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seravphs · 1 year

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ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — KNIGHT! GOJO x PRINCESS! FEM READER

Gojo has devoted his entire life to protecting you as your dedicated guard. A greater force is conspiring to keep you apart.

wc — 3.7k

tags — royal au, childhood friends, forbidden love, protective Gojo, sneaking around/flouting social etiquette, period drama-esque tension between repressed princess and rakish knight, mutually possessive, title from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

part 1 of the hand which holds the knife

Everyone knew Satoru Gojo was supposed to be yours.

You claimed him the day you knighted him. He wore your colors and answered to your demands. The physical evidence of your ownership was all over him, the way someone would mark a well loved pet. Even the neck of his jacket carried your embroidery like a collar. To anyone with eyes, he was your adored guard dog.

When all of your memories blur into one stream of consciousness, the day you knighted him remains clear. You remember everything, including your father stealing him out from under you.

You were the only one who truly thought he was ever going to be yours. It was part of the promise you had sworn to each other as children, playing princess and the guard with wooden swords and flower crowns.

Looking back, you can see the gears of court machinations turning. It was no simple coincidence that the only heir to House Gojo ended up in close proximity to you, any more than any other of your introductions to sons of highborn houses.

Gojo has no interest in pretending to be a prince. It was boring for him to be trapped in restricting uniforms complete with epaulets. He found more pleasure in protecting you from danger while you preened in your gilded cage, none the wiser through his efforts. Safe and unaware, the way he liked it. You would never have to know how dangerous the world was if he simply destroyed everything in your path before it got to you.

You didn’t understand the way the adults looked at the two of you. All you knew was that you couldn’t bear to be apart from him. You rose each morning looking for him, and went to bed waiting for the minute you’d be reunited again. He was your whole world, your one and only friend. It was his hand that guided you through childhood adventures. He was the sword and shield that had cut down kidnappers and serpents for you.

The first wedge in your relationship comes with his twelfth birthday.

You chase his back through the years, watching it broaden in front of your eyes. His body changes. His voice drops. The first time you hear it after the pitchy squeaks of puberty clear from his throat, you feel the sickening wrench of something in your stomach. It had never mattered before that Gojo was a man, potentially your betrothed.

Now it burns you to look at him. He became gorgeous while you weren’t looking, all long willowy limbs and snow white hair. The women of the court have started looking at him now. They call him the beautiful dragon, after his house crest.

Even though you know reasonably that you can do nothing about this, really, you have no right to, that galls you. You’re a princess. You’re used to being able to deal with things that upset you with little more than a nod to Gojo. But he can’t solve issues that he’s the root of.

The only way to show everyone that Gojo’s devotion belongs to you is to tie him to your side. At twelve, he’s already the strongest squire in the entire kingdom. Better than most knights, even. It’s a clear path to being the greatest knight of his time, throughout all of history, even. He already promised to be your sword when you were children. All you have to do is wait.

Gojo trains and you begin to learn the extent of your royal responsibilities. Study etiquette. Marry well. Become a dutiful wife. Give the king heirs.

Gojo becomes Lord Gojo. He calls you princess now. Although part of you rebels at the idea that he would ever call you anything other than your name, another part of you can’t help the queasy feeling you get when he says your title, low and soft. Like he means it for your ears only. Like princess is just another way of showing how much of him is yours.

Gojo is not usually a proud man because he doesn’t have to be. His abilities speak for himself. But he’s cocky to a fault. He knows the extent of his capabilities, which means he won’t capitulate to anyone. Why would he?

When it comes to you, however, he bends his neck and accepts the collar willingly. The strongest can only be tamed by what he allows to tame him and it’s you, it’s always been you.

Perhaps that’s why things turn out the way they do on the day you knight him.

Or, as you find out later, your father knights him.

It was the day after your sixteenth birthday. Gojo himself had turned seventeen three months and six days before. It was strangely old for a boy of his caliber. He was so talented he could’ve been the youngest knight in the realm, but no one could make Gojo do something he didn’t want to do.

There was no shame in it, either. Everyone knew Gojo was too talented and well-connected for it to be anything other than his own choice. The only heir of House Gojo, he was destined to become a knight even if he did nothing to earn it. And he had done much to earn it.

Winning wars single handedly tended to do that. There were already legends blooming from the battlefield by the time he came home and tossed the unlucky enemy commander’s head at the king’s feat. His bow wasn’t nearly low or respectful enough to be addressed to the king, but he had been lighter-hearted back then, more willing to forgive.

Especially for Gojo, who had cut a killing swathe through the ranks of the opposing army so ruthlessly they began to call him a god of death.

Gojo kneels at your feet, his white head still high. He’s a little too tall for you, even at this angle. Lord Commander Yaga clears his throat. Gojo looks up through the wisps of hair that have escaped to obscure his eyes. They’re piercing, an attractively violent blue.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so low no one else could’ve heard the two of you even if you hadn’t been standing alone on the podium in front of the king’s throne. “Am I too tall for you now, princess?”

“Don’t tease,” you whisper back, flustered despite yourself. The pommel of the sword is clammy in your grip. You’re scared to drop it and accidentally take a finger off with it.

You’re taking too long. It’s making you anxious. You’re distinctly aware of your father’s stare boring into your back. You’ve been sheltered since you were young by your father’s paranoia, but he’s recently begun letting you apply yourself more to your royal duties. You can’t give him any reason to doubt you.

Gojo dips a little lower.

With this change in angle, you can place the flat of the blade on each of his shoulders. It’s your father’s sword, too large and unwieldy in your hands. Standing over Gojo is a strange experience. It’s uncomfortable looking down on someone who’s been taller than you for all your life.

You wish he would stop looking at you like that. His gaze is searching. You feel naked underneath it, even with layers of dresses on. When he says his vows, it feels intimate, like he’s speaking them to you. For you.

Gojo rises, shaking his hair out of his eyes like a shaggy dog. Like this, you’re reminded suddenly of how strong he is. His shoulders are broad underneath his silver armor. Lean muscle cords his legs. There’s an easy, effortless grace to the way he moves - the confidence of a man who has never been bested in his entire life.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He’s still standing too close. If it were any other man, your father would have demanded he be whipped by now, but Gojo has always gotten away with things no one could. He ducks his head so he can speak directly into your ear - dangerous, even for him. He says his piece fast. “I’ll see you in your rooms, my lady.”

Then he pulls back.

There are thunderclouds gathering across the king’s face, but when you shake your head, your father relents. He smiles and kisses your temple as you climb up the steps of the platform of his throne to return the sword to him.

Years later, you learn that the moment you leave the throne room, your shoulders sure with the knowledge that Gojo is finally secure in your grasp, your father takes up the sword you had held and knights him. Princesses have no authority to confer knighthood. Only kings.

You know your father means well. He loves you. You’re all he has left. If Gojo pushed for your hand to be one that he swears loyalty to first, then your father would have been happy to comply either way. You just wish you would’ve known that it meant nothing.

There’s a sharp rap on your door, followed by two short, one long. A code you had devised a long time ago. You pull open the door and Gojo all but falls into your room. He’s pressed up against you, front to front as he closes the door behind him, tumbling you into your bed.

“Hi, princess,” he says, his breath warm against your neck. You squirm in his hold, feeling heat rush through your veins. It’s getting harder and harder to hide the way he affects you, but you don’t want anything to change between the two of you. Though sometimes, you swear Gojo likes using your title so much precisely because he knows how you react to it.

“We have to stop doing this,” you tell him, like you tell him every time. “It’s inappropriate.”

He groans and pushes away from you. You mourn the loss of contact. “Come on, don’t make me do this again. Who cares if it’s inappropriate? Who says?”

“Dame Zenin thinks we’re too close.”

“Dame Zenin is an idiot,” Gojo says. “You know she only says that because she wants to get rid of me so you’ll look at Naoya. As if you would ever, even if I was gone.”

“Still.”

Gojo grabs your chin in his hand. “You are a princess and I am the only heir to House Gojo. We bow to no one, understand? What right do mice have to judge dragons?”

He’s the dragon, you think. Your crest is the rose. You exist to be judged. That’s the role of a princess.

