#I feel so entirely unwanted and like I’m just invading peoples lives and like I’ve said before at any moment my life can fall apart and

[whimsyprinx]

idk how to explain to people that like I’m trying my best to see the point in life and be optimistic and like hopeful but literally there isn’t anything to base hope and optimism on

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Practice Makes Perfect.

Word Count: 3.2k.

Commissioned by the lovely @furudolove.

Pairing: Yandere!OC/Reader.

TW: Death, Light Gore, Blood, Graphic Injury, Mentions of Kidnapping, Implied Stalking, Slight Sociopathy/Apathy, Implied Anxiety, Obsessive mindsets.

Her smile was familiar.

Or, familiar might’ve been the wrong word for it. Cozy in the way a hotel room was, stiff and sterile, but repetitive and recognizable, too. Reassuring like a disinterested family, soothing like the buzz of a broken streetlamp, relaxing like being so utterly, completely, absolutely lost, there was nothing you could do to possibly make things worse than they already are. It wasn’t off-putting, but it wasn’t welcoming, either. She didn’t feel intimidating, and yet, you still wanted to keep your distance, like a mouse might from a docile housecat. To stay bundled up in your little corner off the coffee shop, your coat pulled over your chest and…

And then she glanced up, and something in your brain short-circuited.

You really should’ve stopped staring earlier.

Instantly, your eyes shot back to the wooden tabletop in front of you, to the mug you’d almost forgotten, steam still rising off the top. She was a barista, after all, she was working, and the last thing she needed was some creep staring her down for the better half of the last thirty minutes, if only because of that uncanny, unidentifiable resemblance to something you couldn’t name. You weren’t a regular, but she felt new, still awkward with the machines and robotic with costumers, but you couldn’t say you were any better. You’d hardly said a word to her, aside from your order, and you didn’t plan to, not if you could help it. You’d never been good at that kind of thing, and you had a feeling your luck wouldn’t improve with someone so…

Someone like her.

Not that you’d been all that lucky with much of anything, lately. Hell, you were only here because you’d missed your train, and the next wouldn’t arrive for another hour, at least. There were more pressing things you could focus on, like the early shift you had tomorrow, how late you were going to get home, the busted lock on the door of your apartment, but it was easier to hate the rigid schedule that hadn’t bent to your will, the sidewalk that’d been just a little too crowded let you squeeze your way through peacefully, the light snowfall that meant you couldn’t wait at the station, regardless of how badly you wanted to bunker down on an uncomfortable, freezing bench and stubbornly glare at the tracks until you found a way to turn-back time and avoid such a trivial problem entirely. It was easier to focus on the barista, how her black hair fell in front of her face as she worked, how your fingers twitched, moving reflexively to push it back. It was an invasive kind of intimacy, the type that was as unearned as it was unwanted. Irrational and irritating, despite your attempts to brush it off.

Downing the rest of your drink, you forced yourself to stand. The station would be better, and fresh air would help to clear your mind, to stop you from paying attention to things that didn’t need attention. You tried to start towards the door, but you hardly made it a full step before something caught the back of your collar, tugging you back into place. There was a brief pause, a second that stretched out just a little too long, but hesitantly, you managed to turn around, only to be met by the smiling face you’d been simultaneously inspecting and avoiding. Only to be met by her, the barista, the girl you’d been all-but leering at, since you walked in.

Reflexively, you moved to apologize, but she was already talking, already forcing another paper cup into your unoccupied hand. “On the house,” She explained, in place of a proper greeting. You didn’t mind. You couldn’t really say you expected one, not from her. “It’s cold out there, and you’re starting to look like you could use it.”

There was a playful lull to her voice, a hint of something that balanced on the line between an insult and a genuine show of sympathy. You could only bow your head, your eyes suddenly glued to the floor. “I could, honestly,” You managed, the words coming out meeker than you would’ve liked. If she noticed, it didn’t seem to dampen her mood, her grin only growing broader as you went on. “Thank you…”

“Anya,” She finished, her smile never faltering.

“Call me Anya.”

~

You recognized her eyes, too.

Dark, just teetering on the shade where brown begins to blend with back. You might’ve said she looked distracted, but that wouldn’t be right – if anything, she seemed a little too concentrated. You were better about your staring, this time, but it would’ve been impossible not to look over you shoulder occasionally, not to throw a glance in her direction as you ducked behind a rack of magazines. It was a pathetic effort, really, an unnecessary one. It was a corner store, not her bedroom. You were shopping, not setting up hidden cameras. You’d gotten here before her, and you would’ve left if she hadn’t come in, if you could just put a strange resemblance aside and manage to act like a normal, functional human being. That’s what you should do, really. It’s what anyone else would do, whether or not there was the smallest, tiniest, most insignificant chance she’d see you and think, quietly and to herself, that you were a creep.

But, you weren’t someone else. And you really, really didn’t want her to think you were a creep.

So, hiding behind the magazine rack it was.

Currently, you were staring down a display cooler, trying to blend in with the background or melt into the fluorescent lights. You wanted to make yourself less noticeable, to shrink into your jacket and disappear, but that wasn’t an option – you were sure you already would’ve abused the privilege, if you had it. You just had to wait her out. You just had to—

“Another rough day?”

You just had to die. That was it, you just had to die.

At least she didn’t seem uncomfortable, inviting herself into your personal space before you could make the mistake of invading hers, choosing to stand just a little too close, her shoulder nearly touching yours. “Is it that obvious?” You muttered, your voice still low, like you were still trying to hide. A fox, still trying to walk on the leg it’d already chewed off. “I wasn’t really planning on running into anyone, this late.”

You said it like the two of you were friends, like it even made sense that she’d taken time out of her night to talk to you. Instantly, you regretted opening your mouth at all, but Anya only laughed. “I’d offer you another coffee, if I could,” She quipped, nudging you gently, her tone still unbothered, as if she made a hobby of confronting near-strangers. She might’ve, for all you knew. She felt like the kind of person who did. “A little company can’t hurt, though. I’d like to think I’ve gotten good at this kind of thing.” There was a pause, and enviously, you scanned over a dented energy drink. “Lots of training, y’know? People say I have a common face, makes it easier for people to talk to me.”

You allowed yourself a small sigh, a wave of relief washing over you. She must’ve been used to it, the strange stares and that distorted attraction, but you still tried to keep your eyes in front of you, on the sleeve of her silver coat as she reached up, toying with the cooler’s handle. “I don’t really have a lot to say,” You conceded, reluctantly. “It’s just been a tough week. My karma’s been off or something – nothing just seems to go right. Not that anything’s gone that wrong, either.” It was one of the few advantages of living such a small life. If you had the time to worry about whether or not the same girl would recognize you twice, you couldn’t have had much to worry about in the first place. “I’m just… a little stuck, I guess. It’s like I’m treading water, but I still know I’m going to drown, eventually.”

You caught her reflection in the clouded glass, an expression similar to guilt passing across her features and disappearing just a quickly, fading into a small, understanding smile, so unabashedly sympathetic, it almost felt practiced. “Like the universe has a bounty on your head.”

You let out a breath of a chuckle. “I wouldn’t take it that far.”

“Things can always get worse.” It was a declaration, shameless and unabashedly pessimistic, the kind that forced the tension in your shoulders to dissolve and your nerves to settle in the pit of your stomach, if only out of respect for her confidence alone. “But, no one should have to die alone. If you want to walk me home, we could try to stave it off for another twenty minutes together.”

If it were anyone else, any other stranger, you probably wouldn’t have agreed. You hadn’t been making excuses – it was late, closer to sunrise than sunset, and if your luck was going to get any worse, wondering around the city probably wasn’t the best idea. But, there was something about the way she asked, like she already knew you’d say yes, like she already trusted you enough to know you would. You didn’t want to disappoint her. You didn’t want to break whatever golden, idealistic expectations she’d managed to form, in the handful of days since you’d met.

“It’s not like I have anything better to do,” You admitted, letting her hook her arm around yours, pulling you closer to her side as you fought to keep your focus on the ground, willing the heat rushing to your cheeks to cool. “If it’ll keep me alive, I mean.”

There was only a smile in response, bright enough to let you overlook that, despite already moving to drag you to the cashier, she didn’t actually have anything to buy.

“I’ll do my best, this time.”

~

You could’ve sworn you’d seen her apartment before, despite knowing you’d never taken a step past the threshold.

Admittedly, you probably should’ve made more of an effort to change that before springing at the first opportunity to move in. Despite her confidence, Anya liked her privacy, and she always seemed to prefer your place over hers, taking every excuse you offered to spend the night or hand out or, on one special occasion, try and fail to surprise you with a romantic dinner. It almost felt unreal, trying to navigate the strange, empty halls, a cardboard box in your arms and your eyes burning, a side-effect of the white walls and the hanging fluorescent lights, complicated metal fixtures she seemed a little too fond of. You’d have to ask her about that, later on. You doubted your vision would last, if the entire apartment was like this.

“Already lost, babe?”

Your heart raced at the sound of Anya’s voice, but not like it used to, not out of pure, nervous tension. This was a nice sensation, a more pleasant sort of unease, leaving your cheeks flushed and your tongue failing as Anya draped herself over your shoulders, her own crate already thrown into whichever black room she decided it belonged in. She’d wanted to help, but with the Spring heat and how much time the two of you had spent cleaning out your last place, neither of you seemed capable of getting much done. “Can you blame me?” You asked, leaning back and melting into her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you lured my back to your empty, bleached out murder den.” There was a pause, a slight hesitation on your part. “Which is not what happened, right?”

“Oh, no, not until I see how unbearable you are to live with, at least.” You huffed, attempting to shrug her off, but Anya only laughed, her arms dropping to your waist and her cheek coming to rest against your back. “I mean, I should be the scared one, if anything. After what happened to your apartment—”

“It was just bad luck,” You interjected, already embarrassed. “This kind of thing happens all the time.”

“An entire building burning down is not ‘bad luck’.” She sounded annoyed, but her faux exasperation was half-hearted, at best, a sentiment only backed up by her breathy sigh, all poorly veiled relief and numbed exhaustion. “It’s just a miracle you weren’t home. When you called me, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d do if…”

She trailed off, but you knew what she meant. You were still in a state of shock, honestly, still stuck in the same distant headspace you’d been in when you first saw the smoke rising into the air and the caution tape surrounding your neighborhood and the crowds, and you couldn’t imagine it was any less gruesome for her. “It’s not all bad,” You offered, reaching back, running your fingers through her hair idly. “If you hadn’t wanted to go on a date that day, I might’ve actually been—”

You didn’t get a chance to finish. Above you, something creaked, the sound of metal scraping against metal as a fuse fizzled and popped, an electrical static that fell silent just a moment too soon. You barely got a chance to consider moving before you were thrown on the ground, Anya on top of you and a mangled pile of glass and wires scattered across the floor behind her, the invasive light of the hall suddenly dulled into something grey, something absent. It took you a moment to process it all – the cracked floor tiles, the ache forming in the spot where your chest hit the ground, but Anya was quick to recover, a stifled laugh slipping past her lips before she could swallow it back. You might’ve been tempted to do the same, if your tongue hadn’t suddenly felt so heavy.

You might’ve been able to take it as lightly as she did, if the sound hadn’t been so familiar in such an awful, terrifying way.

It was difficult to speak, but you managed, the words coming out faltered and breathless. “I can’t… A-Are you alright?”

“You’re alright,” She mumbled, more to herself than for you.

“I’m fine, as long as you’re alright.”

~

Somehow, you felt like you’d heard her voice before.

Her smile was familiar, as were her eyes and the unnerving emptiness of her apartment, but you felt like you’d heard her voice before, like you’d listened to her, like you’d lied with your head in her lap and you’d heard her, not just something similar, not just an imitation you could convince yourself wasn’t the real thing. It was personal. It was real. It was Anya, even if you knew it couldn’t be. Even if you knew it wasn’t supposed to be.

Even if it had to be, and you were beginning to realize it could never have been anything else.

Anya was trying to be gentle, today. You couldn’t blame her, you’d be gentle if you found her like this, at the bottom of a staircase in a pool of her own blood, bones shattered and ribs cracked and body so twisted, you weren’t sure how she’d even recognized you. Still, there was an exhausted lilt in her voice as she crouched by your side – or, what she must’ve thought was your side, at least. “I knew this would happen.” There was a pause, a spark of agony that flittered across your scalp as she reached down, combing her fingers through your hair lazily. “Took a week longer than last time. Getting you back to my apartment is usually a turning point, but… different rules for different run-throughs, I guess.

“This isn’t the worst thing I’ve seen,” She went on, not bothering to wait for a response she knew wouldn’t come. “Car accidents are usually bloodier. You’ve gotten gutted a couple times, usually a day or two after we’re supposed to meet, and when you get caught in that fire…” She trailed off, and you tried to take a deep breath, something in your lungs ripping and spilling out, as a result. “I had to pull you out of a train crash, once. A fucking train crash. You hated trains, a few cycles ago.”

Anya let out a huff, something between a sigh and a groan, but if she had more to say, she didn’t bother offering more than a parting kiss to your bruised forehead, forcing out a whimper so cracked and so pitiful, you could hardly bring yourself to acknowledge as human. “I’ll see you next time, sweetheart.”

A blocked heel pressed against the crack in the back of your skull, and Anya’s weight shifted with a small, practiced grace.

It hurt, for a moment.

But then, it didn’t.

~

You looked a little different at the start of every cycle.

Anya didn’t mind. You were still you – beautiful, lovable, endearing you, regardless of the color of your jacket or what drink you chose, the day the two of you were predestined to meet. It didn’t matter if you were a little more jittery than you were last time, a little less willing to meet her eyes as she took your order, she could look past that. Whatever gap existed between the two, she could bridge it. Whatever hesitancy dozens of bloody, gory deaths might’ve instilled in you, she could help you overcome it, she could choke it out of you until only admiration was left, the same love she felt for you.

Of course, her goal was your survival, to protect you and get close to you and make sure you shake off whatever awful curse you seem to be under, but Anya found that a relationship was the best way to do that. She’d tried keeping her distance, manipulating individual factors rather than keeping you out of harm’s way directly, but that’d been about as effective as the time she’d locked you in her bedroom and attempted to take a more forceful approach to keeping you safe. She needed to keep a firm hand, not a strangle-hold. She needed to be outgoing, not intrusive.

Part of her was a little worried, albeit not nearly worried enough. She’d been the shy one, the first time the two of you met, stuttering and plain and completely unimportant, and you’d been confident, care-free, a far-cry from the paranoid, anxious shell you’d taken to hiding in, lately. She still loved you, obviously, she doubted she could ever stop loving you, but you were different. She was different, too. Both of you were.

But, Anya couldn’t seem to bring herself to care.

She smiled as she finished writing, reading over the number written onto your cheap, disposable paper cup, her name underneath it, punctuated by a row of hearts, for good measure. You wouldn’t call, she already knew, but Anya wasn’t feeling as patient as she usually was, she didn’t want to wait as long to skip to the fun part of her little routine. It was the least she could do to experiment. If she got lucky, you’d be desperate enough to ask for her help, after a little prodding. And, if she wasn’t, it’d be fine. She was sure of that. It’d always be fine.

She knew what to do if she made a bad impression, if she said the wrong thing, if she decided she couldn’t trust you with your own safety, anymore. You’d already abandoned her over and over again, died and left Anya to smooth over the damage…

She was sure you wouldn’t mind if she chose to be a little selfish, this time around.

[bestnoncannonship]

I'm drowning in the gender sandbox guys.

I am agender. At least....I think I am. It's the closest to what I'm feeling. In that I really do not have an attachment to any gender and cannot conceive how people identify with a gender. Like....they just FEEL a gender? All the time? No matter what they look like and what they're wearing they FEEL a gender?? Whaaaa??? Sounds hella fake but okay.

And now I'm gonna talk about that and my experience for a while, in a series of ways that's probably gonna get the gender and sexuality neo-puritans to come yell at me for not being ritually pure enough in the way I talk but.....I'm talking from my own brain, baby. This is the toolkit I'm packing right now and the world I live in and I just need to spit it out. Maybe see if it resonates with people who know more than me. I don't know. Help.

I didn't question being a woman for the longest time. I grew up in a rural area culturally dominated by "Christians" (Not Catholics. I was Catholic. That comes with a whole different set of religious traumas pre-installed. I mean the ScAaRy protestent and nondenom Christians.) You didn't question anything. Not an adults orders. Not authority. Certainly not straightness. Gender was biological. I'd never heard of a trans person. There were rumors of Gays™. For most of my life it was just "Gender is the meat suit you got stuck with, right? I got stuck with this meat suit so it's my gender, I guess." And when I finally left the middle-o-nowhere for Le Citè and I met some (mostly bianary) trans people I was like "OH! OKAY!! Having strong feelings about being in the wrong meat suit can make a gender!" And the non bianaries that I met were still playing on that bianary scale. The "bit of boths" and the "different genders for different days" varieties. They has strange attachments to genders. And the whole retoric of "Questioning your gender and feeling things about you gender is the indicator that you might be trans!!" Just furthered my feeling that I must just be female by default cause like.....I didn't question anything. I didn't think about gender. I had a COMPLETE lack of feelings about gender whatsoever and that was normal, right?? Just meat suit gender. I certainly didn't have a strong feeling about wanting to be the opposite: *gag* a man?? A straight white man? Nope! I have no desire to be a bianary man and frankly I find 99 percent of men and male culture traumatic. So I must just be meat-suit gender.

And yes, I wanted to scrape my breasts and hips and thighs off with a cheese grater. But I wrote that off as a symptom of having started putting a finger down my throat after meals when I was 6 and having a family that forced hour upon hour exercise with their thighs and tummies wrapped in saran wrap and sang "I don't love her! She's too fat for me!" to a literal toddler and put that same toddler in oversized clothes to hide the healthy baby squish that toddlers HAVE. OF COURSE I wanted to die when my breasts grew in and my hips and thighs filled out. They were evil fat deposits. And they meant nothing but unwanted attention from yucky men. (Lesbianism to be discovered some 15 years later. My comphets we're almost as bad as my compgenders.) It had nothing to do with gender. Gender is just the meat suit ....and I already hated the meat suit by the time I had breast buds, they just enhanced a disgust that I thought was normal by then. Everyone kind of hates their meat suit, right?? Yes I wanted to look like men sometimes.....but they were skinny heroin chic men. I also wanted to look like kate moss. I wanted to look like a sideways door but my family is Italian and we have hips and thighs. It's just the meat suit I was assigned. Just have to learn to deal with it and dress it in the way that it looks most socially acceptable and get on with life. And my meat suit had a very gendered look, even in the deepest throws of my illness. "All woman." "The curves of a real woman." So that was just the hand I was dealt. Like having a hard to match foundation undertone. You don't gotta like it, it's just reality. Yes, I wanted to wear nothing but waistcoats and gay vampire clothes but they weren't cut for my body type so *shrug*.

Did I start to have way too much fun cosplaying and embodying male characters? Yes. But that was just identifying with characters. I'd always identified with characters. Did I still distinctly identify with the character's gender, even when I femmed the costume to avoid the hellish pain of binding? Yes. Did it make me feel weird when people referred to my Thor as a woman, even though it was technically a femme? Yes. But that was just feminism. Heroes don't need to be called girl heroes. No gender issues here!! Besides it's not weird in fandom circles to stongly identify with people across gender lines. The fact that I found the gendernope option if there was one available in the fandom and *attached* was surely just coincidental. Right??

Did I absolutely loose my mcfreaking mind when the gyno started talking about having to take my uterus away because the amount of blood it was loosing was doing irreparable harm to my body? Yes. My gender is my meat suit. When you take it away....what am I???? A *gag* man??? Nothing at all?? Am I still even human?? If I am not *gag* male and you take away the female part of the meat suit am I an aphid? A plant? A chair? But I was comforted by a chorus of voices saying "No!! You're a WOMAN. Infertility doesn't make you not a woman! You still have a woman's body!! Because you're a woman!!! Just look at you in your skirts and with your long hair!! You're a woman!!!" So.....still a woman, I guess. Because I still LOOKED like one. Gender = the PRESENTATION of the meat suit. That made sense. The structure of my meat suit made me limited to woman-presentation. So I was woman.

Then, it was the stupidest thing, I was talking to the other half of my life on the 4/5 train on the way to a friend's house about HER issues with gender presentation and the amount of attention to detail it takes to be socially acceptable as female and she said "You just know you're a girl. Like if they just picked you up and put you in a robot body you'd be a girl?" And I was like "......no? I'd be a robot?????" "But you'd still feel like a girl???" "No.....I'd feel like a ROBOT." "BUT you'd still like hear she/her and identify with those???" "No. I'd probably identify more with It/it's because that's what I'd be. A ROBOT!" And she's like "But what if your brain got transplanted into a boy body???" "Then I'd be a boy." "But what would you feel like?" "A BOY?" "Okay but what if you had a very neutral body with like no genitals? What would you feel like then??" "I mean....then it would depend on how I'm dressed. I'd feel like what I was dressed like." And we went around like this till she surmised that my entire relationship to gender was basically "You are what you look like." Which is apparently NOT how people relate to their own gender. They "feel" it somehow?? (I genuinely thought "FEELING" like a gender was what made trans people.) I feel nothing. I identify with a lot of things and ZERO of them are a gender. I thought that was normal. I thought that was the default. Apparently it's not. And then if you ask me what I want to be.....I can't answer. I really don't want to be a gender. I guess I want to be able to put different genders on at my will, like outfits, for societal convenience. But I don't "identify" with any of them. Hell, I have sweaters I identify with more than any particular gender. But there aren't really systems in place for describing and portraying that.

Gender.exe was not installed.

I did a lot of research. Agender felt closest. I actually felt closest to a Good Omens meme about Aziraphale describing his gender as "No, thank you!" That's what I feel like. But all the agender folks were vibing that moment. So I joined 'em. I am aware that puts me under the trans umbrella, but I don't really identify with that word. I don't feel like there's any transition. Any changing. Can't change what was never there. Also I feel like it's for people who....CAN present as their gender. I would be seen as an invader in those spaces. Its not bad enough to justify being in those spaces. I can live with being gendered. I just don't have one.

In the society we live in one cannot present as "not a gender". Someone with MY body definitely cannot present as "not a gender". The clothes that they make in size "giant human with planet tits" are agressively gendered. And even in a binder.....they're still REALLY there. (Yes, a reduction is desirable but I don't have reduction money.....and you can't reduce the fact that I'm the bowl shaped robust extreme female hipbone they use in Forensic Anthropology textbooks.) It is what it is. My body will always be perceived the way it's perceived. And frankly a lot of what we perceive as genderless is just "skinny body in masc style with short hair and makeup". That's not really want I want. I don't want to cut off my hair. It's my one really good feature and I've worked hard to grow out these Valkyrie worthy lengths. Mens clothes are so limiting. And there are no gender: no thank you clothes. (One well meaning friend kept trying to send me "genderless" clothes......but it was all rail thin afabs in mens clothes with short hair and heavy makeup. That's not looking genderless. That's just being skinny.) Gender no thank you presentation is very tied to short hair and thin bodies. So I've accepted that I don't get to play in the gender sandbox outside of the privacy of my own mind. It's a societal flaw. But whatever.

But pronouns are starting to really bother me. Everyone is so into them and identifying with them. And like.....I don't get it. I don't get the joy. I don't think I've found the one. Like.....I'm used to she. I will always be read as she. I will always be Miss and Ma'am in stores and restraunts. So I just kind of roll with it. I don't hate it. I don't like it. It's just a thing that I have to have to exist in society. Like a social security number. I actually think I identify with my social security number more. There's no point in making myself uncomfortable with something that's just going to be a part of my life. And I don't want to be the kind of person who expects people to address me by a pronoun they can't see and aren't used to. It's too much to ask of the average citizen of a gendered society to go through that much gender theory for just me. So "she" is an inevitable part of my life. And He....well ......I don't hate it. I dont like it. It's just there. I certainly don't get called it. And I'm not capable of presenting it well enough for this to be relevant. Now they......fuck I HATE they. I hate that it's the acceptable pronoun for anyone not bianary male or female. It just rubs me the wrong way. When people refer to me as they, I feel like they're referring to me and the host of mental illnesses I carry around and you don't have permission to address those troops thank you very much. They causes a genuine squick. But it's kinda the only widely acceptable option. I kinda like "it". I VIBE with it. It feels good. Unfortunately the people in my life have a certain reluctance about calling me it as they believe that happy vibe around a traditionally dehumanizing pronoun may be a trauma symptom. They might be right so I'm tabling "it" till I find a good therapist. Also...I cannot ask strangers to call me it. I don't have the confidence it takes to explain why and I frankly don't want to be faced with the criticism and questions I would face because I am unable to make my body be perceived as Nonbinary. I don't have the confidence or conviction to face that every day forever. Ditto neopronouns. I also haven't found one that I vibe with at all yet.

And queer labels get harder when you pull away from gender entirely. Like ... I am a Lesbian. I am solely attracted to women. But now I'm getting a lot of "You can't be a lesbian if you don't have a gender!!!" And like ...can I??? I like being a lesbian. It feels right. It conveys what I want it to convey. I like the exclusion of men entirely, after being taught to structure my life around men. I have a kinship with womanhood. It's where I was raised. It's how people see me. I just don't identify with it. It's not how I see myself. I guess that can kind of exclude me from the label? All of our terms are defined by being attracted to "your own gender" or "the opposite gender" or "both your own gender and other genders" and like ... I don't have a gender. And the opposite of nothing is....?? Fuck if I know? So what term am I allowed to use? I love queer for exactly this reason. But it just doesn't have the same clarity that lesbian does.

So I'm just kind of in a hole rn. Grappling with the fact that I really don't have a gender in a gendered world, and dealing with the fact that so much of our understanding and acceptance of gender is about presentation, a door closed to my body. I don't have the confidence or the spoons or the knowledge or the experience to fight this fight. The path of least resistance is sticking my head back into the sand and going with straightforward womanhood....but now it feels like I'm lying. I feel like an intruder in woman's spaces. And I can't go in men's spaces, they see me as....well...a woman. Lesser.

Someone out there who's better at the genders please help.

[honeyhan-123]

Doctor Doctor

Summary: With a bullet in his arm, Bucky seeks medical attention and a certain surgeon catches his eye. 

Warnings: non-con, gun play (gun fucking), biker!Bucky, minor descriptions of blood and bullet wounds. 

Word Count: 3k

AN: This was written for the incredible and lovely @the-soulofdevil​ and her 500 follower writing challenge. Congrats gurl, I’m so proud. My prompt was a doctor au. Also, I’ve been watching wayyyyy to much Grey’s Anatomy, pls help me. 

Squares Filled: Biker!AU & Knife/Gun play

My Masterlist 

Exhaustion held your body captive as you dragged your feet, your eyes fluttering shut every few steps. Your entire body was sore, your neck cricked from looking down at the body on your operating table for so long and your hands were slightly cramping. The CABG surgery had taken far longer than you had expected, and now nothing was sounding better than going home, opening a bottle of sauvignon blanc and taking a long hot bath. 

You eyes the door for the stairs disdainfully. Deep down you knew you should take them. The attendings lounge was only two floors up but you were dead tired so instead, you plodded along to the elevator, jabbing the up button. Looking back on it you really should have taken the stairs.

The elevator finally dinged on your floor, the doors opening slowly and without even looking, you jumped inside. You only noticed the other occupant after the doors had slid closed. He was tall, impressively built, and his eyes were a stunning shade of cerulean blue. You hated yourself for wondering briefly if he was here visiting a girlfriend. 

However you could tell there was something off about him but, maybe that’s what attracted you. You had always had terrible taste in men. You could feel his body come closer, invading your personal space. A hand reached out to your name tag, his eyes flickering over it. 

‘A surgeon huh? So I guess you know your way around the body.’ 

‘Excuse me?’ The words were barely out of your mouth before he reached into the waist bands of his jeans, pulling a gun from it with one hand, his other pressing the shutdown button on the elevator panel.

‘I need you to do me a favour Doc. I need you to get this bullet out of my arm.’ You stared down the barrel of his glock, your mouth going dry as he continued to speak. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to press the start button and then the elevator doors will open. You’ll take me somewhere private and you’ll quietly and stealthily get whatever you need to get the fuckin’ bullet out of me. If you even think about calling for help I will blow the brains out of whoever is around. Clear?’ Your heart thudded like a hummingbird’s wings and the turtleneck underneath your scrubs felt far too tight around your throat. 

‘I said. Are we clear?’ He pressed the gun directly between your eyes, forcing the cool metal against your heated skin and you nodded. 

‘Yes.’ You barely managed to squeak out your assent.

‘Sir.’ He added for emphasis. 

‘Yes Sir. I understand.’ 

‘Good girl. Are you ready? And remember, if anyone dies, it’s your fault.’ You nodded once more and watched as he pressed the green start button, the elevator coming back to life. He stowed his gun back into the waistband of his jeans, sending you a look that clearly said he could whip it back out faster than you could scream. But his look was unneeded. You weren’t going to call for help. The people that worked at this hospital were like your family. There was no way you were going to risk any of their lives.

You lead him through various hallways, picking up an abandoned supply trolley as you went until you came across an empty patient room. You gestured for him to sit on the bed as you pulled on a gown and gloves before wheeling the stool over and sitting in front of him. 

He grunted in pain as he pulled his leather jacket off, his t-shirt following soon after. Under normal circumstances you would have cut the material away but seeing him in pain gave you a sick sense of glee. But as you stared at his now bare chest, any sense of joy quickly seeped from you, dread taking its place. It shouldn’t have been as much of a shock as it was to see the pitch black ink staring back at you. He had waved a gun in your face for crying out loud. But still, seeing the dark outline of a wolf on his chest sent a chill through you. Of course this man was a White Wolf. 

‘Scared of a little ink doc?’ The man before you teased a smirk taking over his plush pink lips.

‘Of course not Sir.’ You quipped back. It was only half a lie. You weren’t afraid of the tattoo itself, more of what it represented. You had seen far too many victims of the White Wolves over your time working at Seattle Grace Hospital. ‘I’m going to have to go in blind, I hope that’s okay as I assume you don’t want to be checked in?’ You asked even though you knew the answer you would get. 

‘Obviously.’ His voice was a monotone as he rolled his eyes, your hands sweeping over the blood surrounding the torn skin. The bullet didn’t seem to be too deep which was lucky for him. It would make extraction a lot easier. Once the site was clean you pulled over the IV kit, standing to attach the morphine to the drip before picking up the needle and making for his other arm. ‘No.’ He yanked his arm out of your grip with such force that you stumbled. 

‘Excuse me?’ You were confused as you sat back on the stool, the needle still in your hand. 

‘No drugs. Just get it out now.’ He pulled the needle from you, chucking it across the room as he did so.

‘I’m sorry sir but I have to insist. The drugs will help you stay still through the pain as I extract the bullet.’ No matter how much his pain earlier had helped ease your own you weren’t a sadist. 

‘I said no. I don’t want any drugs, I can handle the pain. Just get the fucking bullet out now.’ He growled and you submitted, scared that the commotion might attract unwanted visitors. Quickly you organised your tray and held the tweezers up to the bullet hole. 

To your surprise, the man barely flinched as you pressed the metal against the tender flesh, searching for the bronze bullet that you could barely make out. You had expected him to yield, allowing you to administer the painkillers but he barely reacted, the occasional hiss or grunt escaping his lips was the only sign he felt anything. 

Finally the bullet came free and there was a clink as you disposed of it in one of the metal bowls. Next you started working on patching him up. Some more blood had spilled from the wound as you had worked and he would definitely need stitches. As you worked you heard your parents voices echo around in your head, telling you horror stories of the White Wolves. 

The gang had been haunting Seattle since the early forties and were often used as bedtime stories told to young children to make sure they didn’t stay out too late. While you had taken your parents warnings seriously growing up, you had always thought they exaggerated the cruelty of the gang. Working in the hospital had changed your mind. Their cruelty was unparalleled and perhaps if you weren’t so afraid of what they would do to your family you might have thought about “accidentally” clipping his axillary artery. He would be dead within minutes but you knew the other Wolves would come around sniffing for answers. 

You struggled to keep your hands steady as you worked but finally you did the last stitch and bandaged his arm. ‘You’re going to have to wear a sling for next 4-6 weeks to make sure it heals properly and isn’t jolted around because you don’t want to be pulling your stitches. Also no strenuous exercise for at least two weeks and after then only light exercise such as going for a walk.’

‘What about fucking?’ Your lips parted involuntarily, shocked at how blatantly he had asked the question.  

‘Erm, well that would count as strenuous exercise but after the two week mark perhaps depending on umm… on how you… on your chosen, erm, position then it should be okay.’ You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment. You talked about sex and other embarrassing topics all the time in post-care but something about the way his cerulean blue eyes were staring at you so intently had you stumbling over your words like a school girl. 

