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mingmingfufu · 3 years

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Can we just talk about the ending of KawoShin open discuss. *sort of spoilerish*

I feel like I’m the only one who’s like reallly disappointed LMFAO--ya’ll there’s so much “canon” alternative universe and merchandise for Kawoshin in Evangelion that it kind of makes me upset to realise this couple just went down the drain. Yeah, I can see how people were like, “Kaworu’s toxic” or “Kaworu has a hero complex for Shinji” to which I say are valid points. But the toxic thing I feel like can also be applied to pretty much everyone around Shinji tbh, except for Rei. I did NOT, like Asuka at all but I really love her character though, and I felt for her a lot throughout the series.

I did not ship them either because honestly, Shinji and Asuka seemed better off playing the sibling dynamic instead of trying to play bf/gf which honestly is kind of forced by their living situation. Also since they’re in a similar disposition non existent father and dead mother, you’d imagine they would rely on each other for emotional comfort. Though Asuka—her personality I feel like she can’t differentiate between familial love and romantic love and the affection she wants is a bit of both. But, her character tries to be “mature”; she wants romantic love more and does this through sexual means and romantic gestures e.g. like kissing. One of my friends told me that you can’t stay friends as a boy and a girl cause eventually you catch feelings. Which I say is kinda dumb cause I have a lot of male friends, and I definitely don’t harbour those feelings, but I guess it’s a common phenomena.

I think this is what happens in this case, of Asuka and Shinji. Even after rejection of instrumentality they actually are depicted as childhood friends. But knowing how they both were before to each other, it was not good tbh. Also to mention the choking like thrice— bro if anything, this showcases a really abusive relationship and I think this outstretches the idea of their character tropes. Which I firmly stand by saying they’re superficial to each other. AsuShin were never really there for each other and are using each other in a forced situation. However, you can’t deny that they didn’t at some point catch feels, also Shinji is pretty consistent how he still cares about everyone around him. Which I really like how they add that to his character because it reminiscent of Yui, because you see a duality of both his parents personality in Shinji throughout the series—it’s a really nice touch. But bruh, if we gonna talk about that coma scene—I’m out LOL.

Thoughhhh, she is a true definition of best girl I really like her arc, fighting drive, and her skills as an Eva pilot 😭💗--but bruh she’s still a toxic and sometimes annoying tsundere trope, but still she’s 14 what can you do. So I feel like Kensuke and Asuka are actually a pretty good combo, cause he’s always been pretty mature even without parents. Also Asuka was into older guys, so I guess this is a win win?? Also Rei and Shinji, I honestly cannot get my head around it cause that’s pretty much his mom—so in a way that’s like either his half-sister or mom-ish clone?? Idk but Yui is definitely the donor LOL.

Kaworu and Shinji I felt like brought a bunch of things out of each other. I don’t know which timeline begins first, but I’d like to think the manga, the anime (plus its movies), and then to the rebuild series. Because I think that order is kind of pivotal to observing Kaworu’s character development from being a person who’s trying to understand human feelings to then the kinder person we see in the final series. You can tell how he’s changed and he knows Shinji a lot more as well as being considerate to him e.g. giving him personal space or letting him work at his own pace. Also that “we’ll meet again.” Is an obvious nod to how he’s done this before.

His literal story in every timeline is always romantic LOL, like bruh I can’t remember which game it was but basically a bad ending of Kawoshin route is that you reject Kaworu and he starts the third impact 🤡. Also I don’t know why but I started to see a weird dynamic between those two, in the manga their interactions reminded me of Asuka and Shinji—which Shinji is the tsundere Asuka here. I don’t know if this is relevant but the older character relative to the character they’re with seems to play off a mature vs a childish person trope. Asuka is younger than Shinji and Shinji is actually younger than Kaworu. Then again I could be overseeing this but istg manga Kaworu and Shinji mirror the whole Asushin dynamic. Like he’s seriously agressive against Kaworu, then after killing him he admits liking him. 🤡 I don’t know which is funnier no homo Shinji, homophobe shinji, or just closet Shinji who needs to realise sexuality is a spectrum so he could’ve idk—come out as bisexual, but whatever manga Shinji lol that timeline is over.

Anyways the development of these two is real and I think the rebuild timeline shows them at their best bringing their own personage out from each other like how they both enjoy music together--WHICH I’M SO SAD WE NEVER GET TO SEE THAT CELLO AGAIN. Then there’s those feelings of humanity, love, kindness, etc. Which yeah an angel could represent those things, but Kaworu is still his own person, self-aware of a cycle and if you think about how he initially was there to USE Shinji, but ultimately turned on that plan set by SEELE because he loved Shinji (and a bunch of other things like him showing Kaworu humanity). I also can see the argument, how “ideal” Kaworu is to Shinji, but he’s more self aware of the time he has before he KNOWS he’ll die and knows how to act for himself in that duration to make the most of it. All with Shinji. At some point, I think he fell in love with Shinji tho I don’t know where it began tbh—considering that all those alternate universes do exist. Kaworu does romantically love Shinji--so, in some universe they both reciprocate their feelings to each other.

