day, no exceptions. He needs to be in top physical condition for every job and now it’s just become a part of his daily habits. He’s supremely strong in his own right but mix his powers in with it and a supremely dedicated force of will he could probably lift a car above his head.

Speed: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Tierney isn’t the fastest hitman on the market but he’s perfectly capable of darting in and out of a situation with speed. It’s part of the job to act quickly and what he lacks in sheer speed he knows he more than makes up for elsewhere.

Intelligence: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Tierney never went to school. What schooling he did get the few years he had between testing and aging out was sporadic at best. He’s not ashamed of his faults but he doesn’t go around talking about them much either. Besides, being able to recite the presidents holds no bearing on his life choices so...what’s it matter? Tierney knows how to do his job exceptionally well. What Tierney doesn’t know ranges from complex math to the English Oxford Comma.

Accuracy: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Tierney’s powers require a certain degree of needed accuracy coupled with the fact he’s exceptionally talented with a range of deadly weapons. He prides himself in hitting exactly what he’s aiming at every time. Sure, he misses, but that usually because his target makes an unexpected move before he can account for it.

Agility: Above Average | Average | Below Average

He’s getting older, he won’t lie about that, and that’s starting to show. Tierney is less likely to look like a stunt double these days. No somersaults or daring roof top leaps happen these days. Besides, it’s more dramatic to sweep in like an avenging angel and sweep out just as quickly. Agility is good for running away. But you only run away when you get caught. And Tierney never gets caught.

Stamina: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Tierney’s powers are tied directly to his stamina. It’s taken him years and years of practice to build up the stamina he has now. He can use his powers for hours before he starts to feel winded and hours more before he gets tired. (Unless he goes for the super taxing activities like lifting buildings or psionic explosions.) It’s perhaps his greatest strength, his ability to keep going when others weaker than him might stop.

Teamwork: Ciara Sawyer is his go-to partner. Hell, most would call her his only partner. He doesn’t like working with other people and tries very hard not to do it. He will when he must but he’ll be begrudging about it the whole time. Talents/Hobbies: Motorcycles, Lockpicking, Murder Shortcomings: His sense of justice, the inability to kill someone who isn’t involved with what he’s doing. It’s a bonus he can erase minds when he wants to. Anyone who knows Tierney from work and outside of work knows he has a severe weak spot for his gang. Touch a hair on their heads and he tends to lose focus. Languages Spoken: English Drive?: Yes. A MV Agusta Brutale. Jump-Start a Car?: Yes Change a Flat Tire?: All the time. Ride a Bicycle?: No way. In hell. Swim?: Not because he likes to. Play an Instrument?: Nope Play Chess?: Yes Braid Hair?: No Tie a Tie?: Yes. Of course! Pick a Lock?: Oh hell yeah. With his mind. Cook?: Yes, but not well.

Physical Appearance & Characteristics

Faceclaim: Joel Kinnaman Eye Color: Brownish/Greenish Hair Color: Ashy Blonde Hair Type/Style/Length: Average/Well Kept/Short Glasses/Contacts?: None Dominant Hand: Right Height: 6′ 2″ Weight: 187lbs Build: Athletic Exercise Habits: Two session, morning and evening. Every day, two hours. With intermittent practice in between with others. Skin tone: Fair Tattoos: Left shoulder reaching to just below his elbow, spiders out to cover some of his chest and back. Got it to cover up an old gunshot scar. A faded string of numbers on his right arm (080879-58-05). Piercings: None Marks/Scars: Tierney is covered in scars. From battle wounds to childhood scrapes, to remnants of his life as a test mutant. Most can be found on his chest and back but part of why he wears pants and sleeves is to hide the others. Don’t want his identifying marks to get out and doesn’t like explaining to others what happened to him in order to get that many scars. Clothing Style: Dark colors, long pants, long sleeves, deep pockets. Usually a coat when the weather allows. The more places to hide the things he needs to work the better. But he cleans up well, he has plenty of suits in his closet too. Usually second hand stuff, the only time he buys something fancy is when he’s on a job. Jewelry: A set of dog tags labeling him a level five mutant. Nothing more. Allergies: None Diet: Average. More fast food than probably healthy. Physical Ailments: Stiff knees. Jumped off a few too many building in his younger years. Spent too many hours kneeling behind walls after that. They don’t bother him much but anyone with eyes can see they’re stiff. His left shoulder is also stiff, he favors it. Perhaps on of his worst gun shot injuries to date. It haunts him. And aches when the weather changes.