‘Hmmm… that’s a shame. If I had known this morning was going to be the last time for a while I would have made it something special.’ He mused to himself, his eyes drifting over your dark blue scrubs as you pulled off the gloves and gown. ‘But since I’m here, you could always fix me back up if something happened. Couldn’t you doc?’   

‘Excuse me?’ You asked in confusion, blood draining from your face as he got off the bed and began stalking towards you. You backed away quickly, your hands fumbling with the door as you tried to pull it open only to have his uninjured arm slam it back shut. He twisted your body around so your back was pressed against the wood, both his arms pinning you against the wall as he leaned in. 

‘I think you heard me doc. The same warnings apply. Scream and I’ll kill anyone who walks through that door.’ His breath tasted like cigarettes and his body was hot and hard against you. When you gulped and finally managed a nod, he pulled you from the door, bringing you back over to the bed, forcing you to lean over it. 

He pressed his growing bulge against your ass as he pulled your scrub top over your head, the pale blue turtleneck and your bra following soon after. You squirmed in his arms but despite his injury his grip was steel tight. He groaned against the shell of your ear as he palmed your breasts, kneading them until your nipples began to harden. His breath was hot and heavy against the skin of your neck as his hands moved lower, down to the waistband of your scrubs. He slipped one hand in underneath your panties and groaned out. 

‘Oh Doc, you’re already so wet for me.’ He breathed out and you shuddered against him, trying to squeeze your legs together as tightly as you could. He tutted you, pinching your ass through the scrubs. ‘Behave. You don’t want to know what happens to bad girls.’ You choked back your sob as you nodded and allowed him to push you back against the bed, Your chest resting on the cold sheets. He slipped your scrubs down your legs and continued to play with your clit, rubbing it harshly as you tried to force your body not to react. One hand grabbed both your wrists, pinning them both at the small of your back as he moved.

‘One thing I’ve learnt from girls like you is that you always need something inside of you to feel full don’t you?’ You felt him shift behind you and then suddenly something very cold brushed against your thigh. You struggled in his hold even harder, thrashing your body around the cool metal brushed against your heated lips. You didn’t have to see it to know what it was.

He swirled the barrel around, coating it in the slick that had involuntarily pooled along your lips. ‘No. No! Stop it! Get off of me.’ You tried to buck him off but his grip remained like iron, holding you down against the mattress with one hand as the other eased the barrel inside of you. You thrashed wildly as the cool metal juxtaposed the heat between your legs causing an odd sensation to form. 

You hated the way the edges of the gun moved against your walls, making you feel every tiny ridge in the metal. You hated the way your body was responding to it even more. 

You barely managed to hold back your moans as his pace picked up, becoming unrelenting. The urge to roll your hips back onto him had you shuddering with disgust. Your body shouldn’t be responding like this, it shouldn’t be enjoying it as much as it was. But you couldn’t help it anymore, not when he called you his good girl. Praising you for taking his gun so well. 

The moans started tumbling from your lips and soon enough the coil in your belly had snapped and you pulsated in his arms. Your body convulsed as he slowly edged you down from your high. 

‘See? That wasn’t so bad. I’ve always wanted to have a cunt on the end of my gun.’ You shivered at his words, your senses slowly coming back to you. ‘Here, taste yourself.’ He forced the metal by your face and you wanted to shrink away in disgust, yet the tone of his voice told you that wasn’t an option. Hesitantly, you moved your head towards it, licking a small stripe along the side, praying that was enough to satisfy him. ‘Not like that. Suck it like it's my cock.’ You shuddered and cringing inside, you angled your head to take it like he wanted, terrified that his finger would slip on the trigger. 

You forced yourself to slowly bob your head going up and down the gun’s length, his groans echoing in the room as he rubbed himself against you in time with your movements. Suddenly, the gun was gone and you heard the tell-tale clink of his buckle, the fly of his zipper following. 

‘Please you don’t have to do this. I won’t tell anyone, please.’ You could no longer hold back the tears and they fell onto the mattress beneath you, darkening the white sheets. 

‘I’m sorry Sweetheart, but that’s just not how the White Wolves work. You see, when we see something we want... ’ his face dipped down next to your ear as he whispered into it, ‘we take it.’ And with that he entered you with one long thrust. You cried out at the intrusion. Although you were shamefully wet, you hadn’t been prepared for the sheer size of him. ‘Oh fuck doc. Your pussy’s so fuckin’ tight.’ 

There was no gradual build up. Just straight hard fucking. His balls slapped against your ass as he rutted into you, his pace unforgiving. You screamed out underneath him as you felt one hand wrap around your thigh, circling your already sensitive clit. ‘That’s it sweetheart. That’s such a good girl.’ You moaned as his deep sensual voice penetrated your ears. 

You felt his grip on your hands loosen before it wrapped around your throat, pulling you up against his chest. He felt even deeper like this and your tears ran down your cheeks freely. You hated how every stroke of his cock made you shudder in the best way possible. 

Your hands clutched at his around your throat as black dots started to appear in your vision. Between how breathless you were from the fucking and the crying, it was no surprise that you were struggling to breathe. 

‘C'mon sweetheart. Scream my name for me. Let everyone know who’s fucking this pussy so right.’ He didn’t seem to care that you could barely breathe or that he hadn’t even bothered to give you his name so you choked a meager Sir. He seemed to realise his mistake as he grunted his name into your ear. 

‘Bucky….’ Your voice was hoarse. 

‘Louder.’ He growled and you repeated yourself. ‘Louder baby, louder.’ 

With air you didn’t know you had, you screamed his name for him, the waves of pleasure crashing inside of you reaching their peaks as you did. He groaned into your ear as he kept rutting, riding you out through your orgasm as your body collapsed back on the bed. He thrusted a few more times before hastily pulling out, his seed dripping down onto your ass as he moaned unashamedly. 

‘Well fuck doc. How was that for strenuous  activity?’ You couldn’t respond as he laughed, fabric rustling in the background as he dressed. ‘Didn’t even pull any stitches either.’ He mused to himself and you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Shame washed over you like a tidal wave, pinning you in place. 

You saw him walk around the bed, kneeling down as he came into view. ‘Get dressed.’ His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument, but still, you didn't move. ‘Fine. Stay like that and let the next guy who walks in see your wrecked cunt. Like I give a shit.’ It was only at his brusque words and the reminder that this is in fact your workplace that you finally stood sorely. Your hands reached up to brush away the tears on your cheeks and you see him fiddling with your phone that had been in your pants pockets as you dress. 

‘What are you doing?’ You barely manage to get the words out. 

‘Just getting your number. You never know when having a doctor on call will be handy in my line of work.’ You tried to hide your scoff and failed. 

‘Your line of work? You mean terrorising the streets of Seattle.’ You have no idea where this fire has come from and if you knew better you would have definitely kept your mouth shut.

‘No, I mean running a multi-million dollar enterprise.’ You gulp, swallowing thicky as he stands his chest nearly touching yours. 

‘Running?’ You question, even though you’re not sure you quite want his answer. 

‘Yeah sweetheart. Running.’ His hands lift up and he slides your phone back into your chest pocket. And with a wink sent your way he slips out from the room, leaving you with a sense of dread for the next time your phone will ring. 

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My Masterlist

[twilightofthe]

What was your opinion of the Clovis arc? People I know either love it or hate it, no in between. I generally liked it but found it waayyy ooc.

Hey anon, thanks for the ask!!!!

AHSJFLSLALK OK SO UH. Wow. Clovis arc. Yiiiiiiikes ok so. I totally agree with you on the fandom divide and I also totally agree that everyone involved in it is rather OOC for my taste. That being said, that case of OOC is exactly why I personally do not like the arc that much at all.

(Please note that my following words are MY PERSONAL OPINIONS, and that anyone is free to disagree, in fact I welcome the discussion, and even if this is your favorite arc, please consider yourself welcome on my blog I hold nothing against those who might like it)

Part of me was gonna make a short and sweet point about how I don’t like that TCW has had both of its main female characters have unwanted kisses forced on them, and instead of teaching young girls watching to tell those kinds of people to fuck off and respect their bodies, we get: 1. Just let it happen, you both must kinda like each other anyway or 2. Stay still then sit back while your boyfriend beats him half to death

But actually turns out I wanted to spend all day writing an essay so now you get this. So far I’m gonna hit four points:

the show’s constant need for Vader foreshadowing sometimes tending to completely override Anakin’s current mindset and personality he should have at this point in the timeline as well as his preestablished characterization

the way TCW gave Anakin a giant dosage of toxic masculinity to try and please the pissy movie critics who didn’t like that he cried

the role of Padmé and how TCW tries to portray her as a “strong woman” by just having her constantly be irritated by and sometimes even look like she actively dislikes her husband while simultaneously have her act OOC so they can blame HER and her actions for Anakin’s reactions and anger and overall Fall

How I think this arc is not irredeemable and that with some fixes it could be done decently— decently, not well, because a lot of this arc’s problems are also due to preexisting writing choices throughout the show

(Ok whoops this turned into a half Clovis arc rant half entire TCW Anidala commentary)

So firstly I wanna start that yes, I am fully aware that TCW is meant to fill in the gaps between AOTC and ROTS and help explain why Anakin’s mindset in the final movie is what it is and justify his Fall. Of course we need to show some Vader foreshadowing throughout the series, and in some places it is executed very well, notably the Mortis arc, the Bad Batch arc, the Wrong Jedi arc, as well as others that I can’t cite off the top of my head currently because I might have a mild touch of heat exhaustion wooo I need to get off the beach.

But it also has some rather hamfisted Vader foreshadowing stuff too. Like, y’all know the fandom joke where it’s like “Anakin: *Accidentally Leaves The Toilet Seat Up*. The Background Music: *BLASTS the Imperial March*” but like, they actually really do that. Like the time where they have Anakin take out a terrorist about to blow up an entire ship full of people and then play the Imperial March afterwards and imply he’s a “cold-blooded killer” just to defend the moral purity of the two people who were gonna stand there and let the ship blow in the name of idealism.

I’m getting off topic but yeah, sometimes the show’s Vader foreshadowing makes sense, sometimes it’s pretty forced, and the Clovis arc DEFINITELY leans towards the forced side, and when they try to force more of Darth Vader into Anakin at a point where he shouldn’t quite be there yet, it screws with his entire character.

This is particularly shown in the majority of the show’s takes on Anakin’s relationship with Padmé. Namely, they tend to forget nearly the entirety of AOTC with the exception of the Tusken murder scene, then forget even more of ROTS up until the point where Anakin strangles her on Mustafar. Basically, they take the truth that it was Anakin’s unhealthy attachment to Padmé that sparked his Fall, but then they decide to run with it where almost every single interaction he has with her in the damn show is him being a toxic overbearing dick to her and her acting like she mildly tolerates him at most and definitely doesnt respect him as like, I guess a way of showing what happened on Mustafar is in character for them???? Ugh, I’ll explain further.

So with Anakin’s aggressive possessiveness towards her. We know Anakin has possession and attachment issues. We know he’s a clingy needy whiny anxious mess who’s constantly afraid of losing or driving away the few people he has pinned his entire happiness on. We know he leans unhealthily on Padmé to provide the majority of his emotional support. We know he’s convinced himself he can’t live without her. But never, NEVER is it seen in the movies where his possessiveness turns into outward aggression towards her or this douchey pushiness. Never does he treat her like his property, like she belongs to him.

Not until Mustafar.

Not until he’s raving, half out of his mind with the warring emotions over the atrocities he’s just committed, until he’s begging her to understand where he was coming from, begging her and the child to stay with him and justify his decision, until he sees Obi Wan and sees her backing away from him, leaving him, and he PANICS because oh no no no you can’t abandon me, I need you, doN’T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME. And he lashes out and tries to force her to stay, punish her for leaving and doubting him, and he puts that hand around her throat.

And that is supposed to be when we know he’s crossed the line, when we’re supposed to be horrified, where we know he’s lost himself, because he has NEVER ACTED LIKE THAT BEFORE.

Now how does Anakin act before? In the movies? He’s deferential to Padmé in almost every other scene they’re in together.

In AOTC, yeah he stares at her a bit creepily from a distance, he says awkward things and does goofy stuff to impress her, but he does Not get in her face. The few times he does invade her space, she flat out tells him: stand back. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t say that. Don’t interrupt me. And Anakin always, always backs off, respects her wishes. He follows her lead and lets her call the shots both on Naboo when he’s supposed to be protecting her and when she organizes the Geonosis rescue and once they arrive where she flat out tells him “I’m a Senator, I’ll handle this, just back me up”, and he’s all but just “ok yes queen”.

But they aren’t married then. Fine, take ROTS. It’s a movie all about Anakin’s issues but even then, when he’s worried about Padmé dying, he tells her he’s worried and that he can’t lose her, but he still keeps a distance. He doesn’t constantly hover and loom over her. If anything, Padmé, both in ROTS and AOTC is always the one to approach Anakin and close the distance when there’s conflict. When Anakin is upset, he averts his eyes and distances himself, tries to draw in on himself and brood silently, and we’ve seen it in Palpatine sometimes (of course with bad motives but he still does), but Obi Wan and Padmé both especially needing to be the ones to come over, turn his face to them and be like “hey, look at me, I care about you, what’s wrong”. Padmé SAYS in ROTS when he’s feeling specifically conflicted about losing Padmé, “don’t shut me out” and has to come over to him because he’s retreated into a corner of the room to scowl angstily out the window. Anakin does NOT get overbearing and possessive of her or get in her face, not once in the films.

In the fucking show? The Clovis arc, while perhaps the worst offender, isn’t even close to being the first time Anakin has been overly pushy and aggressive with Padmé, or acting like she’s something he owns, From that time in the Senate Hostage ep where he’s bugging her about ditching work and all but acting like incels texting like “awww but babe my dick hurts :(”, from the FIRST Clovis disaster ep where he’s childishly trying to screw up Padmé’s mission, to the Clovis arc in season 6

And this is where they just roll right in with their “oh so Anakin’s an overbearing, entitled douche” bit with the interaction he has with Pads and he’s trying to talk her out of taking the Clovis assignment and he says something along the lines of “as your husband, I demand you don’t do this”.

Hwat. The Fuck.

What kind of caveman-esque, 1800’s-ass man of the house whom my wife must obediently serve kinda entitled-ass BULLSHIT?!?!?!?

Like, I’m sorry, I really am, but that is just completely out of left field and not like Anakin at all. I mean to the point that when he’s an evil Sith Lord trying to talk her into taking over the galaxy with him, EVEN THEN he does not include “Padmé you must join me because I’m your husband and you do as I say” sort of domineering assholerly.

Anakin does not push Padmé around. He does not TRY to assert authority over her or try and force her to do shit. Not only because she doesn’t put up with that kinda shit for a second, but because Anakin respects Padmé; he will treat her with respect. He always has, and sometimes like in this arc it really doesn’t feel like he does.

Now of course Padmé’s response to the “I own you” declaration is “fuck you, asshole, I do what I want” and doubling down on her decision, and then decides to go even harder on the mission if only to spite her douche husband (and we’ll get to Padmé’s characterization in a bit) which is a very different kind of Anidala conversation we see in the show as opposed to the movies (also discussed later).

Now, the reason for Anakin’s overbearing douchery ties directly into an overarching problem in TCW— honestly, one of the very few issues I have with this show, but the problem is that it touches nearly the entire thing —and that is they almost completely reworked Anakin’s personality to be more hyper-masculine alpha male.

This is a topic I’ve discussed on my blog before, but the gist is that in the movies, Anakin was not the typical male heroic protagonist and DEFINITELY not what people expected from Future Darth Vader The Masked Brutish Male Power Fantasy. He was awkward, he was shy, he was soft spoken, he was clumsy around the girl he liked, he was very openly romantic, he liked frolicking in fields and candlelit dinners and snuggling. Two of the most important people in his life were soft, feminine women and he openly loved them very dearly and very gently— and he deferred to them when he felt it was right, as I’ve mentioned before. He CRIED when he was upset and was messy and emotional. And fanboys hated this with a burning passion. They couldn’t project their power fantasy onto this!!!! The Anakin critics were a HUGE part of the mob who crucified the prequels to the point of chasing both Anakin actors practically out of the movie industry in general.

The Clone Wars writers were obviously petrified of this happening again. So their solution, as has always been Star Wars’s solution to hateful fans being upset about an innocent character, is to completely rework them, hide or retcon all the undesirable qualities, and act like everything was all fixed. Now don’t get me wrong, there are aspects of TCW Anakin that I adore. As I’ve also mentioned before, they got his humor, his cleverness, his eagerness to do the right thing, to help people, his relationship with Obi Wan and Ahsoka and his men, they got that all perfectly. But the rest??? TCW’s solution to the criticism of Movie!Anakin was to turn him into an agressive, dominant, violent shadow of everything “soft” he was in the movie

Now, he speaks loudly and more deeply. Now, he’s cocky and overconfident and while yes he was arrogant in the movies, now it’s dialed up to like an 11. He never cries, never even THINKS to show a negative emotion that’s not Manly Rage And Aggression(TM). And then there’s the way he is around the women in his life. No more awkwardness or shyness, now he makes jokes about being a “ladies man” and does whatever the fuck flirting he does with Miraj Scintel even though the Anakin from the movies would have needed like every scrap of his self control just to look at her without insta-murdering her face. And then there’s how he is with Ahsoka and Padmé. He is muuuuch more of a loud brash dudebro around them who pushes his weight and is kind of controlling and their solution is just to have the both of them be Strong Women(TM) who Fight Back whenever he tries it too hard with them.

With Ahsoka, it’s not too bad because it’s a brand new dynamic and she’s a rather agressive firecracker personality herself when we first meet her, so the constant Snips n’ Skyguy snipefest works for them. For Padmé? It just means that in far too many episodes they’re in there’s a point where Anakin says something Eh and Padmé gets mildly irritated to actually annoyed with him for it and she’ll talk down to him and then there’s an argument between them because he’s bullheaded and she’s a Strong Woman. Why do I consider these out of character?

In the movies, despite the flaws, Anidala is a couple who actually tries to communicate. Anakin feels open to speak about his troubles to Padmé and her to him (for the most part, she definitely has a savior complex and a tendency to squash her own shit so she can help deal with both Anakin’s and the galaxy’s at large) when they’re worried or concerned about something and they want to talk it out, so they’ll talk it out!

The problem with Anidala isn’t that they don’t communicate, it’s that they try but also only do it by halves because they hate fighting. They’ll talk, Anakin will say something that Padmé might disagree with— the fascism discussion in the Naboo field in AOTC, the question of whether the Republic is just or not in TPM —and she’ll try and correct him if she feels he’ll listen, but if he doubles down, she’ll go “ok you know what, agree to disagree, let’s not fight” and she subtly changes the subject because she hates fighting with him. If Pads says something Ani doesn’t like— telling Obi Wan about them in ROTS, some emotional advice she tries to give in both movies —he’ll flat out shut down and be like “I don’t want to talk about this, let’s drop it” and then seek out cuddles or affection as a distraction.

And that brings us back to the Clovis arc. The scene where the “as your husband” line occurs. Anakin is trying to talk Padmé out of doing this not because he’s jealous. Maybe he was jealous the first time he met Clovis and saw Padmé being all cute n’ fond with her old flame, but this time it seems almost entirely because last time ended in catastrophe and he’s genuinely worried for Padmé and feels she’s not thinking wisely, that she’s putting herself in danger.

However, Anakin is deciding to voice these concerns in Possessive Dudebro Pushing because of the aforementioned misguided Vader Foreshadowing and Toxic Masculinity. Padmé? Is not even CONSIDERING what he has to say, is just breezing on through and shutting him down at every turn and generally acting like he’s a dumbass who doesn’t have a clue about anything.

Now, it is very in character for Padmé Amidala to be all “I’m right, you’re wrong, fuck you don’t get in my way”. HOWEVER, they aren’t framing this as solely Padmé having a goal and bulldozing her way through the situation. That’s not how they frame this.

They frame this as: Padmé is embarrassed that she misjudged the situation wrong the last time and embarrassed even further that Anakin had to step in and get her out of trouble— which he brings up —and probably remembers that he made fun of her while he did it—

(Timing out to say that THAT scene was also OOC; they once more wanted a Vader parallel what with Anakin’s silhouette when he opens her cell door and the way Padmé’s sleeping pose is identical to Leia’s in ANH. But Anakin basically steps in and gives her this condescending-ass “awww the little wife’s gotten in over her head like I SAID she would, good thing I’m here to rescue her!” bit that’s really just MEAN. It’s not like him and Obi Wan’s/Ahsoka’s teasing snark whenever they have to pull each out of trouble, he’s just kicking her while she’s already down. Really, Anakin’s reaction should have been a lot less humorous and a lot more pissy; she didn’t listen to him, didn’t trust him, and ended up in danger because of it. It’d be a surly and upset “I told you so”, not an amused one.)

—and now it seems much more like Padmé is solely taking this assignment to spite Anakin for being a dick and to pettily prove that she knows what she’s doing rather than any sense or urge to do the right thing. And....... childish pettiness????? Is not Padmé. And yet, she has the entire immature “don’t tell me what to DO, Anakin” attitude this whole arc that amounts to WAY more than just the normal response she would have to his overcontrolling dickishness

And once again, it’s because she, like everyone else in the episode, seems to think the problem Anakin has is that he’s jealous of Clovis. He’s not, not really. He’s insecure, yes, but he also knows Clovis is a bag of dicks as well, and trusts that Padmé knows she’s better than that. His problem isn’t fears he’ll lose Padmé, it is entirely that Padmé isn’t listening to his concerns, doesn’t trust him, is going into a situation they both know is unwise, and he is frustrated he’s not in a position where he can look out for her since he feels she’s not looking out for herself. And, he’s not entirely wrong. Padmé IS being reckless and kind of irrational solely to prove a point. He just goes about it pretty much entirely the wrong way, which is what you can really say is the cause and effect formula for any problem Anakin Skywalker encounters and subsequently makes worse.

And then there’s That Scene. The one where Clovis tries to force a kiss on Padmé and Anakin freaks and almost kills him for it. I’ll start off by quoting another Tumblr user on that very scene by saying in regards to Clovis: “that bitch deserved that”. The almost murder? Maybe not that far, but the initial hitting for disrespecting someone’s “no”? Yep, that was deserved.

My first criticism is that Anakin shouldn’t have even had time to attack him because why the fuck wasn’t Padmé instantly kneeing him in the balls?!?! Like Padmé is not prone to violence immediately, no, but she can will and does defend herself immediately when she needs to— her right punch knocked someone tf out once when she was pissed —and she already gave him a warning that his advances were not welcomed.

Now, I am absolutely not victim blaming. I am NOT saying it is the fault of a woman (I’d be a hypocrite if I did and that’s all I’ll say on THAT), or of anyone when faced with sexual harassment, if they don’t fight back for whatever reason, no matter how capable of doing so they may be. What I’m saying is that considering her previous behavior and personality and the fact that the show NEVER goes deep enough into explaining heavy stuff like why victims might freeze or NOT fight back when faced with harassment, I feel like showing her not attempting to defend herself at all is kinda strange.

Now, Padmé’s utter passiveness to the situation aside, we’re going back into toxic masculinity and misunderstood interpretations of how Anakin displays possession. While I’ll repeat that Clovis deserved consequences for the forced kiss, Anakin going full caveman defending his property jealous rage just. Doesn’t feel right to me. Again, I think Anakin would probs hit him and put the fear of living god into him, maybe even I’d buy the attempted murder if they framed it as Anakin doing it because he hates those who force their will on others and disrespect women, but the whole that’s MY wife and you’re touching her shite just once more feels alpha male aggressive ridiculousness. Like again, I understand Anakin is possessive of Padmé, but not like this. I’m sorry, but I just cannot see that, him fighting over her like she’s a scrap of meat.

Like, I completely think she’s in the right tho to put them on a break after he does it though. That’s well within her right.

But then onto the FINAL part where after Clovis goofs and fucks them all over and then dies, she forgives him and blames herself for everything and apologizes. And like, that part I do see as in canon and character for her and for Anakin. He doesn’t like to admit his mistakes, her mistakes weigh on her and when she fails to fix or save someone, she falls into depression and upset and self-blame.

But the fact that Clovis died because Anakin dropped him? Anakin Skywalker, who scaled an entire elevator shaft carrying two people over his back who combined probs weighed more than Padmé and Clovis. Anakin Skywalker, who’s used the Force to lift tons of debris, who’s used it to hold back explosions, Anakin Skywalker, MOST POWERFUL FORCE USER IN HISTORY WHO TENDS TO RELY ON BRUTE STRENGTH FOR MOST SHIT ANYWAY. That Anakin couldn’t pull two people over a ledge?!?!?!?!? This has always bothered me.

Like to be honest; I feel this entire episode could have been so fixable too. Like keep Anakin’s obsessive worry over Padmé making a mistake, keep the best part of the arc which is his talk with Obi Wan where Obi Wan tries to connect with him and explain that he’s not alone, all Jedi have emotional struggles and have loved, if perhaps he wants to TALK to someone about it, Obi Wan is here for him, like that? That’s okay!

Just ugh ffs, get rid of the nasty Anakin treating Padmé like a naughty dog who won’t obey him and the Padmé purposely acting unwisely to spite Anakin plot. Have the entire conflict be both of them being upset that the other doesn’t trust them, doesn’t believe in their advice, keep Padmé’s speech about how marriages NEED trust and compromise to survive, take all of Anakin’s aggression towards Padmé and transfer it to aggression towards Clovis, like make the conflict him menacing the guy if he hurts Padmé again just because he’s being overprotective and “if you won’t look out for yourself I will” and Anakin getting constantly checked for not being able to control his emotions, Padmé can tell him off for being overprotective instead of overaggressive and his possessiveness can instead show through him arguing that he needs to keep her safe at all costs. THAT can be the argument.

And if they want the Vader foreshadowing? Like real, in-character Vader foreshadowing??? Tbh, drop the Clovis beatdown, drop the machoness towards Padmé, and just have Anakin blatantly DROP the douchebag at the end of the episode instead of his hand slipping. Make him choose to ACTIVELY kill Clovis. Like THAT, Anakin taking the law into his own hands and deciding that he knows best and this guy is dangerous and has fucked up one too many times, there being an opportunity where there’s an chance to save Clovis when they’re alone without Pads, “be a Jedi, Padmé wouldn’t want this, do the right thing” Clovis might say, and we can see Anakin’s face considering, and then he just “Long Live The King”s him and lets him fall and die, THAT is an in-character Vader foreshadowing.

Then at the end of the episode, we can have Anakin lie to her, say Clovis slipped, say it was too late, and Padmé can believe him, thank him for trying. Then there’s the same thing where Padmé apologizes, and we can have a callback to the convo about trust and she adds that she’s sorry that she didn’t trust him, and when she says that, we zoom in on Anakin’s guilty face.

There. That’s how I’d fix these episodes

And THERE, I think I’ve complained about everything, I am SO sorry for the gigantic ass post and response, I’ll add a read more once I’m on my laptop and not on the beach on mobile.

But yeah anon, I hope that satisfies your question xD

Once again, I welcome discussion if y’all either agree with me or if you have any differing opinions, I know my takes are far from hot for several people and I’m curious to see what others think!

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Whumptober Day 17: He Knows

Summary: Written for Whumptober Day 17. Set during RttE. A Hiccstrid AU. When Viggo knows something about Hiccup that the Dragon Riders don't, he's all too eager to share it with his young rival.

Rating: Mature

Characters: Hiccup, Viggo, Astrid

Pairing: Hiccstrid

Words: 4 264

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: “Blackmail” + “Dirty Secret”

Whumpee: Hiccup

Author’s Notes: This is actually based in an AU/UA that I've posted one one-shot for before and do plan on writing a main fic for because there is just so much drama and plot that can be made with it.

The continued usage of the wrong pronouns is on purpose.

Constructive criticism is appreciated!

Enjoy!

NOTE: The Rape/Non-con warning is there for a correct warning. Nothing explicit happens in this fic. What does happen is unwanted touching above the belt, above the chest even, but still unwanted.

Ao3 Whumptober Fic

Ao3 Original Fic

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"I can't imagine how awful it must be to be in your position."

Hiccup looks up from the shackles binding his wrists at those words. They are the first spoken since Ryker has pushed him into this chair in front of Viggo minutes ago. There's been a tense one-sided silence of Viggo giving him the usual "did you honestly believe you would get away with this" speech with Hiccup not even giving him the time of day. But at those words, he has to look up.

They haven't been spoken with the kind of sympathy you'd expect to hear them be spoken in. Instead, Viggo gazes back at him with a smirk and that alone is enough to make him angrier than he already is.

"What position?" Hiccup asks, tone short, and showing the way he feels.

"Well, born the way you are, I can't imagine you have it easy." Deciding against giving him a straight answer, Viggo continues to use hints instead of giving him a straight answer.

"Berk no longer takes an issue with me being a runt." Hiccup replies and Viggo gives him that look, one of those he doesn't like. This one makes him feel like he's being played with.

"How does it feel knowing that your father, the Chief, will never truly accept you?" He asks and at this point Hiccup is confused.

Whatever gave him that idea? The relationship between him and Stoick is the best it's been since ever and Viggo shouldn't be able to know about the years before Toothless. And even if he did, that wouldn't explain why he thinks this.

Noticing the confusion Hiccup fails to hide, Viggo continues.

"You have to hide yourself, do you not? Can't imagine that must be pleasant." Viggo's fingers won't stop moving as he speaks and Hiccup almost finds them distracting. Is that what it's like talking to him? Is he that distracting, too?

"I don't know what you're talking about, I'm not hiding any part of myself." Hiccup denies what he thinks is an ungrounded claim.

"Good job, Hiccup, you almost sounded believable. I had no idea you were capable of such lies. How many times did you have to tell this to yourself before you started to believe it?" Viggo congratulates him on an acting job well-done and Hiccup isn't sure why.

"Repeat what? You're not making any sense." In the back of his mind, the very, very back, Hiccup feels like he knows exactly what his captor is talking about. But the last thing he wants to do, however, is admit to it.

Viggo readjusts his position and leans back in his chair, his expression hardly changes.

"Does it frighten you knowing you'll have to pretend you're a Chief someday? For the rest of your living days, I suspect? I assume this masquerade started because Berk's line of Chieftains has been entirely made up of men at this point. Bad enough they would get a runt for a Chief someday, but a female one? Now that must've stung." So this is what this has been all about, Viggo finally reveals the truth behind the lies Hiccup has supposedly been telling.

Pressing his lips together, Hiccup looks the other way, unable to bear that look of satisfying victory on his opponent's face. Viggo, meanwhile, is simply enjoying this little interaction.

"Are you suggesting that I'm... that I'm... You're-you're ridiculous!" Hiccup spits his denial at him, evidently shocked at this reveal.

"Can't even say the word, can you? Is that how far they've gotten the stubborn Hiccup Haddock the Third? You can't say "woman"? "Girl"? Or even the word "female" when it comes to yourself? You disappoint me, my Dear Hiccup." Viggo asks with mockery. This is still nothing more than a game to him, as everything always is with this man. A kind of frustration only he can make Hiccup feel burns within him.

But at least there's that one thing that doesn't change. Doesn't matter who he represents as Viggo still won't stop calling him "Dear".

"How did you know?" He asks, dropping the act as it's no use to keep it up.

Spending years in hiding, he doesn't exactly show it much. He's not like Astrid, who expresses her femininity with her clothes and her grace and her statements. He's not like Ruffnut, who would scream her pride as a woman from the rooftops if they hadn't explicitly told her several times to stop shouting in the middle of the night.

As far as he knows, he doesn't act, sound, or look all that different from his guy friends. And even after the months spent on the Edge together, they still have no idea what he truly is. So how did Viggo know?

"I simply have a keen eye, my Dear." Yeah, sure he does. It took the Dragon Riders ages to correct him on his pronouns before he finally started to call him...

Oh.

"So you've known from the beginning? Why keep it to yourself all this time?" It is a good question. If he really is as observant as he claims, why hadn't he brought it up sooner?

It's not like this is the first time he's been captured by the Dragon Hunters, so why wait until now? That something might've changed scares him the most.

As if having been invited to talk more about his discovery, Viggo stands up and walks from behind his desk.

"It was odd for sure. Is this simply who Hiccup Haddock is or is there something deeper going on? It didn't take much digging before I concluded that's exactly what's going on here." It is the intro to whatever speech he has prepared, the moment he's been waiting for, what he probably specifically captured Hiccup for.

"Berk has been keeping its dragon secret quite well, despite your theatrics." Hiccup rolls his eyes. Sure, he might have a bit of a dramatic flair going on, but it's not all purely theatrical.