Gojo sprawls out on your bed. He’s so tall he takes up more than half of it, even though your bed was built to be more than twice your size. His eyes are shut, his long white lashes soft. He looks gentle in repose, almost like a lamb with his coloring.

He’s beautiful. He always is. You want to touch, to hold, to claim. You want to press your ear against his chest and steal the thunderous beat of his heart for your own. You want to press your rouged lips to his neck and collarbones, to mark his body with a muted rose.

Instead, you sit stiff, prim and proper.

He opens his eyes. “Come here,” he says, his arm reaching for you. You let him pull you closer.

As always, he has to reach out first. You can’t allow yourself to take what you want. It’s not in your nature, the way you were raised.

You bury your face into the space between his neck and his shoulder.

“There we go,” he coos. Your face burns with the condescension of it, the way he treats you like an animal that has to be carefully coaxed closer. But he’s not wrong, and that’s why you let him pet you into submission, gently stroking your sides as he tangles his legs with yours.

You were never so affected by him as children. Somewhere along the way, Gojo had become unmanageable to you, and you don’t know what to do about it.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs against your hair. “Where are you going off to in that pretty head of yours?”

“I’m with you,” you whisper against his neck. “I’m always here.”

You’ve spoiled him, you think. When you were a child, you didn’t know any better. Gojo was just Gojo. Letting him stay by your side even as you got older was an indulgence that he now pushes the limits of. He’s never cared about propriety.

“You have to go back to your room now,” you whisper reluctantly. You’re always the more cautious one of your duo. It’s been too long. Someone will become suspicious. For once, you wish you could just let go of your worries, but someone has to check Gojo. If both of you just did whatever you wanted, it’d be the ruin of your houses. This is how it has to be: Gojo pushes and you pull back.

The dim light of the dying candles make his blue eyes appear black. “Give me something of yours first,” he says.

You know what he’s asking for. You climb up from the bed and go into your dresser to search, turning up one of your handkerchiefs. It bears the colors of your house and your careful embroidery.

He kneels at your feet.

“Stop,” you say, trying to pull away.

Gojo presses a kiss to your hand. His lips are soft against the skin of your hand, temptation incarnate. Your fingers tremble lightly in his grasp, torn between wanting to seize him and wanting to run away. The enormity of your desire for him terrifies you. If you ever let him in for one second, you can see how easy your descent would be.

“I’m yours, princess. Don’t forget it.”

With that, he ties your favor around his wrist and finally leaves you to your room, panting like you’d run through the halls. No matter how old you get, Gojo always leads in your interactions. He plays with you, enjoying the way he can make you react to him.

It’s normal for a princess to visit the training yard, you try to convince yourself the next day. There’s nothing strange about stopping by while you’re on your afternoon walk. After all, you should keep abreast of everything within your castle.

Gojo stands in the center of the yard. He’s demonstrating one of his self created drills, a complicated set of maneuvers only he can pull off. In short, he’s showing off while pretending like he’s doing the class a favor by trying to teach them something.

Lord Commander Yaga notices you the moment you set foot in the yard. You should expect it. After all, it’s his territory.

“Attention,” he bellows. “The princess is here.”

Gojo perks up and finishes his final set of movements even faster. He throws his sword carelessly to the side, leaving a young squire scrambling to catch the priceless weapon as he strides towards you.

He’s a little sweaty. You want to wrap your arms around him anyways, but you restrain yourself.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” you say.

Gojo grins at you. It’s a sharp thing, his smile, hungry and wolfish. “Not at all. I was just thinking of you, my lady.”

You tilt your head at him curiously.

Around you, the men are scrambling to line up into neat little rows.

“I’m picking a squire,” Gojo says. “Would you like to make the decision for me?”

It’s a question that shocks you. You whirl to look at him again, see if he’s joking like usual, but he seems perfectly serious. “I don’t know anything about knighthood,” you tell him the truth.

He moves closer. You’re tempted to step back immediately, but you don’t. You don’t want a sign of discomfort to be misinterpreted and used against him. Besides, you relish the proximity. Seeing Gojo in public feels like dancing on blades. The adrenaline terrifies you, but you can’t stop wanting more of it.

“You may not, but you know people. I trust your judgement.”

A cursory scan of the boys in front of you reveals little. They’re all stiff and proper, their backs as straight as they can make them. Some stand with their arms glued to their sides, others fidget with their swords. Every single one of them is eager for the chance to be acknowledged by the princess. They’re equally hopeful for the chance to squire for the greatest knight in the kingdom.

None of them catch your eye on the first or second passes.

Only on the third, a boy with pink hair smiles at you. It’s such a small gesture. But for a boy who had looked just like everyone else at first, the toothy smile splits his features. It opens him up. He looks kind.

You gesture him forward.

Lord Commander Yaga nods approvingly. “Itadori is a good one, Your Royal Highness. He’s one of the best in this batch. Naturally strong, but just as hardworking.”

“See,” Gojo says. “I knew you would choose well.”

He touches your hand briefly, slipping a white scrap of paper inside your closed fist before he grabs Itadori by the shoulder and hauls him off for further training. Although disappointed, the other squires still look starstruck to be in his presence, though Yaga disperses them all to train themselves soon enough.

In elegant cursive, Gojo has written a time and place.

You shouldn’t go.

You can’t risk it.

All eyes are on you and Gojo as it is. People already suspect the two of you of something unsavory. Courtly love is one thing, but you and Gojo are too close for an unmarried man and a woman. As a princess, your sole purpose is to marry well and bring alliances to your house. You can’t risk damaging your reputation.

But every stolen encounter with Gojo steals your breath away. You sneak through the halls, quiet and empty.

A hand slaps over your mouth before you can scream as someone tugs you into a dark corridor.

You kick and lash out, forgetting everything Gojo has taught you in favor of blind violence.

“Shh,” comes a voice in your ear. “It’s just me.”

You bite him.

He hisses and pulls back, shaking out his hand. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Why would you do that? You scared me!”

“You’re not careful enough, princess. There was a maid coming up on your left that you hadn’t even noticed.”

You sigh and lean into him. You can’t help it.

He laughs. “Are you that happy to see me?”

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll show you exactly how happy I am.”

“Come on,” he tugs you out towards the gardens. It’s dangerous, but you follow him anyway. Being with Gojo is so threatening not despite his strength, but because of it. You rely on him too easily, trusting him to see you safely through any peril. It’s easy to relax when he’s with you, his presence the promise of security.

You expect him to tell you why he called you here, but he’s silent when he tugs you down on the bench next to him.

“Gojo?”

“Here,” he says, opening his hands. A single crushed violet sits on his palm. You laugh, picking it up and raising to your eye. It’s all the more fragrant because it has been mangled, the delicate petals bruised.

Gojo’s mouth lifts in a smile, too. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize.”

“You really know how to win a girl’s heart,” you tease.

“Hopefully I know how to win over her father’s, too.”

You freeze.

“I’m sorry. I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to ask your father to be your dedicated knight tomorrow. Do I have your permission?”

You hesitate, worrying your lip with your teeth, but Gojo understands. Years of watching after you, bandaging your scrapes that you refuse to cry over or avenging your honor after you pretend your pride hasn’t been hurt has taught him a lot. He can see right through you. You never need to hide when you’re with him.

“It’s alright,” he says. “We can wait.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to be my guard,” you say in a small voice. “I just-”

“I know,” he says. “But I’m the strongest. Who else would your father ask to protect you but me?”

“Do you think he’ll say yes?”

Gojo looks at you seriously. “I’ll get down on both knees and beg him if I have to.”

“Don’t do that,” you gasp.

“I don’t care,” he says. “You’re what’s most important to me. More than pride, more than honor. Can I ask your father for you?”

You look at the crushed violet in your hand.

Who else but Gojo?

You press the flower back into his palm. “I trust you to do what’s right.”

His eyes soften. He leans closer.

“Gojo,” comes a voice. “What are you doing in the gardens this late at night?”

You stiffen. The owner of the voice is drawing closer.

“Do you trust me?” Gojo asks, as cool and collected as ever.

You nod, not trusting your voice not to give you away. He cups your face in his hands and ever so delicately presses a light kiss to your cheek, tilting his head towards you.