Psychology

MBTI Type: ISTJ-A (The Logistician)

ISTJs are often called inspectors. They have a keen sense of right and wrong, especially in their area of interest and/or responsibility. They are noted for devotion to duty. Punctuality is a watchword of the ISTJ. As do other Introverted Thinkers, ISTJs often give the initial impression of being aloof and perhaps somewhat cold. Effusive expression of emotional warmth is not something that ISTJs do without considerable energy loss. ISTJs are most at home with "just the facts, Ma'am." They seem to perform at highest efficiency when employing a step-by-step approach.

Enneagram Type: Type 6 (The Skeptic)

The committed, security-oriented type. Sixes are reliable, hard-working, responsible, and trustworthy. Excellent "troubleshooters," they foresee problems and foster cooperation, but can also become defensive, evasive, and anxious—running on stress while complaining about it. They can be cautious and indecisive, but also reactive, defiant and rebellious. They typically have problems with self-doubt and suspicion. At their Best: internally stable and self-reliant, courageously championing themselves and others.

Moral Alignment: Lawful Neutral

A lawful neutral character acts as law, tradition, or a personal code directs her. Order and organization are paramount to her. She may believe in personal order and live by a code or standard, or she may believe in order for all and favor a strong, organized government.

Temperament: Choleric

Cholerics are extroverted, quick-thinking, active, practical, strong-willed, and easily annoyed. They are self-confident, self-sufficient, and very independent minded. They are brief, direct, to the point, and firm when communicating with others.

Element: Earth & Fire Emotional Stability: Stable Introvert or Extrovert?: Introvert Obsession(s): Motorcycles. Tierney doesn’t know a lot outside of how to kill someone and get away with it. But he knows practically everything there is to know about motorcycles. How they work, how the break, how to fix them. Everything. Some would call him obsessed but Tierney calls it laser focused. Compulsion(s): Protecting his family. It’s what’s on his mind in every situation. All of his actions are dictated by this fact. Even for decisions that aren’t going to impact the Syndicate are measured against this need. It’s never occurred to him that it might, in fact, be a problem. It’s just natural. Phobia(s): Mutant testing facilities. It’s irrational, especially now, to be afraid of getting taken back to the white walled hellscape he grew up in. But he is. He scrubs his name clean where ever he goes and actively avoids anyone in a lab coat who starts asking questions. He even takes down fliers asking for mutants to ‘willingly’ submit to testing. He doesn’t talk about those years for damn good reasons. Addiction(s): None Drug Use: None Alcohol Use: Often Prone to Violence?: Always Prone to Crying?: No Believe in Love at First Sight?: No

Mannerisms

Accent: Depends. A bit of a hodgepodge of Boston and Midwestern. Tends to adapt to the common accent after a while when staying in a place for a prolonged period of time. Speech Quirks: None Hobbies: Motorcycle Repair, Motorcycle Rebuilding Habits: Spinning things in the air when he’s concentrating. Leg bouncing. Ordering more food than he can eat so he has left overs in the fridge. Nervous Ticks: Rubbing his nose and spinning objects in the air at high rates of speed. Drives/Motivations: Protecting his family. Fears: Losing his family, someone dying on him, being taken back in for testing. Sense of Humour?: Dry. Like the desert. Do They Curse Often?: Like. All the time.