"Did you know that your tribe's allies still refer to you as "the runt of Berk"? "Stoick's little embarrassment"? "Stoick's mistake"? I can't imagine any of those things being said about the Dragon Rider, especially about the Dragon Rider who ended the war with the dragons. That was you, wasn't it? Isn't that how you lost your leg?" So he knows about that, too, not that he's too surprised about this one.

Viggo has come to pace behind Hiccup, his hands behind his back. His footsteps are slow, relaxed, and yet somehow methodical as well.

Hiccup tries not to let it get to him, not that or the nicknames he used to hear so much growing up. He's always despised peace treaty signings for this exact reason. That and that his father expected him to keep the visiting Chiefs' spawn entertained and most of them loved to bully Berk's runty heir. The things they used to say to him, even in his own tribe, they still affect him to this day.

"But that everyone, even your allies, felt secondhand embarrassment for you and your father wouldn't explain your need to hide, so I dug a little deeper, a little somewhere else, and then I discovered Berk's lineage. No female leaders in your nearly 400-year-old history?" Viggo asks, the sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor accompanying him.

Hiccup's silence means he's hit the nail on the head. It's the lineage, that is why he needs to hide.

His hands land on the back of the chair and Hiccup visibly tenses up as a result. His hands intertwine, legs press close, shoulders move up, jaw clenches, within a single second, Hiccup is one human-sized ball of tension.

"This is why I can't imagine how awful it must be in your position." His voice is so close, he's looming over him and that, as well as the nature of this conversation, sends chills down his spine.

Hiccup wishes he could retort, sass, say anything, but his throat has closed up.

"Berk isn't the most progressive of places, is it?" Hiccup's silence keeping its hold on him, Viggo continues to talk.

But this time, Hiccup manages a response.

"And your tribe is? Where are your warrior women, Viggo, because we haven't seen a single one so far." Hiccup moves to the side, away from  Viggo. He doesn't need to look to know that his smile is still there. He's not going to respond to that one.

"What do you want people to call you? Are you truly satisfied going through life as someone you're not?" Satisfied? Of course, he isn't satisfied.

He's never told his friends this, but he's jealous of his female friends. Astrid, Ruffnut, Heather, he knows at least two of them were never ostracized for being a runt and for being useless. And they certainly haven't needed to prove their worth by fighting a dragon nearly the size of a volcano, lost a leg, and trained the dragons of Berk only to be forced to continue to hide.

He's resentful, too. Yeah, he's resentful. Some might claim he isn't capable of such an emotion, but that nagging feeling choking his heart is a familiar one.

As if able to tell the rush of emotions, Viggo leans in just a tad bit closer and suddenly his hands are on his shoulders. Not even on the pauldrons, but on the armor itself, close to his neck. There's a slight trembling he has a hard time suppressing. He does like that Viggo thinks he can just invade his personal space like this.

"Can I make you an offer?" The older man leans in closer, his lips right next to his ear.

"What about a place where you don't need to hide? A place where you can just be yourself, the woman you were meant to be from birth. Strong, intelligent, powerful, a true Mistress of Dragons." A place like that doesn't exist, not for him, but Viggo isn't quite done yet.

"A place next to me." And there it is. The tone in his voice always dips when they're alone, but this time it dips even deeper and Hiccup isn't sure how to feel about it. Afraid? Something else?

The suggestion isn't as tempting as he'd like it to be, however, because the Grimborns and their men still hunt dragons for a living, some even for sport. That isn't a community he can even consider living in.

But it is nice to dream, though. A life where responding to "she" and "her" instead of "he" and "him" is possible.

If only he hadn't been born an heir to a tribe that couldn't possibly accept a Chief that is both a woman and a runt. If only he hadn't been born an heir.

"Are you thinking about it? About what you could become? What we could become?" Viggo's hold on him tightens, but not in an entirely uncomfortable way. Or rather, Hiccup supposes it isn't supposed to be discomforting.

"What's in it for you?" Hiccup forces himself to bypass the lump in his throat in order to ask. Because Viggo isn't offering this out of the kindness of his heart.

"New opportunities." That's the only answer the man will give him and Hiccup is left to guess what exactly these opportunities may be.

So he's no longer interested in beating them or having a truce then? Viggo has never hidden his interest in his young foe, but has never made this offer before.

One hand moves closer to his neck, fingers curling so the back of them can caress his skin. At the same time, his index finger and thumb grab small locks of his hair to play with. The other hand, it moves down just a bit and sneaks the tip of his finger beneath his armor. Hiccup's breathing grows labored.

There's a sense of excitement that he doesn't like.  Because these are kinds of touches he doesn't let the Riders do in fear of being discovered. Not even Astrid, his girlfriend, can get too many touches in. The Riders, not knowing about this secret, believe it's because he just doesn't like to be touched. They respect this, whenever they remember to.

This must be why Viggo's fingers have this effect on him, because of how touch-starved he is to protect this secret his forebears forced onto him. That just makes him hate it even more.

"Are you thinking about my offer?" He repeats his question in that same low tone.

Hiccup's hands may be shackled together, but he's not tied to the chair, so he brings an end to this conversation by getting up before those hands can travel a little further. He could sense their intent to, could feel his armor lift just a tad.

Now pouting, Viggo watches Hiccup walk away from him.

"That won't happen. You hunt dragons and I save them. Don't forget that we're at war for a reason, Viggo." He tells the other, turning his head sharply to look at him from over his shoulder.

"This-this-this... fantasy! This fantasy won't work out. It will never work out! So don't bother trying to get me to your side, no matter what type of deal you try to make with me, I refuse to take it." He raises his voice, ignoring the stinging and the burning in his throat as the urge for tears wells up within him.

A fantasy, that's what the idea of him ever being himself, herself, is. A fantasy. Nothing more, nothing less.

Swallowing and taking a breath, he pushes that realization to the back of his mind. His mind.

But Viggo straightens and his amusement is gone as he approaches. Hiccup's stubbornness and his refusal to show his fear in the face of his enemy doesn't allow him to back away, but he can feel his heart thumping inside his chest.

"It wasn't a fantasy, far from it, it was a fair deal to save you from further humiliation. I'm sure you've suffered quite a bit of that in your young life, I had simply assumed you didn't want any more. But I see that I was a fool." The game picks right back up where it left off and Hiccup is left to wonder where it'll go this time.

He hasn't only declined, but essentially made fun of it, too, and that can't feel good to a man as prideful as he is.

"What do you mean?" He tries to keep his voice strong, unwavering, but he can't help the sense of anxiety that he feels when he asks.

"I have this information, do you expect me not to use it? I'm sure there are tribes, both ally and foe, that would be very interested to hear about Berk's heir. I'm also quite interested in knowing how Berk is going to react. Do the Riders know?"

"NO!" At that, Hiccup has quite the reaction and Viggo maliciously smiles once more.

The rational part of him knows his friends will accept him and won't reject him for this, but even so, that fear lingers. It's been ingrained into him since birth that nobody wants a runt, let alone a runt that's also a... So there is still a part of him that wonders how they are going to be any different from the rest.

Hiccup looks down, ashamed for the way he responded. He has just given the exact reaction Viggo is looking for.

"How about an ultimatum? Join me or the Dragon Riders will know. Refuse a second time and Berk will know. Refuse a third time, your allies. Can you guess what will happen if you refuse for a fourth time?" Viggo asks, satisfied with this perfectly cruel choice. He has always loved a good game. So long as it's in his favor, of course.

Hiccup stares at him, unable to hide his fear and the growing tears.

This is the day he has always been afraid would come, the day someone finds out and uses it against him like he has been warned it would. Ever since taking on this role of protecting dragons and facing countless of enemies, he has been afraid. Even before Toothless, when he was just Berk's embarrassment, he was afraid.

And now it's here.

If anybody finds out, he'll be shunned and bullied and belittled and thought of as worthless all over again. He can't bear to go back to those days. He can't bear being hated again for being born the way he is.

And yet...

"I guess you're going to have to... tell them." He can bear to see the Hunter harm dragons even less and so he refuses and in his mind doom himself to a life branded as the shame of his father. At least he'll still have Toothless.

Though not happy with this answer, Viggo isn't surprised.

"Shame, we could've had something great together, could've created some greats things, but you leave me no choice." He tells him. Hiccup casts his gaze downwards, a sense of panic is threatening to choke the breath out of him, but he has given the Hunter Chief his answer and he doesn't plan on taking it back.

"Shame, a real shame," Viggo remarks some more. He'd given Hiccup the chance to change his mind, but it didn't happen.

Then, as if sensing the dreadful end of this conversation, an explosion rocks the entire ship that they're on, throwing the two off-balance.

Slamming into the older man, Hiccup, and Viggo both make a tumble towards the floor, one ending up on top of the other.

"Dragon Riders!" The call is faint, almost too soft to hear, but it's Hiccup's cue to get out of here.

Using his cuffed hands, Hiccup strikes upward against Viggo's face with such force that it breaks his nose powered by nothing but the want to escape. He leaves the man no choice but to take a moment as a burning pain burst free.

Hiccup takes this opportunity to run, climbing to his feet and going for the door.

Toothless has to be here on this ship, too, they've been captured together.

As luck would have it, while he runs down the corridor, Toothless appears and their gazes meet.

"Toothless!" They meet each other halfway, both running to reunite and the dragon pushes the flat top of his head into Hiccup's torso, urging him to grab hold for as much as his tied wrists allow it for a brief hug.

"I'm happy to see you, too, Bud. We have to hurry and leave."

"Just what I was thinking." Astrid pops up as well, having been the one to free Toothless and letting him guide her straight towards Hiccup, always homed in on him.

"Come on," Axe in one hand, Astrid grabs one of Hiccup's in her other and pulls him along towards the deck of the ship, dodging Hunters and bracing for impact with each hit delivered by the other Dragon Riders.

They reach the deck soon enough and while Astrid and Stormfly reunite, Hiccup climbs in Toothless' saddle and the four of them take off towards the sky, the others providing them with cover fire.

"Dragon Riders, we're heading back to the Edge!" Hiccup orders. There were only two ships and they're both sinking, no use sticking around.

"Wow, we're happy to see you, too. Just a nice "Hello!" would've been fine, though." Snotlout teases Hiccup from on top of Hookfang. From what he can see, Hiccup is fine, so he thinks he's allowed to.

"Snotlout!"

"No, Astrid, he's kinda right. I'm happy to see you guys, too. Now let's go home." Hiccup stops Astrid from lecturing the other Rider. Barf and Belch, Ruff and Tuff, Fishlegs, and Meatlug join back up with them and the group heads for home.

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The Dragon Hunters didn't get too far away with their prisoners, but still, it took a good hour of flying before the Dragon Riders arrive on the Edge.

The six Riders and one Dragon are in the clubhouse now, removing the cuffs and cleaning the chafing that they'd caused on his palms. Or Astrid is. Snotlout and the twins are off to the side, declaring their undying hatred for the Hunters while Fishlegs prods Toothless incessantly for possible injuries that may need treating.

"But I need to take a look at you!" Fishlegs exclaims when the dragon moves away again, much to Toothless' annoyance as he just wants to be left alone.

Astrid, who had been watching the rather amusing chase around the room, looks at Hiccup to see his reaction only to find none.

He's been down ever since his rescue. And though, being kidnapped can't exactly be called pleasant, Astrid feels like something else might be going on here.

She dabs his palms with a clean cloth soaked in water a few more times before she speaks up.

"You're not going to say anything?" She asks gently.

"Hmm?"

"About Fishlegs and Toothless."

At this, Hiccup looks up to see what's going on, Snotlout and the twins betting in the background how much longer it'll take for Toothless to get angry.

"Fishlegs, he's just tired and wants to be left alone. So leave him be." It may have sounded a little sterner than he intended it to, but it only further validated Astrid's assumption that something is up.

Turning their attention back to his stinging hands, she has to ask.

"So what's wrong?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I just feel like something is the matter. You know you can always tell me, so do you want to talk about it?" She offers herself up as a listening ear.

"Nothing is wrong, just the usual Viggo with his stupid threats." Hiccup tells her, deciding against sharing details about their talk for reasons that are obvious to him.

"Oh no, what was it this time?" Astrid asks, remarking on this being a very frequent occurrence.

Hiccup looks her in the eye and seemingly thinks about something for a good few moments.

Should he tell her?

He stares at her fiercely blue eyes, the long blond hair he loves so much, can feel her hands caring for him as she waits for an answer. Then he looks around the clubhouse, gazing at each of his friends when he finds them. Fishlegs, Snotlout, Ruffnut, and Tuffnut, just joking around and relieving the stress of the day.

He doesn't need to look at Toothless, who has settled on the floor behind him now that he has some peace. He has known from the start, all the dragons have, and they don't care what he is.

Looking at them all, fear wins. He's been so long without this, friendship, fun, just people who like him, you name it. He realizes he doesn't want to lose any of it.

"Hiccup?" Astrid says his name, thinking he's lost in thought.

"It's really just the usual, truce, or die." He tells her and if he reaches far enough, he can explain his lying as being technically not lying. Because what was basically a marriage proposal from one enemy to another is like a truce and revealing a secret such as his to the world is like a kind of death.

"Are you sure? We all know Viggo isn't pleasant to be around, especially for you. So we'll understand if you feel a little awful. Or a lot." Astrid tells him, lifting a hand to lay on his cheek.

Hiccup's eyes flit towards it as its warmth ends up on his skin and he needs to keep a hold on his breath, having a hard time keeping it under control. It's the biggest drawback to a lack of physical touch, the fact that every little thing makes his skin burn with a desire for more.

Astrid suddenly remembers Hiccup's believed aversion to touch, but before she can act on her realization and pull away, Hiccup leans into her hand. So she keeps it there, smiling as every little moment she gets to have with her boyfriend like this is a precious one.

But she has a point, he does feel awful. Viggo's offer and following threat aside, Hiccup hasn't been able to get his touches out of his head. He hates how they made him feel, still make him feel, Astrid's in comparison are much more enjoyable.

And then there is that deep, dark part of him that wants more.

Noticing Hiccup savoring her touch, she grows a little more daring and places her free hand on his other cheek and Hiccup takes her wrist and keeps them there, sighing in content.

Her hands are warm, they're soft though still calloused, and they belong to his girlfriend.

This moment makes Astrid wonder just why Hiccup doesn't like to be touched if he's taking such delight out of this. To her, this just screams a desire for more, and she's sad that he won't allow himself to have more for reasons he hasn't shared with them yet.

Meanwhile, Hiccup is savoring every second he gets because he knows this may be one of the last times he will get to enjoy it. There is no doubt in his mind that Viggo will make good on his threat and that means all of this, Astrid, the Gang, might end soon. It sounds like nonsense, but this fear is real to him.

So he holds Astrid's hands, hoping he can enjoy her warmth just a little while longer before he inevitably loses it all, all over again.

[solesurvivorpaigeargot]

Loving Stupid - Chapter One: Sanctuary [Fallout 4 Fanfiction]

HELLOOO Tumblr! Now that I’ve got this blog up and running, I wanted to do what I could to expand the exposure of my fic and get it around to new readers. While it’s already up on Fanfiction.net , it seems to me that the majority of the community prefers Ao3 or reading directly here on Tumblr. So, I figure why not post it over here as well? 

Though a heads up that this first chapter was first written entirely for personal enjoyment, and then a friend I showed it to encouraged me to expand upon the story cause they wanted to see more of the ship. XD It’s uh... lil spicy. Or lemony, depending on how old you are and how far back your fic vocab goes.

Story Title: Loving Stupid

Story Summary: Paige [Sole Survivor] and Hancock venture into the Glowing Sea in pursuit of a lead on the Institute, when a catastrophic equipment failure forces them to separate. 

Rating: MATURE

Content Warnings for this Chapter: Sexual content, drugs, alcohol, cursing

Content Warnings for story overall: Sexual content, drugs, alcohol, cursing, violence, blood, injury, needles, limb mutilation

Genre: .... erotic romance-adventure? IDK shit goes down and there’s some spicy scenes, but also a lot of character building and relationship stuff. I’m bad at genre assessment. Open to suggestions XD

.:_Sanctuary_:.

“So these are your digs, huh? … can't say it's my speed.”

“Not historical enough?”

“Nah, it's...”

Paige watched Hancock's face twist as he struggled to pick out what word fit his distaste, ghoulish features creating sharp valleys along fault lines in leathery skin while the shiny dark of his eyes appraised the home she'd built atop one of the empty foundations of Sanctuary Hills.

It wasn't anything special, wooden planks coaxed together into floors, walls, and roofing with nails and elbow grease. This was the only settlement where Paige had a place that was specifically hers, where she kept the little knickknacks and oddities she collected; all dutifully looked after by Codsworth-- ever dedicated to his task two centuries after it had been assigned to him. She'd given some life to the wooden bones of the shack, however; recycled fabrics became rugs and curtains with only mildly clashing patterns, and she even managed to cobble a number of worn out flannel shirts into a workable set of sheets for a double-wide bed that was, in truth, just a pair of smaller mattresses pushed together to pretend they were a queen size.

What could she say? She liked to sprawl.

Generators lit up Sanctuary at night with bare bulbs, and her little shack was no different. It brought yellow light against the dark, and reflected off a multitude of glass bottles, lined up on the shelves of a bureau she'd rescued, mostly intact, from the home of a long-dead neighbor. Whiskey, vodka, wine-- she jokingly called it her liqueur cabinet, despite the thing not having doors to lock the alcohol behind.

She'd done her best to make this a where place she could sleep soundly, when she was in the area. It was little more than a bed, a roof, and a lot of junk on shelves; insulated from the outside world with some sewn-together fabric scraps... but stepping over the threshold always made her feel like she'd entered a sort of... bubble. Not safe-- nowhere was safe-- but... quiet.

She could pretend, here.

“Comfortable.” Hancock decided, grousing out the word. “Damn near cozy-- you put this together?”

“With my own two hands.” She informed him; trust Hancock to find an issue with comfort-- then again, she couldn't blame him. Comfortable people had a habit of being complacent people, and they both knew that was where a lot of ugliness could happen... but his opinion didn't stop her from stepping inside and divesting herself of the pieced together armor that she layered over a set of somewhat over-sized army fatigues, reclaimed after clearing an old base of ferals. There was a wooden bin by the door for that stuff; she'd have to strap it all back on in the morning... but for now she was grateful to take a load off, starting with an enameled metal helmet.

“I've watched those hands beat faces to a bloody pulp. I didn't figure they could sew.”

She scoffed at him, rolling her eyes as she heard him trudge inside anyhow, metal door closing behind him, and set herself to the straps that kept her secured within the bits of metal and leather that frequently kept her alive on the road. Left arm first, a metal shoulder piece coming loose, and the whole ritual making her feel as if she were shedding skin.

She didn't tell him that she might have been a housewife a few centuries ago-- that was a different life. The idea that someone could live so cushy as to devote themselves to home-making and nothing else was a fever dream in this age, and while Hancock probably had enough chems in his pockets to attempt imagining it, she didn't feel like trying to paint the picture for him.

She didn't want to know what he'd think of her, knowing just how... comfortable she'd been.

“I'm a woman of many talents.” She snarked instead as another heavy piece of metal thumped into the bin, freeing up the shoulder beneath to roll and stretch. “Don't worry about getting used to it-- this is a one night stop. First thing in the morning, I'm seeing to the upgrades on the armor, and then back on the-- ah--”

Hands-- surprisingly strong hands despite withered skin that clung to spindly bones. She didn't know how that worked-- Hancock wasn't a big man, and the ghoulishness made her think he'd be frail... instead he'd hefted a flamer onto his back when he set out with her, and carried it from one end of the Commonwealth to the other without complaint. Finding those hands suddenly assisting with undoing the straps at her sides so that her chest piece could come loose was a surprise; simple and sure movements causing the scavenged military combat armor to come loose and slide forward. Without an anchor, it slid forward until the hard edge of the back plate caught on her neck and stopped it from simply falling to the floor. Meanwhile, Hancock's hands had slid in along her ribs, pressing firmly into the rough fabric and reminding her that they were, for the first time in a while, blissfully alone.

“I'm aware of that.”

Her lips pressed together-- a low sigh was expressed with his rough whisper in her ear. She swore he knew how much that got to her, despite her very deliberately not telling him. It was a struggle not to react, not to lean back as he reeled her in, those spidery hands easily finding their way upwards beneath the hanging breastplate and his chin perching on her shoulder. He'd pulled them together, his body against hers, and punctuated the move with a mischievous chuckle.

“Sometimes a little too talented-- doin' everything yourself, despite having a public servant waiting in the wings.” He teased her. “Let a ghoul help, eh sister?”

It wasn't entirely unexpected, nor unwelcome, but his eagerness was something that caught her off guard. She usually had something to say, something sly to come back with, but for some reason all she could focus on was the ticklish clutch of her gut as his fingers gathered up the material of her shirt in their traveling to her bust, squeezing fitfully enough to expose an inch of skin at her belly.

“Hancock--” She muttered, squirming slightly, but not in earnest. “C'mon, we've got the whole night--”

“That's right.” He agreed, but it was with an entirely different tone. One hand remained up, keeping her tight to him, while the other traveled down. The thin ribbon of skin that had been exposed was soon graced with the specific texture of his skin; rough, but not terribly so. Like callous, only it was all over; somewhat leathery and unique. His entire palm invaded through that opening, hard against her belly as fingertips sought out a path further south. “We've got the whole night-- and I didn't plan on wastin' any of it...” His fingers were ruthless once they found purchase, shoving past the tight fit provided by a belt she was wearing. “Did you?”

Her breath shuddered. No part of her wanted to tell him no-- the rush was enough to make her ignore the metal edge digging into the back of her neck, and forget how doggedly exhausted she'd been after their long trek here... particularly lugging her own weight in lead along the way.

In her hesitation, he'd gotten far enough to make a more intimate contact-- damnably persistent, like ivy finding the cracks in brickwork to wheedle its way in.

He pressed in against her, too certain to be deterred by straps and clothes. Barriers had been passed without any show of manners, knowing her well enough that if he was unwanted she would have thrown him off by now... and getting a sweet gasp as his reward.

“There we go.” His smile was evident in his tone-- no, not a smile, a grin-- a smug, shit-eating grin. She could imagine how it looked on his face, and knew he'd be wearing it for hours just to make her glare at him.

It didn't matter. Everything he'd done so far was just testing the water in his puckish, incorrigible way. Now he had her, and his wrist twisted as he worked that hand just a little further into her pants before slipping a fingertip against soft flesh. The motion was a sort of rocking of his hand, sliding the single offending finger down between sensitive lips before drawing back upwards with the tip pressed in, working up a little warmth in general and offering up a little tantalizing pressure to wake up the sweet spot for later, stroking her like that as his hips pitched against hers to turn her away from the bin next to the door and instead face her against the closed portal they'd entered through, reinforcing that he had her.

Without thinking, her right hand came out to brace against the door. Cold metal barely registered, just that it gave her something to push back against as he leaned in harder against her back, idly kneading her breast as he stroked her beneath restrictive layers of cloth and leather.

“O-oh... damnit, Hancock--���

“I was thinking fuck it, actually.” He smirked, still right by her ear for that quip before finally leaning back the necessary inches and releasing her breast to help her get her armor the rest of the way off, falling to the floor with a hard thud instead of getting placed in the bin. Pitching his shoulders back, hips pressed forward, grinding against her to advertise himself against her rump. “... just like this...” He added, losing a little breath as he suggested it, that free hand of his coming right back as if magnetically drawn, this time landing at the top of her hip and sliding upwards to expose a few more inches of skin-- his palm on her back, pushing with his surprising strength to encourage her to bend forward.

Bend over, actually.

She got his meaning, groaning softly as his stroking remained steady. She didn't resist the push, her hand shifting against the wall as her body dipped lower and her own free hand fumbled with the latch for her belt. The strip of leather resisted her, frustrating her fingers for a few agonizing moments as the sensation of his hand brought on another faint sigh, slipping against her with more ease as her body reflected her own eagerness; building with the anticipation. Then, finally, she managed to yank it just the right way for the latch to loose, the pressure of having his hand shoved in where it was such a tight fit relived, and further tugging releasing the subsequent button and zipper before they became obstacles... and before her hands became utterly uncooperative.

The loosened hem could be yanked down on his side, exposing more precious skin to the evening chill that crept in through the walls. Gnarled knuckles hooked on the hem, and fingertips got her underwear in the same dragging motion that demanded quick access. The lower she bent, the more he leaned against her, miming what would come in due time. It wasn't until he had her ass bare, pants and underwear drug down below the swell of her hips, that he finally pulled his own body back the inches necessary to attend to a few layers of fabric himself... but he didn't let off touching her as quickly. The hand that exposed her lingered, fingertips ghosting the sensitive skin just below the curve of her rump and sending a tingle across her skin, before his weathered palm pressed up and squeezed hard, his thumb sliding up to the top of her hip while his fingers rotated down. Finally, he finished up the groping with a light swat, chuckling behind her.

“Fuck you look so good like this...” He marveled, and she could hear layers of fabric moving against each other. “I just wanna wreck you.”

“Shut up and-- nnnnnnnh--”

She couldn't see him, but she felt him; hard and hot against her skin, pressed first between her thighs before he adjusted himself upwards. His finger's rubbing of her had paused, that hand simply anchored there as, from the rear, he worked himself against her, dragging the tip of himself this way and that until he found just the right angle to slick himself up with her excitement... and making her crave him in the process as she flexed her hips back towards him, trying to make it easier for him.

Somehow, some fucking how, she'd gone from exhausted to needy in the span of only a few minutes. It was the kind of eagerness that usually belonged to the young and dumb-- insanity she thought she'd left behind in her teen years, but he always found a way to draw it out of her.

She had no idea how he did that, but she never wanted it to change.

“Yeah?” His voice had dropped, the word barely differentiated from the heavy sigh it was carried out on. “C'mon, you can moan for me... no one's gonna hear you this time...”

More of him, pressing between wet lips-- and then more; there was resistance, going for it quick like this always meant it was a little rough, but it was the kind of sensation that left her gasping aloud as she went from craving that feeling of him to having him sink into her and remind her just how good it felt. Imagination, memory-- it always fell short, not quite living up to what it was in the immediate reality of the moment. Friction and heat, bound up in an intimate need-- just as addicting as any of the chems he slipped into her pockets whenever he thought she looked strung out.

Out of reflex, her jaw clenched tight, denying the urge to moan aloud and her body clenching around him instead. Both hands had applied themselves to the wall, and her breath shook as teeth ground together, resisting.

“Oh shit-- fuck-- if you squeeze me like that, I'm gonna...”

His hips bucked forward after a short draw back, the hand he'd been using to guide himself against her now finding its way to anchor at the crease that formed between her hip and her body as she bent against the wall, yanking her tight against him with the same motion before coming to a sharp stop. She could feel him inside, throbbing and thick, and the jolt made her jaw drop open for a short exclamation to escape her.

Buried, he began to rub her from the front again, abandoning the long strokes he'd used to warm her up and instead zeroing in on where she was most sensitive. Where his opening moves had all been about pressure with maximum contact, he changed tactics to only flick across her with the tip of his finger, instigating another tightening of her body as her resistance to making noise produced a shudder instead.

“D-don't--” She finally managed to murmur. “Oh God-- Hancock, you don't have to--”

This was a quickie-- an opener. She didn't expect this kind of attention; he always made up for it later, after a little Jet got him going again. This was usually the part where he took her by the hips with both hands and went to town, but instead he held her to keep them both tightly together, all while--

“F-fuck--” A whispered curse, kept lower than a murmur, followed by a greedy breath. He wasn't letting up, despite her telling him he didn't need to bother. She tried to push herself back against him, to antagonize him, but his fingers only tightened their grasp on the side of her hip as he leaned forward over her, ensuring that he was the one in control.

A defined clutch passed through her, centered at her core.

“Oh fuck-- mmmm--!”

“There you go... c'mon, let it out...” He coaxed her, rocking himself back in another short motion before jolting back into her again, letting out a guttural sound of his own as he did so. “Lemme hear you...”

It was an old habit to hold back, to grit her teeth and hold her breath-- anything to keep quiet. Her own fingers, once splayed open against the metal door, curled inwards into fists as the sensation built up, deep and desperate gasps getting drawn in through her nose as her jaw remained tightly closed, lips pressing hard against each other as she hummed and swallowed. Her head dropped down, his touch taking more and more of her focus.

Old habits were hard to break, but he was a new habit. One that liked to push at her old habits and see how long they'd stick.

Toes curled inside her boots, eyes closed without thinking. There was no thinking-- no, just her perception of him; the weight of his body against hers, the grip of his hand, and sound of his breath, all as her body underwent jolts that made her hips continue to try and rock back against his, one of her hands eventually lifting and banging back onto the door as the sensation turned briefly sharp, jaw loosing for a raw gasp between her lips and a guttural groan. “F-Fuck Hancock, you're gonna--- oh-- oh-- shit--”

“Rub you raw?” He completed the thought she was trying to articulate, drawing in a heavy breath of his own. His own hips rocked now, a minimal motion of a man that could barely help himself. “Wouldn't... wouldn't dream of it... just love the way you squeeze...”

The rocking changed things, introduced that delightful sensation that scratched the ineffable itch he'd aroused in her. Pressure and friction as he kept up his assault on her sensitivity made her knees wobble with a threat to give out, breath viciously driven out of her lungs in a single erotic moan.

“Fuck...” He murmured emphatically. “Sing for me babe... it's so pretty...” He encouraged her, pressing his face against the back of her neck as he kept a steady tempo. He was fully against her, laid over her back and abandoning his grasp on her hip to reach forward, those thin fingers of his stealing beneath the buttoned blouse of her fatigues and taking a demanding grasp on her breast; stalled only momentarily by the worn elastic band of her bra. The heel of his hand ground upwards at first, pressing in against her ribs, before he was pulling on her again, ensuring she remained anchored against him as he kept up the rocking motion he'd adopted over more conventional thrusting.

“Ah... ah shit... shit- shit-- J-John, oooooh... oh fuu...”

She lost the thread of why she'd been protesting in the first place. Her jaw fell open, and another moan came out; louder as everything began to come together. The movement, his insistent grasp, that very specific sense of fullness within her body and the craving it both satisfied and aggravated at the same time--

“Yeah?” He breathed against her ear. “You gettin' there, sweet thing? … good... I wanna feel it... And once you're over the edge, I'm gonna rail you until I burst.”

A thrill ran through her, like electricity that danced along her spine. Now that he'd articulated his intention, she wanted it, too.

“C-close...” She whimpered, nodding her head faintly. “J-just like that... l-little higher... rub a little higher... little circles around my-- oh- oh god- there- fuck yes-- there--!!”

Feverishly murmured coaching that directed his stroking where the craving was strongest sent her further than she expected to go, her head and chest dipping lower as her elbows bent and her forearms joined her hands in being braced against the door, a defined shaking running through her person as she went up to her toes and the rubber soles of her boots dug into the floor, further flexing her hips back in the desperation to have that sense of fullness as her body seemed to anchor itself on where they were intertwined. More than just laying open, her jaw stretched for her cry out with the rush.

His grip on her changed. He wasn't leaned over her anymore, but pitched back as both of his hands found their way to her hips.

God, she could feel him; the meeting of their bodies dominated her brain as she felt him throb within her shortly before he changed to much more active motions. There, again, was that surprising strength as he drew back and adjusted himself just low enough to begin taking her roughly, groaning between sharp breaths as his hips shocked against her rump with every thrust.

Her body was still squeezing, still rippling from what he'd just put her through, aware of the force in his every motion as he drove into her tightly clenched core.

“A-aah... aaanngh--!!”

A hitch, and his voice gave out for a more primal noise, his motions growing more hurried as she felt his nails digging into her hips. There'd probably scratches to attend to later-- not the first time. His breath juddered, followed by a gasp before it was held a moment. All at once, everything came to a halt, a shuddering swell moving up through his flesh that came shortly before a certain warmth spread within her; passed from him to her.

He claimed a sharp breath after, followed by a relieved exhale as his hands loosened. He didn't release her just yet, but he wasn't clutching quite so hard anymore.

“...shit that felt too good...” He muttered faintly as she tried to regain her own breath. One hand and forearm remained braced on the door, but the other had released to reach backwards for him, flexing her fingers to show she desired another kind of contact, and getting one of his hands in return for the non-verbal gesture. Once intertwined, she squeezed him, and let out a faint and almost girlish giggle.

“Too good...?” She quested, surprised he'd ever entertain the concept.

“Damn right.” He lobbed back, squeezing in return. “It's the kind of good a guy gets addicted to... Gotta find us some privacy a little more often.”

Don't have to tell me twice.

This was about the point where bodies needed to come apart; signaled by their hands drifting away from one another after that comforting squeeze... but that process was interrupted.

There was a knock at the metal door Paige was braced up against.