“Stop,” he tells the man behind you. “Don’t come any closer. You’ll scare her.”

“A new plaything?” Asks the Lord Commander. “I’m not so scary, am I?”

Gojo notices you tremble harder. He lifts a hand to the back of your head and presses it gently towards his shoulder, obscuring your face even further. “Come here, darling,” he murmurs. “That’s right, what a good little thing,” he says as you press yourself into him. He pulls you over his lap, your legs straddling his waist as he runs his hand up and down your back. “Keep your head down,” he whispers to you. You tuck your face farther into the crook of his neck.

Louder, he responds to Yaga. “The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is a terrifying man, or so I’ve heard.”

“Just escort her to her room when you’re done,” Yaga says gruffly. “I don’t need to tell you to be a gentleman, do I?”

“No, sir,” Gojo says cheerfully.

In hindsight, you’re still not sure if Yaga recognized you or not. On one hand, he’s known you since you were a child. He watched, a silent guard, as your father raised you. On the other hand, he’s never brought it up to you.

The only other reason you suspect he realized who you really were was Gojo’s induction into the kingsguard the very next day.

#sera writes #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader

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sergle · 6 months

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I appreciate that you put thought into whether you can put enough time/resources into a new dog though. some people adopt pets with no plans for how they'll care for them but it's nice to see you taking it seriously. idk does that make sense. serious dog ownership

HEY HI I APPRECIATE THAT SO MUCH because I do try really hard to be a Responsible dog owner. everyone remembers, I was over-preparing for the day we brought Hugo home as a puppy lmao

#I clocked like 40 hours of watching training videos #and guess what. absorbed it all.#all that info? it's In Me now. I just Have It #being overprepared for an aminal IS good. it stresses me out when people just. Get A Puppy #but they don't have any plans for what to... do with it?#idk perhaps I'm a freak. but Hugo has such a tight schedule #and I had really concrete plans for his training and upbringing #and I feel like all of it was to his benefit. because he's so sweet and well behaved #sergle answers

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pittieandpoodle · 11 months

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idk, pitbulls have such a complicated history (in america i’m american this post is us centric i’m sorry but i’m american so it’s what i know) that several things can be and are true at once

pitbulls are not inherently dangerous and violent and many of them do make excellent family pets

historically, pitbulls were bred for dog aggression and high prey drive, but not for human aggression

more recently, there’s been an increase in human-aggressive pitbulls, even though this is technically against breed standard

when pitbulls attack, it’s likely to cause a lot of damage due to their size, strength, and tenacity

not all pitbulls will attack dogs/animals/humans

some pitbulls will attack dogs/animals/humans

pitbulls are responsible for a portion of fatal dog attacks

pitbulls are not the only breed associated with fatal dog attacks

some pitbulls require experienced owners/handlers to provide them with a fulfilling, safe life

some pitbulls are happy with a first time dog owner and will likely never have a problem with safety or aggression

socialization is key to raising a pitbull

you cannot change the genetics of the pitbull you have

it’s almost like… this is an incredibly nuanced and complicated topic, and the “solution” to the “problem” of modern pitbull ownership is widespread, intense education for owners, rehabbing the shelter/rescue system (no more refusing to PTS dogs who cannot safely live in human society for the love of god), and establishing fair and enforceable guidelines for dog breeding.

to be quite honest, i don’t think i’ll live to see the day that pitbulls are not a controversial topic just by virtue of existing.

#don’t even get me started on how racism and classism plays into the pitbull discussuon #anywayyyyyyyyyyyy

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hockey-fics · 11 months

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Next Summer ~ Brock Boeser

Summary: The summers spent at your family’s cabin were some of your favourite memories. When you return as an adult you discover that maybe not everything from the past was really left in the past.

Word Count: ~5,300

Warnings: Drinking, implied smut (I guess, but it’s very fleeting and vague)

Traditions didn’t hold a huge place in your life growing up. Every Christmas you bounced from one relative’s home to another. Thanksgiving dinners almost never looked the same. Cousins and aunts and uncles would come and go, years of family dinners and holiday gatherings would go by before you would see them again.

But there was always one thing that you looked forward to each and every year. Every summer, for two and a half months, you would drive down from your home in the suburbs to the cabin on the lake. You would get to forget about school and homework and bedtimes. You would spend all day out in the summer sun, sticky with sunscreen and bug spray.

Your family wasn’t the only one. Each of those cabins along that shoreline would come alive. The quiet beaches would fill with children, adults on decks drinking a few hours before it became socially acceptable anywhere else. Dark nights would be brightened by campfires and beams from unsteady flashlights, held onto by kids who should have been in bed long ago.

There was a sense of peace that was brought on by that property. Time moved slower, everyone seemed happier, things felt easier. But as time went on you started spending less and less time out there. You went away to university. You became busy with internships and jobs and leases that didn’t end for the few months of summer.

But eventually the property lost the interest of your parents. With no children at home, familiar friends who once had cabins up there selling them off, the time and energy and money to take care of it no longer seemed to be worth it. You yourself hadn’t been there in a couple years, though the memories were as vivid as always. So when the option of them gifting the property to you came up it took little consideration for you to say yes.

After packing your car full of essentials you headed up to the cabin shortly after the exchange of ownership. When you pull up to the familiar cabin there’s a sense of ease that washes over you, even now that you had a truckload of responsibility to go with coming up here.

Hoping out of the car you bring everything inside, the memories flooding in. After putting your groceries in the kitchen, sheets on the bed, and pulling the patio couch cushions out you head out onto the deck to enjoy the fresh air and slight breeze rolling in off the lake.

A few minutes after flopping down onto the patio furniture you’re greeted by a big white dog, tail wagging crazily as he stares up at you.

“Hey buddy,” you say, reaching over and scratching him behind the ear. “Where did you come from?”

“Milo.”

Tipping your head up you look in the direction of the man calling for who you would guess to be the dog that was standing in front of you. Standing up you walk towards the edge of your deck, the dog following after you, nose nudging at your hand. “I think-,” you begin, freezing when you notice who was standing in the yard next to you. “Oh my god,” you laugh, hurrying down the stairs. “You’re still around, hey?”

You grew up with Brock. At least for two months of the year every summer. You were the same age and his family owned the property next door. The crush you had on Brock spanned from early in your life right up till the last summer you spent together right after high school graduation.

“Holy shit,” Brock comments, shaking his head. He has his arms around you as soon as you’re close enough for him to reach you. “Of course I’m still around, I’m out here every summer. You’re the one who vanished.”

Pulling back you look up at Brock, shaking your head. “Sorry, we don’t all have an off-season.”

“I guess you’ve got a point,” Brock chuckles. “Just out here for the weekend then?”

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” you admit. “The place is mine now and I work remotely so I guess I could be out here as long as I want but I don’t know, it feels weird to think about being here that long again.”

“Yours, hey?” Brock states, glancing behind you at the house. “Are your parents okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” you assure him. “Just not as interested in getting drunk on the lake everyday of the summer anymore.”

Brock laughs, glancing out at the lake before turning his attention back to you. “Well I’m glad it’s yours now, wouldn’t want to see anyone else here.”

You couldn’t deny the way he still managed to fill your stomach with butterflies, even all these years. “Me too,” you say, voice quiet. Glancing down you pet the dog again that had still not left your side.

“I see you’ve met Milo,” Brock comments, glancing over his shoulder and pointing to the second dog that was laying under the shade of a tree. “That one’s Coolie.”

“They’re very cute,” you tell him, smiling down at Milo. “How long are you up here for?”

Brock shrugs, like time didn’t mean anything to him. “Till sometime in August.”

“So I guess we have plenty of time to catch up then.”

“Absolutely,” Brock says with a smile. “You want to come over for a drink or something?”

“I’d be down for a drink.”

You follow Brock across the yard and onto the deck, accepting the can of cider he offers before sitting down on the soft cushions of one of the patio cushions. “So, what’s new in your life?”

Brock shrugs, flopping down onto the patio sectional, Milo joining him seconds later. “Not too much, I guess. Just been in Vancouver for the last while playing for the Canucks.”

You can’t help but laugh at his comment. “Well I know that much, can’t exactly stay under the radar as a professional athlete.”