In the last movie during that convo with Shinji. Like bREH it’s so emotionally moving because Kaworu remembers ALLLLL the timelines and how he’s been with Shinji and later Shinji himself recalls the events too. Where they show the scene from the manga and anime. Kaworu cries after being set free from the EVA cycle. Which, I definitely understood what he meant by him saying “it’ll be lonely” and how Shinji changed or that he’s actually different this time.

Either way, Shinji did right by him because it’s always Kaworu who has the purpose of “trying to save Shinji” but it always ends up the same. I thought that was really moving because Shinji tells Kaworu he’s gonna let him live a life for himself for once and he wants the same for everyone as well. Which was honestly so meaningful cause I think Kaworu’s character and like Rei too when they start to realise how to “live” like a person and not another puppet it’s truly liberating. Another thing I forgot, bruh Kaworu calls Gendo his father and ngl I feel like this is kind of a weird lore situation because I for sure don’t think he’s the donor. I think he calls him that as an insult because he knows Gendo’s whole doing and relative to Shinji—I kind of see it as a joke LOL. Like it’s equivalent to saying, “daddy chill”, or “hey look it’s daddy and his plans to end the world” also I kind of like to think of it as a father in law thing cause you know, Kawoshin *winks amirite*

The ending, I’m honestly hoping is just an open ending because it gives everything an actual start of their adult lives not being dictated by extraterrestrial forces. Though, I’m kind of wondering if the world doesn’t have EVAs does that still mean everyone else still has the same backstory, and do they remember? Maybe Mari really is just a coworker lmfao, and there’s still a chance for Kaworu and Shinji cause ngl, they did have a convo (presumably from the spoilers) about still remaining close afterwards and that stare at the ending seems very hopeful.

I call bs from Anno saying, “oh Shinji is based off him and Mari off of his wife”, like honestly any OCs made theres always some part of yourself made into that character. Which is probably why a lot of people relate to the characters in EVA because they’re based off real things (e.g. those war machines characters are named after and people around them). I think why Kaworu and Rei are together at the end, is bc they’re very much the same. They’re mass produced dolls—which oddly enough that’s the case for all the children except they don’t recall the loop. Kind of funny also how both Kaworu and Rei became farmers lmfao so ig it runs in the family (yes that’s right I like the idea that they’re siblings it was always noted that they’re like “the same”).

Another thing, i think why the rebuild really did well for Kawoshin and in my opinion canonised it—the convo with elder Ryoji Kaji (Misato’s baby daddy) that there was a time he felt incredibly lonely and depressed thinking Misato didn’t love him and so he started looking out for himself. So self love and found himself a hobby in farming which he suggests to Kaworu—basically saying he might feel like Shinji doesn’t love him but he’s gotta remember to take care of himself. if I go thru a breakup ill feel like it’s the end of the world but Kaji says y’a gotta self love broe and take care yo self gad dam fam 😭 💗.

Though, that look at the end from Shinji to Kaworu—I’d like to believe there is still hope that one day when they’re a bit stable in their adult lives, they’ll run into each other.

#Kaworu Nagisa #shinji ikari #neon genesis evangelion #rei ayanami #mari illustrious makinami #asuka shikinami #discussion #kawoshin #nge kaworu #nge shinji #nge

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bibliocratic · 4 years

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jon/martin

part of a series of archive polycule oneshots pre-established tim/sasha, sasha/jon, martin/tim

Jon has changed his shirt four times now. Sasha’s bedroom is a lesson in disaster zones, a dumping ground of clothes and accessories and sprays and creams. Early on, she tried to avoid the proceedings as long as possible to give the man a bit of space, and so lurked in the living room, reading a magazine and ignoring the stomping, and cursing, and muttering and clattering from the bathroom and bedroom.

Now, an hour in, she’s been fully drafted into emotional and sartorial support, a rational battalion of one as Jon cycles intermittently and indecisively between outfits. Ten minutes to go before the taxi arrives, and he’s standing there shirtless, his arms folded and glaring in recrimination at the shirts rumpling on the bed.

“I liked the white one,” Sasha broaches cautiously.

Jon twists at his rings.

“It doesn’t go with the trousers,” he says.

Jon’s trousers are the one thing he has, finally, been able to narrow down, a punk-red choice that was half an hour in the making. Jon’s tried on the white shirt, red trousers combo twice now, and it definitely matches, and Sasha has definitely told him this already.

“Everything goes with white, Jon. Look, it’s good look! With the blue bowtie, it’s nice.”

“I look like I’m dressed up as the Union Jack,” Jon’s discontent has cycled back to snarking under his breath. “Or the Dutch flag. Or the French.”