Favorites

Animal: Bear Beverage: Heineken Beer and/or Black Coffee Book: None. Tierney hates reading. Color: Deep Green Food: Ciara’s Flower: None Gem: Emeralds Mode of Transportation: Motorcycles Scent: Fresh brewed coffee, rain on the horizon, motorcycle oil, pizza grease on your fingers Sport: Football and Hockey Weather: Rain Vacation Destination: None

Attitudes

Greatest Dream: End mutant testing. Tierney sees nothing productive in the act and goes out of his way to end it whenever and wherever he can. Mutants are people. Not lab rats to be poked at or taken away from their families. Greatest Fear: Losing one of his family and being taken back for mutant testing. Most at Ease When: Elbow deep in one of his bikes with of his closest friends lounging on the couch across the way. Least as Ease When: He doesn’t know what’s going on around him. When his plans has fallen through and he’s no longer in control of what’s happening around him. Worst Possible Thing That Could Happen: Alma being murdered. Biggest Achievement: Taking out the president of the company that held him as a test subject when he was a child. Biggest Regret: He has exactly Eleven. Eleven deaths that weren’t supposed to happen but did.

#hc #mrtask #murder tw #violence tw #abuse tw

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hcpefulmarshmallow · 5 years ago

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Time for some long, unnecessary Meta. I’ve had this one in my brain for ages, but I haven’t really had an excuse to talk about it until recently. Identity isn’t a major theme in Nagito’s character (although it plays it’s part), and so, I’ve been putting this one off. Then, my good pal Ashi had to go be a literary genius and incorporate some really interesting things into their Gundham, and now I have all the excuse I need. So I’m going to be talking about him, too, to a marginally lesser extent, using aspects of the Best Gunny’s characterisation. (Seriously though, plug. I’m not even sure it’s possible to follow this blog and not know about Ashi’s Gundham, but on the off chance: @the-taboo-king.)

Under a cut for length, philosophy, and shameless, shameless Roulette.

This is the part where I say something that makes the reader’s eyes glaze over, but indulge me. No Exit is a 1944 existentialist French play by Jean-Paul Sartre. It’s about three people - Garcin, Inez and Estelle - who are all doomed to hell, except hell is just an ordinary room, and it’s really, really good. I’d highly recommend.

The characters spend much of the start of the play sitting around, waiting for Satan to show up with the hot pokers and the lube, but once the three of them are gathered in this room, nothing happens. All they can do is sit there, get to know one another, and watch the people they left behind on Earth live out the rest of their lives and move on. There’s nothing there except three chairs; nothing else for them to do. It’s explicitly mentioned that hell has no mirrors, so for instance, when Estelle wants to fix her makeup, she has to rely on Inez to tell her if it looks alright or not. The trouble is, Inez is really attracted to Estelle, so Estelle has no way of knowing if Inez is telling her the objective truth or not. Furthermore, Estelle is kind of grossed out at the thought of another woman being attracted to her, so she starts flirting with Garcin. Not because she’s especially interested in him, per se, but he is the only man there, and Estelle thrives on male attention.

Garcin doesn’t seem to want much to do with either Inez or Estelle at first, preferring to focus on watching his wife try and cope with the terrible reputation he left behind. However, eventually she, and everyone who knew him, dies or moves on. It becomes like he never existed, as it does for them all.

Garcin accepts Estelle’s advances, but it’s not her attention he wants. It’s Inez’s. She’s furious, jealous, and ready to throw some hands. Inez’s fixation remains on Estelle; Estelle’s on Garcin; and Garcin’s on Inez. Things become vicious between the three, until, at last, the door to hell opens. Garcin has the chance to leave, but he doesn’t.