“I guess,” Brock chuckles. “What about you though, you seem to be staying under the radar pretty well.”

“Gotta keep a little mystery…or my life just isn’t that exciting, I don’t know. I got my degree, moved back to Minnesota and now I’m just working from home…living the life, really,” you joke.

“I can’t imagine you not making life exciting.”

Rolling your eyes playfully you take a sip of your drink. “Why’s that? Because I used to steal my parent’s alcohol and try to convince everyone to go swimming in the middle of the night?”

“Well that was pretty exciting back then,” Brock laughs.

“Are you out here alone?” you ask, looking towards the cabin. It was pretty quiet for anyone else to be here but you almost couldn’t imagine Brock ever being alone.

“Yeah, for now,” Brock nods. “My, um, my mom doesn’t really come up very much anymore.”

“Right,” you say quietly. You hadn’t talked to Brock in a very long time, but that didn’t mean you didn’t know anything about his life, including his father.

“I have a few friends coming up in a few days though,” Brock tells you, his inflection rising, an obvious attempt to change the topic.

“Uh oh,” you joke with a playful smile. “Sounds like trouble.”

“Hey, now, I’ve never been trouble,” Brock defends, laughing under his breath.

“I don’t know about that one,” you tease.

The two of you sit on Brock’s deck, drink after drink as you exchanged stories from the nearly 10 years since the last time you saw each other. You didn’t even realize how long had passed or how late it had gotten till the sun was beginning to set and you realized your mind was hazy from the alcohol.

“I guess I should get going, don’t want to overstay my welcome,” you say, finishing off the last of the drink you had in your hand.

“You never could,” Brock tells you, taking the empty can from your hand as you stand up. “But I won’t hold you here either.”

“I appreciate that,” you laugh, glancing back to your cabin. “I should probably go figure out dinner though.”

“Fair enough,” Brock chuckles. “See you tomorrow?”

“I’m sure you will,” you tell him, heading down the steps of the deck and back over to your own house.

After making yourself a late dinner you head to bed, your mind unable to think of much more than Brock. It was clear that your feelings for him hadn’t entirely disappeared. But eventually you manage to clear your mind enough to fall asleep, sleeping peacefully through the night till the sun shining through the blinds in your room wakes you up.

You make yourself some breakfast before dragging your laptop out onto the deck with your mug of coffee to get some work done for the day. It’s not long before your attention is broken by the sound of Brock’s voice, calling after his dogs as they run out the door and towards the lake.

Smiling you watch the dogs for a few minutes as they splash around in the shallow water of the lake. When you look away from them you see Brock looking in your direction, raising his hand in a friendly wave.

“Morning,” you call to him, sitting up straighter to look over the edge of the patio railing as Brock comes closer.

“How was your first night back out here?”

“It was great,” you tell him. “Do you want some coffee?”

Brock’s eyes shift to your laptop before looking back at you. “I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re working.”

Shrugging you push yourself away from the table to stand up. “I’ve been missing the interruptions you get working in an office anyway,” you tell him with a smile. “Do you want anything in it?”

“Some cream if you have it.” Brock makes his way up the steps of the deck, sitting down at the table across from you as you return with a mug of coffee for him. “Got any plans for after work?”

“Not really,” you tell him, sitting back down and looking over your laptop at him.

“I just bought a couple stand-up paddle boards a few weeks ago. Would you want to come test them out with me?”

“As long as you promise not to laugh at me when I fall off.”

“I promise,” Brock chuckles. “You can get back to your work if you want, I don’t want to distract you.”

“Hard not to be distracted by you,” you tell him, a playful smile on your lips.

“Well I’m always happy to be your distraction.”

After Brock finishes his coffee he heads back to his own place, giving you a chance to actually get some uninterrupted work time in. It’s nearly 5 when you wrap up everything you had to finish for the day. Changing out of the pyjamas you had spent the better half of the day in you tug a pair of shorts over a bikini, heading across the yard to Brock’s place.

With the garage door wide open you step into it, watching Brock doing kettlebell swings.

“Enjoying the view?” Brock asks, looking at you through the mirror when he finishes up his set.

“Well I can’t say I’m not enjoying it,” you tell him, glancing around the garage turned gym. “This is pretty impressive, I remember when this place was filled with bikes and beach toys.”

Brock turns around to face you, wiping a layer of sweat from his forehead. “I needed to have something out here to train if I want to spend this long out here.”

“Makes sense. Well, I can get out of here to stop distracting you, when did you want to go out on the paddle boards?”

“I’m just finishing up here, I’ll probably go have a shower before we head out.”

“Do I get to enjoy that view too?” you joke.

Brock chuckles, reaching down to pick up the kettlebell again. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

Shaking your head you take a step out of the garage. “I’ll meet you down at the beach when you’re ready.”

“Okay, see you in a bit,” Brock says as you head out of the garage.

Finding a beach towel you head out onto the end of the dock that was connected to your yard, laying it out and shimmying out of your shorts. Laying down on your stomach you rest your head on your arms, enjoying the way the sun felt like a warm blanket cloaked over your body.

It’s not long before you hear Brock calling your name and you roll onto your back, looking down to the end of the dock.

“Ready to go?” Brock calls.

Collecting your things from the dock you hurry down to meet Brock, following him to grab the paddle boards before heading to the edge of the lake. The water is surprisingly warm for July and you climb onto your paddle board with a shocking amount of ease.

After steadying yourself the two of you begin to paddle along the shoreline, your conversation falling to quick comments here and there as you focus intensely on keeping yourself upright. By the time you make it back to the section of the lake in front of your house you’re more than ready to follow Brock’s lead and sit down on the board, floating easily on the still water.

“You’re pretty good at this,” Brock tells you.

Your legs are crossed in front of you, arms behind you on the board as you lean back into them. “Guess my balance is better than I expected.”

“I’m kind of disappointed I didn’t get to see you fall in.”

“Oh, you want to see me get wet?” you joke.

“I-I, that’t…well, I mean, I-,” Brock stammers, shaking his head as he gives up on his sentence.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you tease, giggling as you stretch your legs out in front of you. “What are your plans for tonight?”

Brock hesitates for a second, eyes narrowing. “Are you hinting at something?”

It takes you a moment to realize what was going on, reaching down and running your hand through the lake to splash Brock. “No,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I was going to see if you wanted to come over for dinner.”

“Oh,” Brock laughs, eyes diverting down to the surface of the lake, cheeks flushing red. “Yeah, dinner sounds great.”

After putting the paddle boards away you and Brock head over to your place, digging through the kitchen to try to figure out what to make for dinner. You hadn’t really thought through your plan, inviting Brock over before you even know what you would make for dinner.

“You’ve been in the fridge for awhile,” Brock comments, sitting at the bar counter on the other side of the kitchen, watching you curiously.

Sighing you turn around, shutting the door behind you. “I don’t actually know what to make,” you admit.

“I can tell,” Brock laughs. “What are the options?”

“Whatever is in the fridge,” you tell him, gesturing to it.

Brock slides off the stool, walking across the kitchen to pull the fridge open. His eyes scan the shelves for a few minutes before slowly turning towards you. “Do you need me to go to the grocery store for you tomorrow or something?”

Rolling your eyes you push yourself between Brock and the fridge, your back pressing against him as you join him in staring into the nearly empty fridge. “Look, I know it’s bad but I didn’t plan to stay more than a night or two.”

“And were you planning on only eating eggs and spinach for three days?”

“Maybe,” you hum. “I didn’t plan to have dinner guests I would need to impress.”

“You don’t need to impress me,” Brock whispers, his hands falling to your hips. “Now will you agree to come have dinner at my place instead?”

Your mind tunes in to the feeling of Brock’s hands on your body, your heart hammering heavily in your chest. While you were so caught up in your thoughts you realized you hadn’t answered the question within a length of time that was even remotely normal. “Uh, yeah, sure, that sounds good.”

Brock steps back, his hands falling from your hips and leaving your body longing for more. Sighing to yourself you fish a bottle of wine out from otherwise bare fridge, hurrying after Brock.

It’s not long before you’re standing next to Brock, a glass of white wine in your hand while you watch him barbecue a couple steaks. “Was inviting me over just a scheme to get me to feel bad for you and cook you dinner?”