“General? Do you have a moment?”

… Preston, your timing is a disaster.

She recognized the voice in a heartbeat, and it was exactly the sort of person who had previously voiced his disapproval of her and Hancock's partnership... and he didn't even know about the more intimate details of said partnership. There was a shock associated to hearing his voice at this particularly compromised moment, one that made her face flush as she was excessively thankful for the solid door between them.

More thankful that he hadn't shown up a few minutes ago, when he might have heard a thing or two through that door.

Behind her, she more felt than heard Hancock's muted chuckle.

“I'm a little occupied at the moment, Garvey.” Paige answered back through the door; not entirely a lie. “Is it urgent?”

“Just a couple questions I'd like to ask, that's all.” Preston's voice answered back. “Security concerns.”

That was code for yes, it's urgent to me. Preston had been very particular about security ever since she assigned him to it. Making him wait would prompt more questions later, and possible lost trust with him and his group.

Despite very much not wanting to, it sounded like she was going to need to put her clothes back on for a little while.

“Just a minute, I'll be right out.” She informed him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Awee...” Hancock quietly cooed, easing himself away from her. “No cuddle time?”

Finally able to straighten up, she shot a look back at him that encouraged him to shut his face before she broke some part of it in lieu of his mostly missing nose... before cracking a smirk. “There's a bathroom behind that partition--” She directed him quietly, muting her voice to lower the chance it would carry. “No hot water, but it's clean.”

“Heh, ritzy.” Hancock smirked back. Looking at him, she was able to see exactly how ruffled his coat and blouse had ended up, with trousers only shifted just enough out of the way to get away with what they'd just done. He hadn't made any motion to arrange himself back into those trousers, though, appearing all too comfortable to just let it all hang out. “Is that your way to telling me to put it on ice? Cause if anyone needs cleaning up right now, it's you.”

He was right; she was a sticky mess between the thighs, and standing upright allowed for dripping between her legs. Usually she would have insisted on some clean cloth and water to manage that with, but at the current moment? She reached down and simply pulled pants and underwear back up, zipping, buttoning, and straightening both bra and blouse until it was impossible for anyone to know what they'd been up to by simply looking at her... and with only him aware of the specific nature of what was probably going to end up staining her undergarments.

“I'll make you clean it up, later.” She informed him playfully. “It's your mess.”

“Oooh... dirty.” He chuckled. “Don't threaten me with a good time.”

Her look hardened, making a motion at him that encouraged him to shoo-- the last thing she needed was to open the door and have Garvey catch a glimpse of her companion with his dick out. Hancock pouted at her, but ultimately obeyed.

With a sigh, she turned herself back towards the door, hesitated a moment, and then finally grasped the handle to push it open and head out.

Doing so was not unlike a splash of cold water to the face. Twilight was a good hour past, and the night sky was filled with stars without a single cloud to obscure them. There was a stiff wind tonight; enough to snap Garvey's trench coat against his legs and make the man pull up the swell of his scarf a little more to protect his nose and cheeks.

Going from the relative comfort of her little home-made haven, as well as the heat of her recent encounter, into the abrupt chill of the night with a sharp wind in her face could have only been more of a shock to the system if it had been raining.

As she emerged, Garvey looked back to appear in profile to her. The man was always at the ready, laser rifle held upright over his chest and his eyes brightly aware despite the dark of the night. Paige's shack was at the far end of Sanctuary; away from where she'd built housing for the other residents, as well as where she'd set up crops, power generators, and water. Looking down the slight hill her shack sat upon at Preston meant also seeing the lights of the settlement beyond him; the faint yellow glow of something that could almost be called a town as the back-drop to his silhouette and shining gaze.

“Garvey.” She greeted him by his last name; it felt more professional, what with him always insisting on calling her General since she'd helped him revive the Minuet Men and retake their old headquarters. “What can I do for you?”

“Like I said, I just had a few questions...” He answered, peering further up and towards the shack. She couldn't see his face; her abode featured no outdoor lights, and with the glow of the settlement behind him his features were cast in shadow. “... where's the ghoul?”

The ghoul. She could practically taste the disapproval on that one.

“Hancock is taking this chance to wash some of the wasteland out of his clothes.” She responded. “Is your security concern about him?”

“No, no, of course not. If you trust him, that's enough for me.” Preston assured her. “But, uh...”

“Out with it, Garvey.” She ordered sternly.

“I was manning the watch when you came back to Sanctuary, General-- I saw you brought back your power armor, and it looked like you were carrying a heavy load of supplies. I know you'd tell me if anything were coming for us here, but... I didn't see any of it go out with the traders, and that made me worry. So, I've gotta ask; do you think something nasty is coming up this way?”

She blinked. Preston thought she was stockpiling for an incoming threat. She almost wanted to laugh aloud, but couldn't manage it. Instead, she stepped down from her place above him on the hill, coming to stand at his side while still looking out at the settlement.

“No,” She answered him. “Nothing's coming here. I'm preparing for a journey into dangerous territory... I need to upgrade my armor before we head out, and we needed a safe place to rest our heads before we committed. I want every advantage we can get under us before we go.”

A pause. Whatever he expected to hear, that wasn't on the list.

“... General, you know all you'd have to do is say the world, and I'd--”

“I'm going somewhere you can't follow, Garvey.” She responded flatly. Of course he wanted to go with her, probably wanting to convince her to take him instead of Hancock. He considered himself more capable, more trustworthy; the better choice on all fronts.

She'd disagree with him outright, but Hancock also had a very specific advantage over Garvey that would leave him no grounds to argue on.

“I'm going into the Glowing Sea.”

Silence. The pause stretched out for several beats, no doubt as Preston processed what exactly it was she was saying.

“... I see. The armor will protect you from most of the radiation, and your companion is immune.” He observed. “... smart choice.” He added, begrudgingly, before asking, “But why are you going in there? Even with the armor, you're going to need to be carrying your weight in medicine to even have a hope of making it back alive...”

“It's important. That's all I can say right now.”

A month or two ago, she might have told him. Before getting involved with the Underground Railroad, before encountering a synth and the person they were trying to replace at the same time and very nearly killing the wrong one during the confrontation, before learning exactly how the institute dealt with people they didn't want to have around anymore... But now? There was doubt in her mind, about almost everyone. Was Preston really Preston? Or was he just another set of eyes and ears for them? If she mentioned a defector, hiding out in the Glowing Sea, would they somehow beat her to that defector and kill them?

She couldn't risk it. This was her line on Shaun, on her son. Right now, the only person she trusted was the one who was going with her; Hancock... and even he didn't know exactly why they were going.

Granted, he hadn't asked.

“... You're sure about this?” Preston quested quietly.

She scoffed. “... barely.” She answered back. “But it's the only way forward I have right now.”

She'd already decided on a direction. Her doubts didn't matter anymore.

“Then I suppose the only thing to do is wish you luck.” He sighed, turning to face her and taking a hand off the stock of his laser rifle to offer it to her. She, in kind, turned to him and took it, sharing a firm shake. “Whatever you're facing, if there's anyone who can survive it, it's you. You already provisioned?”

“Been buying out all the Rad Away and Rad-X I can find.” She confirmed. “Cleaned out every trader between here and Diamond City. Tomorrow morning I take all the lead I've collected and upgrade the power armor to withstand the radiation... and then we'll be suiting up and heading out.” She paused, withdrawing her hand from his. There was something else that had to be said; something she'd been hoping to save until they were on their way out, so there'd be no space to argue about it... but now was probably the kinder time to say it. “Garvey, if I don't come back--”

“You're coming back.” He interrupted.

“If I don't,” She pressed. “You'll be back in charge of the Minute Men. You can't hesitate from that. We've got enough supplies to last a day out there-- maybe two or three if we find a place to shelter that's not soaked in rads, like a cave or a pre-war bomb shelter that's somehow intact. If I don't come back to Sanctuary within that time? You need to take over properly and keep up the fight.”

He was quiet. He didn't like it.

“... I don't know if I can live up to what you've done for us, Paige.” He admitted, softly. “But... if it comes to that, I'll do my best by you.”

“... that's all we can do out here, Preston.” She affirmed in kind. “I know you're the man for the job.”

“Let's try not to find out.” He rebutted.

That time, she let out a faint laugh. “Don't worry.” She told him. “I'll be doing my best, too.”

__________

Chapter One: You are here Chapter Two: [hasn’t been posted to Tumblr yet, will add link when I’ve got it up... oor you could just go read the story so far on Fanfiction XD]

If you enjoyed reading this, please consider reblogging it to help me find a wider audience! <3

[johannas-motivational-insults]

I for one was seething while Ms assh... Weaver basically confirmed to her designed punching bag that she keeps her around because she's a decent emotional support for Adora, so... wanna go even deeper and stab the reader s'more?

Oh I love stabbing the reader. And I love this scene so I’ll do the whole fuckin’ thing. (Commentary is bolded.)

This scene really is heartbreaking. It was easy for me to write, though, because Catra and (Shadow) Weaver have a very particular dynamic that I vibe with. It's such a pivotal scene for Catra too, because it confirms her fears that her success would be met with pushback and that Weaver really doesn’t love her or care about her at all. It makes her feel dehumanized both in the sense of being treated as subhuman and being treated as a tool. Something to be kept around only so long as it’s useful, discarded the second it’s not. This is the moment when she learns for certain just how little she means to Weaver and it’s painful to read.

*Content Warning for abuse*

The sound of keys in the front door makes Catra frown in confusion as she unloads the last of her books. No one is ever home this early. Even when Weaver doesn’t have any sponsored clubs or other teacher bullshit to deal with, 3:15 is the earliest she ever gets home.

But Catra’s always had sensitive ears, and those are definitely Ms. Weaver’s footsteps crossing the floor. When the woman pokes her head into the kitchen, no doubt to investigate the smell, Catra gives her a jerky nod. “Went to work after all?”

“No, I had some errands to run,” Weaver replies flatly. “Lying around all day like a lazy sack of meat doesn’t come naturally to me.”

Me @ Weaver:

Bitch she’s baking cookies, she’s clearly not lying around all day. Why you gotta be like that?

“Yeah, me neither,” mutters Catra, deflecting the obvious implication.

“I have something for you,” says Weaver, and Catra can’t help but look up in surprise. Weaver tosses her something and she instinctively moves to catch it. Just before it hits her hands, she realizes what it is and her stomach drops. Fingering the rough edges of the rolled up newspaper, she tries to breathe steadily as she forces her eyes up to meet Weaver’s. (Oh gotta love that trauma response.) The woman looks more unimpressed than predatory right now, but Catra knows better than anyone how that can change at the drop of a hat.

“Looks like your little ploy paid off,” she remarks.

Sighing, Catra sets the paper down on the table. “I told you, it wasn’t a ploy. Just a play.”

“I see. And I suppose the fact that this article was written by a close friend of yours is a complete coincidence.”

LOL clearly Weaver knows nothing about Entrapta if she thinks she could be bribed into writing something she doesn’t believe.

“I had nothing to do with that,” Catra denies swiftly. When Weaver’s expression doesn’t change, she insists, “Really, I swear.”

Weaver’s head tips the slightest bit, that familiar predatory tinge seeping into her eyes and voice. “And why should I believe you?”

Catra huffs, arms crossing defensively over her chest. “Why would I do something I know would get me in trouble?”

“I don’t know, Catra, you tell me,” says Weaver, slowly closing the gap between them. “It’s not as though you’ve been doing that your entire life.”

Me @ Weaver:

Like okay, it’s kinda true. But still.

Tensing more with every step Weaver takes, Catra raises her hands innocently, trying and failing not to shift her weight to her back foot. Not to give ground or show her fear. (This is making me super uncomfortable so I’m probably just gonna keep memeing at you all. Yes, I am aware that this is my fault. No, I am not sorry.) “Look, Entrapta has really strong opinions, and they’re always backed up with facts. I couldn’t just plant the idea in her head to write something like this.”

“Facts, you say?” muses Weaver. She reaches past Catra in a very deliberate show of invading her space, and Catra can’t help but suck a quick breath in through her teeth. But Weaver doesn’t touch her. All she does is pick up the paper and turn it over in her hands as though she is deep in thought. Then the motion stops, her eyes snapping up sharply. “So you agree with her.”

Weaver @ Catra:

“That’s not what I said,” protests Catra, her exasperation showing through her tenuous attempts at staying calm. “Stats are facts, not who deserves what awards or whatever. It’s not like I even care about that.”

Weaver shakes her head, her chuckle positively dripping with condescension. “Oh, now I know you’re lying.”

She is. She really is. And the fact that Weaver knows how much Catra cares and wants praise and approval and still denies her that makes me want to slap a bitch.

Also I just realized how closely this scene parallels the one in 1x04 and that actually wasn’t intentional but I’ll take it, clearly I’ve got the spirit of their relationship down.

“No, I-”

The newspaper smacks Catra across the cheek and she yelps in shock and pain, hand flying to her mouth.

It shouldn’t be a shock, not after 14 years of this shit. It still is, every time.

Ugh, ow.

“Enough of your lip,” hisses Weaver. “You know better than to contradict me.”

Hate is not a strong enough word for how I feel about this woman. Unfortunately there are too many people just like her. I’ve noticed the audience particularly hates this incarnation of Shadow Weaver and I think it’s because when she’s stripped of her magic the tactics she’s left with are far too familiar. I feel the same way.

Catra’s tongue swipes along her stinging lip, checking for blood. It comes back clean, but the lack of physical damage does nothing to calm the quiet rage boiling up inside of her. Weaver has never treated her with an ounce of respect, and now she has the gall to hit her with a rolled up newspaper like she’s a fucking animal. Subhuman. (I mean this feeling comes straight out of Demons but with Catra being human in this au it’s... not worse, definitely not, but it hits differently.) Catra’s fists clench and her chest puffs out as she straightens up to her full height (even if it’s nothing on Weaver).

“Do not touch me,” growls Catra, her voice low and dangerous in a way few people have ever heard it. “I’m an adult, that’s officially illegal now.”

Oh, you sweet summer child.

“Oh, you want to talk about the law?” counters Weaver, sounding far too calm in comparison. It just makes Catra angrier. And maybe a little scared. Somehow Weaver always makes her feel out of control, which never ceases to remind her who is in control. (Oof.) “I am under no obligation to let you live here, Catra, let alone at a significant discount. I do that out of the kindness of my heart. (LOL the what now?) Would you rather I throw you out in the streets like the stray you are?”

Yay for another insinuation that Catra is an animal. Nice going, Weaver.

Also, that is one of the meanest fucking lines I’ve ever written for Shadow Weaver and that’s saying something.

Those words hit Catra right in the gut, a blow far more painful than any physical one. They trigger a flood of other words that always seem to find her, stick to her no matter how she tries to slough them off, prove them wrong. Stray, nuisance, brat, worthless, unwanted, unloved...

But she was loved once. She was.

Oh boy, get ready for PAIN. So I wasn’t orginally planning to write this flashback but then I got a Very Bad Idea and I love torturing my readers (and myself) so this happened.

Kneeling in front of the open door, Papi opened his arms for a goodbye hug. When Catra stepped into them, she felt his smile against the side of her head. “Te amo, mija.”

“Yo también te amo, Papi,” said Catra, tiny arms tightening around his neck with a proud grin. He hadn’t taught her that one, she’d pieced it together on her own.

Papi chuckled in surprise and approval, ruffling her wild hair. “You’re a genius, little one. You know that?”

“Yep!” she answered, beaming with the completely earnest confidence only a precocious three year-old can muster.

Baby Catra’s behavior may be slightly inspired by my highly intelligent four year-old niece, who is also biracial with a multilingual father.

A couple playful taps of the horn from the driveway interrupted them, making Papi chuckle once again. Pulling away enough to look Catra in the eye, he winked conspiratorially. “Better not keep Mommy waiting. You know how she is.”

Catra shook her head soberly in agreement. Mommy was notoriously impatient, a speed demon on the road. Catra loved driving with her, laughing like a maniac from the backseat whenever she’d swerve and cuss out the idiots in her way. Those cackles never failed to make Mommy shoot Catra a smile in the rearview mirror, her transitory rage melting away in an instant at the sound. Still, it was never good being on the receiving end of that impatience.

(Catra’s mother is not at all inspired by my sister, however. She drives like a fucking granny.)

Papi quickly pecked Catra on the cheek before standing and waving goodbye, giving an appreciative nod to the babysitter as he pulled the door shut behind him.

He didn’t close it loudly or anything, but no sound is louder in Catra’s nightmares. She never saw either of them again.

“Answer me, Catra,�� Ms. Weaver demands sternly.

That was what she had. And this is where she ended up.

Yeah, no wonder this version of Catra just assumes anything good in her life will be taken away. In some ways it might be worse than being Adora starting with nothing, because not only does Adora not remember what she lost in infancy (which wasn’t great to begin with), she has been steadily moving up in the world since. Catra’s had the opposite trajectory.

Suddenly noticing the tears rolling down her cheeks, Catra swipes them away with the back of her hand. Her throat hurts too much to swallow, so she doesn’t even bother trying to settle her voice. Her weakness is already on full display, anyway. Shaking her head, she whispers hoarsely, “No, Ms. Weaver.”

“Good,” Weaver says with finality as Catra sniffles, blinking back more tears. “You still live under my roof, and you will abide by my rules or face the consequences, just like anyone else.”

Oh boy, that’s a little too close for comfort. Again with this version of SW feeling especially despicable to the audience because it’s so familiar.

Just like anyone else. Sure.

Yeah you’re right Catra, go off.

As Weaver starts toward her room, Catra half-heartedly tosses a hand with an empty, resigned sigh. “What rules did I break this time?”

Weaver turns back, her expression dangerous, but Catra can’t muster the enthusiasm for fear anymore. Her eyes are still burning, voice tight with emotion as she confesses, “I’ve tried, Ms. Weaver. I-” Her voice cracks and she shakes her head, pinching her brow in shame. “I never wanted you to hate me.”

brb crying in the club

K but honestly the helplessness here is just heartbreaking. And it’s just like in canon. We saw, Catra did try to be a good soldier and make Shadow Weaver like her, but it was a lost cause. I mean I didn’t pull this dialogue directly from 2x06 but it’s a similar flavor for sure.

When Catra dares to look back up she finds that Weaver’s expression has softened slightly, though she still looks annoyed. “I never said I hate you,” she says, the uncharacteristic gentleness catching Catra off guard. “You’re just more trouble than you’re worth most of the time.”

It shouldn’t be a comfort. But it is, anyway. It is. Catra sniffles again, dipping her head to wipe her eyes on her shoulders.

The fact that this is a comforting answer to Catra is so fucked up and tragic but so befitting of their relationship.

“Though I will admit, you do have a way with Adora,” concedes Weaver, her tone very nearly impressed. “Not everyone can handle someone like that and keep them on task. I’ve had plenty come through my classroom.”

Wow, so we’re just being casually ableist now? Nice.

My thoughts exactly, Catra.

...Ableist and pragmatic.

Catra snorts under her breath, shaking her head as her eyes fall to the floor. How did she never put this together before? “That’s why you’re letting me stay.”

This truly is a gut punch moment. She thought maybe Weaver actually had a bit of affection for her or was invested in her future after all (which tracks for Catra because she is mean to the people she likes) and that’s why she let her stay, but no. As usual, it’s all about Adora. That is not going to bode well for the resentment moving forward.

“She does badly with her routine being disrupted, and she’s come to rely on you,” states Weaver, tipping her head in acknowledgement.

“Plus she’d hate you if you kicked me out,” Catra adds pointedly.

Weaver smiles, all teeth. “It is better for everyone this way, wouldn’t you say?”

Better for you, you mean.

“Sure,” mutters Catra. When that response earns her a look, she corrects herself. “Yes, Ms. Weaver.”

Eyes narrowed into slits, Weaver warns her, “Make no mistake, Catra. Adora would manage if you left us. If your behavioral issues begin to outweigh your usefulness, I reserve the right to evict you.” She cocks an expectant eyebrow. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” mumbles Catra.

Poor Catra, I just...

“I care very much about Adora, and I won’t have you dragging her down with you.”

“I remember,” Catra says numbly, picking at her nails and avoiding Weaver’s gaze.

Ooooooooooof. Why do I insist on hurting myself so much with all these canon parallels?

Studying her intently for a moment, Weaver concludes, “Yes, I’m sure you do.” Then she turns and leaves without another word.

Well that was lovely. Anybody else want to reach through the screen and throttle a bitch? ‘Cause I sure do.

This scene doesn’t cause an immediate reaction on Catra’s part but it definitely moves her to a place where she’s very aware of her role and how useless it is to try to change it (at least in this house), and that makes everything a little more volatile. She’s not at a breaking point yet but she’s getting closer, it certainly takes the wind out of her sails a bit. She will recover in the short term because she is Catra and her stubbornness makes her very resilient, but it weighs her down and eventually she is going to snap. Y’all will love that, I’m sure. ;)

[inliar]

broken signals

word count: 3.9k

yuto-centric; seungjoon-centric

two years ago, yuto woke up in a field, and now he is a farmer. his past was easy enough to forget, especially considering that he couldn’t even remember it in the first place. but it’s proving to be much, much harder to ignore.

loss one. loss two. seungjoon kind of hates how easily people can be categorized into neat little titles. especially since the people in question are more than just failed missions. he always hopes, deep in his heart, that he’ll find a way to bring them both back. but he’ll settle for one; the one he can actually communicate with.

a/n: 3/3 fics on my ao3 that i forgot to bring to tumblr.

warning: traumatic symptoms

yuto hates night the most, which is why waking up is the best part of his day. when he first started working, one of his grandparents had to come and physically shake him out of his slumber. but, now that his body has gotten familiar with the farm and its customs, he doesn’t need that anymore. his biological clock has taken to waking him up at 4:30 a.m. every day so he can start his chores. as his grandmother would say, the cows wait for nobody.

he doesn’t bother to wash up — he’s going to get dirty again, anyway — and instead changes into less comfortable yet more durable clothes. it’s still dark outside, and he’s too lazy to light a candle, so yuto just sort of mentally crosses his fingers and hopes his shirt isn’t buttoned the wrong way. not like it matters too much here, as the only beings he has to impress at this time are the farm animals, but he’d rather not look like an idiot in the odd chance he actually leaves the property area.

the chores themselves are so systematic they’re almost therapeutic. grab the buckets on the way out to milk the cows. one, two, three, four, and then bring them back in and exchange the full buckets for empty baskets. set the baskets beside the hen cage and go feed the inner barn first, lest the animals riot. fill the horses’ trough with hay. offer a carrot to one of them, and send a well-meaning glare at the other one who always tries to run away whenever he opens the stable. fill the cow’s trough with feed, and pat each of them gently on the nose for a job well done before heading out.

when he arrives back at the hen cage, one of the baskets is gone. sure enough, a familiar figure is crouching inside the cage, slowly yet surely collecting the eggs on the right side of the pen. “i thought i told you that i can do the morning chores by myself, now.” yuto calls, jogging towards the enclosure. “you should be resting, grandpa!”

“hush, child, i’ve been doing this since before you were born.” the old man says, waving a gloved hand in yuto’s general direction. “i know well enough how much work there is in the mornings. i don’t know why you keep insisting on doing it all by yourself.”

“you don’t even know when i was born,” yuto protests, grabbing the remaining basket and entering the enclosure. he squats by the left side of the cage and begins steadily collecting the eggs.

“at my age, trivialities like birth years don’t matter for those as young-looking as yourself.” the old man chuckles as yuto finishes checking the last nest. wordlessly, the old man offers yuto his filled basket.

he takes it with his empty hand and stands up to exit the cage. “is grandma sleeping, at least?” he asks, hopefully, waiting as the old man unlatches the cage.

the old man laughs, this time, a full bellied laugh that echoes across the open plains as he exits the cage. yuto moves one of the baskets to his other arm and single handedly fastens the latch behind himself. “son, i couldn’t stop that woman from doing what she wanted if i tried. knowing her, she’s probably waiting on these eggs to finish breakfast.” the old man says as they start their trek towards the house.

“she’d want to be awake at this time?” yuto asks, incredulously.

“that’s part of it. she’s always been the restless type, hated doing nothing when she could be doing something. but it’s also a habit. like me, and like the fine man you’re shaping up to be—”

at this, yuto smiles.

“—she can’t help but wake up when the birds start singing.” he explains, fondly.

yuto nods. “that sounds about right.” he muses. “at least, from what i know about her.”

“you’ve been here for what, a year now?” the old man asks.

“about two years, i think.” yuto corrects, not unkindly.

the old man exhales in disbelief, his breath forming a short-lived smoky cloud in the morning haze. “that long, already?” he remarks.

a pause. even after all this time, yuto still doesn’t quite know how to talk about his sudden arrival. it’s too strange to ignore, but too delicate to talk about so lightly.

yuto says nothing in return, watching the patterns his breath makes in the brisk air.

“but yes,” the old man continues, sensing the sudden tension in the air and breaking it. “you’ve been here long enough to have figured us out.”

“and i’ll be here for much longer, if you let me.” yuto says, smiling.

“is that so?” the old man asks, a note of pleasant surprise evident in his voice.

“of course? why would i want to leave?” yuto counters.

“well, doesn’t a young man like yourself want to go see the world? i was quite the wanderer myself, back when i was your age.” the old man says, a hint of a nostalgia lingering on his weathered face.

yuto’s smile falters as he tries to tamp down the sudden wave of something. vivid flashes of images flicker through his head, like an unwanted, corrupted slideshow invading the blank screen of his mind. a space station. a train. a meteor storm in the desert. seven white desks in a black room. a museum, at night, with alarms blaring. he shouldn’t know what any of these things are. why does he?

“i think i’ve had enough exploring to last me a lifetime.” yuto murmurs, pensively.

“pardon me?” the old man asks.

yuto shakes his head, breaking out of his trance as the strange moment passes. he plasters what he hopes is a convincing smile on his face. “i-it’s nothing.” he stammers, and then curses inwardly. stuttering is the opposite of casual.

it doesn’t go unnoticed. “are you sure you’re feeling alright, yuto?” the old man asks, concern painted over his features - which quickly morphs into the slightest tint of fear. “are you hearing those voi-”

“no! no, it’s not that, i promise. that was a one time thing, and a long, long time ago. i’m all better now, really!” yuto exclaims, rushing to assure the old man.

he doesn’t look convinced, but at least he doesn’t look afraid anymore. “if you’re sure about it, then.” he says, warily.

a lot of things go unsaid, but yuto understands them, anyway.

-

he hurtles into the abandoned room and frantically rummages through a filing cabinet. he’s already been here for far too long, and time is something he’s never had enough of. but he can’t leave yet. not before he finds it.

yuto doesn’t bother cleaning up after himself. no point if they already know he’s here. he shuffles through a stack of papers on the desk, allowing them to fall clumsily back into a pathetic semblance of a pile. it’s not here. it was supposed to be here. someone found it already.

a flash, and he’s stumbling out of a building. alarms are blaring, red and blue and loud and accusatory. “someone is here”, they seem to scream, insistently. demandingly. “find him, find him, find him.”

he curses and runs faster. spotting an entrance, yuto slips into a secluded alleyway where he’s certain he won’t be followed. yet judging by the hooded figure yuto senses a few feet behind, he couldn’t be more wrong. before the stranger notices, yuto unsheathes his gun. points it to the stranger’s forehead. cocks the trigger.

a flash, and asteroids are falling from the sky. his skin is dry, and his eyes and mouth sting from the dust.

“this is why we sent you back.” a voice says, echoing in his head. it’s hauntingly familiar, in a way yuto knows he should remember. in a way yuto feels like he’s heard countless times before.

“we wanted to change things,” it continues. the air begins to vibrate, the trepidation of oncoming disaster choking out his heart. yuto fights the urge to cover his ears, to collapse onto the ground and scream. “we didn’t know it would end like this.”

the voice resonates in his bones. yuto shivers, feels goosebumps angrily crawl up his skin.

“come back,” it says. it pleads.

yuto frowns, shakes his head as the ground beneath him trembles. dimly, he recognizes that the asteroids must have reached the surface. he gets the funny feeling that, should things have ended differently, he would have died here.

“please.”

-

yuto’s eyes shoot open. it’s not cold, but he’s shivering anyway.

‘no’, he realizes with a start, he’s shaking. his mouth tastes like ash: bitter and dry and unpleasant and frighteningly real. he also sort of wants to cry. it’s instinctive, like his impulse to run away and never come back.

despite having spent an entire night lying down and doing nothing but sleeping, yuto is panting as if he’s run a marathon. (or as if he’s ran into an alleyway. ran to hide. ran to— no).  his heart is racing. everything is dark and uncomfortable and much, much too fast.

‘breathe in, breathe out,’ yuto thinks, begs. he attempts to force his lungs to reset into a normal, functioning pattern. it takes an embarrassingly long time, but he eventually settles into something that can pass as regular.

this is exactly why he hates the night. night is when he sleeps. when he sleeps, he dreams. and his dreams are never quite right. they’re too bright, too loud, too vivid. too real.

yet, yuto muses, the dreams are far better than the voices. with the dreams, he can squeeze his eyes shut and trick himself into ignoring them as soon as the day starts. he can busy himself with farmwork and gardening and chopping firewood to dull the pain. but he can’t ignore the voices. the variety of tones that echo in his head — a baritone drawl, a sunny chirp, a melodic velvet — all tinged with concern and saying the same sorts of things. “come back, yuto. don’t you remember? please?”

“no,” he wants to yell back, “leave me alone!” because he can’t remember. he’s tried and he’s tried, but all he gets are flashes of images that are too fantastical to be real. nothing in the world is as sleek and shiny as the buildings in his recollections. it’s almost like they’re from some sort of fairytale or alternate universe. which is entirely, completely, and utterly impossible.

voices in his head, visions in his dreams. neither are a good sign. yuto genuinely thinks he’s sane, and his grandparents do as well. not that he’s told them anything — all they know of is a single panicked episode he couldn’t hide in front of them — but their approval means the world to him all the same. they found him and took him in when he was nothing but a lost boy in a grass field who couldn’t remember anything but his own name. in yuto’s eyes, they saved his life. and he refuses to confide to them anything that could cause their honourable names to be tainted through association with an insane stranger like himself. that could bring them trouble.

yuto is perfectly functional, if you ignore the fact that he can’t wake up quite right on some days (see: today). but no one else who heard his tale would think the same. it’s why he doesn’t go out often, and prefers to spend his time in the comfortable confines of their property. here, there’s no one new to watch if he has another episode. if he doesn’t want to get thrown into an asylum, or cause his grandparents any more unnecessary concern, he needs to eradicate whatever it is that’s screwing with his head. and if he can’t do that, he needs to be careful. but how much longer can he keep this up for?

he picks up a pillow and mashes it into his face. it’s the wrong kind of dark right now; not the fuzzy dark of dawn, but the black and shrouding dark of nighttime. yuto can afford to sleep a little longer. or, in any case, he can afford to try.

yuto squeezes his eyes shut and pretends that everything is okay.

-

“are you watching his feed again?” hyojin’s voice asks. seungjoon doesn’t bother to turn around.

he feels more than hears hyojin’s footsteps approaching, before two arms grab the back of seungjoon’s chair. hyojin leans over to watch the screen. “stop pushing me down,” seungjoon mutters, swatting blindly behind him.

“i’m only touching your chair?” hyojin protests, grabbing seungjoon’s arms and shoving them down. seungjoon sighs, but acquiesces and stops trying to hit him.

they stay there like that for a moment, sitting or standing, and simply watch the screen. yuto is looking at a pile of freshly picked corn in the candlelight. he picks one up, deftly unshucks it, and places it in a neat little stack that is forming on the side.

“do you want to go get dinner?” hyojin offers, unmoving.

“i’m not hungry,” seungjoon replies, eyes still glued to the screen.

“when’s the last time you’ve eaten?” hyojin asks. seungjoon doesn’t reply.

hyojin hums, tapping a short rhythm where his fingers rest in the chair. “i know you hate it when i say this, but you watching him isn’t going to do anything.” he waits for a reaction, any reaction, but seungjoon remains silent.

“this isn’t part of your job,” hyojin continues. “we have people monitoring him 24/7, and you’re the first person that they notify if anything happens. you’re not allowed to communicate with him while he’s awake, anyway. the CEO himself ordered it, so you don’t have the authority to override it. and we really don’t want a repeat of last time.”

seungjoon pushes his bangs back with his off hand and exhales, shutting his eyes. right, last time.

an inhumane screaming noise, loud and painful and entirely yuto.

an elderly couple crouching in front of him, repeatedly asking him how they can help.

his heart rate, his blood pressure, both spiked up to a concerningly high rate. his vitals alarm is blaring. the cameras in yuto’s eyes don’t reveal yuto himself, and seungjoon wonders, with a grim sense of dread, how he’d be feeling if he could see the state yuto was in himself.

they really, really don’t want a repeat of last time. hyojin’s right. he knows it, hyojin knows it, and he knows that hyojin knows that he knows it.