The play is especially famous for the line “Hell is other people”, and directly opposes the old adage, “I think, therefore I am”. It posits that humans exist because we are seen, and therefore if we are unseen, we do not exist. At this point, Garcin has become dependent on his feud with Inez. He might be forgotten in the world, but as long as she hates him, there’s a him to hate. The absence of mirrors removes the characters’ abilities to reflect on themselves, so they can only experience themselves through one another. In that sense, their purpose here isn’t solely to be punished, but to punish one another for all eternity.

So, what does this have to do with Dangit Roomba 2, the game where everything’s made up and the deaths don’t matter? Like I said, this play has been in the back of my mind for a while when it comes to writing Komaeda, but it hasn’t been explicit enough for me to justify writing oodles about until recently. So before we talk about Nagito, let’s talk about the man, the myth, the hamster dad himself.

Identity is a major theme for Gundham. He cultivates his own very, very carefully, only breaking character here and there either to adjust himself (and comment on a “good line”), or when he’s flustered and his composure slips just a little bit. Given how much effort he puts into his words and appearance, you’d be probably correct in assuming he wants to be seen a certain way. He appears to thrive off the fear and intimidation he inspires, yet despite demanding “silence and solitude”, he seems to crave companionship, and find it best in those who can easily reconcile his demonic persona with the kind, nurturing person he is underneath, as opposed to people who try and see directly through it. He needs that persona, you see. He can’t cope with it being stripped away. I’ve spoken about Gundham’s tendency to play the bad guy even when he is, objectively, the hero, before, so I won’t belabor the point too much. But what I’m driving at here is, who he is, and how he’s seen, are too intricately linked to be separated.

If you recall, the door to hell opens and Garcin has the chance to leave, but he doesn’t.

I can think of no better example than the ideas in No Exit, and the intricacies of Gundham’s character, falling into place better than Ashi’s future verse. Which is really, really good, and a masterful take on the philosophy of identity. When Gundham shatters the mirrors and covers the reflective surfaces in his living space, he is effectively robbing himself of the ability to see himself. He’s forced into the vulnerable position of his identity being placed in the hands of others. With no way to reflect on himself - literally and symbolically - he has to take what others say to him as is. Rely on other people to cultivate his appearance and judge what he can no longer see, and therefore, alter. Coupled with his persistent, subsequent self-aggrandizing and deprecation, and he’s submitting himself to the torment of being made into the villain of this story, no matter what he does from hereon out.

You see, the world isn’t in despair anymore. He’s been given a second chance. The door to hell is open, and Gundham has the chance to leave, but he doesn’t.

Like Garcin, he becomes reliant on the fight. The constant struggle against people who will see him in the worst light possible, no matter what he does. But unlike Garcin, Inez, Estelle, or even Nagito - and we will get to Nagito - he isn’t forced into this state, for survival or for punishment. At least, not by a third party. He’s condemning himself. He’s robbing himself of the ability to improve, or to see himself improve. He doesn’t think he deserves to. He relies on others to validate who he is, because others have always let him down. Always seen him as the villain. The weird kid. The one not worth including. He’s waiting to be told, “Actually, you’re a bad person and I don’t want to be near you”. He’s waiting to be abandoned and left alone because, when there’s no one left to see him, he will, effectively, no longer exist. He’s given up on a meaningful, extraordinary death, opting to instead languish in the depths of oblivion. For someone who has grappled for years to forge an identity he can live with (again, that other meta I did on him a while back), this. This is hell.

Now that I’ve outed myself as a secret Gundham Tanaka stan blog, let’s talk about his boyfriend. Identity is less a key theme for Nagito, and more a background element to his character. So it hasn’t been something I could justify a thousand-odd words on so far. But now I have an excuse, I’m going to talk about the single most underrated ship in all of Dimple Raddish. Like I usually do. Look, there’s been a semi-recent semi-surge on popularity for Roulette in the fandom, just let me ride it out, okay? As someone who doesn’t shut up about these two, I have no idea how much of it I’m responsible for, but I am arrogant enough to take more credit than is due, so. You’re welcome, fandom.