“I wish I was that calculated.” Bringing your glass to your lips you take a small sip, gravitating a little closer to Brock. “I like how this worked out though.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you do,” Brock teases, reaching over and wrapping his arm around your waist, tugging you into his side.

You let out a shaky breath, fingers clutching tighter onto your wine glass. With your heart racing you try to act natural, like your stomach wasn’t absolutely alive with butterflies, like your thoughts weren’t racing a million miles an hour about nothing but Brock.

“You okay?” Brock asks, the smirk on his face was enough to tell you that he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Fuck off,” you laugh, shaking your head. “You’re so used to this aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?” Brock laughs, eyebrows furrowed as he looks away from the barbecue to turn his attention to you.

“Tall, handsome hockey player who can get women to absolutely fall apart like it’s nothing,” you tease.

“I’m not that tall,” Brock comments, pulling the steak off the barbecue.

“Oh, but you know how handsome you are.”

Brock gives you a simple shrug, chuckling as he picks up the plate of steak, letting you go to head back inside. Rolling your eyes you follow Brock back into the house, refilling your wine glass before leaning against the counter.

“I’m actually surprised you don’t have a girlfriend,” you comment, watching Brock plate up the steak and salad the two of you had made earlier.

“Why’s that?” Brock asks, setting the plates down on the table next to the large window that overlooks the lake.

“I just told you why outside, you just want to hear me talk about how great you are,” you joke, sitting down at the table across from Brock.

“Well I could say the same thing about you,” Brock retorts, switching the conversation around onto you.

“Because I’m a tall, handsome hockey player?” you joke, taking another drink from your wine.

Brock shakes his head with a breath of laughter. “Seriously, weren’t you with someone for quite awhile?”

Nodding slowly you inhale deeply, polishing off what was left in your glass of wine.

“That bad, hey?” Brock asks, reaching for the bottle of wine to refill your glass.

“No…I mean, yeah, I guess, I don’t know,” you sigh, picking up your newly refilled glass. “We were together for three years in university.”

Brock nods, taking a bite of his dinner, evidently waiting for you to continue to fill in the details of your vague story.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” you assure him with a breath of laughter. “I’m just glad it ended when it did.”

“For what it’s worth I’m pretty glad it ended as well.”

Scoffing you raise your eyebrows, shaking your head. “Why?” you ask, already well aware of why.

“Well I don’t think I’d get to be sitting here having dinner with you right now if you were still with him.”

Tipping your head to the side you gaze across the table, a soft smile on your lips. “Does that mean there’s something more than friendly happening here, Brock?”

“I’ve had some more than friendly thoughts,” Brock admits.

You can feel your cheeks reddening, looking down at the table. “Oh,” you mutter.

“Sorry, I, was that too much or-.”

“No, no,” you interrupt, breathing out a nervous laugh. “Just, um, been awhile since I’ve flirted with anyone.”

“There’s no way that’s true.”

“Yes it is,” you exclaim, laughing quietly. “I honestly don’t meet a lot of new people and I don’t usually make it a habit of flirting with my friends.”

“I’m glad you made an exception.”

Laughing softly you pick up your glass of wine, taking another sip, enjoying the warm buzz the alcohol was filling you with. “Me too,” you whisper as you set it down, gazing over at Brock.

Finally you two finish the dinner that had been nearly forgotten amidst the conversation. After the dishes are done you head out onto the deck to continue your conversation. Before long the sun is set and the bottle of wine is empty. After another goodbye that you know won’t be for long you head back to your own house, falling asleep easily to the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore through the open window.

The next few days leading up to the weekend feel busier than any days you had in a long time. After work you would join Brock for some activity or another. A trip into town to properly stock your fridge. An evening on the boat. More paddle boarding and kayaking and even partaking in a couple sessions in Brock’s home gym.

And before you knew it you had finished up your work from the week, time seeming to be flying by now that you were spending it with Brock.

Friday night. You hadn’t expected your Fridays to remain as exciting after leaving the city. But you also didn’t expect to be spending it with Brock and a handful of his friends.

“Still impressed with your Spikeball skills, to be honest,” Jack says, standing next to you by the fire, a bottle of beer in his hand. You had spent the afternoon fighting to keep up in many competitive rounds of Spikeball on the beach, something you did better than even you had expected you would do.

“I’m kind of offended by how much you underestimated me,” you laugh. Lifting your red solo cup filled with tequila and grapefruit soda wincing at the flavour, the ratio of tequila to mixer so off it would make a bartender cry.

“Sorry, I promise I won’t do it again,” Jack chuckles. “I’ll make sure we’re always on the same team from now on.”

“Good,” you say, extending your hand to shake his on the agreement. “We can be a power duo.”

“Power couple,” Jack comments with a smirk.

Rolling your eyes playfully you take another gulp of your drink. “Pretty bold of you.”

“What can I say? I’m a bold guy.”

Before you can get another comment in you feel a hand run along your lower back, stopping on your waist. With a slight flinch you turn your head, body relaxing when you realize it was Brock, though you were still a little surprised by the physical contact. Brock places his fingers under your chin, tipping your head back so you were looking up at him. You don’t even have time to process what’s happening before he’s pressing a soft and quick kiss to your lips.

“H-hi,” you stammer, voice soft as your cheeks redden. “What, um, what’s going on?”

“Just coming to check on you,” Brock whispers.

“Shit, sorry man,” Jack mutters to Brock, nervous eyes shifting back to the fire you were all standing around.

“Don’t worry about it,” Brock tells him dismissively. “Want to come with me to get another drink?” Brock asks you.

With a quick nod you let Brock take your hand in his, guiding you around the fire and up into the quiet cabin.

“Okay, what the fuck was that, Brock?” you exclaim, now in the privacy of the kitchen.

“I-,” Brock begins, shaking his head. “Have I been reading this wrong? I thought…I thought…haven’t we been flirting since you got here?”

“I mean, yes,” you exhale. “But what the fuck was that? Why’d you choose that moment to kiss me?”

“I’m sorry,” Brock mumbles, swallowing heavily. “But you two were flirting and I didn’t want to lose you and I-.”

“I wasn’t flirting with him.” Stepping closer you reach up, your hands on either side of Brock’s face. “You have to trust that I would never do anything with your friends.” Rolling forward onto your toes you lean closer to Brock, your lips brushing against his. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Brock mutters before kissing you again. It’s longer this time, your lips moving with his as you wrap one arm around his shoulders. Brock runs one hand around your back, tugging your body closer as his tongue brushes against yours. He’s pushing you against the kitchen counter a second later, your head spinning with the mix of overwhelming emotions and the effects of the tequila.

A strangled moan emanates from your throat just before you hear the crashing of the cabin door closing. Pulling back from Brock you stare up at him with a guilty smile, as if you were still just a couple teenagers sneaking around at the summer cabin.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Sam declares, taking a step back towards the door.

“No, no, you’re good,” you assure him. “We were just, um, about to head back out.”

“Were we?” Brock asks, voice quiet as he places his hands on your hips, pulling your back into his chest.

With a quiet giggle you tip your head back, looking up at Brock. “We can pick his back up later,” you assure him.

Back outside you let Brock pull you onto his lap on one of the chairs around the fire. You knew it was some drunken, misplaced desire to exert the fact that there was indeed something happening between the two of you that was more than just friendly.

The rest of the night is spent in loud conversations, rambunctious laughter echoing off the still lake. By the time the night is over and people begin trickling off to head inside you’re more than ready to have some time alone with Brock.

“I’m going to head home now, want to walk over there with me?” you ask Brock before standing up.

“Yeah, of course,” Brock replies taking your hand and walking back to your cabin.

Inside you take Brock’s other hand, tugging him closer. “Do you want to spend the night here?”

“Yes,” Brock replies quickly before pressing his lips to yours again, kissing you with an eagerness that you quickly matched.

Before long the two of you had stumbled your way up to your room, the silence of the cabin being interrupted by the sounds of your moans.

Laying breathlessly next to Brock, your body flushed and tired, you can’t help but begin to worry about the implications of the situation. Was this just because you were both drunk? Did he really have feelings for you or was this all just because of the alcohol?