“the entire unit is worried for you. at first we thought this was a coping mechanism that would help you get better, but you’re only getting more stressed. it’s okay to take a break, but it’s not okay to keep working only to drop all your responsibilities. have you realized that you’ve left jaeyoung to single handedly take care of your team’s duties?”

seungjoon curses under his breath, finally turning around. “ah, shoot, i didn’t mean to do that.”

“i know. we sent minkyun over to help him out. he asked me not to bring it up, but you need to realize what you’re doing.” hyojin says, jamming his hands into his hoodie pocket.

“it’s just—” seungjoon starts, and just as suddenly stops. he flails his hands in the air a little, desperately trying to convey the hopelessness and frustration that’s suddenly welled in his throat. has breathing always been this hard?

hyojin nods, perfectly understanding. it’s amazing what over a decade of friendship will do for you. “take your time,” he says, patiently.

seungjoon takes a deep breath. and another one. collects his thoughts into some semblance of coherency. opens his mouth.

“this is different from ... minseok.” he begins, ignoring the way hyojin flinches a little. seungjoon feels the same.

“minseok was both our responsibilities. but yuto, he’s mine. and we didn’t even lose communication this time. but we can’t send him back to reboot his memories without his permission, and he doesn’t even remember how to give permission in the first place. i just have to sit and watch as he feeds some stupid cows or harvest some stupid crops! he is one of the smartest people in this agency and he’s farming? i just - ugh, i want him back.”

seungjoon kicks the wall underneath the computer desk. to his dismay, it barely makes a noise. he’s not any less frustrated, and he’s definitely just bruised his toe.

hyojin nods again, seemingly satisfied with seungjoon’s outburst of emotion. “it’s the first time you’ve been open to any of us in a while.” he comments, pensively.

seungjoon doesn’t grace him with a response. that cheeky little brat.

“i’m picking up dinner. is jajangmyeon alright?” hyojin asks abruptly.

“what?” seungjoon says.

“not a question. i’ll be back with the food in five minutes. oh, and i ordered tangsuyuk too.” hyojin states, pulling his phone out of his pocket and checking it.

“have you forgotten that we’re not supposed to eat food around the very expensive computers?” seungjoon asks, raising his eyebrows.

hyojin’s lips quirk into a half smile. “since when have you and i followed the rules when it comes to food?”

seungjoon opens his mouth, and closes it. he chooses to nod instead. he couldn’t argue with that flawless logic even if he tried.

as hyojin walks out, another agent walks in, holding a clipboard to his chest with his arm. seungjoon frowns; he thought he knew everyone in his division, but he doesn’t recognize the man who just came in. “are you looking for someone?” seungjoon offers, tentatively.

“oh, no, i’ve just been stationed here.” the agent says, glancing down at his clipboard. “i’ve been told that tonight i have to monitor agent YO-425-83 —”

at this, seungjoon stiffens.

“— and orchestrate his dreams.” the strange agent finishes, unaware of the inner conflict that’s just risen in seungjoon’s brain.

seungjoon tries a smile. it feels forced and awkward on his face, but he hopes the other agent doesn’t notice. “were you debriefed on exactly how you were to do this?” seungjoon asks, his voice restrained and thick.

“somewhat, yes. i was given a file,” he starts, procuring a USB drive out of seemingly thin air, “and i was told to play the video into his memory feed. the rest, they said, was self-explanatory.”

oh. this is dangerous. seungjoon should most definitely not sit here and watch whatever memories they try to feed into yuto’s brain. he’s not mentally strong enough to handle it. it’s one thing to watch yuto on the farm, where he is a completely different person who never knew seungjoon or his life as an agent. it is another thing entirely to watch him be the person who he once was, only to have that fleeting image ripped out of seungjoon’s incapable hands yet again.

but seungjoon couldn’t stop himself from watching if he tried.

“may i monitor the process?” he decides to ask, rummaging through his bag propped up on another chair before pulling out his special badge. “i’m a supervisor, and this is a very delicate mission, so, as it’s your first time doing this, i’d like to ensure nothing goes wrong.”

the agent’s eyes widen. “y-yes, uh— of c-course, sir!” he stammers, fumbling over his words before dropping into a hasty bow. “i am so sorry, if i had known—”

seungjoon raises a hand, backing away from yuto’s monitoring computer and gesturing towards it. “no need to worry, you’ve done nothing wrong. now, why don’t you set up the system? we wouldn’t want to be late.”

the new agent hastens to oblige, pulling another chair in front of the computer before inserting the USB drive and typing furiously. the password screen clears, replaced by the thumbnail of the yuto’s dream’s video. it’s black, which gives no indication as to how this is going to go.

“would you like a headset, sir?” the agent offers, holding one out. “or do you not need to hear how the dream is going to monitor it?”

“thank you,” seungjoon says, putting the headset on and noticing how it cancels out the whirring of the computers and other white noises. for better or for worse, he is going to be fully immersed in this dream.

seungjoon holds his breath as the agent presses play.

it’s the strangest set of memories, and for once, seungjoon has no clue what the CEO was thinking. he can faintly recall where the scenes were from, though, based on the stories yuto had told. he’s searching for the key in an abandoned apartment. he’s investigating a fully secured museum, escaping from the alarms. he’s running from the authorities, hiding in a not-so-abandoned alleyway as he holds a gun to changyoon’s head, not realizing who it is. how is this supposed to help yuto gain his memories back, again?

the scene changes once more, and the proceeding image sends a chill up his spine. seungjoon curses, soft and low. it’s the asteroids; the reason why yuto had to go back and change things; the reason why he isn’t in this time and place anymore. if he could, seungjoon would take to a space station and destroy every single asteroid that ever dared to exist. every single stupid chunk of rock that stole parts of his life away. almost subconsciously, seungjoon switches the microphone on his headset to ‘on’.

“this is why we sent you back,” seungjoon says, sadly. dream yuto stills, says nothing, does nothing.

“sir?” the other agent asks in confusion. seungjoon ignores him.

“we wanted to change things,” he continues, watching as the asteroids get closer and closer to the ground. “we didn’t know it would end like this.”

‘didn’t know that you would be stuck in the past,’ seungjoon wants to add, but can’t. the last time they gave such a direct clue, yuto had an episode. he never wants to see yuto in pain like that again.

dream yuto shivers. for a second, seungjoon allows himself to hope that his words are working. that, once this is all over, yuto will activate the ‘return’ signal like he’s always been able to do.

“come back,” seungjoon pleads, letting the desperation bleed into his words.

dream yuto shakes his head, and it’s with a horrible jolt that seungjoon realizes the dream is coming to a close. before the moment ends, seungjoon squeaks out one last word.

“please.”

the dream stops.

seungjoon slumps back and stares at the monitor for a tense second. nothing happens. he pulls off his headset, gently placing it on the desk in front of him, and angrily swipes at the tears that have been rolling down his face.

-

hyojin drove him home.

he had taken one look at seungjoon’s miserable state and the computer in front of him before piecing together what he had missed. hyojin offered a brisk apology to the baffled, new agent in front of him before gathering his mess of a friend and declaring the work day over. seungjoon was in no position to disagree.

“take a nap. or watch a movie, or eat the jajangmyeon i put in your fridge, or whatever. but if i see you back at work today, i will end you.” hyojin threatened before cheerfully exiting.

seungjoon flops down on his bed, suddenly exhausted. he squeezes his eyes shut and pretends that everything is okay. wonders if, maybe, somewhere across time and space, someone out there is doing the same.

[chelsfic]

Trustfall Part 2 - August Walker/Reader - Mission: Impossible Fallout fanfic

Image: Stock image of multiple locks on a door beside an image of Henry Cavill with scruff and mustache and a curly lock of hair falling over his forehead. The Henry pic came up in a Google image search, but I think it should be credited to: @kinghenryviii-i-am

A/N: You’ll notice from some details (references to dollars, stores, elementary school) that this fic is set in the U.S., not in London. I felt it would be more authentic for me to write within my own frame of reference rather than try to manhandle English colloquialisms and such. You can think of it as AU. Or, I can just admit that I’m a bit lazy. Either way I really hope it doesn’t take you out of the plot.

P.S. I’ve never had a plan in my entire life. Somehow, this is the Home Depot episode of Trustfall. Enjoy!

Part One

***

You make up the guest room because that’s what you do when you have a guest. Never mind that the guest is a (former?) terrorist...a double agent and a traitor. Never mind that you don’t strictly want him here and he’s less of a guest and more of a...passive captor. Never mind all that. Making the bed with fresh sheets and putting out clean towels is what you do when you have...a guest.

“So...,” you gesture to the open doorway. The same doorway where you stood frozen, three weeks ago, while he pointed a gun at you. The memory rises like an unwanted specter before your eyes and you need to take a steadying breath before you can go on. “This will be your room. Th-there’s a bathroom attached. The linen closet is just across from you if you need more towels or blankets. I had an extra toothbrush so I put that on the sink for you….a-and the kitchen is downstairs just across from the living room if you g-get hungry…”

You’re rambling and this really is absurd. The bastard may be paying you but there is no reason you have to be nice to him. It’s like your brain is short-circuiting. You hate him for what he did to you and for making you feel scared in your own home. But you’ve never had it in you to seek out conflict when you find it so much simpler to take the high road and be able to live with yourself as a “nice person.” It’s a dysfunction. You should probably see a therapist about it. Or hit him. Maybe you should hit him. 

In an effort to assert yourself you add, “And keep out of my room. And my office downstairs. I’m not agreeing to you having access to every inch of my personal space.” 

The effort is somewhat diminished when you spy the unreadable, hard expression on his face and tack on a “please” to the end of your demand. Damn it.

“Of course,” Walker smiles and how can it be allowed for him to look so boyish and charming? He’s a criminal! “This is still your home, Y/N.”

You don’t know what to say to that. It sure doesn’t feel that way.

***

It’s amazing how quickly you can become accustomed to the most bizarre changes. Before you know it a  week has passed. Walker...August...keeps to himself in his room. He’s gone out a few times, always at odd hours. Sometimes he’s not back yet when you wake up in the morning. But for the most part he’s just...there. All the time.

You’ve spent every night since he came here laying in bed with your hands fisted in the blankets and your eyes locked on your door. His room is just on the other side of your bedroom wall and you can sometimes hear the muffled noises of him moving around at night. So far he’s respected your request that he not invade your space more than necessary but that can’t last, can it? You find yourself mentally reliving those terrible moments. The cold apathy in his eyes as he stood over you. The false concern in his words before he pulled the trigger. Why would he say he was sorry? If he was sorry...if he’d cared he wouldn’t have done what he did.

In the mornings, you feel tired, wrung out. This can’t go on. You’re due back at work on Monday and you can’t teach a class of second graders on no sleep. Friday afternoon you drive to the hardware store and purchase a sliding lock kit for your bedroom door. August is in the kitchen when you get home. He watches you set your bag on the kitchen table and remove the contents. 

You look up at him feeling absurdly guilty. You force yourself to square your jaw and look him in the eyes, “It’s for my bedroom...I can’t...I can’t sleep at night.”

August’s eyes flash with emotion before he carefully schools his features. He’s been trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible. For all he manipulated you into this situation he isn’t a sadist--he doesn’t want you to feel afraid. He just doesn’t know what he can possibly do to reassure you. 

He nods sensibly and comes over to inspect your purchase. It’s a simple sliding lock like the kind you’d see on a public restroom stall. He picks up the package turning it over in his hands. He’s standing right next to you, looming, and you’re aware again of his massive presence. You can feel the heat of his body and you can smell the scent of him. He smells like fresh soap and gun oil. You’re suddenly aware that he’s wearing casual clothes, a t-shirt and jeans and thick, white socks. The outfit makes him seem so normal, so human. Without your permission you feel your body sway toward him like a mosquito flying toward an electrified lamp. Why are you attracted to something that can hurt you?

“Smart,” he remarks, setting down the package, “but this type of lock won’t do much to keep out someone who’s determined.”

“What?” you ask sharply with a look of suspicion. Surely he must realize the lock is meant to keep out *him.* From the apologetic look he flashes you, you can tell that he does know. So why is he telling you this?

“Why don’t we head back to the store and find something more heavy duty?” he suggests.

***

Walking through Home Depot with August Walker at your side pushing a big, orange shopping cart is surreal. There’s no way you can forget who you’re with either because he draws attention. He’s tall, muscled and striking; people’s eyes are drawn to him like magnets. You wonder how he ever got by working under cover. 

He swings down aisle after aisle with a purposeful stride that leaves you nearly tripping over your crutches to keep up. When you reach the aisle with locks, doorknobs and other odds and ends he selects a heavy metal deadbolt from the wall display and tosses it into the cart.

He turns to you, looking doubtful, “Do you have a power drill at home?”

“Err...no,” you reply sheepishly.

He moves on: screws, drill, drill bits, a hole saw. Then he’s leading you to the back of the store and down an aisle lined with different style doors. You hook your hand into the crook of his elbow to slow him down.

“August!” you exclaim, practically out of breath trying to keep up with him. “I don’t need a new door.”

“Yes, you do,” he says simply and turns back to display. He selects a heavy steel door that looks more suitable for a jail cell than your bedroom.

“That’s hideous!” you snort, forgetting your anxiety and nerves.

August huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, “It’s secure.”

When the cashier rings everything up the total comes to over six hundred dollars. You widen your eyes and reach into your pocketbook with trepidation. You just don’t have that kind of extra money. August pulls out his wallet and hands over a stack of hundreds without batting an eye. You stare at him in shock and he just shakes his head as if it’s nothing. You are going to have a talk about household expenses. 

***

You watch him hang the new door, greasing the hinges and testing the swing of it opening and closing. You’re perched on the end of your bed and he’s standing in the doorway wearing a tool belt and changing out the bit in his drill to start making the hole for the deadbolt. You let yourself enjoy this bizarre, peaceful moment. Watching him do home repair is so...oddly calming. August could be your handyman or...your husband. 

But...he’s not, you remind yourself. No, this man is the reason you need a steel door installed in your bedroom in the first place. The reason you can’t sleep at night, the reason you have nightmares that cause you to wake up with tears in your eyes and a sob in your throat. You can’t--you cannot forget that. 

August finishes up installing the lock and the doorknobs. He takes his time tightening the final screws and checking that the lock slides effortlessly into position. As he fiddles with these adjustments he watches you from the corner of his eyes. You’re seated on the bed with your good leg tucked underneath you, chin resting on your palm and paying attention to everything he’s doing. Your posture is looser than he’s seen it since his arrival and he feels a rush of warmth in his chest that he can’t identify.

 All he knows is he hates seeing the flash of fear in your eyes every time he catches you unaware. He hates seeing how tired you are in the mornings. And he really, really hates the muffled sounds of sobs that come from your bedroom late at night. He wants you to feel safe again. He knows he robbed you of that feeling. When he came here a week ago it was with the calculating intention of taking advantage of the damage he’d done and forcing you into a position of being at his mercy. But since he’s been living with you and witnessing the consequences of everything he’s done all he feels is an unfamiliar guilt eating away at his stomach and making him feel like worse than vermin. 

He swings the door closed and twists the lock into place with a satisfying click. He turns to you with a smile and a feeling of accomplishment that he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

“There,” he says, twisting the lock again and opening the door so that you don’t feel trapped with him in your bedroom. “Now you’re safe.”

Tag List:

@thorins-queen-of-erebor @viking-raider @onceuponathreetwoone @angelic-kisses13 @afangirldaydreams

[mass-dreams]

i wrote a thing?? it’s uhhhh almost three thousand words so you can read it on AO3 if you want. this is my first time properly sharing my writing, so i’m nervous, and i know i have a ton of room to improve. constructive criticism is always appreciated, but please don’t be rude!! in the very relatable words of our beloved alistair theirin, “i bruise easily.” (metaphorically so, this time)

_______________________________________________________

Thalia was used to feeling unwanted.  

The moment the fire had left her fingertips, the life she had always known shattered. She had expected that, really. But she hadn’t expected the disgust in her father’s eyes when her magic became known. She hadn’t expected her mother to cower in fear of her nine-year-old daughter. 

Even as her younger brother’s arms wrapped around her waist, the ache in her chest only became more painful. The lump in her throat grew. The tears in her eyes spilled over.

Her family was safe. Her little brother was safe. That should be all that mattered. 

Yet she knew they didn’t feel safe. Not anymore. Not with her. 

Her own family didn’t want her. 

She was cast aside, struck from the Trevelyan records as much as public knowledge would allow. 

“We can’t have a mage, of all things, tainting our house’s reputation,” Bann Trevelyan had said. 

When the Templars arrived, Thalia felt almost relieved to finally leave her home.

Although, it wasn’t really her home anymore, was it? 

With each step taken away from the Trevelyan estate, she could feel the invisible cord connecting her to the place become tighter and tighter until it was pulled taut. Until it snapped. 

It felt like the broken pieces of the life she had just destroyed were cutting into her- nothing but sharp edges, draining everything. 

Life in the Ostwick Circle felt almost like a dream to Thalia. Then, she was too young to know the horrors mages often faced. She only knew that she was finally learning how to properly control her magic. That there was a library filled with books waiting for her. 

She was homesick for a while. There were many nights she fell asleep with tears soaking her pillow, mourning the life she had once had. The brothers she had had to leave behind. The parents whose love she had thought unconditional until she found the exception. Until she realized she was the exception. 

Thalia paid little attention to the other apprentices, though not maliciously, or even intentionally. She was so wrapped up in learning everything she possibly could, that making friends was far from her mind.

The others misinterpreted her distance.

In their minds, she was being snobbish, and conceited, and thought she was better than them because she was nobility. 

For years, Thalia was an outcast without even knowing it.

It wasn’t until her teenage years that she realized just how anti-social she had been. She was always polite and kind in the interactions she had with her peers, even though they were few and far between. 

She made a point to actually attempt to make a friend.

That was when she finally noticed the whispers, and the pointing, and the laughs. When she tried to start a conversation with one of her fellow mages, they would sneer, and hastily end the exchange.

Thalia knew when she was unwanted. 

Years later, everything had changed. The Circles were no more. There was a giant hole in the sky. And the key to the world’s salvation was on Thalia’s left hand, glowing a bright, sickly green. 

The mage walked out of the Chantry, inhaling a deep breath of the fresh, crisp air she had been deprived of for fifteen years. She strolled leisurely towards the gates of Haven, taking in the sights of people bustling about in the snow.

She stepped outside of the village, her attention quickly drawn to golden hair and a deep scowl. 

Maker, Thalia would never understand how the commander managed to look endearing while literally glaring at reports. 

She was aware of the fact that he used to be a Templar, and she was also much more knowledgeable of what many mages unfairly faced throughout Thedas. Cullen had seemed wary of her at first. The man had seemed to warm up to her, though, after she had aided the refugees in the Hinterlands and used her healing abilities to help the soldiers. 

Ever since she had first met Cullen on the battlefield, he had invaded her thoughts, taking up much more space in her mind than was appropriate. Foolish, she knows, to think of a man she met only a short time ago so often. 

He was the commander though, and her the Herald of Andraste (or so many believed). She ought to get to know him better, considering the amount of time the two would be spending together for Maker-only-knows how long. At least until they sorted out this whole “end of the world” business. 

However, as Thalia gathered up the courage to speak to the man (and rehearsed the entire conversation in her head), the stares and whispers caught her attention. 

“The ‘Herald of Andraste’- a mage! Can you believe it?”

“I heard she’s supposed to be nobility, but was kicked out of her own damn family!”

“Does she even speak? I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say a word.” 

“That’s probably because no one wants to get close enough to hold a conversation!” 

Thalia turned on her heel and hastily retreated back into the village, back into her cabin.

Perhaps not everything had changed. 

Skyhold felt like a new beginning. 

It seemed as though Thalia had proven herself when she risked her life during the destruction of Haven.

In all honesty, she had been absolutely terrified. Like, shit-your-pants terrified. 

She never, in a million years, would have thought that she would have to face down an ancient dark magister and his pet archdemon. 

She was familiar with the prospect of risking herself to save others, though. She had experience in that area. The lives of those hundreds of villagers was worth far more than her own. If it took her death for them to live another day, then so be it. 

The whispers and stares had lost their malice. Now it was mostly wonder, and even worship that filled the expressions of those she passed by. 

It also felt like the beginning of something with her commander.

In the courtyard, he had promised to never let anything like Haven happen again. The poor man took the deaths of those lost as his own personal failure.

He had also said that he was glad she made it out. Specifically her. While the words themselves could be chalked up to his unwillingness to lose the Anchor or just another life in general, the expression on his face, and his awkwardness after the words left his mouth made Thalia think differently. 

Then came his struggle with lyrium. 

Thalia’s heart hurt to think of Cullen in pain- to think of everything he had had to experience in his past and the effect it had on him. 

His strength through everything, and his ability to persevere only made her affection and respect for him grow stronger.

She had assured him that he was doing the right thing. That he could make it through. 

Afterwards, when she had found him on the battlements, she couldn’t help but watch as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath in.

He seemed… at peace, if only for a moment. As if he had been able to lay down a burden he had been carrying on his shoulders for so long. 

Each time Thalia thought she couldn’t possibly feel anymore for this man than she already did, he managed to prove her wrong.

Their chess game in Skyhold’s gardens only reinforced the small inkling in Thalia’s head of what if…? 

What if her feelings weren’t unrequited? What if Cullen reciprocated? 

“We should spend more time together,” Thalia risked saying.

“I would like that,” Cullen replied, his face seeming to light up at the idea.

Unable to form any other words, Thalia simply said, “Me too.”

His eyes were gentle, and a small smile graced his lips as the words left his mouth, “You said that.” 

Thalia’s face burnt as he brought their attention back to chess. Her embarrassment was worth it to see him smile, though. Maker, what she would do to make him smile. 

Not soon after that, the two began to have near nightly chess games, even going as far to have supper in Cullen’s office while they played.

It evolved into a routine for them. Eventually the chess board would lay forgotten- the pair too wrapped up in conversation and each other to pay attention to it. 

The illusion Thalia had built for herself crumbled sooner than she had expected. 

Of course, it was on a night when she was feeling particularly brave- particularly reckless. 

At the war table meeting that morning, she had caught the commander staring at her. While Josephine was rambling about a very important noble visitor (Thalia couldn’t even remember who it was, now), she had glanced at the man (which she absolutely did not do every twenty seconds, thank you very much) and found his eyes already on her. 

He quickly looked away, a blush coloring his cheeks. 

She turned back to Josie, with a large smile that she couldn’t seem to hide, and attempted to force herself to pay attention to the words coming out of the woman’s mouth, but ultimately failed.

Later that day, the two had even found time to have lunch together.

Or, well, Thalia had arrived at his office with a report that could absolutely not be handled by anyone else (it may have had something to do with trebuchets, though Thalia didn’t know for sure, as she had barely glanced at it before snatching it from the messenger while they were distracted delivering the inquisitor's own reports), and demanded Cullen eat something after he had denied having breakfast, and initially refused to eat lunch, as well. 

Although, he had given in rather easily to Thalia after she had offered to stay and eat with him. 

Ultimately, these events motivated the inquisitor to do something she never would have expected from herself- confess. 

That night, she had resolved to return to Cullen’s office after they had supper, when most of Skyhold’s inhabitants would be either asleep or shit-faced drunk at the Herald’s Rest. 

She donned her favorite outfit- a long, flowy dress with transparent sleeves that lacked a shoulder, colored a light blue which Josie had said matched her eyes, and Thalia couldn’t remember the last time she had worn a dress. Not robes, but an actual dress. She pulled her long black hair over her shoulders, and took a deep breath as she descended the stairs into the main hall.

With each step the butterflies in her stomach became more intense, but at that moment Thalia had no doubt in her actions or what the result of them would be.

As she pushed open the door leading onto the walkway to Cullen’s office, she couldn’t help but smile. 

To think that all it would take to move their relationship forward- to something they both wanted, she was sure- was just a little bit of courage.

She almost laughed. She probably would have, if her eyes hadn’t caught the figure leaving Cullen’s office through the door facing the tavern. 

It was an elven woman, dressed in the inquisition’s scout armor- Thalia could tell by the shape of the silhouette. 

The woman seemed to be… readjusting her clothes, and fixing her hair. 

But why would she be delivering something to the commander so late at night? And why would she be so disheveled just from-

Oh.

Oh.

The smile dropped from the inquisitor’s face as the realization hit her. 

Of course Cullen didn’t actually want me, she thought. It was ridiculous to even entertain the idea. He probably only dealt with you because you’re basically his boss.

The thought made her heart ache, and her eyes fill with tears.

Throughout her entire life, no one had wanted her.

Why would this be any different?

Why would he be any different?

How could she have believed that this strong, kind, selfless man could possibly have feelings for her- a mage disowned by her own family, with nothing but herself to offer him? 

Foolish, really. 

The ache in her chest only grew stronger as she made her way back to her quarters.

Thalia knew when she was unwanted. 

She was used to it by now. 

Thalia allowed herself only that night to mourn what she thought had been. Only one night to let the tears fall freely. There was still a world to save, after all. 

Attempts to avoid the commander entirely were futile, considering their positions. 

Though she had stopped her evening visits to his office, entirely convinced their friendship had been one-sided and in her head because why would he want to spend time with her that he could be spending with his lover? 

When she caught him watching her, she chalked it up to be him double-checking her- making sure she was doing everything right because obviously, as the Herald of Andraste, she couldn’t make a single mistake. His small, almost shy smiles that always made her melt, were never meant to affect her in the way they did. When he went to check on her in her quarters after she was buried underneath a mountain of paperwork, making sure she ate, it was concern for their leader, not for her. 

She had mistaken his tolerance for acceptance- for desire, even for the possibility of what could eventually be love. 

But of course he would be with someone else. Of course, Thalia wouldn’t be enough because she had never even been kissed, for fuck’s sake. If no one else had wanted her in that way, why would he?

Soon, though, Cullen seemed… different. The circles under his eyes became darker as the days went by. His hand went to his temple- an attempt to ease a headache, Thalia knew- more often than ever before. The candle illuminating his office windows seemed to burn even longer into the night. 

Eventually, concern for the man overpowered Thalia’s own shattered heart. If he didn’t want her there, then he could tell her so. 

She went to his office at an ungodly hour in the morning, when she couldn’t sleep, and neither could he, it seemed.

Thalia knocked softly on Cullen’s door, and stepped into his office after hearing his quiet, gruff, “Come in.”

“Inquisitor!” he startled, abruptly standing up from behind his desk. “I thought… I thought you stopped coming.” His voice seemed small, and weak when the words left his mouth. 

“Yes, well… I saw you had found someone else to spend your time with. I didn’t wish to impose,” Thalia replied, though with no malice, and not accusatory- she was just stating an observation. She ignored the confused furrow in his brow as she attempted to barrel on and get to the point- his well being, which was much more important. He didn’t allow her to do that, though, and stopped her before she could say anything else.

“Who… ? What are you talking about? I assure you, no one has taken your place. My eyes are only on you,” Cullen said, as if it was the most casual thing in the world, as if it wouldn’t make Thalia’s heart beat a thousand times faster because does he mean what I think he means? 

His words seemed to catch up to him, as his signature, adorable blush appeared on his cheeks and his hand came up to rub the back of his neck. “Maker’s breath. That is… I mean…”

“What about the scout I saw leave your office? It was really late, and she seemed… a bit disheveled,” Thalia replied, deciding to put him out of his misery, and seek the answer she really needed if he truly did mean what he said.

The furrow between the commander’s brows reappeared, his lips set into a small pout as he tried to recall the scout she was asking about. 

“Are you talking about… Maker, I didn’t know it looked like that. She had ran all the way here from the stables with an urgent message from the Hinterlands, then promptly tripped when she walked through my doorway.” 

Thalia almost giggled, but didn’t when she realized it sounded like something that she, herself, would do, and that this meant her commander had no lover and might actually feel the same way about her. 

However, “Oh…” was all that managed to leave her mouth.

The pair stood there in awkward silence, until-

“Did you really mean-”

“I really meant-”

They spoke at the same time, then met each other’s eyes as their faces burnt red, and smiles graced their lips.

“I did,” Cullen said softly, as he stepped out from behind his desk and stopped right in front of Thalia. “Do you…?”

“I do.” The words were breathy- she practically whispered them- but how was she supposed to form a coherent thought when he was so close and his eyes kept looking at her lips and Maker, he’s going to kiss me.

Their lips met, with one of Cullen’s hands on her cheek and his other on her waist. It was clumsy, and Thalia knew she was doing it wrong, but Maker, this is perfect. 

When he made to pull away, Thalia pouted and reached up to pull him back to her. 

He smiled against her mouth and let her. 

Thalia already knew she would never be able to get enough of the man. 

She knew, now, that she was wanted. 

[littlenoona]

You need us: The Forced Reconciliation.

You need us: The Buried Secret.

You need us: The Torturous Truth.

You need us: The Forced Reconciliation.

Summary: Your relationship with the 7 heads turn toxic.

Warnings: Character death, kidnapping, drugging, torture, blood, violence, reference to raping(no actual rape or description of it appears, someone is just being disgusting), basically this chapter is full of shit and triggers, reader beware.

Genre: Angst, minimal fluff.

Pairing: DomMafia!OT7 x Reader(F).

Word Count: 13,928.

A/N: In this chapter you will be referred to as F/N by some characters, which will stand for Fake Name - I haven’t really proof proofread it, so I’m sorry if you find mistakes.

Masterlist.

A year - 365 days - 8760 hours.

Today marked the anniversary of you leaving your old life behind, along with 7 men you used to trust with your life. 

You sighed deeply as you stared out over the cliff you had been coming to ever day since that day - it was your place of serenity. You could see the entirety of the city from here, you could feel the fresh air flowing through your hair, the smell of nature filling your senses. 

Considering yourself lucky that the 7 heads hadn’t found you yet, or maybe they hadn’t even tried looking, you closed your eyes and let your mind clear of today’s problems. 

Moving across the country, to the very outskirts wasn’t easy - it was even harder doing so while your world laid shattered around you. 

The 7 heads of the organisation had taught you how to disappear should you ever need to, in case something ever happened to them - never in your wildest dreams had you imagined that you would use those abilities on vanishing from the very men that took care of you. 

You felt your throat hurt as it expanded in preparation for the tears that you so desperately tried to push away day in and day out, your eyes stinging as your heart ached, never fully healing from the holes they had left behind, nor did you ever think it was going to. 

Dying your hair a different colour, wearing contacts to cover your eye colour and more often than not, wearing clothes that were way too big and not your style, you didn’t even resemble yourself anymore - you felt like you had lost yourself as well. 

You went by a new name, a new birth date and a new birth city, you claim that you were adopted, that you were an only child and your adoptive parents had died in a car crash when you were younger, leaving you with nothing left, it avoided people asking you any further questions about anything as they often didn’t want to invade your privacy and the whole story kind of made them uncomfortable, just as you wanted it. 

Withdrawing all the money from your accounts and closing them down, you pulled your roots from the ground and relocated - an unknown guy in the underground system providing you with the necessary documents to obtain a new identity.

He wasn’t affiliated with the organisation and he assured you that he would never expose you, as he hadn’t so many times before for many other clients. You trusted him, more so because you told him that if you were ever found by unwanted people, you would come looking for him with a taste of blood on your tongue. 

Hearing an engine behind you and dirt being tossed by the tires attached to it you opened your eyes to look back, only to see the car pass by without stopping - thank god. 

Your eyes returned to the lights of the city, the darkness of the night falling down to ease everyone into the void of slumber, not that you had experienced much of it lately, a certain unease in your chest and stomach preventing you from fully submitting to your sleep, every twig breaking, every wind gush, every cat howl waking you in the dead of night, covered in sweat. 

It was probably best that you head home, before one of the old ladies in the houses around you called the police, stating there was a stranger by the cliffs, despite having been here every day for a year, they didn’t seem to remember you - just as well, being remembered wasn’t something you wanted. 

Jumping off the hood of your car, you walked around it and opened the door to get in, turning the key in the ignition, the growl of the engine awakening providing little comfort. You missed your old car, but you couldn’t risk keeping it in case the heads could track it. 

Backing out of the small spot you turned your nose towards your apartment, a small and cosy place in a neighbourhood you had only heard good things about - the people living there were friendly, they always wanted to help and you always offered help to them, it was a small community that had you feel some sense of home. 

The majority of your neighbours were your age, busy lives, busy families, busy jobs, though they always found time to smile, how they managed you couldn’t ever figure out, even less so since all you wanted to do every day was curl up on your bed and hope you didn’t open your eyes again. 