For all the things Nagito is awkward and dumb at dealing with (see: All The Things), helping Gundham cope post-tragedy is one thing he does pretty effortlessly. Because what Gundham needs is what Nagito has in perpetuity: relentless, unyielding love. The only way Gundham will ever face himself again, is if he’s forced to believe there’s something worth facing. There is an opportunity in seeing himself as others do. He can see the good things he’s never let himself acknowledge before.

Now’s as good a time as any to say: this is not a healthy way to be. And I’m not trying to imply that the love of the right person can cure years of trauma and abuse. But you know what can help? Being treated with some basic decency and respect. And heck, even love. Gundham is not a role model, and Nagito, less so. He’s a morally ambiguous, deeply damaged young man. He can’t really be fixed. But he can be given the support he needs to heal.

This is the inevitable part in all my long metas where I lament that Nagito’s childhood was loveless, and robbed him of the ability the feel any kind of self-worth. That he’s rendered incapable of recognizing his own needs much less putting them first, as a result of them never being met. That he’s a good person who deserves a good life, and despite having been through insurmountable hell, it’s a wonder he came out the other side so, very capable of selflessness. And that it’s tragic his biggest wish in life is to just know how to feels to be loved in any way by anyone, just to have the most basic, fundamental human experience. F in chat.

Nagito has interests, and hobbies. He...reads, sometimes. He likes dogs. His luck ruins everything. But when he isn’t encouraging others to chase that One True Hope, what is he actually doing? What would he be doing if he never attended Hope’s Peak? Given how many times he’s been treated like a burden, can he ever truly feel like he’s worth something to anybody?

There’s a sense of static around him, I feel. Like when the video quality suddenly drops, and it takes you a moment to realise. Who is he, exactly? The answer is simple and sad: whoever he’s told to be. He’s spent his life being treated like his feelings are a burden and he’s useless trash, therefore he is burdensome trash. In class he is often ignored and ridiculed, so he largely keeps to himself during group activities, and whenever he says something out loud, he often scolds himself for it before anyone else can. You know, that whole, “Haha sorry, that was a bit much, guess I’m just trash” thing he does. He has to be this way. For his own survival, for whatever sanity he has left. It’s easier to be treated like garbage if you believe you deserve it.

It’s normal for people to be different around different people. But I find that to be especially true with Nagito as I play him through different relationships with different people. The more he is with Gundham, the more his nurturing, animal-loving side comes out. The more he is with Celeste, the more we see his intelligent, competitive, gentlemanly side. With Sonia, his ability to be princely and adventurous; with Chiaki, his gentle and relaxed nature, with Yuuki, or the WoH, or literally any child under his care, we experience a strong paternal side to him. He is by no means a different person, but different aspects of his personality are given more dominance over him as a whole, based on what somebody sees in him. He’s very capable of stepping up, but only when he feels someone expects him to. Otherwise he’s content to sit on his hands and watch, because he doesn’t think he deserves anything better.

Nagito will not see these things, or anything especially good, in himself until he is given permission. Until he is made to feel, by an authority higher than himself, that it’s okay. He exists as others see him. If someone he looks up to, whose opinions he values, recognises the - for lack of a better term - hope in him, he will eventually be forced to accept that it’s there himself. He might even. You know. Develop enough self-respect one day to forge a more self-actualised identity. Have the audacity to want things, and have dreams and stuff. He might even follow them. It’s a long, tiresome, non-linear process; but a worthwhile undertaking if I say so myself.

I guess the tl;dr here is that: both boys validate themselves through the eyes of other people because it’s the only way they know how. It’s not a good or healthy thing to do, but with the right kind of support, and enough time and patience, maybe next time the door to hell opens, they’ll have the courage to leave.

#( this wasn't as in-depth as i'd have liked #i could have kept going but the word count bro #so imma just leave it like this and hope i've made my point )#meta;#long post;

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