After tugging some pyjamas on and using the bathroom you crawl back into bed with Brock, resting your head on his shoulder, arm over his chest. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Brock hums, running his fingers along your back.

“Do you, um…was this, I just,” you stammer, finally pulling yourself away from him, sitting up and staring across the dark room at the slice of moonlight that was shining on the wall through the curtains. “Was this just a meaningless hook-up? Because I actually have feelings for you,” you admit.

You feel Brock run his hand along your back, fingers curling around your waist as he tugs you back to lay next to him. “No, it wasn’t,” he assures you, kissing your temple before you settle in next to him. “I was so into you when we were growing up. Every summer since high school I’ve hoped you would show up again.”

“I don’t believe you,” you giggle. “I had the biggest crush on you back then, you can’t steal my story,” you tease.

“Back then?”

Rolling your eyes you reach over and take his hand, squeezing it gently. “Still do.”

“Good,” Brock chuckles.

And just like that the two of you fall into a comfortable silence that quickly turns to a deep sleep. After that first night together the two of you grew closer, no longer just spending the days together but the nights as well.

Every morning you would wake up next to Brock, often going for a walk with the dogs before you would have breakfast together. Then you would spend the majority of the day working at your place. After you were done your work for the day you would head over and join Brock for dinner.

For the next month and a half everything felt easy and fun. The daily stress you normally felt when you were back at your apartment had almost dissipated entirely. You grew closer and closer with Brock, falling more and more for him with each passing day. Time had begun to slip by faster and faster, till the majority of the summer was now in the past and you were getting closer and closer to the day where the cabins would be shuttered as everyone returned to the real world.

Laying on your couch you stare out through the large window at the sheets of rain pouring from the sky. The summer was coming to an end whether you wanted to admit it or not and the grey sky was doing its part to remind you of that. Brock’s car was already packed, his place was tidied and ready for his departure.

You have your head on Brock’s chest, your arm draped over his stomach. He’s running his hand along your back and with each passing second you begin growing closer to tears. You didn’t want to admit how much it felt like your chest was being ripped apart.

Sniffling quietly you try to blink away the tears in your eyes before Brock could notice. But you weren’t as secretive as you had hoped. “Are you okay?” Brock whispers.

Nodding you lift your head from his chest, wiping at your eyes. “Yeah, it’s stupid.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Brock assures you, waiting for you to go on.

“I just don’t want this to end,” you admit. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t either.” Brock wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” you mumble, shuffling in your seat to face him. Taking one of Brock’s hands in yours you give it a quick squeeze, glossy eyes staring across the small distance between you and Brock.

“Because I never meant to hurt you.” Brock reaches over, brushing away a few of the tears that had spilled from your eyes onto your cheeks.

“You didn’t mean to hurt me, Brock. I know you didn’t,” you assure him with a quick sniffle, eyes gazing down at your interlocked fingers. “I would rather be hurt now than to never have had this summer with you.”

Brock leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “I just wish we had more time.”

“Me too,” you whisper, lifting your eyes to look back up at him. “Maybe we can next summer.”

Brock nods slowly, pushing a piece of your hair behind your ear. “Next summer,” he echoes as a tear slides down your cheek no longer caring enough to wipe them away, no longer fighting the sadness in your heart. Because the pain was going to happen whether you wanted it or not. But maybe, just maybe, the promise of next summer would be enough to help you deal with the sadness.

#brock boeser #brock boeser imagine #brock boeser fanfic #Brock Boeser one shot #brock boeser fic #nhl one shot #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl fanfic #nhl imagines

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beenjen · 4 months

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I’m having a bit of a struggle. Generalizing, and maybe it’s a me thing, I just don’t feel I can be successful with ALL the different balls I’m juggling up in the air.

I either kill it at work, have a clean home, have my self care on point, have an amazing connection with my husband, nail it at parenting, or I’m dropping one of the ‘balls’ and it shatters.

> If the house is clean and I’m working out regularly, I may forget a kid assignment, not get a good conversation with hubs.

> if hubs and I are really quality timing, the house goes to shit, the yard is a disaster and the kids may get too much screen time.

> if I’m on point with my job, I’m not keeping tight enough check with my dad, I forget the dogs medicine and I might miss yoga.

Why does this feel so hard? The more I work at balance, it’s like a handful of sand - you cup your palm and the sand stays there, but you try to grip it and hold onto it, it’s squeezing out, oozing between your fingers, sifting to the ground. Is it that I need to chill the fuck out? Am I not chill enough? I constantly feel like an utter failure.

I’ll have a brilliant success at work and amazing patient engagement, but a call from school that the kids are doing x/y, or I’ll fuss with hubs. I’ll do amazing at getting caught up with laundry, grocery shop, make dentist appointments, but somehow miss the kids are out for an ENTIRE WEEK IN MARCH.

Which is what happened. The kids, as long as we’ve been at this school, have not had a full week off. We extend the week in the fall for a full break, or add a Friday for a trip here and there. This year though, and despite me vividly remembering I put all the school break dates on the calendar, and them never having a week off in March in the past 4 years, they do, and I missed it.

So, it’s in 2 weeks. I’ve restructured everything, to make it work, BUT, how did I miss that? Also, why is it only on me? The responsibility of missing something so big? I don’t feel accountability is equal. In so many things.

At my job, I work with patients, and the details I’ll keep to myself, bottom line though, at least 5 times a week, a patient who has missed the last 3 appointments, hasn’t come in for labs, didn’t go to PT or another specialty referral, will call in furious saying nothing has been done for them.

At home, my kid, who never picks up a damn thing, will be super upset she can’t find a certain toy. Or will have left something outside and it’s now ruined because it rained, or the dog ate it and it’s somehow my fault?

J doesn’t have clean socks, because they are all wadded up at the foot of his bed, or between the couch cushions, instead of in his laundry basket and they aren’t washed. My bad?

Momma is spent folks. I’m barely fucking surviving here. I am surrounded by folks who take no responsibility or ownership and I just can’t. I can’t. I’m not even washing my hair regularly, getting a walk at work, nor can I commit to even one day a week of yoga or even the same day of yoga consistently, but somehow, any and everything that goes wrong, is missed or overlooked is on me?

Is anyone feeling me? Please don’t tell me it’s my effing hormones, I’ll probably break something.

Love you guys xx

#poll time #serious question #feel me #east nashville #nashville #working mom #i want to cry #Spotify #feelings

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t3acupz · 1 month

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🩻🤍💉 Brownham Medwhump May 💉🤍🩻

9. Self-inflicted

The first time, it happened by accident. Will was gutting a freshly caught trout, running the thin knife across its belly when his hand slipped, and he nicked his finger. He was surprised when the pain felt… good. That nightmarish scene flashed in his mind like a movie on an old VHS tape. Grainy images, seeing himself in third person, like it wasn’t really him watching Abigail bleed to death. He touched the smile across his abdomen, Hannibal’s parting gift to him.

“You’re bleeding!” Matthew hurried over to Will from the cozy fireplace where moments before he was petting Buster. The younger man took Will’s hand, and brought him to the sink. “Let’s wash off the blood, okay?” Matthew would sometimes catch Will in these dazed states but they were becoming more frequent. Will didn’t have to tell him what was troubling him, he already knew by the name he refused to mention. Even when Matthew would bring up Hannibal Lecter, Will would get quiet, and mumble that he needed to go work on his boat or take the dogs out for a walk.

Matthew could live with the fact that some wounds won’t heal. That living with Will also meant living with the memory of Hannibal. It was a peculiar love triangle, one that Matthew acknowledged, and Will pretended did not exist.

The second time was deliberate. The shower was on but Will was in front of the mirror, staring at his own reflection until he could see after images of Hannibal’s face when he blinked. He took one of the razors in his medicine cabinet, and ran a finger over the edge. A red droplet stained the porcelain sink. You and I have begun to blur. He pressed down on his wrist, going in a vertical line, watching the blood trickle out like the branching pattern of a sprawling tree’s roots.

Matthew had given Hannibal those wrist scars, by proxy. But the ownership of them belonged to Will, and Will alone.

He was about to begin on his other arm when the knocking on the bathroom door became louder, more frantic. “Will?! You’ve been in there for an hour, please, open the door.” Matthew begged, falling on his knees and hitting his fist against the doorframe.