Turning your car into your street you saw the faded lights of every apartment, people settled in for the night, watching TV, playing games, talking, some maybe even working, studying. 

You turned your car off, got out and locked it behind you, walking towards your door, the air down here a little warmer compared to the cliff, as to be expected you hummed to yourself.

Pulling your keys from your pocket you unlocked the door, closing it behind you before you started twisting the multiple locks you had on the inside - pulling the Glock from the holster you had attached to your stomach, placing it on the table next to the door with a deep sigh as you flicked the light switch on the wall. 

You don’t even remember when you started carrying a weapon around, you never used to before, you hadn’t even used one previously, but when you moved here you took lessons, you bought one and you even took martial arts classes, Krav Maga specifically. 

Dragging your feet out of your shoes you brushed your hand through your hair as you stood in front of the mirror in your entrance, your nose smelling something familiar, but not something that was meant to be in your apartment. 

Sniffing a few extra times you couldn’t quite place your finger on it, but it was out of place and it made you feel uneasy. 

You picked your Glock off of the table again, treading carefully as you walked through your apartment, checking your bedroom first which was right next to the front door, peaking your head in to look around - nothing. 

Standing by the door to your bedroom you could see your kitchen, nothing that you could spot there either. 

Walking towards the kitchen, the living room became more and more visible, a light emitting from it that you knew you hadn’t left on when you went out this morning. 

You continued to tread carefully sideways, holding your Glock at arm's length, ready to use it should you need to, the edge of the sofa coming into view as you continued your near silent steps. 

Feeling your chest run cold and the pace of your heart increase, you saw a figure sitting in the centre of your sofa, their face slightly illuminated by the light on the table next to them, their dark hair draped over their face, wearing a white dress shirt with a few open buttons and black slacks - their head lifting to look at you as you came into full view. 

Your entire body started shaking and you could barely keep the weapon in your hands up, your eyes widening at the face in front of you, feeling like all the air in your lungs had been ripped from you. 

“Hey noona.” Jungkook spoke softly with a small smile.

Your mouth fell ajar, repeated no’s going through your head.

“I almost couldn’t recognise you.” he continued. 

Desperately trying to keep the weapon in your hands steady and pointed at him, you wanted answers.

“How did you find me?” your words shook. 

He stood up from the sofa with a smile knowing you wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger, “I admit you did really well, noona, it was hard, but we’ve got our ways, you know that.” 

“Why are you here?” you breathed, trying to gain control of yourself as the first tear fell down your cheek. 

“We need to talk. I was the only one we were sure you wouldn’t shoot on sight, so here I am.” he stated, his smile disappearing from his features. 

“What makes you think I won’t still shoot you?” you hesitantly spoke, your brows furrowed. 

“Because my family wasn’t involved in the bloodshed of yours.” he sighed. 

“I’m not interested in anything you have to say. Please leave. Now.” you spoke harshly. 

“Please just listen to me, noona.” his voice softened as he stepped closer to you. 

“Get out!” you yelled, pointing your Glock at him, moving back as he came closer. 

He sighed but continued to walk towards you until your back met the wall behind you, placing his hand on your weapon, taking it from your hands so easily, your body frozen in terror. 

“We both know you won’t use this.” he whispered, placing the weapon on the table next to you, his gaze never leaving yours, “I’ve missed you so much..” 

You averted your eyes from his black ones, “Please don’t, Jungkook.” 

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, like it was going to burst through your rib cage - he was so close to you, the smell of his cologne finding its way to your nose, his body heat reaching your skin, his muscular build towering over you, making you feel so small, his soft yet intimidating facial features sending memories flashing through your mind of every moment you’ve tasted him, felt him, come undone in his arms. 

He was tearing you apart - your eyes glazing over and stinging as the tears started falling. 

“Hey..” he cooed, “Why are you crying?” his hand coming up towards your cheek, presumably to wipe the tears away. 

Your mind went into overdrive, grabbing at anything and everything to remove yourself from the situation, you couldn’t handle this, your heart ached, your body was shaking, the lump in your throat expanding enough to make you feel like you couldn’t breathe. 

Flickering your eyes up to meet his, you could barely make yourself audible, “Swing Set.” 

Jungkook’s eyes widened, his movements stopped immediately, he had never heard you use your safe word before and he had always hoped he never would.

Leaving him surprised you took the only chance you knew you would have, your hands moving quickly towards his chest, your palms hitting him, leaving him to stumble backwards at your push - grabbing the weapon on the table next to you, instantly positioning it under your chin, watching as his features turned from surprise to fear. 

“If I can’t shoot you, I can shoot myself..” you choked. 

“Noona.. Please..” Jungkook spoke softly, “Don't..” 

“Leave.” you spoke with a stern voice, your eyes boring into his. 

“Just-” he tried, but you instantly interrupted him.

“Now!” you spoke louder, your finger finding the trigger on your weapon, threatening him. 

He sighed deeply, his shoulders slouching as he finally agreed, not saying another word when he walked towards your door, opening it but looking back at you one last time with clear pain in his expression before he disappeared into the darkness again, just as quickly as he had appeared. 

You leaned back against the wall behind you, putting your weapon on the table, realising and trying to comprehend what had just transpired. 

It felt like someone had punched you repeatedly in the chest, barely able to catch your breath, a deep suctioning feeling in your stomach, your body shaking from the adrenaline running through you - you bent over, trying to recover resting your hands on your knees, your body feeling weak. 

This was bad. 

‘How did they find me?’ was all that was running through your head, ‘How was it possible?’ you had changed your appearance, gotten a new name, changed your style. 

Fuck. 

You needed to calm down, you needed someone to be here with you, you felt unsafe. 

You pulled out your phone, opening the messages to the only person you currently trusted, you were still deceiving them, they didn't know your real name or your previous life, but they were the only one you had let in, the only one you had let come close to you. 

21:24 You: Hey. I know it's late, but can you come over? 

21:25 Jae-ho: Sure. Is everything okay? 

21:26 You: Yeah - just a visit from the past that has gotten me a little upset. 

21:26 Jae-ho: I'll be there in 10.

You locked your phone and put it back in your pocket, looking at your pistol on the table, quickly grabbing it, walking towards your bedroom to put it into your bedside table. 

He probably shouldn't see it. 

You sat down by the dining table, waiting patiently for him to arrive, knowing he was probably speeding beyond belief as he always did. 

He was a thrill, a forbidden fruit you hadn't allowed yourself to indulge. You weren't in love with him but you were extremely attracted to him, he was handsome and a "bad boy" but without the danger attached to him. 

He was, a safe place where you could get the excitement you used to with the 7 heads, but without the killing and threats from other organisations. 

You'd been out driving at high speeds, late nights of roaming the town like teenagers, he made you forget everything, even if it was only for a little while. 

Thinking back he had wiggled himself into your life despite you trying to keep him at bay, acting cold towards him, declining his kind gestures and offers and yet he persisted. 

You knew pretty much everything about him, but he knew little about you and you intended to keep it that way - it wasn't like he hadn't asked but when you showed clear discomfort about the questions he asked, he often just pulled away from them, changing the subject, reassuring you that you didn't need to tell him anything, that he just wished for you to be okay and if that meant him not knowing, then so be it. 

Finding common interests you had no problem maintaining a conversation with him for hours on end, it filled you with a sense of relief and comfort, a small remedy for the gaping hole in your heart and soul. 

The rapid knocking on the door bounced you back to reality, your body quickly springing into action as you stood up and practically ran to the door to greet him. 

You opened the door, finding Jae-hoe's emerald green eyes, his black hair lying in separated strands around his face, wet looking, he had probably just showered and planned to go to bed when you texted him - a black oversized t-shirt draped over his large torso, a pair of ripped jeans hugging his legs tightly. 

"Hey F/N." he spoke softly with his deep voice, his eyes studying your red eyes, realising you had been crying he instantly reached his arms out to you, wrapping around you and pulling you close as he stepped into your apartment, closing the door behind him with his foot. 

You buried your face in his chest, a small relief for your soul, but not the ache soothing hug your body were begging for - no one could ever give you that, no one except the 7 heads and you hated that. 

"You okay?" he asked softly, his hand moving up to the top of your head, gently combing through your hair, "It's unlike you to let anyone see you cry, even me." 

"Mhm.." you hummed into him, but you both knew you weren't okay and you were questioning yourself if you were ever going to be. 

"Let's sit down and get you something to drink." he tried to sound cheerful, trying to remind you that things were going to be okay. 

He stepped away from you, his hand cupping your cheek for a moment, his thumb caressing your skin before he stepped past you and into your kitchen, reaching up to grab a glass, your feet automatically following suit behind him. 

As he put the glass under the flowing water it dimmed the wild sound, the only sound apart from your own still somewhat rapid breathing in your entire apartment, your eyes avoiding his figure - you didn't want him to see you like this but you also needed him here. 

'Need.' you scoffed internally, 'I hate needing people.'

Jae-ho handed you the glass, the coldness of it sending spikes through your skin as you lifted it up to your lips, drinking a good amount to avoid a headache that would surely come your way if you didn't. 

You put the glass down on the counter top, sighing deeply, opening your mouth to speak, but you were interrupted by several knocks on the door again - your head turned to the source of the sound, your eyes pinning, a sinking feeling in your stomach setting in.

Did Jungkook come back? 

You looked at Jae-ho quickly, offering a soft smile as reassurance before you walked towards the door.

“Are you expecting anyone else?” Jae-ho questioned.

“No.” you confirmed, trying to sound as calm as possible.

You cursed yourself for putting your Glock in your bedside table and not the table by the door as you always did, if this was an unwanted guest, you were fucked. 

Opening the door, an unfamiliar face came into view - he was bald, dressed in a suit, on the heavy side, black eyes and stubble across his chin and cheeks. 

“Can I help you?” you questioned sweetly. 

“Y/N?” the man spoke clearly with a deep voice.

A shock of cold was sent through your body, your eyes widening at his use of your real name. How? Shit!

“I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name, I’m F/N. I’ve lived here for a year.” you confirmed, your heart racing in your chest, the palms of your hands becoming damp. 

He held up a picture beside your face, his eyes flickering between it and your face, “Then why do you look like her and why was Jungkook here?” he asked with an evil grin. 

You withdrew yourself from the door quickly, slamming it but the man on the other side held it open with his foot, shouting something that was muddled by Jae-ho’s worried yells, several other footsteps approaching at an alarming speed. 

Multiple men broke through the door, Jae-ho running towards you as you fell backwards, but one of the large men wrapped his arms around your waist, dragging you back through the door, Jae-ho desperately trying to get to you when a loud sound rung through the apartment, a white flash in front of your eyes and then his movements stilled, his body going limp as blood started pouring from his forehead and he fell lifeless to the floor, his eyes losing their vibrant colour. 

You screamed at the top of your lungs until no air was left, tears streaming down your cheeks, your vision blurry as you continued to fight against the man holding onto you, your arms thrashing in every direction, your legs kicking in equally frantic motions - you threw your head back, hitting the man holding you resulting in a loud cracking noise. 

“Drug her, god damnit!” he yelled at another man before several came up to you, holding your limbs still as one of them pulled out a needle and pierced the skin of your upper arm.

Your body became weak, your muscles relaxing despite several attempts to use them, your head getting heavy, your eyes closing, your conscious screaming for you to stay alert, but no part of you would listen. 

A hand placed on your shoulder rocking you from side to side violently awoke you from your forced slumber, your body jerking alive as you took in your surroundings with wide eyes - your ass firmly placed on a hard wooden chair, your arms behind your back, zip ties around your wrists.

A warehouse, barely anything around except stacks of boxes and wooden pallets - it looked run down, rusty, the windows high up by the ceiling broken, the doors wide and made of thin metal. 

A large man came to stand in front of you, unlike the others around, he was muscular, tall, well kept, shaven, black hair slicked back with piercing black eyes, his jawline sharp, his suit a dark blue, expensive. 

He eyed you up and down, turning to the lackeys that had brought you here, “Are you sure it’s her?” he questioned them all. 

“Yes, sir.” one of them nodded, his nose bandaged, must’ve been the one you threw your head back into, his nose probably broken, a small smirk on your lips as you looked at him, happy that you had caused some damage, the area around his eyes clearly swollen, “Jungkook was at her apartment and she has the same features as the picture you gave us. Her hair is dyed and she was wearing contacts, but it’s definitely her. 

“Very well.” the muscular man spoke, turning his attention to you, “I’m not going to give you my name, for my own safety, I’m sure you can understand, but for now you can call me Bale.” 

“How about I call you fuckface instead?” you growled at him. 

“Cute.” he smiled, “I wish I had a woman in my life as loyal as you, or at least as loyal as I think you are, but let’s put that to the test, shall we?” 

He leaned forward, his face close to yours, his aftershave tickling your nose, a smell, nay, a stench you didn’t like, “Where are they?” 

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” you shrugged. 

“Okay.” he voiced, clearly not impressed with your lack of answers, “I’m a busy man, I’m sure you can understand that and I really don’t have time for this, either you can tell me where they are or I can leave you with these lovely men and they’ll eventually get the answers anyway.” 

You should be scared, you know you should, but you weren’t, you knew you weren’t going to die in this warehouse, they wouldn’t dare kill you, you were too valuable to them alive, but pain, pain was coming your way for sure. 

“Fuck you.” you smirked, collecting the saliva in your mouth you spat on his suit. 

“Ah well.” he shrugged, turning on his heels to walk away, “She’s all yours boys.”

The 3 of them stood still, waiting until Bale was out of the warehouse and completely out of sight, the sound of a car leaving quickly not soon after the steel door slid shut. 

“I wouldn’t mind a few hours alone with her, before we rough her up.” one of the men spoke, a smirk on his face, his hand going down to rub his member through his slacks. 

A hand from another man quickly pushed against his shoulder, “We’ve got no time for that shit, maybe if you treated your wife better she’d let you fuck her some more.” he laughed. 

The third man joined in, teasing the first, “Maybe it’s because he doesn’t satisfy her enough, so she doesn’t see the point in letting him roll around on her, groaning like a whale?” the two men joined in laughter, the first not particularly enjoying the topic at hand.

You took the time to study their bodies for any obvious marks, tattoos, features that you’d be able to remember, should you ever find them again, something the 7 heads had taught you to do, no matter what was happening around you, look for things, things that will help you, a way out, a feature to remember, a discarded weapon, weaknesses, anything. 

The first man had a small cross on his hand between his index finger and thumb, red in colour, a mole under his right eye. 

The second man had a scar going across his neck, quite visible, old, probably couldn’t heal properly and would remain the same for the rest of his life, in addition he was missing one of his canine teeth, left one  

The third man was missing a pinky on his right hand and had, what looked like, a small moon tattooed on his chest, between his collarbones. 

Their laughter died down, turning their attention to you, your furrowed brows softening as you realised your pain was impending - you kept talking to yourself, just keep remembering what the 7 heads had taught you, you were going to be okay, just keep focused.

You will get out of this alive.

The man with the small cross tattoo on his hand squatted down in front of you, looking up at you with a smirk on his face, “We won’t touch that pretty face of yours.” he then eyed you up and down, “The rest of you however, is free game.” 

‘Don’t show them fear, don’t show them they’ve got the upper hand, even if they do.’ you heard Yoongi’s voice in your head. 

“I’ve probably been fucked harder than what you’re going to do.” you sneered with a smirk. 

“Oooh, you gonna take that kind of back talk from this little girl?” the man with the scar across his neck laughed. 

“No, I’m not.” he growled, standing up, his hand going to the back of your neck, grabbing a lump of your hair, forcing your head back as his other hand tightened into a fist and he punched you in the stomach.

You leaned forward, all of the air in your lungs exhaled, a sharp pain throbbing inside you - you tried to take a breath to get the air back but all you could do was cough. 

“Tell us where they are!” he yelled. 

You didn’t respond, you didn’t let out a single sound - you could feel the anger rise in the 3 men, they wanted the 7 heads, they wanted to please their boss, they wanted blood on their hands. 

‘Cunts.’ you mumbled internally, ‘Not through me.’ 

“There’s only more to come.” the man with the moon between his collarbones snickered, sticking his hand into the pocket of his slacks, pulling out an all black switchblade, pressing the button on the side, the blade appearing in a matter of milliseconds. 

Every muscle in your body tensed as he approached you, a wicked flame in his eyes - he got off on this. His figure overshadowed you, bending down, his blade running smoothly up your thigh, closer and closer to your core, your eyes following it tensely. 

He dug the very tip of it into your flesh, blood trickling slowly out from the pierced skin, “Even an indication of where they are would be good enough.” he whispered, “Be a good girl and tell me.” 

Your eyes snapped from his blade to his eyes, “A good girl?” 

“Yes.” he grinned, “For me.” 

You smiled softly, “You haven’t earned the right to call me that.” you rushed your head forward, your forehead hitting the bridge of his nose, his large body stumbling back, the blade in your skin dragging along your thigh, leaving a large open wound, blood pouring out from it, the sting causing a loud groan to leave you. 

“You stupid whore!” he growled, his leg lifting, the sole of his foot meeting your chest as he kicked you back, your chair falling backwards, your body hitting the cold pavement below with force, your eyes closing on impact, your jaw clenching at the pain. 

He instantly pulled you back up by your shirt, blood running from his nose, his muscles tense with anger, his eyes piercing yours. 

‘If you know they need you alive, make them think you’re insane, that they cannot break you, that you’re already broken.’ Namjoon’s voice rung in your head.

“Someone’s bleeding. Can’t handle a real woman, can you?” you laughed wickedly at him with your whole chest. 

“Bitch is losing it.” the man with the cross tattoo uttered.

They spent hours beating you, cutting you, yelling at you, depriving you of water, the pool of blood below the chair growing by the minute, your clothes soaked, sweat forming on every part of your skin, pain shooting through you from every corner of your limbs.

Repeatedly asking the same questions, you stopped responding, your head hanging low as they continued to torture you - Where are they? Why can’t we find them? What are their weaknesses? Who often goes alone? 

Your mind clocked out. 

‘Remove yourself from the situation, go to your safe place. Imagine yourself somewhere else, somewhere you can’t be hurt, remember that place, somewhere you love.’ Jungkook’s voice whispered, ‘With people you love.’ 

The safe place had always been the 7 heads, you didn’t have a safe place anymore, you had to think of one on the spot, somewhere you felt happy, somewhere you had peace, space - the cliff, the view of the city, the silence, the wind flowing through your hair, playing softly with you, a place you had repeatedly gone for so long, the only place you felt something other than hurt.

One of the men grabbed the hair on the back of your head, pulling it back, forcing you to look up at him, all of them having melted into the same person now, your mind too tired to distinguish them, your eyes giving out, your body feeling weak from the loss of blood. 

“Why are you still protecting them?!” he sneered. 

A question you hadn’t asked yourself, a question you were scared of, a question you didn’t want to answer. Why were you protecting them? Why didn’t you give them up? Let them fight their own battles?

‘Don’t think it.’ you sobbed to yourself, ‘Don’t say it.’ 

Your eyes grew blurry, a faint and familiar sting in the corners, a twist of your heart as he let go of your hair and your head fell forwards again, limp like the rest of your body. 

‘Conserve your energy.’ Hoseok’s smile beamed in your thoughts, ‘Don’t waste it on things that are not essential, let it accumulate to repair your body, for your escape.’

“It’s nearly morning.” one of the men sighed, “Let’s go home, recover and continue tomorrow.” 

Another confirmed, “Let one of the newbies watch her for tonight.” 

Your mind blackened and awoke repeatedly - between consciousness the 3 men had disappeared and a younger man had appeared, sitting by the wall not far from you, his own eyes seeming heavy, maybe even heavier than yours. 

‘Be aware of your surroundings but don’t let them know that you are.’ Jin hummed to you, ‘Use it to your advantage.’ 

The young man wasn’t able to see your eyes, your hair acting as a shield in front of them, though you should see him through the strands, noticing how he was closing his eyes for longer and longer periods at a time. 

Your eyes flickered over to the wall opposite you, a low and broken window - a possible way out, low enough for you to get out, wooden pallets in front of it, a shield from the man's view. You continued to look around, if there was no broken glass by that window, you needed a back up, something sharp to help you with the zip ties around your wrists, you needed your arms free. 

Searching the warehouse with as little movement as possible, you saw no apparent glass for you to use, your heart frantically beating in your chest the more you looked. 

Nothing. Shit. 

You looked over at the young man, his eyes now fully shut, his breathing had slowed down, his body relaxed. 

Now's your chance. 

‘Assess your situation, noona!’ Taehyung growled, ‘Do you need to be quiet or do you need to be loud? Can you be fast or do you need to be slow?’

Quiet. Slow. Take it easy. Don’t rush it. 

You tensed your legs, lifting yourself from the chair, careful not to move it, careful not to make a single noise, controlling your breathing as much as was humanly possible, the pain protruding from your every wound and bruise only increasing the difficulty. 

Positioning the soles of your feet carefully, treading as if on glass, you could barely hear yourself sneak, the closer you got to the window, the more desperate you grew. 

‘Please, please, please.’ you pleaded whatever force in the world that could possibly help you. 

The wooden pallets were within reach, just a little further and you could turn the corner of them - you stopped dead in your tracks, looking back for a single second to ensure you were still undetected. 

Sure enough, the young man was still sleeping.

You turned the corner of the pallets, a relief rushing through you as glass came into view - there wasn’t much room between the wall and the pallets, barely enough for you to walk over the glass and bend down to grab a piece. 

The glass in the palm of your hand nearly cut through your skin as you held it tight, worried you were going to drop it, rubbing it against the plastic of your ties, the adrenaline in your veins picking up speed, the throb of your heart felt in your open wounds. 

A small snap was heard as the ties finally broke, a shock sent through you because of it, worried the sound might’ve caused the man to stir and awaken you took no chances, grabbing a hold of the edge of the window, ignoring the small triangular pieces of glass still situated on it digging into your fingers as you pulled yourself up, your leg swinging up on the ledge too to support you, finally falling through it and into the open space beside the warehouse. 

‘Find us.’ Jimin’s voice lulled you, ‘We will help you, protect you, no matter what.’

You barely managed to see anything around you and figure out where you were before you heard a loud voice behind you. 

“Hey!” a young voice called.

No time, run! 

Your gained traction the dirt, quickly obtaining speed you pointed yourself towards anything that had lights, anything that looked like part of the city, you didn’t have time to turn around and see if the other way was better, you just needed to get away from this warehouse and whoever was in it or near it. 

Through grass, trees, the outskirts of the city, weaving in and out between small houses, until you finally reached a part that you recognised. You stopped for a moment, catching your breath, nothing more than pants were extracted from you, your lungs burning, your mouth prickly and dry. 

Come on. Keep going. Not far. 

As much as you didn’t want to, you knew you had to go where your feet hadn’t been in a year, for now, it was a place you needed to go, but the closer you got to the building, the angrier you got, the more hurt coursed through you, the more you remembered.

Jae-ho. Your family. The games. The deception. The lies!

Reaching the stairs leading to the building, the guard noticed you, the same guard that had always been there, you didn’t even glance at him, his figure clearly unsure whether he should stop you or let you through, ultimately deciding against preventing you from entering, clearly the 7 heads hadn’t revoked your permission to come into the building. 

Pressing the button of the elevator like it was second nature, waiting for it to arrive, your thoughts running rampage in your head - the elevator finally coming down, letting you in as if nothing had ever changed, taking you to the top floor, your eyes stinging at the overwhelming amount of emotions you were feeling, everything crashing down on you all at once. 

You came here for protection, but your intentions had changed.

Storming through the hallway, through the door and into the office, your footsteps loudly echoing through the silent space around you. Turning the corner, your eyes met those of the 6 heads, your head twisting to your right to find Jungkook’s, his figure standing tall in surprise at your dishevelled look, his mouth gaping. 

Your eyes burned with rage and tears as you stepped close to him, raising your hand immediately, swinging it towards him, the skin of it meeting his cheek in a slap that rung loudly through the office - Jimin instantly moving close to you, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you away from Jungkook. 

“They found me because of you!” you screamed at the top of your lungs, your body burning with hate, Jimin struggling to keep you under control, your every muscle fighting against him, “I was tortured because of you!” 

Jungkook’s head hung low, his hand placed on the cheek you had slapped, his eyes staring at the floor. 

“My friend was murdered, because of you!” you continued yelling, your heart feeling like it was going to give out at any second, your eyes peering at the rest of the heads, standing puzzled around you, “Was my family not enough for you?!”

Taehyung quickly moved to Jungkook to make sure he was okay while Namjoon moved to you, his eyes inspecting your body, the bruises, the cuts, your ruined clothing, Jimin’s arms around your torso softening slightly as you stopped fighting against him. 

“What did you tell them?” Yoongi questioned. 

You didn’t even look in his direction, he didn’t deserve your attention, a loud scoff leaving you at his incredibly stupid question, “Does it fucking look like I told them anything?” you growled.

“Hoseok-hyung, could you grab the first aid kit? We need to clean her wounds and she needs stitches too.” Namjoon spoke as he sat down on his knees in front of you, inspecting the multiple deep cuts on your legs. 

“There’s no need, I’ll do it myself when I get to a hotel.” you spoke as you tried to get out of Jimin’s hold to leave, but he wasn’t letting go of you. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N, but we can’t let you leave again, especially not if someone is trying to use you to get to us.” Jin stepped forward, his voice soft as if trying to soothe you into not feeling trapped in their world again. 

“W-what?” you hesitated, not really believing they were actually going to keep you here against your will, turning your head to look at Jin, wanting him to confirm his words to you again. 

“I’m sorry..” he spoke again, tilting his head to the side, his features turning gentle and apologetic. 

“No, you can’t do this..” you scoffed, half a smile on your features, sincerely hoping he was joking, but his averting gaze spoke loud and clear to you, your body fighting against Jimin’s hold again, leaning forward, thrashing against him, “No! You can’t do this!” you yelled, Namjoon quickly moving away from you to avoid your movements. 

“Let me go!” you screamed, desperately pushing your arms away from your body and against Jimin’s, hoping he wouldn’t be able to keep his grip on you, lifting your legs off the ground, thrashing them around to see if he would accidentally let go.

Nothing worked - his grip on you never loosening.

You stood still, your head hanging low, your hair covering your face as you realised you weren’t going to get out of his hold by fighting against him, you had to be smarter than that, smarter than him because he was stronger than you. 

Planting your feet firmly on the ground you let out a small breath, pushing yourself to the side and towards the wall, turning so Jimin’s back hit the wall and his arms finally released you, a loud groan leaving him behind you in pain, your toes digging into the soles of your shoes as you gained traction on the floor and ran out into the hallway, your shoulder hitting the emergency stairway door with a loud thud, a pair of loud running steps behind you following you closely. 

You kept your eyes facing straight ahead, focusing on the stairs below you, focusing on jumping down the stairs and not falling, shocks repeatedly sent through your feet as they met the hard pavement. 

“Y/N!” Hoseok yelled behind you. 

Your heart pounded in your chest, small sweat beads forming on your temples and soaking into your hair as you tried as fast as you could to get to the bottom of the building and out of their reach - the adrenaline in your body expanding your veins to allow your blood to pump faster, almost hurting you, the fear piled in your stomach creating what felt like a black hole sucking the life from you. 

Turning corner after corner in the stairwell you started seeing Hoseok in the peripheral of your eye as you turned, knowing he was gaining on you, he was faster than you. 

The stinging pain in your throat was increasing every second, your lungs hurting trying to keep up with the pace you were holding, the tips of your fingers tingling. 

Jumping the last few steps, you nearly fell, your shoulder hitting the exit door with extreme force, face twisted in pain your eyes meeting the opening of the basement car park, your freedom, your legs never stopping their movements. 

That’s when you felt it, something in your hair tugging you back lightly before an arm wrapped around your waist as well and you were stopped dead in your tracks. 

“No!” you screamed, the sound echoing through the empty lot. 

Hoseok’s hand let go of your hair and instead wrapped around your chest, capturing your arms, turning you around, pushing you against the wall next to the exit door. 

“Let me go!” you screamed.

“I will! Just fucking listen to me!” he yelled back, his grip on you tightening. 

You put your forehead against the hard surface of the wall, relaxing your body in his hold, your rapid and shallow pants filling the air along with his. 

“We didn’t know, okay? We didn’t know..” he panted into the back of your neck, “We didn’t know about our fathers and your family until a year before you left.. Our fathers left us in charge of the organisation so everything they would want done after leaving, had to go through us.”

“Why should I believe you?” you spoke softly.

“Just listen!” he growled, your body flinching at his change of voice, listening as he continued, “They came in one late night, you were with Jungkook at his house, he never knew anything about this until the night we asked you to go to dinner with Won-Shik, his family was never involved in this.” 

Hoseok buried his face in your neck, his voice faint and broken, “They ordered a hit on you.” 

You felt your heart drop, your eyes widening at his statement, “W-what?” 

“They dropped a file on Jin’s desk, watching as he opened it, saw your pictures and a short description of you, where you would be and how they wanted it done. He stood up and asked what it was about, they refused to tell us to begin with, but eventually they did.” he paused with a sigh, “They told us everything. They told us that you were the only one left and they wanted it finished so it could never come back to them.” 

“You didn’t do it..” you whispered, turning your head slightly to the side, your cheek meeting the softness of his hair. 

“We explained who you are, how loyal you were to us, how you had been with us for years before they even found out you were still alive, that you had helped us so many times, been an asset to the organisation.” his voice broke as he whispered, “How much we love you.” 

He lifted his head, you could see his eyes were glazed over and red, “You don’t need us, Y/N. We need you.” Hoseok’s grip on you loosened, his arms slowly moving from you to hang against his own sides, letting you go. 

You turned around, looking at him, your eyes flickering between his, searching for any indication that he was lying, almost begging that he was lying to you, but you couldn’t find anything - he hung his head, closing his eyes, letting his tears drop as you stepped past him and walked away. 

Your heart writhed in your chest as the distance between you and Hoseok, ultimately all of the men, grew wider, your eyes stinging, your throat expanding, barely able to breathe despite reaching the road outside, the cold air of the night hitting your skin ruthlessly.

‘No time to break down, no time to cry, no time to think, not now.’ you thought to yourself as your legs picked up the pace and you found yourself walking towards the hotels around the industrial estate, there was a unit close to there where Ae-Cha kept her emergency pack, it will have all the things you need, a new identity, some money, clothes and keys to a car not far away. 

There are very few hotels around the city that does not ask for your name or proof of identity, specifically because of the large crime organisations around, whether it be because they want to protect people trying to get away or because they want to protect themselves matters little to you, one of them will be your safe space tonight. 

Reaching the small unit, you located the key at the back of it, under a small broken piece of the frame - quickly opening the door you begged the bag was still there and she hadn’t used it.

It was.

Quickly grabbing it, you left the door open and they key in it, not caring if anyone noticed, when she would eventually come to check up on it she would know it was gone and she would replace it. 

The hotel you had chosen wasn’t far from where the unit was, it was medium sized, quite nice and, despite being a get away for a lot of criminals that just wanted a quiet life, had a lot of reviews and stars on their website, presumably from tourists that didn’t know any better. 

Hidden away between restaurants the only give away that it was the place you were looking for was the large blood red flower above the entrance, with a small sign beside the door reading: 꽃 (kkoch). It gave no indication of how large the hotel actually was as it masked itself into the buildings. 

You stepped through the door, the bag heavy on your shoulder as you reached the reception, an older man greeting you with a soft smile, his eyes looking like they had seen heaven and hell, his grey hair lying in small curls on the top of his head.

“1 bedroom, please, for an unknown amount of time.” you asked kindly. 

His eyes gazed down your body, taking in your dishevelled clothes, the cuts and bruises on your legs - but he didn’t question it, he simply nodded as he turned and reached for a key, handing it to you. 

You reached into the bag, pulling out a bundle of cash, wanting to pay for the first night up front, which was usually what you needed to do when you didn’t give your name, but the man waved his hand, stopping you.

“Please, just take care of yourself.” he spoke softly, you bowed to him and took the key before you walked through the building, towards your room for the night. 

As you reached the door, you thanked whatever force had made sure there were no people in the hallways while you walked to your room - putting the key into the hole you walked through it quickly, closing it behind you, resting your back against it as you dropped the bag next to you and slid onto the floor. 

Your thoughts caught up with you and you were finally in a place where you could process everything, a somewhat safe place that allowed you to think. 

Though all you achieved was a heart wrenching in your chest and teary eyes - you almost wish Hoseok hadn't told you anything, it made everything feel worse. 

If he was telling the truth that is, but what did he have to gain from lying to you? He had already lost you and was willing to let you go as long as you listened to him, he could've taken you back inside, protected him, you and the other heads, but he didn't. 

Why? 

You sobbed silently, your eyes piercing the ceiling above you, the tears flowing freely down your cheeks. You knew why you had protected them, you knew why you went to see them, you knew exactly why you were aching, even before all of this had happened. 