Will felt like he was under water but he wasn’t standing in the shower. He was in a stream, watching the Ravenstag move across the dappled sunlight on the edge of the forest. He could hear a distant banging, but he didn’t know where it was coming from.

Matthew broke down the door with a final hard kick. Will was on the floor of the bathroom, water was pooling all around him from the overflowing bathtub.

“NO!! WILL— GOD NO!” Matthew picked up the unconscious man, and brought him to the queen sized bed. He quickly ran down the stairs to fetch the first aid kit, and spent the next hour stitching the four inch long cut on Will’s left wrist.

Will was pale, his body felt ice cold. Matthew wrapped him in layers of blankets as Winston laid by his master’s feet, warming his toes. Hours had gone by, and the younger man was about to call an ambulance when Will spoke with a hoarse voice. “Don’t.”

Matthew threw down his phone, and cradled Will in his arms. “You don’t have to kill yourself,” He cried, grabbing Will so tightly that the older man was starting to become faint again. “He’s still out there, he’s alive. We’ll find him one day, I promise. But don’t leave me here alone.”

Tears welled up in Will’s eyes. “I can still feel him. He’s everywhere and nowhere. He’s in my head.” Will sobbed into Matthew’s shoulder.

Matthew grabbed Will’s face with both hands, and forced Will to look him in the eyes. “I don’t care if you still want him. I love you. I will always love you.”

“Then let me mark you as mine,” Will answered. It wasn’t what Matthew was hoping for in response but it was better than nothing at all.

“My body is all yours to do with as you please.” Matthew’s green eyes were so besotted with love that Will had to look away.

Will took Matthew’s left hand, and kissed the back of it. “‘Til death do us part.” Will whispered, taking Matthew’s ring finger, and biting down into the flesh as hard as he could. The pain radiated up his arm, Matthew flinched but didn’t move away.

“Now do the same to me,” He spoke, presenting Matthew with his left hand.

“Only if you promise me that you would never hurt yourself again.”

“I promise.”

Matthew hesitated for a moment but took Will’s ring finger, and created a matching pair.

After bandaging their wounds, and cleaning up the bathroom, Matthew slipped into the bed beside Will who was sleeping more peacefully than he had ever seen before. Matthew didn’t know if this meant they were friends, lovers or whatever the hell Will had in mind when he scarred them but he didn’t care. It meant Will was still here, with him — alive. Matthew held Will closer, putting a hand to the sleeping man’s heart, grateful he could still feel it beating.

#in this timeline #hannibal is still alive #mizumono happened #and matthew has been living with will for a few months #i love will’s intrusive thoughts <333 #brownham #medwhump may #matthew brown #fic

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homomenhommes · 3 months

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THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … March 5

1534 – On this date the Italian painter Correggio died (b. 1489). Born as Antonio Allegri Correggio in Parma, he was the foremost painter of the Parma school of the Italian Renaissance, who was responsible for some of the most vigorous and sensuous works of the 16th century. In his use of dynamic composition, illusionistic perspective and dramatic foreshortening, Correggio prefigured the Rococo art of the 18th century. According to some sources he was born in 1494.

Correggio infused all of his figures—male and female alike—with an intense voluptuousness that transcends any limitations of gender. His depiction of exquisite androgynous youths has made him a favorite among gay male viewers in the modern era.

Danaë

Among prominent homosexuals in late nineteenth-century Britain, Oscar Wilde shared admiration for Correggio's art with John Addington Symonds , and Wilde sought out his paintings during his trip to Italy in 1875. The homoerotic qualities of Correggio's paintings have continued to be appreciated by gay viewers in recent decades.

Frequently included in lists of famous gay historical figures, Correggio is among the fifty-two individuals whose name is recorded on Into the Light, the mural covering the dome in the Gay and Lesbian Center of the San Francisco Public Library.

Correggio's The Rape of Ganymede was the first large-scale Renaissance oil painting of the subject. Correggio shows Jupiter, in the guise of an eagle, lifting the shepherd boy high above the lush blue-green landscape, while a dog jumps excitedly up toward his young master.

The Rape of Ganymede

With his face encircled by soft curls, Ganymede gazes out seductively at the viewer, even as he embraces the eagle. The dark feathers of the eagle help to set off the glowing pink flesh tones of the youth, who is shown at a three-quarter angle with much of his backside visible. Wind blows the pink draperies away from Ganymede's smooth, radiant buttocks, so that these are fully exposed to the viewer. Jupiter's understandable attraction to the beautiful youth is revealed by the way that the eagle tenderly licks at the boy's wrist.

The early acknowledgment of Correggio's Ganymede as a quintessential representation of homoerotic desire is indicated by the numerous references to the painting in the proceedings, conducted by the Spanish Inquisition against the wealthy connoisseur Antonio Pérez (1534-1611) on charges of sodomy. During the lengthy trial (which lasted from 1579 until 1590, when Pérez escaped to France), his ownership of Correggio's Ganymede was repeatedly cited as proof of his inclination to commit homosexual acts.

1922 – the Italian poet, intellectual, film director, and writer Pier Paolo Pasolini, was born on this date (d. 1975). Pasolini distinguished himself as a philosopher, linguist, novelist, playwright, filmmaker, newspaper and magazine columnist, actor, painter and political figure. He had a unique and extraordinary cultural versatility, and in the process became a highly controversial figure.

While openly Gay from the very start of his career (thanks to a sex scandal that sent him packing from his provincial hometown to live and work in Rome), Pasolini rarely dealt with homosexuality in his movies. The subject is featured prominently in Teorema (1968), where Terence Stamp's mysterious God-like visitor seduces the son of an upper-middle-class family; passingly in Arabian Nights (1974), in an idyll between a king and a commoner that ends in death; and, most darkly of all, in Salò (1975) [banned in many countries throughout Europe and North America], his infamous rendition of the Marquis de Sade's compendium of sexual horrors, The 120 Days of Sodom.

In 1964 he found his public moviemaking "voice" with The Gospel According to St. Matthew. With a non-professional cast and a quasi-documentary shooting style, Pasolini retold the familiar story of the life of Christ in the simplest, least-Hollywood-like style imaginable.

For a time a Christian fundamentalist film distributor had the rights to the film in the United States and successfully exhibited it to church groups. One wonders how receptive the fundamentalist audience would have been to the movie had they known that its maker was a gay, atheistic communist.

Gospel was followed by The Hawks and the Sparrows (1966), a comic fable about the adventures of a Chaplinesque father and son team, played by the great Italian star Toto and Ninetto Davoli, a young former lover of Pasolini's who was to appear in many of the filmmaker's works.

a scene from Pasolini's Salò

His most visually elegant and dramatically reserved work, Salò offers Sade's vision of old, wealthy, evil authorities (politicians, lawyers and bishops) having their way with nude and compliant youths and maidens of the lower classes as simply standard operational procedure for the powers that be.

Pasolini was open about his sexuality, his Communism, his compassion for the poor, the delinquent, and the young. He once wrote a poem for the dying Pope Pius XII that read, in part: How much good you could have done! And you Didn't do it.: There was no greater sinner than you

Pasolin's own death was a terribly banal sort of death. As far as the heterosexual status quo is concerned, Pasolini, a wealthy, older, and therefore "corrupt" man was killed by a poor and therefore "innocent" youth "disgusted" by his "advances." But, as every gay man knows, this homophobic scenario is never really the truth.

Pasolini's death (which involved the killer or killers driving over the artist's head with his own car) was a gay-bashing as certainly as was that of Matthew Shepard. The difference is that in 1975 the cultural climate was not as sympathetic to the spectacle of the death of an intellectual as it proved to be in 1998 with the death of a gay college student.

1932 – Michael Rumaker is an American author best known for his semi-autobiographical novels that document his life as a gay man in the 1950s and after.

Rumaker graduated from Black Mountain College in 1955 and later wrote a memoir of his time there. He hitchhiked to San Francisco where he encountered the literature of the Beat Generation. Returning to New York, he attended Columbia University and received an MFA in 1969, after which he began teaching writing.