You still loved them. 

Despite all of it, despite what had happened, you were so utterly lost without them, Hoseok’s words only sent you further into the darkness you had entered when you left them a year ago. 

Rubbing your face free of tears, you took a deep breath, ‘Get up, you bitch.’ you growled at yourself, ‘Take a shower, you stink, clean your wounds before they get infected.’ 

Your inside voice wasn’t always as harsh, but time hadn’t been nice to you. 

Standing up, you discarded your clothes, the dried blood ripping your skin, your face wincing in pain for every bit you had to rip - dropping them in the bin by the mini fridge you walked towards the bathroom, turning on the shower, looking at yourself in the mirror.

Your eyes were swollen and puffy, your cheeks equally so, your hair bunched up and in knots, ‘A mess.’ you sighed, ‘But a living one.’ 

The mirror slowly started fogging up, so you turned and stepped into the shower, not pulling the curtain to cover yourself, you wanted to be able to see the door, not that you thought anyone would enter, but, for good reason, you were on edge. 

Hot water ran over your broken body, removing the outer layer of today's past, but it wasn’t a day you were going to forget for a long time, no, you’d probably remember it until the day you died. 

Looking at the small complementary shampoo bottle in the shower, you found a little fun in something so seemingly dull, pondering how angry people with really long hair got every time they saw these tiny things as they stepped into the shower? 

You picked it up, squeezing a good amount in your hand, ruffling it through your hair, quickly washing your body before you washed it out and got out of the shower. 

As much as you wanted to stay in the warm stream of water, you were much too tired - grabbing the towel hanging on the wall, drying yourself off, walking back into the room to rummage through the bag you had stolen to see what clothing was available. 

A black t-shirt and a pair of black underwear, that would do you for the night - not like you had to look good for anyone, you just had to recharge.

Grabbing a small first aid kit in the bag, you bandaged your larger cuts, putting plasters on the smaller ones, you didn’t want to bleed on the nice old man’s sheets - none of them really needed stitches, or at least you just didn’t care enough to endure more pain today, despite a needle and string readily available in the kit.

You stepped towards the bed, grabbing the duvet, throwing it back, quickly plopping yourself onto the mattress of the single bed, it was a little hard, but your body did not care, not tonight. 

Trying to fight the thoughts, you closed your eyes, begging for your mind to let your soul rest - no more aching, please. 

The thick duvet draped around your body, kept you warm in what seemed like an all too cold room, seeming to make you feel more safe and at peace. 

You couldn’t tell if it was your mind playing tricks on you or not, whether you had fallen so close to the edge of your sleep and dreams were starting to creep on you or if there was actually a clicking noise coming from the door. 

Shaking your head, you woke yourself a bit, peeking your ear in the direction of your door, trying to tell if the noise continued or if you had shaken it away along with your much needed sleep. 

It continued.

You sat up just as the door opened and Taehyung’s figure appeared - his eyes instantly piercing yours as you threw the duvet away from your body, quickly getting off the bed, moving to the window on the other side of the room, far away from the man that had just appeared, a man you used to run towards, not away from. 

Taehyung calmly entered the room and closed the door behind him, turning his figure towards you, his features returning from piercing to the same loving ones he used to have whenever he looked at you - it hurt you to see. 

"How did you find me?" you questioned, "I didn't even give a name!" 

"There's few hotels in this city that allows you to do that, so it really wasn't that hard, noona. I used my ''persuasive" skills to ask at the reception."

You knew what that meant - the poor old man had a gun stuck to his head and had to choose between you and him, he probably knew who Taehyung was and knew he wouldn't hesitate to kill him and search every room for you. 

Taehyung moved into the room and closer to you, your body pressing against the wall behind you, worried about what was to come. 

"You've left poor Jungkookah in quite a state." he said sternly, his feature displaying clear disapproval, "You know, after you slapped him and all."

"Taehyung.." you spoke softly, trying to plead with him. 

He stepped close to you, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his body. 

"That's not going to work, beautiful, not this time." he said with a slight smirk, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, "I need you to come back with me."

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes, softly shaking your head no. 

"Tsk. I'm not asking. I'm telling you." he spoke with a harsher voice, "You can come with me willingly or I can take you with me."

"I'm not going to say anything to anyone, I promise. I've already proven that.." you tried to bargain. 

"That's not why I'm here. I'm only here because of Jungkookah and what you did." he leaned his face in closer to you, his body overshadowing you're, you had no way of escaping him, your heart running a marathon in your chest. 

"I would do anything to protect my brothers." he whispered, "That includes being less than nice to you, noona."

He was so threatening and yet, not at all, his features were kind and loving but his words spat venom against your skin. 

You knew you had to get away from him, you couldn't allow him to take you back, you knew that if he did they'd keep you in a place no one could find you until they were sure the threat against them was neutralised, no matter how long that took. 

"What's it gonna be?" his voice sliced through your thoughts of your impending lack of freedom. 

You slapped his hand away from your cheek, trying to run past him but only managed to take a few steps before his arms swung around your waist and he pushed you forward onto the bed, trying to control you, his body lying heavily on top of yours. 

"Wrong fucking move, Y/N." he growled as you felt a sharp prick in your thigh, your eyes feeling heavier and heavier until everything went dark. 

Your eyes flickered open, sensitive to the bright light above you, your head throbbed like mad, your body feeling heavy - the sudden realisation of where you were setting in as you remembered Taehyung in your hotel room. 

You sat up quickly and looked around, you were alone, nothing but the bed you were in, an open door to the bathroom, a TV and a desk with a laptop, though there was a bottle of water next to it with what looked like a piece of paper. 

Pushing the duvet covering your body to the side, you stood up but nearly fell over as your legs shook beneath you, quickly holding onto the bed next to you for support, the blood rushing to your head certainly didn't help your aching brain. 

Taking great care you walked over to the desk, following the wall with one hand on it for support, grabbing onto the edge of the desk as soon as it was within reach. 

"Noona, 

I'm sorry - I did what I had to do, I hope you can forgive me. 

Please drink some water, it will help with the headache. 

There are some painkillers behind the mirror in the bathroom. 

See you soon, 

Taehyungie~."

You groaned, slamming your hands down on the table - damn you, Taehyung, damn you and your protective behaviour. 

Grabbing the bottle of water you opened it and drank a little, the cold water sending shivers down your throat and through your body - you took it with you as you walked into the bathroom, opening the mirror cabinet, grabbing the painkillers, the contents rattling as you angrily opened it and took 2, quickly throwing them in your mouth to down them with more water. 

Fuck it - at least you knew you were safe here, even if you didn't want to be here, they still provided you with all the stuff you'd need if you were at home, you knew you weren't going anywhere any time soon so you might as well make yourself comfortable. 

You looked at yourself in the mirror, your ruined figure and tired eyes making you grimace at yourself. 

Sighing deeply you turned around, walking back into the room, plopping yourself down on the bed, grabbing the remote, turning on the TV to find something mindless to watch. 

Flickering through the channels you didn't find anything that piqued your interest, the sound of a key in the door turning your attention toward it as it opened and Jimin appeared, a large gym bag over his shoulder and a white case in his hand. 

He met your curious eyes, his features not changing from their harsh look, no smile, no worry, nothing, just a blank canvas. A small white beanie on his head accompanied by a white t-shirt that sat snugly around his torso and a pair of jeans with rips down his thighs and on his knees. 

You couldn’t help how attracted you were to the man as he dropped the gym bag and closed the door, walking over to you with the white case, the casual version of Jimin always took you off guard, seeing him in everyday clothes rather than a suit was always something that got to you. 

He squatted down in front of you, inspecting the cuts and bruises on your legs as they hung on the edge of the bed, the blank expression on his face finally changing to what resembled anger and hurt - his hand reached out to touch your leg, the warm palm of it causing goosebumps to rise on your skin, his thumb grazing over one of your bruises. 

A sigh left him before he opened the white case next to him, a full first aid kit appearing - a needle, stitching thread, antiseptic creme, bandages, large absorbent pads. 

Turning his head up to face you, he asked gently, “Can I take care of your wounds, please?” 

You nodded softly in return. 

Removing the bandages and plasters you had put on, he dropped some alcohol onto a cloth starting with your biggest cut, running across your thigh - as soon as the cloth hit you the painful sting shot through your body, a hiss leaving you as your hands grabbed fistfuls of the sheet below you, your jaw clenching.

When he felt it was clean enough he opened a tube of numbing creme, dabbing it gently around the skin before he reached into the case and grabbed a needle along with some thread. 

While the creme was setting in he tried to get the thread through the needle but his hands were shaking so much he had trouble doing so - you watched as he struggled until he finally let out a sigh of annoyance. 

You reached out, putting your hands on his, watching as he looked up at you, you took the needle and thread from his hands, offering a small smile while trying to get the thread through the small hole yourself. 

Whether it be because you were still drugged up or just not completely in the moment, you seemed a lot calmer than him, easily getting it through, tying a small knot on it and giving it back to him. 

“Thank you, noona.” he whispered, both his hands returning to your thigh to stitch you up, his face close enough to your skin for you to feel his breath, “Tell me if it hurts.” 

“It’s okay, Jiminah.” you hesitated, “I’ll bite through it.” 

“That’s my girl.” he giggled, his eyes instantly going up to meet yours, his face turning surprised at what he had said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-” 

You shook your head, “Don’t be sorry.” 

He returned to the mission at hand, to stitch you up nicely, avoiding as much scarring as possible - clear focus on his face as he stuck the needle through your skin the first time, not hearing or seeing any discomfort he continued. 

It was like you hadn’t ever left, you fell back into the same old habits so easily and comfortably, so content in his presence - you know you should be angry, you were moments ago, you know you should hate him, all of them, but it was just so damn hard, you made excuses for them but they seemed so valid to you. 

Were you in a situation where you could no longer tell what was right and what was wrong? Were you so blinded by the love, the hurt, the longing for them that you simply didn’t care anymore? They were all that you had known for so long, the ones that had taken care of you for so many years, protected you, killed for you, given you everything you ever asked for, no questions. 

Would you have done the same as them? 

You wanted answers for so long and now that you had them, you didn’t know what to do with them. It would have been easier if they had just said that it was them, that they had organised the whole thing, that they were in on it, but they weren’t - they even went against the ones that did to protect you, their own parents. 

Did you hate them? Could you hate them? 

Yoongi once asked you in the late hours you where you were lying with him under the stars, having pulled a mattress outside at your request, you were half way asleep on his chest, barely paying attention to his words as his mind went into overdrive and he realised more and more how much he loved you. 

’Would you take a bullet for us? Would you give your life for us?’

In their line of work it may very well come to that some day. They all know the other would lay down their life to save another - that’s how they measure love, the need and want to protect someone so much that you would give up everything that you are to ensure that they continue to be. Your survival instinct is no longer about keeping yourself alive, it is about keeping them alive. 

The answer back then was a definite yes - is it still? 

“I’m done, noona. How does it feel?” Jimin’s small and hesitant voice sliced through your hazed mind, blinking your eyes a few times to regain the moisture in them you looked down at your legs, fully bandaged and stitched. 

“Perfect.” you giggled lightly. 

“Good.” he smiled, “Do you have any other cuts or anything?” 

You shook your head, no. 

He raised a brow at you, his hand moving onto your stomach, a groan of pain instantly leaving you - he looked up at you, the pain lingering even though his hand had moved, small gasps leaving you as you tried to calm down, a dagger like throb settling in your middle section. 

Jimin pulled out his phone, quickly dialling a number and putting it to his ear, you heard very few rings before someone answered on the other end, “Hyung, come down here, please.” his voice sounding panicked, he instantly hung up after and his attention returned to you.

“Lie down, please, noona.” he asked.

“I’m fine, Jiminah, really.” you panted, but you didn’t really sell it to him. 

“Please, just lie down for me.” he requested again, his hands pushing gently on your shoulders and you obliged. 

He moved his knee onto the bed next to your hip and steadied himself, hovering above you, his hand moving under your shirt, lifting it up to have a look at the damage underneath it. 

“Fucking..” he growled before he stopped himself, his hand applying pressure in certain places on your stomach, your muscles tensing underneath it because of the pain. 

“Jiminah!” you cried out. 

“I know, noona, I know. I'm sorry, I just need to make sure everything is okay.” he said soothingly. 

The door burst open and Namjoon's panicked figure came into view. 

“What happened? What's wrong?” he asked quickly. 

“Hyung, come look at this.” Jimin urged him.

He walked quickly over to the side of the bed, his eyes wide as he saw the bruise on your stomach almost covering your entire middle section. 

“Shit..” he whispered. 

“I don't think she needs to go to a hospital, but you're better at telling than I am.” Jimin spoke as he moved off the bed and away from you, letting Namjoon get closer. 

Namjoon bent over you, his hand replacing Jimin's as he pressed down on several places on your stomach, just as Jimin's had, your face contorted in pain, desperately trying not to scream out in agony - his other hand moved to hold onto yours, your fingers immediately intertwining with his while your eyes were screwed shut and your jaw tight. 

“Please..” you sobbed, wanting him to stop. 

He sighed, his hand moving from your stomach though still holding your hand, “She'll be okay.” Jimin finally released his breath, relieved at Namjoon's verdict. 

Gathering the white case, throwing out the bandages and plasters he had taken off you, he looked down at you, his hand softly touching your arm, “There's clothes in the bag that I brought. It's what you had at our houses.” 

“Mmhm..” you hummed softly, “Thank you.” the throbbing pain from your bruise not subsiding as quickly as you wanted it to. 

His head turned to Namjoon, “I'll see you upstairs, hyung.” Namjoon nodded in response and you heard Jimin's footsteps fade as well as the door opening and closing, Namjoon's hand not leaving yours, your eyes still closed. 

He let go of your hand gently causing you to grumble in response as you opened your eyes and looked up at him. He didn’t return your gaze as he bent over, his hands softly grabbing your legs, placing them back up on the bed so you could lie on it properly, grabbing a small cover nearby to drape over your body, sitting down on the edge of the bed, staying with you, his hand finding yours again. 

You turned onto your side, moving close to him, your body moulding in a curve around his as you pressed the back of his hand against your forehead, “It didn’t hurt this bad before..” 

“The bruises probably took effect when you were knocked out and you didn’t really notice until we made you aware of them.” he spoke softly, soothingly, his hand moving your hair behind your ear, “Do you remember anything about the men that took you?”

“I remember everything.” you said with a blank stare into the nothingness ahead. 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, opening the notes on it, “Can you tell me?”

“There were 3 men that were responsible for my injuries, but I also saw what I think was their boss. Bale. He referred to himself as Bale, it wasn’t his real name, he made a note of that.” you sighed and closed your eyes, “He was large, muscular, well kept unlike the others, black hair and black eyes, he didn’t have anything that would make him stand out like the others, but I would recognise him in an instant.”

“Okay.” Namjoon whispered.

“One of the three..” you choked, remembering the pain they inflicted on you, “He had a small mole under his right eye and a tattoo of a cross between his index finger and thumb, it was red.” 

He continued tapping on his phone, writing everything down that you had to tell him, hoping to find these men, not only for the heads sake, but for the sake of keeping you safe and maybe a little bit of revenge. 

“Another one had a scar across his neck and was missing his left canine tooth.” you spoke with a small voice.

Namjoon typed the last bits out, then his eyes turned to you, as you had stopped talking, noticing small tears collecting by the corners of your eyes, his chest clenching at what you had to say about the last one, “Hey..” he cooed, “You’re safe, it’s okay..” 

You sighed as you opened your eyes, your brows furrowed with anger, “The last one was the worst one..” you gritted your teeth, “He got off on hurting me, the sick fuck. He had a small moon tattooed between his collarbones, in the indent by his throat and he was missing his right pinky.” 

He squeezed your hand in anger without realising at your words, a certain burning fire in his eyes - you wiped the tears from your eyes, “That’s all of them.” you left out the young man that had been watching over you, he was probably in enough trouble, possibly even dead for letting you escape. 

“Thank you, Y/N.” he sighed with a clenched jaw, “We’ll find them, don’t worry.”

You closed your eyes, feeling a certain relief at his words, “I know you will, opp-..” you stopped yourself before you let the word slip, returning to your old habits so easily, but Namjoon didn’t say anything, he let you take your time. 

A low growl emitted from your stomach, both your attention as well as Namjoon’s turning to it. 

“When was the last time you ate?” he questioned. 

“I don’t .. I don’t remember..” you whispered, feeling the ferocity of your hunger setting in. 

He saved the notes on his phone before he put his phone to his ear, looking at you with a soft smile, a few rings passing before it was picked up, “Hyung, could you bring some food down? Y/N’s hungry.” 

You could hear Jin’s ecstatic voice on the other end, “What does she want? I’ll make anything, my expert cooking with satisfy her nicely!” 

You couldn’t help the breathy laugh you let out at hearing him so happy, looking up at Namjoon finding his eyes questioning you. 

“Fried veggies with noodles?” you beamed.

“The usual, please, hyung.” he smiled before he hung up the phone, letting Jin get on with his cooking.  

Namjoon was just as casual as Jimin today, wearing a pair of jeans and a large navy coloured t-shirt, his tanned skin showing on his arms and face, as if he had been outside working for a long time. 

A small knock sent a shock through your body and you immediately flinched, groaning in pain at the muscles flexing under your bruises, Namjoon’s hand instantly cupping your cheek to reassure you, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” his attention turning to the door, “Yes?” 

The door opened and Yoongi’s face appeared beside it. 

“Hyung, you scared her.” he sighed. 

“Sorry, I thought it would’ve been better to knock than to just come in.” he spoke with a pout. 

“It’s okay.. I’m just a little jumpy.” you added, relaxing your body again. 

“Understandable.” Yoongi confessed, entering the room, closing the door behind him, coming over to sit on the chair by the desk.

Namjoon got up from the bed, his hand still in yours, looking down at you, “I’ve got to get this information up to Hoseok-hyung to see if we can find them.” he squeezed your hand one last time before he let go, offering a small bow to Yoongi as he walked out the door. 

You sighed, burying your face in the pillow below you, wishing your body would stop aching. 

“I’m sorry.” Yoongi spoke with a quiet voice. 

Turning your head, you looked at him, his hoodie draped over his torso, he was almost swimming in it, his black jeans tight around his legs, his expression fiery and solemn. 

“What for?” you questioned.

“This. This happening to you.” his fists clenched as he leaned forward and let out a small huff, “Jiminah told me how bad it is.” 

Yoongi had a hard time hiding his anger when it came to you, he wanted to protect you at all costs and when he failed, he wasn’t kind to himself about it. 

“Don’t be sorry. I knew the risks when I got involved. I knew what could happen, you trained me for it.” you hummed, keeping your eyes fixated on him. 

“I know, but I had always hoped it wouldn’t.” he tensed, “But you did well, really well.” 

“I had good teachers.” you smirked. 

He couldn’t help but smile at your comment - standing up and coming closer to the bed, sitting down on the floor next to it, just tall enough to still see your face. 

“I’ll make sure they regret it.” he growled, “I’ll make sure their families regret it.” 

There it was - the click - the thing you had been searching for. 

What their fathers did to you, to your family, it was all business, they didn’t see you as humans, they saw you as a liability, as work. They didn’t think about what it would do to any survivors or friends, they didn’t think that far - what you had seen the heads do for years, their work, even things you had been apart of, what happened when you were younger was exactly the same as this. 

You were no better. 

“No, leave the families, please.” you spoke quickly with a panicked voice, Yoongi’s head turning to look at you with a questioning brow, “Please.” you begged. 

“Okay.” he nodded softly, “Just them.” 

“Thank you.” you whispered, your eyes darting from one end of the room to the other as your brain worked through what you had just realised. 

Did you really go this many years without even giving it a second thought? Could you have even changed anything? You had become so accustomed to the thought of the things that they did on a daily basis, so desensitised to it that you never thought what they did, was what happened to you. 

You could feel your heart race in your chest. 

Yoongi’s hand took yours, his thumb softly caressing it, “Are you okay? What’s on your mind? You look bothered.” 

Smiling softly you tried to avoid letting him in, not yet, not this, “Yeah, I’m fine, just tired, hungry and in pain.” 

“Jin-hyung should be down soon with your food.” he smiled, “Do you want me to go get you some more painkillers?” 

You shook your head no, “Not until I’ve eaten a little, makes them work better I feel.” 

He simply nodded at your answer, sitting in silence with you, enjoying the fact that you were actually here, with him, even under these circumstances. 

You always enjoyed Yoongi’s company, that much hadn’t changed, to be honest, you don’t know if anything had changed, Hoseok’s words from before echoed through your head, the anger and hatred you felt a year ago had subsided progressively and you weren’t sure where you were even going to go from here or when you were going to find out. 

One day at a time, for now. 

The handle of the door wobbled and then stopped, then wobbled again and stopped, Jin’s growling on the other side causing a small laugh to extract from your lungs, Yoongi getting up from his spot next to you to open the door and let him in. 

Jin came into view with a large tray of food and several drinks, his blinding smile and clear pride at his work showing - your nose flaring at the aroma of the food flowing towards you, your stomach growling again. 

He walked over to you and you sat up with a pained groan, his features falting for a moment because of his worry as he put the tray down in front of you, your eyes feasting on the meal he had prepared for you. 

Yoongi disappeared into the bathroom to get the painkillers you had requested, coming back out quickly to put them on the tray for you, giving you and Jin a small smile as he decided to leave you alone with Jin for a little, walking through the door without another word.

Jin pulled the chair from the desk over to you and sat down, awaiting your verdict of his food with excitement. 

“I really hope you like it, Jagi-..” he stopped mid word, “Y/N.” he corrected himself. 

“I’m sure I will.” you smiled, “I always do!” 

You picked up the chopsticks, digging them into the food, lifting them to your lips and embracing the food between them, a small moan like sound leaving you as you closed your eyes and chewed through the substance. 

“Good?” he smiled. 

“Better than ever.” you chuckled, “I’ve missed your cooking.” 

He showed a tiny bit of shyness at your words, letting out a small laugh, the signature sound warming your chest. You continued to stuff your face with his delicious mixture of foods, the hungry pain in your stomach finally going away. 

Pulling out his phone he started tapping away at it, wanting to stay in your company, but letting you enjoy the food he had made - his pink sweater was just as baggy as it always was, his grey jeans sitting tight in some places around his legs, his hair a little messy, but still placed in a way that made him look good. 

Damn all of them, always looking so good, even when they didn’t try. 

It didn’t take you long to finish your food as you basically wolfed it down, grabbing the painkillers Yoongi had left for you and throwing them into your mouth, downing them with a big gulp of water, feeling like your stomach was almost going to burst at how full you were. 

Jin’s eyes turned to you as he heard your movements stop, “Feel good?” 

You smiled widely with closed eyes, a content hum leaving you as you thought you were close to a food coma. 

“I’ve got something for you.” he cleared his throat and you opened your eyes to look at him. 

His hand went into his pocket and he pulled out a very familiar item, your phone. 

“I found it not long after you..” he stopped himself, his eyes dropping from yours to the phone, “It still works.” he continued as he handed it to you. 

You took the device, powering it on, unlocking it and feeling its all too familiar heaviness in your hand. You immediately went to the gallery, wanting to see all the pictures you had on it, not that you had forgotten, but you wanted to feel the sensation of seeing them again, the happiness. 

The first image was the last one you had taken, an image of yourself lying in bed with your thumb and index finger in the form of a heart, one that you sent to Hoseok. 

A smile grew on your face. 

Jin got up from the chair, moving the tray over to the desk before he sat down next to you on the bed - seeing what you were seeing on the screen. 

“Cute.” he smiled. 

You hummed in response, flickering through more images, Jin’s shoulder leaning against yours as you both remembered and laughed at the pictures you saw. 

Coming across an image of yourself along with the 7 heads at a beach, you remembered fondly the day, Jimin, Taehyung and Jungkook splashing each other in the water, Yoongi lying in the shade, Namjoon looking for crabs, Hoseok next to you and Jin on the other side, laughing with you. 

A normal day, with normal men - not killers, not powerful leaders of an organisation. 

You felt a sense of tiredness wash over you, a yawn creeping onto you, the food having fulfilled you. 

“Tired?” Jin questioned softly. 

“Yeah..” you hummed, “Still recovering.” 

Jin moved off the bed, “Maybe you should sleep a little.” he smiled, his finger going under your chin in a loving manner. 

“Okay.” you smiled.

“I’ll see you soon.” he whispered as he turned around and left, closing the door softly behind him. 

You laid down on the bed, hugging the cover tightly under your chin, turning the TV on for some background noise, your eyes dry and heavy, quickly allowing you to fall into the abyss of sleep. 

You didn’t know how long you had been asleep, but you heard the door opening slowly and gently, Jungkook's face coming into view around the corner of it, looking at you with worried and soft eyes. 

You were pale, your eyes tired, your body weak. Looking up at him you met his eyes, he looked so small and hesitant, not knowing if he should approach you or stay put. 

Standing up from the bed you walked slowly towards him but he took a few steps back, as if he was scared of you, of all people, this large and muscular man that had killed people, beaten people, probably even more brutal things than you could even imagine, it didn't stop you though, you continued to walk towards him until you reached him, your arms instantly wrapping around him in a tight hug that he instantly returned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his arms around your waist squeezing you closer to him. 

"I'm so sorry, noona, I didn't mean for you to get hurt, please, I'm so sorry!" he whispered with a shaky breath. 

"Hey.. It's okay." you cooed. 

His body shook in your hold, tears falling from his eyes as he slowly sunk down on his knees in front of you, your heart aching at his actions, seeing him like this was sending a wave of ice through your chest, your own eyes welling up. 

Jungkook sobbed into the softness your stomach, "Please don't leave me again, noona, please."

Your hand ran gently through his soft hair, he had nothing to do with it, any of it, he didn't do anything wrong, an innocent party in this horror story, just like you. 

Should you stay? 

Even if it's only for him?

Please do not repost. If you wish to repost, please contact me directly requesting permission, with details of where, and on what account(name). I will put the details of approved reposts below.

[mllemaenad]

Why is everybody keep forgetting that elves had quite some forces and were not some helpless souls? Why do ppl forget that it's their own racism that initially caused the war in the Dales? Why everybody dismisses Minaeves' story about how her clan treated the unwanted mages? I mean Chantry sucks big time, but can we please stop making elves into some magic creatures that only do good. They do not. None of the races and religions in Dragon Age is perfect, yet one has a particular bias from fandom

Hi Anonymous person.

Um. Sorry, but … what? That’s … a lot of vitriol. I’m … going to do this point by point.

Why is everybody keep forgetting that elves had quite some forces and were not some helpless souls?

No one is claiming that the elves were ‘helpless’ in the sense that they were children, or somehow unable to fight. Elven sources are a bit spotty, for solid ‘in universe’ reasons, but there’s enough on the Emerald Knights to understand that they kicked some serious arse.

But. By the time Orlais set its sights on the Dales, it had already steamrolled over a bunch of other nations, effectively doubling its original size.

The grand nation of Orlais occupies a full quarter of the Thedosian continent and extends its influence far beyond its shifting borders. In ages past, Orlais flexed its military muscle, threatening territory belonging to Nevarra and Tevinter and outright invading Ferelden. One could argue that the Emperor or Empress of Orlais, regardless of competency, is the second most powerful person in Thedas – the first, of course, being the Divine.

…

Together, the two [Kordillus Drakon and Area Montlaures] transformed Orlais from a few squabbling clans controlling their own city states into an empire. Hand in hand, they conquered well into modern-day Ferelden and Nevarra, stamping out any worship of the Old Gods as well as lingering Alamarri and Ciriane Deities.

– World of Thedas Volume II

Sure, we have an account of the massacre of a pacifist nation (note that they are also vilified by the text, even though they are literally ‘helpless souls’ being overrun and slaughtered by an empire), but that is going to be the exception to the rule. Most of these ‘squabbling clans’ would have had warriors and fortifications. It didn’t matter. Orlais invaded, defeated them, forced them to convert – and absorbed the survivors. The Orlesian empire is The Blob.

Do you … not get how massive this thing is? A quarter of Thedas is under direct Orlesian control. That’s what came for the Dales. An almost endless supply of soldiers and weapons and supplies against one newborn nation. That’s what’s so scary about empires, once they get going: they can take the resources of the people they conquered yesterday – including the bodies of the actual people to be used as soldiers or workers – and use them against you today.

So yeah: big picture, they were ‘helpless souls’ being knocked down by the biggest bully in Thedas. They put up a hell of a fight – even took Montsimmard for a while – but they didn’t have the resources of an empire to sustain them, so they were screwed.

Why do ppl forget that it’s their own racism that initially caused the war in the Dales?

Okay so … racism. I feel like I keep saying ‘empires are bad’ and ‘conversion by the sword is bad’ and … these are somehow controversial statements that people want to refute? That’s … just a little bit scary, you know?

The elven people quite famously worked with humans. Specifically with the Alamarri rebels who took down the Tevinter Imperium. You know: Andraste?

At Shartan’s word, the sky

Grew black with arrows.

At Our Lady’s, ten thousand swords

Rang from their scabbards,

A great hymn rose over Valarian Fields gladly proclaiming:

Those who had been slaves were now free.

– Shartan 10:1.

– Dark Moon

There’s even a whole fucking verse about Shartan and his people making a bloody suicide run on the entire Tevinter army to try to rescue Andraste:

The Liberator drew the blade at his side

And charged the pyre, the freedom of the Prophet before his eyes,

But from the legion came a storm of arrows

Blacker than night. And the disciple who had fought side by side

With the Lady fell, along with a hundred of his People.

And among the Alamarri ten thousand swords fell to the ground in a chorus of defeat.

– World of Thedas Volume II

That’s pretty heroic! And pretty tragic! Elven slaves and human rebels standing side by side, fighting an empire. Winning, in the end, although at great cost. And yet what you’re trying to tell me is that the elves are ‘racist’ (also: not a great word to use in reference to an oppressed people because racism requires social power) rather than, say, justifiably worried about the growing power of a nascent empire?

He [Kordillus Drakon] began his holy quest at the ripe old age of sixteen by taking to the battlefield. At the time, each clan had its own variety of the cult of Andraste, its own rituals, traditions and versions of Andraste’s words. Young Drakon unified them by the sword.

– World of Thedas II

Orlais is aggressive and fanatical. It is running around slaughtering people who disagree with its religious beliefs. If you are a non-Andrastian nation sitting more-or-less on the Orlesian border, watching other nations fall and be forcibly converted – and those people just believed different things about Andraste – you have to know what’s coming. This really only goes one way. Are you really going to call closing your borders and prepping for conflict ‘racism’? Is that really the word you want to use?

Halamshiral, “the end of the journey,” was our capital, built out of the reach of the humans. We could once again forget the incessant passage of time. Our people began the slow process of recovering the culture and traditions we had lost to slavery.

But it was not to last. The Chantry first sent missionaries into the Dales, and then, when those were thrown out, templars. We were driven from Halamshiral, scattered. Some took refuge in the cities of the shemlen, living in squalor, tolerated only a little better than vermin.

– The Dales

Relations broke down completely when the Chantry sent missionaries. Because of course they did. The fact that Orlais fundamentally does not believe in religious freedom is the very thing that the elves are afraid of. It is also, you know, a pretext. Provocation meant to push the elves so they start something and Orlais can say it was their fault. There is almost always a pretext. The empire says it’s coming in to resolve a local conflict, or they’re dealing with an incident on the border, or they’re ‘liberators’. And then they stay. And they take.

Do you really mean to blame the elves for being conquered?

Why everybody dismisses Minaeves’ story about how her clan treated the unwanted mages?

No one has forgotten or dismissed Minaeve. Everyone is keenly aware that – on a meta level – Bioware did some quite ugly retconning in Inquisition to make both elves and mages look less sympathetic. Many people have noted that Minaeve’s story is the exact opposite of Lanaya’s story, and that neither Velanna nor Merrill talk about anything like that. Nevertheless, it is raised at least three times in Inquisition: by Minaeve, by Vivienne and by The Iron Bull. So yes, that is a deliberate retcon made at a late stage in the series in order to allow people to do exactly what you’re doing: yell that the elves are ‘just as bad’. It’s gross.

In universe, of course, it’s worth noting that Minaeve was seven when this happened. Whatever it was, it was terrible – but it may not have been what she thought. It’s also worth noting that the Dalish are wandering nomads with few resources, under constant threat from humans in general and templars in particular, and if they did find themselves forced to throw one mage child to the templars to protect the rest – that is fucking horrible, but says more about the world Orlais has created than it does about the elves.

But I have to ask – why do you think it’s so important that everyone remember a twenty-second pro-templar conversation with a minor character, instead of extensive conversations about elven society and losses with Merril and Velanna? Those are two grown women who have lived their whole lives as Dalish and have a keen understanding of the culture of their clans. Or whole novels about Fiona and Briala, respectively the leaders of the mage and elven rebellions?

I know the novels are supplementary material so I’m certainly not blaming anyone for being unfamiliar with them. But if there were things I wish people could always remember when talking about the elves – it would be those stories of oppression and revolution.

I mean Chantry sucks big time, but can we please stop making elves into some magic creatures that only do good. They do not. None of the races and religions in Dragon Age is perfect, yet one has a particular bias from fandom.

It’s … interesting that you brought ‘race’ into this. Because I didn’t. I haven’t been writing criticisms of ‘humans’. I’ve left the Rivaini alone; usually mentioned Fereldans favourably; I haven’t been talking about Antiva or Nevarra. They haven’t come up.

I was talking about the aggression of the Orlesian empire and its Chantry. The elves were brought up as possibly the people who have lost the most to Orlesian aggression. They’re certainly the best sourced of those people. I’ve talked about the Chasind and Avvar where I can (humans!). I’ve talked about dwarves and Qunari. I bring up the Daughters of Song and the Disciples of Andraste where I can, because I have references for them. I know that a whole lot of other cultures were destroyed by Drakon and his Chantry – but alas, I can’t say anything meaningful about them because there are no codex entries, in game dialogue or other reference materials for them.

Of course the elves are not ‘perfect’. While Zathrian’s rage is understandable, his decision to keep the curse going even when it began to threaten his clan was terrible. Merril’s clan was far too easily led to bully and exclude her; they were her family and someone should have stood up for her. Historically, the Dales probably made a mistake staying out of the Second Blight. I mean – I get it. The Blight softened up Tevinter enough to let the rebels take it down. It could have worked again against Orlais. But in retrospect – bad idea. Didn’t work.

Those are just examples. Of course there are more. But it doesn’t matter. That an elven character fucked up at some point does not change the fact that they face racial persecution as non-humans (and are pretty clearly coded as a combination of indigenous, Jewish and Romani people), that they face religious persecution as non-Andrastians and that the Orlesian empire stole their land and forced them into slums.

And I note all of this because of the … tenor of your Ask. Had you said something like “This elven stuff is great, but I’d like to chat about how the dwarves are basically facing an apocalypse and no one will help them, and also wouldn’t a story about a casteless revolution be great?” I would have said “Yes! Let’s talk about that!” Had you said something like “Isn’t it fucked up that the Qunari are treated largely as savage invaders, operating as an ‘Other’ it’s okay to hate?” I would have said “Yes! Yes, it is!”

But … this reads like a list of ‘reasons why people should stop pretending the elves don’t deserve to be oppressed’. And … somehow equates ‘Orlesians’ with ‘humans’?

I mean – surely you aren’t saying that our sympathies should not be with the frequently enslaved minority group who are forced to live as second class citizens in appalling slums, and who have been forcibly converted to a religion they don’t want to follow … but rather with the empire that took everything from them?

Because … I really hope not.

[lyricfulloflight]

Cherik Bodyguard AU

I have no idea what this fic will be title, but I wanted to share the prologue because...because I’ve been working on the start of three different cherik fics and I just wanted to share at least one of them.

This is a modern, AU, non-powered fic.  Erik is a former military man turned bodyguard, Charles is an actor.  This is the prologue to the main fic.  

Let me know what you think!

Story below the cut.

Prologue

It took Erik less than five minutes to decide he hated Los Angeles. More specifically he hated rich, entitled, juvenile model/actresses who hosted parties in the Hollywood Hills of Los Angeles in the middle of the summer when Erik had to stand outside in 100 degree heat in a suit.  This particular rich, entitled model/actress probably hated him right back, which was fine with Erik.

He had arrived at the sprawling one story, mid-century modern house at the time assigned to him by the Frost Protection Agency: 1pm.  The host of the party, one Raven Darkholme, had answered the door with nothing more than skimpy lingerie and a scowl.  Erik had, according to her, woken her up.  Since she was supposed to be hosting a party that started at 2pm, Erik figured he’d done her a favour.

After muttering a completely insincere ‘Sorry’, Erik brushed passed the half-asleep young woman and started a perimeter check of the property.

It was another forty five minutes before his colleagues showed up.

“You’re late.” Erik said when they entered the backyard.

“Good morning to you too, you grumpy German asshole.” Alex Summers replied with a smirk.

“It’s almost fourteen hundred hours.”  Erik answered flatly. “The party is supposed to start in fifteen minutes.”

“This is Hollywood, Lenhsherr.  No one is going to be here on time, they’ll be at least an hour or two late.  That’s how things work around here.” Alex explained. “You can relax – if that’s even possible for you.”

Erik stared at Alex in silence for a minute and then went back to scanning the completely inadequate fencing around the backyard.

“Have you met my brother, Scott?”  Alex’s voice interrupted.

“No.”

“This is where you turn around and say hello, Lehnsherr.  They do teach basic social skills in Germany, right?”

Erik scowled and turned around to face the brothers.

“Hello.”  He ground out, extending his hand toward the unfamiliar brother who had darker hair and sunglasses. “Erik Lehnsherr.”

“Scott Summers. Nice to meet you Erik.”  Scott replied with a tense smile. “Haven’t been in California long have you?”

“No.”  

And given the ridiculousness of this day so far, he didn’t plan to stay long either. The basic concept of schedules and timeliness was something Erik was not willing to live without.  He’d only been with the agency for a couple weeks, but fortunately they had offices in several large American cities and even a few in Europe.  Erik had been looking to get as far away from his former life as possible and California had seemed like a worthy prospect for escape.  Clearly it was not.  Luckily he remembered that Ms. Frost had mentioned during his interview they were also looking for new bodyguards in Dallas and New York.  Surely one of those cities had to be better than this.

“The inadequate fencing appears to be the most likely point of entry.”  He stated.

“Have you ever been to one of these parties man?”  Alex asked.

“I’m not at the party, I’m providing security for the party.”  Erik replied stonily.

“Listen, not that you shouldn’t check the perimeter and do all the regular security ‘stuff’”  Alex said sarcastically, making making quotes as he spoke, “but seriously, these parties, they hired us cause they like how it looks.  Tall, strong guys in suits standing around looking dangerous, we’re like...arm candy or something.  You’ll probably spend more time trying to get drunk party goers to leave you alone than you will chasing away threats.  They like the paps, man.  They want their pictures taken.”

“That’s not what the contract said.”

“Screw what the contract said.  A bunch of young almost celebrities who are trading on their good looks and charm?  They want their pictures splashed across magazines and all over the internet.  It’ll help them get their next job.”

“I hate this place.”  Erik muttered, but not quietly enough not to be overheard.

“Yeah, doesn’t seem like your scene.”  Scott nodded. “You should ask Emma if they have openings in Washington or New York.  More politicians and businessmen on contract out there.  Might be a bit more your speed.”

Erik grunted in acknowledgement, clearly Scott was the smarter of the two Summer’s brothers.

The next hour or two passed without issue.  As Alex had predicted, the first guest arrived at the late and complete imprecise time of 3:17pm.  As guests began to trickle in, wearing odd and unusual clothes, Erik had a sinking feeling.  When the hostess, dressed in a green and blue flowy gown that somehow managed to have plenty of fabric and yet cover nothing but the essential bits strutted out to welcome the guests to the party, his fears were confirmed.

“Welcome to my 21st birthday, costume pool party bitches!  Let’s all get plastered!”

Erik winced at the high pitched announcement and the roar of cheers that followed it. Wonderful.  A costume party full of twenty-somethings who wanted to get shit faced and also swim in a pool.  Genius idea.

The following hours were some of the worst of his life, which was saying something as Erik’s life had never been a something to brag about.  He was accosted by no less than a dozen bikini clad girls (he couldn’t call them women since they all looked about fifteen and he was tempted to ask them when their parents were coming to pick them up), had a woman dressed as Cher pinch his ass, and was propositioned by two men, one dressed as a sailor and the other wearing both too much leather and yet not enough clothing in general.

Erik hated this job. He hated California, with its hot, sticky weather.  Most of all he hated these people.  People with nothing in their heads and botox in their faces (even though no one looked a day over thirty) and silicone in their chests. People who thought nothing of invading the personal space of someone who was working, and clearly not attending the party.

At this moment he particularly hated the young man dressed as Tom Cruise from Risky Business, wearing nothing but a button down shirt, sunglasses, tube socks and white briefs, who was currently serenading everyone with a truly terrible rendition of ‘Copacabana’.  Firstly, Erik thought, the man obviously should have been singing ‘Old Time Rock and Roll’, given his costume. Secondly, the man might have been better off singing when he was less drunk. Erik could only hope his voice would have been better and more in tune if he wasn’t quite so sloshed.  And thirdly, it should have been illegal for someone’s ass to look that good in plain white briefs.  Plain white briefs were not sexy, they were practical and unassuming.  But these briefs, with that ass, they assumed a lot, including far too much of Erik’s attention.  Erik found himself thinking quite a bit about how likely it was that someone would push the young man into the pool.  Erik tried to justify his thoughts as concern, concern that the young man, being more than a little drunk might be at risk of drowning if he was unexpectedly pushed into the pool.  Obviously his thoughts had nothing to do with how transparent his entire outfit would be once he emerged from the pool, certainly not.  Erik was a professional and professionals did not think about random party guests in that way.

No one pushed the man into the pool.

For while, Erik lost sight of the man and was able to give the full force of his concentration to patrolling the perimeter of the yard and looking for unwanted, uninvited intruders.  Thank goodness he was looking, because within half and hour of starting his route, he found one nosy paparazzo hiding behind the bushes, gleefully snapping away.  His line of sight the perfect angle to get shots into the flimsy tent where guests were changing into swimming attire.  ‘What a horrible excuse for a human being’  Erik though vaguely before kicking the man’s camera out of his hands and hauling his upwards by the scruff of his shirt.

“Hey man!  Lay off!  I was just doing my job!”  The man scrambled frantically for his camera as Erik dragged him along.

“Your job is to take pictures of unsuspecting women taking their clothes off?”  He bit out through clenched teeth.

“Hey, they’re asking for it man!  They want to be famous!”  He man whined as Erik pushed him toward a mostly discrete side exit.

“I’m quite certain they were not asking for it.”  A crisp cultured voice interrupted before Erik could punch the man in the nose. “There’s no need for violence, my friend.”  The voice spoke again and Erik felt a hand touch his arm, causing him to frown, but relax his arm back down to his side.

Erik turned to find himself face to face with the Tom Cruise costumed man, who sounded considerably less drunk than Erik would have thought based on his earlier behaviour.

“Your film, please.”  The young man said, holding a hand out toward the paparazzo Erik had caught.

“It’s all digital man.”  The man replied smugly.

Erik grabbed the offending camera out of the man’s hands and passed it over to Tom Cruise, or whoever he was.

“Here.”

“Thank you.” Tom (as Erik had decided to think of him for lack of a better option) smiled a brilliant smile up at Erik and happily took the camera.

“Digital they may be,”  Tom said, deleting pictures and removing the memory card, “but they are now gone.  If I ever see you back on my sister’s property again, I will call the police and have you charged for trespassing.”  He turned back to Erik,  his voice now much lighter, friendlier even. “If you would be so kind as to escort this man off the property Mr. …?”

“Lehnsherr.  Mr. Lehnsherr.”  Erik managed to answer.

“Mr. Lehnsherr.  I would be most grateful to never see him again.”

“My pleasure.” Erik smiled, lifting the offensive man high enough that his feet didn’t touch the ground, he started forward moving quickly to haul the man by the house and down the driveway, depositing him on the road outside the front gate.

Erik returned to the party and somehow made it through the last couple of hours of debauchery.  No other intruders were spotted.  Guests continued to drink and a great many people were pushed into the pool.  ‘Tom’ was no where in sight, however.

Erik took to smiling his biggest, most aggressively toothy grin at everyone who came near him, which effectively scared everyone away from his general vicinity.

“Jesus, that’s terrifying.”  Alex commented after a pair of young women had turned and run away from Erik’s latest smile.  “You should never smile, man.  I’ve gotten six phone numbers from these chicks – stop scaring them away.  If you don’t want the phone numbers, I’ll take them.”

Erik scowled, disgusted at Alex’s complete lack of professionalism.  Of course he was scaring them away.  He didn’t want their phone numbers.  The only thing he would admit to wanting, was a name (okay, he likely would have taken a phone number too).  Unfortunately, as the party died down and guests stumbled home, Erik didn’t catch sight of ‘Tom’ once.

The next day he was back at Frost Protection Agency headquarters asking for a transfer. Within the week he was flying to New York.  He had no regrets, he and California were clearly not meant for each other. ‘Tom’ whoever he was would remain a mystery.  Which was fine by Erik.  Mystery Tom was intriguing: a man with some principles, a horrible singing voice, and a fantastic ass.  ‘Tom’ is real life would no doubt have been a disappointment, as people almost always were.

So Erik did what he did best: he compartmentalized and pushed ‘Tom’ into a nice little box and stored him away in the recesses of his mind.  Now, was the time for New York.  He sat on the plane, in a cramped economy seat and pulled out the file on his next assignment.

[ruminativerabbi]

Pittsburgh

Like many of you, I’m sure, I took biology in tenth grade. It was a long time ago. I barely remember high school, and specific classes even less than the general experience, but I do remember one specific incident in biology class that made a huge impression on me then and remains with me still. I’m sure it’s no longer allowed, as well it shouldn’t be, but the experiment itself was simple enough. A frog was set into a petri dish filled with cool water. The frog looked happy enough, having no concept of what was soon to come…and also not able to extend its neck far enough out to see that the petri dish itself was being held aloft by a black metal frame that also housed a Bunsen burner positioned just beneath the dish in which the frog was seated. (Do frogs even have necks?) The frog could have hopped out at any moment. But why would he have? He was content, he was (he thought) among friends. It was the fall following the summer of love. I have the vague sense—although this can’t possibly be true—that “Strawberry Fields” was playing softly in the background.

And then our teacher, whose name I’ve long since forgotten, lit the Bunsen burner and the fun began. The flame was low enough so that the water would only heat very slowly, incrementally, almost unnoticed by us…but also not by the frog in the dish. The point of the experiment was simple enough: to demonstrate that, if the water were only heated up slowly enough, the frog would actually be paralyzed by the heat and thus unable to avoid the sorry end that appeared to await him and which in fact actually did await him even though he could easily have escaped his fate earlier on had he understood things more clearly. Or she could have. It really was a long time ago.

The world is full of frogs in petri dishes.

Facebook started out as a pleasant way for friends to stay in touch and then grew into something that would surely have been unrecognizable to the people dreaming it up in Mark Zuckerberg’s dorm room. And, somewhere along the way in that amazing growth from 1 million users in 2004 to 2.2 billion active users at present, a line was crossed that cannot be crossed back over, and which thus obliges Facebook to deal somehow with the unexpected and surely unwanted ability it somehow possesses to be manipulated by its own users to influence elections and to invade people’s privacy in a way that many savvy users still can’t entirely fathom in all of its complexity.

The whole concept of on-line DNA analysis started out as a clever way for people to learn more about their families’ histories and about their own genetic heritage. But as the data banks at ancestry.com, 23andme.com, and other analogous sites grow larger and larger on a daily basis, a line has been crossed there too that cannot be uncrossed and which will now oblige us all to deal with the ability of scientists, including (presumably) those who work for the government, to invade the privacy of people wholly unrelated to the enterprise and who themselves haven’t ever signed up or sent in a sample of their DNA for analysis. (To revisit what I wrote about this truly shocking phenomenon a few weeks ago, click here.)

Kristallnacht, the eightieth anniversary of which falls next week, was another such frog-in-a-petri-dish line. Things were dismal for the Jews of Germany and Austria long before 1938, but Kristallnacht—in the course of which single evening almost 2000 synagogues were destroyed, 2550 Jewish citizens died, 30,000 Jewish men were arrested and sent to concentration camps, and tens of thousands of Jewish businesses were plundered—made it kristall clear that whatever Jewish souls fell under Nazi rule were on their own and that that line into a dark, almost unimaginable future was one that simply could not be crossed back over. Indeed, the worst part of Kristallnacht was not the pogrom itself, as horrific as it was, but its implications for the future and the unavoidable conclusion to be drawn from the events of that gruesome night that there apparently was no level of anti-Semitic violence that the world could not somehow learn to tolerate. Kristallnacht, of course, did not come out of nowhere. Nazi anti-Semitism was hardly a secret. By 1938, the Jews of the Reich had been subjected to ever-increasing levels of degradation, humiliation, and discrimination for years. Obviously, they all noticed it, just as the frog in my classroom must surely have noticed the water warming as well. What the frog failed to grasp was that there was going to be a specific moment at which his ability to hop out of the dish was going to be gone and that he would have no choice but to meet his fate in that place. And that is what the Jews who had bravely decided to weather the storm in place also failed to seize until it finally was too late to do otherwise and their fates were sealed, their doom all but assured.

Is Pittsburgh that line in the sand that we will all eventually see clearly for what it was? Or was it just a terrible thing that an awful person with some powerful guns managed to accomplish before he was finally subdued by the police? The answer to those questions lies behind the answers to others, however. Was Pittsburgh more about the rise of the so-called alt-right than about anti-Semitism per se? (The Anti-Defamation League noted that there was almost a 60% rise in hate crimes directed against Jews or Jewish targets from 2016, the year of the presidential election, to 2017, the year of Charlottesville. No one doubts that the statistics for 2018 will be higher still.) Or is this more about guns than Jews?  We have become almost used to gun violence in our country—we actually name the incidents (Columbine, Orlando, Sandy Hook, Parkland, Fort Hood, San Bernardino, etc.) because it would otherwise be impossible to keep track of them all—so it feels possible to explain Pittsburgh (or rather, to explain it away) as just one more notch on that belt rather than as a decisive moment in American Jewish history. But is that reasonable? Or is Pittsburgh less about Jews or guns, and more about the way that houses of worship seem specifically to enrage a certain kind of American bigot, the kind who can spend an hour studying Bible with gentle, harmless church folk and then take out a gun and methodically attempt to kill all the others in the class?

Or is this something else entirely? That’s the question I found churning and roiling within as I contemplate the events of last Saturday in Pittsburgh and try to make some sense out of it all.

It’s interesting how the most accessible studies of anti-Semitism—Léon Poliakov’s The History of Anti-Semitism, Edward Flannery’s The Anguish of the Jews, David Nirenberg’s Anti-Judaism: The Western Tradition, Bernard Lazare’s Antisemitism, Its History and Causes, Rosemary Ruether’s Faith and Fratricide, and Daniel Jonah Goldhagen’s The Devil that Never Dies, just to name the books I personally have found the most rewarding and informative over the years—it’s interesting how little read or discussed these books are, including specifically by the very Jewish people who should constitute their most enthusiastic audience. Is that just because they are incredibly upsetting? Or is there a deeper kind of denial at work here, one rooted in a need to feel secure so intense that it simply overwhelms anything that might disturb people who live in its almost irresistible thrall?

I was a senior in college when I first read André Schwarz-Bart’s, The Last of the Just. It is one of the few works of fiction I’ve read many times, both in French and English, and is surely among the most important works of fiction I’ve read in terms of the effect it had on me personally in terms of shaping my worldview. (It also led, albeit circuitously, to my choice of a career in the rabbinate.) The book, in which are depicted episodes from the life of one single Jewish family from 1190 (the year of a horrific pogrom in York, England) to 1943 (when the family’s last living scion is murdered at Auschwitz), is upsetting. But it is also ennobling and, in a dark way that even I can’t explain entirely clearly (including not to myself), as inspiring as it is disconcerting. It was once a famous book—the first Shoah-based book to be an international bestseller and the winner of the very prestigious Prix Goncourt in 1959—but has fallen off the reading list of most today: how many young people have even heard of it, let alone have actually read it? I suppose people still read Anne Frank’s diary and Elie Wiesel’s Night, the two most prominent books about the Shoah of all…but both books are tied to their author’s specific stories and neither is “about” anti-Semitism itself in the way Schwarz-Bart’s book is. In my opinion, that’s why they have remained popular—because they’re basically about terrible things that happened to other people—and The Last of the Just hasn’t.

What should we do in the wake of the Pittsburgh massacre? Clearly, we need to find the courage to speak out and to say vocally and very strongly to our elected officials that we cannot and will never accept that this kind of thing simply cannot be prevented in a society that guarantees its citizens the right to bear arms. And, just as clearly, we need to make it clear to the world that this kind of aggression, far from weakening us, actually strengthens us and helps us find the courage to assume our rightful place in the American mosaic. But we also need to lose our inhibitions about learning about our own history. Pittsburgh was about the recrudescence of the kind of anti-Semitic violence many of us thought to be well in the past. To understand the deeper implications of Jews at prayer being murdered in their own synagogue, we don’t need to read any of the million statements issued by public officials, Jewish and non-Jewish organizations, and countless individuals over the last few days. What we do need to read is Schwarz-Bart and Ruether, Nirenberg and Flannery, and to internalize the lessons presented there. And we need take the temperature of the water in our petri dish and only then to negotiate the future from a position of informed strength characterized by a clear-eyed understanding of what it means to be a Jew in the actual world in which we live.

[josefkavalier]

It wasn’t as biting that night as forecasted. Then again, alcohol had a way of warming a person from the inside out. Sam fingered the bottle of travel sized mouthwash in his suit pocket as he took another sip from his vodka-laced lemonade. He owned far too many tiny bottles for a sixteen year-old with parents who would always be preoccupied with matters more important than the occasional underaged drinking of their son. He could have walked out with a giant bottle of Grey Goose, he could have left the mouthwash behind entirely. But he would never be that cavalier, never knowing when one of his parents might pull him into a conversation and introduce him to some world leader. Boozy breath was not the kind of first impression he liked to make.

Sam didn’t even like alcohol, it’s just that he liked uptight parties with hundreds of guests even less. Perhaps he was leaning a little heavily into dramatics, escaping to go drink alone, but it was only because his sister had ditched him for her new boyfriend. Typically, he could trudge through anything, if Sofia was suffering by his side. They were not codependent, at least it wouldn’t be his choice of words, there was just something undeniable about sharing a womb with another person. Whenever someone said something stupid in front of their mother, his first impulse was always to make a face in Sofia’s direction, and always she would reciprocate with one of her own.

“You want a smoke?”

The unexpectedness of the address made him jump slightly, just enough to send lemonade spilling over the side of his glass. “No, thanks,” he answered, rubbing his hand along the inside of his suit jacket where it couldn’t be photographed, reprimanded, or thought of again.

The other boy shrugged and Sam watched the way he cupped his hand around the cigarette to shield it from the wind as he flicked his lighter on. The action probably shouldn’t have struck him as beautiful, but it was a thought that arose without warning, and he shook his head as if this would banish it from his mind.

Sam stared into his cup with fixed concentration, but his new company didn’t seem to mind. It was after a few more minutes that he spoke again, and Sam didn’t realize he’d been waiting for the other boy to break the silence in-between exhales of smoke.

“Hey, you’re President Huerta’s son, aren’t you?”

If only he had said anything else.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

It was one thing to be known as the first son, but he wondered if this guy even knew his name. Sofia was more well-known, because in some ways she played along with the constant attention. She put care into her appearance when she left the White House and Sam could wear the clothes all right, but he often read descriptions about how he looked tired or bored, while Sofia was described as “effortless” and “elegant.” 

“Sam, right?”

Realistically, there wasn’t a single guest there that night who didn’t know his name, but his pulse quickened as if this boy had paid special attention when Sam came up in the news. “Yeah. That’s me,” he said, again, not realizing until a second later that he had repeated himself exactly. Sam winced, turning away at the same time to hide his face, and coughed into the crook of his elbow as if that had been his intent. He turned back to the boy with a smile. “And you are?”

“Sisto.”

Sam waited a beat too long for him to reveal his last name. He was only sixteen, and had gone to school and lived almost a normal life for the first twelve years of his life, but even then, introductions had always involved the use of full names. His parents had fallen in love at the White House, working for a president who was out of office by the time he was born, and he had gotten used to the constant political energy around him before he moved into the White House himself.

“Cool. Um...nice to meet you.”

Sisto laughed, taking a long drag from his cigarette before speaking. “I always thought they forced the president’s kids to, like, take a shit ton of etiquette and public speaking classes. Just in case, you know?” He shook his head, smiling. “Guess not.”

Sam forced a smile in return, but it looked self-deprecating, even in the thin light streaming out from inside the White House, aided only slightly by the moon.

Giving Sam a sideways glance as he tossed his cigarette on the ground, Sisto let out a much quieter laugh this time. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.”

“Oh. It’s not?”

“No. You don’t seem as robotic as you look on TV.”

It was, surely, supposed to be a compliment. But Sam just looked at the ground, every fear and insecurity he’d ever had about standing silently behind his parents in front of a sea of cameras and reporters instantly validated.

“Hey,” Sisto said, his voice much closer than before, and then his hand was on Sam’s shoulder. “Sorry. I never took any etiquette classes either.”

“It’s okay, I get what you meant.”

“You sure? I feel like I oughta apologize now.”

“Really, it’s fine—”

Sisto took him by the elbow, tugging once. “C’mon. I want to show you something.”

***

They were supposed to be greeting the public during an afternoon tour of the White House, but Sam was too busy texting to notice the crowd shuffling into the Blue Room. Sofia elbowed him, much more roughly than necessary, and smiled sweetly as people start filing into the room. He only had time to scowl at her for a brief moment before he mirrored his sister’s expression and stepped forward to welcome everyone to his home, and even though it was exactly what he was supposed to say, it never felt true. It still felt like living in a museum or a history book, with Zachary Taylor’s ghost floating between the various rooms, and members of the Huerta family regularly greeting guests in the room uncreatively given its name by Martin Van Buren.

Sam shook hands and posed for photos, though he doubted anyone actually cared about his special brand of celebrity. At first glance, the tour group had been elated to see the first children, but he knew they would have preferred to see the president herself. As was often true, their mother had more important matters to address, and Sam and Sofia could never use that same excuse.

Once the group moved on, Sam turned his attention back to his phone, not even noticing as Sofia stood on tip-toes to look over his should. “Who’s Sisto?”

Sam whipped around, narrowly avoiding a shoulder to Sofia’s face. She would have deserved it. “Could you not invade my privacy?”

“What privacy?” Sofia asked as she dropped into one of the room’s blue and gold cushioned chairs. “Twenty people just took our photos and then immediately posted them all over the internet.”

Begrudgingly, he sat down across from his sister. No matter his level of annoyance, they would both have to wait for the next tour group together. “That’s different, and you know it.”

“All right, I know it. But why would you not tell me about someone you’re obviously obsessed with?”

He exhaled deeply, shoving his phone into his pants pocket where it was safe from unwanted glances. “You always have to make things so salacious. I never ask you invasive questions about whats-his-name.”

“You know his name. But I appreciate the feigned disinterest.”

Not only did Sam know his name, he also knew what Sofia’s boyfriend looked like, and not that he would ever voice the thought to Sofia, but it was uncanny how similar their tastes were. Sam was hoping to put off any twin jokes about the matter for as long as possible. But when it came to their parents, particularly their father, nosiness was not something that could be avoided entirely.

Sofia stared up at the ceiling, her eyes drifting towards the gaudy chandelier that hung in the dead center of the oval room. So many ovals in this house, something about George Washington preferring them to circles. “I wish dad would catch on.”

“Well. Keep wishing.”

It was easy for him to say, he could hear her already, the accusation in her voice completely justified. Had Sam ever wanted a love life before now, his father would not have paid the least bit of attention. But when it came to Sofia, he tried to keep track of her comings and goings as closely as possible.

“Tony is just so...non-threatening. Dad acts as if I’ve started dating the literal antichrist.”

“Hey, maybe next time.”

This time, it was Sofia who barely managed a glare before hopping out of her chair and hurrying over to the door in preparation for the next tour group.

***

It wasn’t until Sisto pushed him up against a wine rack, immediately sending an $80 bottle of Pinot crashing to the floor, that Sam considered maybe he was the one dating someone antichrist adjacent. Not that spilling wine was satanic – no matter how much the pooling of dark red liquid looked eerily similar to blood.

“Shit,” Sisto muttered against his mouth, and Sam didn’t want to open his eyes again, he would prefer to pretend the glass and wine spreading across the wine cellar floor was just his imagination.

Sam wasn’t sure what to do in this situation, or any awkward situations. When Sisto had suggested they break into the White House wine cellar, he had laughed. A little cruelly. They need not break in, really, just open the door and enter. The look of disappointment on Sisto’s face when he saw the cellar was exactly as Sam had predicted.

“This is the president’s wine supply? It’s...it’s even worse than my uncle’s!”

“It’s not all of her wine. But, officially speaking, this is it.”

They stood inside the closet-sized room, the two of them barely able to look at any of the labels without bumping into one another. The first few times, Sam told himself he wouldn’t let it happen again, but after the fourth time, Sisto abruptly stopped reading the labels and pulled a bottle out from the rack.

“Here. This one is good.”

Sam looked it over, not knowing enough to either agree or argue otherwise, so he nodded. Sisto produced a Swiss army knife from his pocket, expertly removing the cork in a way that made clear how many times he had done so in the past.

He put both the knife and cork in his pocket, then leaned his head back to take a generous sip. “Like I said,” he offered the bottle to Sam with a grin. “It’s a good one.”

Sam took the bottle tentatively, the neck almost slipping from his clammy hands. Before Sisto could comment, he took an ambitious swig from the bottle, swallowing more than he had anticipated. He handed it back to Sisto nervously, hoping he wouldn’t be forced to take another sip. While Sisto had aspirations of talking about wine for a living, Sam would happily never sample another bottle again.

He raised his hand to wipe away the stray wine from his lips, but Sisto reached out to grab him by the wrist. The wine lover was about to scold him for daring to waste a single drop, he thought, the only logical explanation for his action.

“Sisto, I just—”

But Sisto kissed him before he could finish protesting, an argument that was never going to be made in the first place, and as soon as Sam processed this, his head rushed to meet up with his lips, his hands, his legs. All at once, he kissed Sisto back with intention, the wine tasting much sweeter from the other boy’s mouth, his hand breaking free from the now slackened grip, reaching upwards to clutch at hair and jaw, his thumb swiping over Sisto’s cheek as he stepped in closer.

Of the few things he never discussed with his twin, romantic intricacies of relationships was one of them. They talked about whether or not they were seeing somebody, eventually, but even that took time, and they never dared speak about first kisses or dates. For Sam, there had never been anything to talk about, anyways.

Sam took a breath, and something in Sisto must have instructed him to steal it back, and that was when the pushing and the wine bottle crashing interrupted them, though Sam could have convinced himself that he hadn’t heard anything after all, if Sisto had been willing to play along. They looked at the spilled wine, neither saying anything or moving for a moment, then Sisto looked back at Sam, his hands still gripping the collar of his shirt, and he offered an unapologetic smile. “Well, if it’s already broken.”

And their lips met again.

***

When Sam stumbled upstairs to the second floor, still tipsy from the half drunk bottle of wine, he noticed Sofia’s bedroom door was open and gave a courtesy knock with his knuckles.

“Knock knock,” he said as if it was a joke, somehow, not noticing his sister’s faintly red-rimmed eyes.

“What do you want?” She asked, but her voice sounded wrong, and she turned onto her side to face away from him on her bed.

“Wait, what’s wrong?”

“Do you care?”

Although he was in a spectacularly good mood, and buzzed enough not to fully grasp Sofia’s mood, he felt offended that she could possibly ever believe he wouldn’t care that she was upset. “I always care, Sof.”

With a sniff, she hesitantly turned back to him, slowly sitting up and wrapping her arms around her middle. Sam entered her room fully, closing the door behind him in case one of their parents came upstairs, and sat down beside her. “What happened?”

“Pretty much exactly what you’d expect. Dad said I’m not old enough to date. Girls my age get married every day!”

“Not a great argument, but I understand.”

Not even bothering to complain about his criticism, she leaned into him, putting her head on his shoulder. “It’s not like I was going to listen to him, anyways. But he got Tony removed from his White House internship, so I’ll probably never see him again.”

“If he cares about you at all, he’ll make sure you still see each other.”

“Of course Tony cares—”

“I meant dad.”

Sofia peered up at him, disbelief temporarily replacing the sadness in her eyes. “He cares about me. He just doesn’t express it the right way.”

“Mom will talk to him. And she’ll get Tony his internship back. They kind of have to listen to her.”

She let out a weak, watery laugh. “Maybe you’re right.”

He was right. And he still felt guilty, anyways. Because it took so little for their father to punish Sofia, but when it came to Sam, he could practically get away with murder without detection. He wanted to defend Sofia without implicating himself, he just wasn’t sure how.