His first book, The Butterfly, is a fictionalized memoir of his brief affair with a young Yoko Ono, published before Ono became famous. His short stories, Gringos and other stories, appeared in 1967. A revised and expanded version appeared in 1991. He began to write directly about his life as a gay man in the volumes A Day and a Night at the Baths (1979) and My First Satyrnalia (1981). The novel Pagan Days (1991) is told from the perspective of an eight-year old boy struggling to understand his gay self. Black Mountain Days, a memoir of his time at Black Mountain College, has a strong autobiographical element. In addition, there are portraits of many students and faculty (including the poets Robert Creeley, Charles Olson and Jonathan Williams) during its last years, 1952-1956.

Following his graduation from Black Mountain College, Rumaker made his way to the post-Howl, pre-Stonewall riots gay literary milieu of San Francisco, where he entered the circle of Robert Duncan. His account of that time in the book Robert Duncan in San Francisco gives an unvarnished look at the premier poet of the San Francisco Renaissance. Rumaker will release previously unpublished letters between himself and Robert Duncan for a new edition, published by City Lights.

1947 – Michael Mason (d.2015) was the news editor of Gay News who went on to co-found and edit the pioneering London paper Capital Gay and was a leading figure in the campaign for homosexual law reform.

Having been born in an era when homosexuality was illegal, Mason was bemused towards the end of his life to see a Conservative prime minister fighting for gay marriage. But, without his own tireless groundwork , such changes might not have happened.

Michael Aidan Mason was born in London. His father, Kenneth, was a Fleet Street journalist who later founded his own publishing house specialising in marine books.

Michael was sent as a weekly boarder to prep school in Surrey, then to Lancing College where, as well as singing in the chapel choir, he trysted happily with willing partners in the space below the school stage. It was there that he was discovered in flagrante while he was house captain.

Fortunately this did not derail his school career, and he went on to read Law at St Edmund Hall, Oxford.

In the early 1970s he encountered the Gay Liberation Front, the radical movement which offered gay people an alternative, more open, way of life to the furtive existence they had led hitherto. It completely changed his world view and he became a GLF activist.

The GLF dissolved and fragmented within a couple of years, but one of the fragments was Gay News, a hippie-style fortnightly. Excited by the concept of a gay newspaper, Mason got a job as business manager and within six months was news editor.

In 1981 Mason and his colleague Graham McKerrow broke away to set up a London-only paper called Capital Gay.

When a mystery sickness began claiming the lives of gay men in New York and San Francisco, Capital Gay appointed a medical columnist. The publication is credited by the Oxford English Dictionary as the world’s first to use the term HIV. It was ahead even of science journals, and British doctors read it to get information about the new disease from the United States. The prompt alert it offered is one reason Aids casualties were relatively low in London.

Mason’s proudest memory was being received at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco by the city’s mayor, Diane Feinstein, and asked to lead that year’s Pride parade. His lover Carl Hill had been arrested at immigration for wearing a gay badge while they were travelling to cover the event. They had become a cause célèbre, and this was San Francisco’s bid to atone.

After a decade with Carl Hill, he had a long-term relationship with David White, who later emigrated to Australia.

When Capital Gay finally collapsed in 1995 after a series of burglaries, Mason went to work as a legal secretary in a south London firm specialising in lesbian and gay immigration cases.

Soon after retirement, he was diagnosed with lung cancer which spread to his throat and his brain.

1990 – Matt Rogers is an American comedian, actor, writer, podcaster, and television host. He is best known for co-hosting the pop culture podcast Las Culturistas with Bowen Yang since 2016.

Rogers was born and raised on Long Island, New York. Rogers attended Islip High School and was named prom king at his senior prom. After graduating, he earned a BFA in Dramatic Writing from New York University. While studying, Rogers became a member of the improvisational group Hammerkatz and started studying at the Upright Citizens Brigade in 2009. It was while at NYU that Rogers first met Yang.

While studying at UCB, Rogers performed in several shows, including Characters Welcome and Amazing Welcome; he also performed in the Maude team and served as the artistic director of the musical sketch comedy group Pop Roulette. In 2016, Rogers was recognized as a "Comic to Watch" by Comedy Central. Since 2016, Rogers has co-hosted the podcast Las Culturistas with fellow NYU alumnus Bowen Yang

In 2020, Rogers hosted two television competition series. Gayme Show, co-hosted with Dave Mizzoni, was based on a popular comedy night in which straight men were quizzed on queer culture; the show aired for one season on the streaming platform Quibi. After initially being renewed for a second series, the show's current status remains in limbo following the closure of Quibi in October 2020. Also in 2020, Rogers became the host of Haute Dog, which aired on HBO Max and saw dog groomers compete for a cash prize.

As an actor, Rogers has made guest appearances on multiple television series, including Shrill, Awkwafina Is Nora from Queens, and Search Party. In 2021, it was announced that Rogers would have a starring role on the comedy series I Love That for You, in addition to a supporting role in the film Fire Island, a gay retelling of Pride and Prejudice.

He is gay, having come out while a student at NYU.

2007 – The first US soldier to be injured in the Iraq conflict, Marine Staff Sgt. Eric Alva, came out and announced his opposition to the US armed forces' "Don't ask don't tell" policy on homosexuality.

Today's Gay Wisdom:

Pier Paolo Pasolini

Pasolini, as he appeared in his own "The Decameron."

If you know that I am an unbeliever, then you know me better than I do myself. I may be an unbeliever, but I am an unbeliever who has a nostalgia for a belief. - Pier Paolo Pasolini

The mark which has dominated all my work is this longing for life, this sense of exclusion, which doesn't lessen but augments this love of life. - Pier Paolo Pasolini

One should never hope for anything. Hope is a thing invented by politicians to keep the electorate happy. - Pier Paolo Pasolini

I suffer from the nostalgia of a peasant-type religion, and that is why I am on the side of the servant. But I do not believe in a metaphysical god. I am religious because I have a natural identification between reality and God. Reality is divine. That is why my films are never naturalistic. The motivation that unites all of my films is to give back to reality its original sacred significance. - Pier Paolo Pasolini

Power has two ways of bringing racist hatred against the poor. The first point: leave them poor and a poor person comes to be hated. Make them policemen and they're accused of being killers. The moment a poor person becomes a killer he's open to racist hatred. This is horrible, we shouldn't experience this. I am obviously against the police. It's the arm upon which every power structure is built. And the power structure always tends towards the Right. I do, however, refuse to share in any type of racial hatred. - Pier Paolo Pasolini

I've never talked about the importance of the family, I'm against the family, the family is an archaic Remnant. During my childhood I had certain conflicts with my family whose background was definitely middle-class. My father represented the worst element I could imagine. It's rather difficult to talk about my relationship with my father and mother because I know something about psychoanalysis. What I can say is that I have great love for my mother. My origins are fairly typical of petty bourgeois, Italian society. I'm a product of unity of Italy as a Republic. - Pier Paolo Pasolini

I've stated various times that "Oedipus Rex" is an autobiography: my father who was an officer and my mother was more or less the woman played by Silvana Mangano. I live the Oedipus complex in a kind of laboratory fashion, in an almost elementary and schematic way. - Pier Paolo Pasolini

When I make a film I'm always in reality, among the trees and among the people; there's no symbolic or conventional filter between me and reality as there's in literature. The cinema is an explosion of my love for reality. I have never conceived of making a film that would be a work of a group, I've always thought of a film as a work of an author, not only the script and the direction but the choices of sets and locations, the characters, even the clothes. I choose everything, not to mention the music. - Pier Paolo Pasolini

From Pier Paolo Pasolini's, Roman Poems:

I WORK ALL DAY...

I work all day like a monk and at night wander about like an alleycat looking for love... I'll propose to the Church that I be made a saint. In fact I respond to mystification with mildness. I watch the lynch-mob as through a camera-eye. With the calm courage of a scientist, I watch myself being massacred. I seem to feel hate and yet I write verses full of painstaking love. I study treachery as a fatal phenomenon, almost as if I were not its object. I pity the young fascists, and the old ones, whom I consider forms of the most horrible evil, I oppose only with the violence of reason. Passive as a bird that sees all, in flight, and carries in its heart, rising in the sky, an unforgiving conscience.

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