Jon picks up another shirt, a fetching pale-yellow check pattern, before he puts it down in a huff.

Sasha’s phone dings.

05.35 Tim <3: How’s it going?

05.35 Sasha: We’ve narrowed it down to four shirts, so improvement!

How’s Martin?

05.36 Tim <3: Pacing.

He keeps brushing his teeth.

He looks nauseous.

05.36 Sasha: Should I change the booking?

05.36 Tim <3: Nah. They’ll pull themselves together.

“Jon,” Sasha says in the kindest possible way. “The taxi’s in ten. Choose one. Choose the white one. Martin would think you’d look good in a bin bag, come on.”

The reminder of the time clearly works its magic, and Jon hurriedly puts on the white shirt. Sasha helps him with the bowtie when it’s clear he’s going to be all butterfingers until he gets to the venue. He spritzes on some aftershave while she hunts him down some socks.

“There you are.” She smooths down some of the wrinkles. “Very handsome.”

“Should I wear cufflinks?”

“Best not, you’ll fiddle with them all night.”

“Hm. When’s the taxi?”

“Five minutes. You should get your shoes on.”

Jon has one shoe on and is hunting around for the second when he suddenly looks to Sasha.

“Should I have gotten him flowers?” A panicked look has gripped him. “People like flowers, don’t they, on a first date. Martin is definitely the sort of person who likes flowers, maybe I should – ”

“Jon,” Sasha interrupts his spiral. She comes in close and puts her hands on his hips. “Sweetheart, you’ve got this.” Her phone digs to signal the taxi’s arrived, and she smiles at Jon reassuringly. Jon’s smile is slightly more on-edge but he’s clearly trying. “Now, off with you and get yourself a nice fella.”

She kisses him for luck before shepherding him out of the house on the dot of quarter to.

Not ten minutes later, Tim’s invited himself over, spirits and mixers in a plastic bag, and they toast to their loved ones while crossing their fingers.

Jon insists on walking Martin back to his flat after their meal. Martin’s brolly is wide-limbed, a wind-battered shelter, and with Jon’s slightness and Martin’s height, both of them manage to crouch under its hold and remain mostly dry. Martin’s shoes are new, still sheened with their factory polish, and he hasn’t worn them in yet, so he’s clearly feeling the rub of them at his heel with the way he’s walking. Jon is regretting his choice of shirt, because while Martin complimented him and it made a pleased smile stutter onto his face, the fabric is thin, and the chill has started to freckle his body.

He stands a little closer to Martin as they walk. He thinks Martin notices. Hopes he does.

Jon won’t remember what they spoke of when Sasha asks him tomorrow. He’ll remember the flow and bubble of conversation, the easiness of it. He’ll remember that Martin talks with his hands, and more than once he forgets he’s gripping the umbrella and they get sprinkled with a liberal wash of rainwater. He’ll remember that he could make Martin smile just by doing poor impressions of people they both knew, and so he’d done it more than once just because he could.

On the step, neither of them know how to tie up their conversation, and Jon is realising that he doesn’t want the night to stop. That he wants tonight and tomorrow and the day after, that whatever way his life tends he wants Martin in it.

“I – er, guess this is good night then?” Martin says. His expression has taken up its old post of anxiety, and he’s looking everywhere but Jon’s eyes, his hands and body held respectfully back even under the umbrella.

Jon bridges the gap. Raising himself onto his tiptoes to angle himself better, pressing a kiss to Martin’s cheek.

“Good night, Martin,” Jon says, and his voice is smooth while the rest of him is not. Martin has gone the colour of sunrise and is looking wowed. “Or, um, I could come up? If you, er, if you wanted to keep talking, over tea or something?”

“I – um, is that – that’s a metaphor, right?” Martin asks. “I’d, don’t get me wrong, I’d like to keep – I’m having a great time, and um. The thing is Jon, if you came up, and I’d – I’d like that, but it would really be just, just tea. I, um, I don’t? Not really. I was going to tell you if tonight went well, which it did – I-I mean at least I think it has – ”

“It’s not a metaphor,” Jon interrupts. He wants to take Martin’s hand, but one is still holding the umbrella and the other is wrapped around his flat keys. “It’s seems a good a time as any to tell you I don’t either.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

Martin’s shy smile has crept back onto his face.

“Right. Right. So, would you like to come up?”

“Lead the way,” Jon says, and he follows Martin inside.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jmart #jonathan sims #sasha james #tim stoker #martin blackwood #fic

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zombiegurlmode · 4 years

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Sad that Camren Shippers are to blame. But alas, scape goats are necessary for someone to thrive

I’m not done ranting apparently. Clearly, after all of my satirical nature has come to pass, truth of the matter is, for someone who spoke so openly and highly of valuing love and honesty and all that jazz. Your words cut deeper than any knife could. And for someone who openly “claims” of being a part of the LGBT+ community, (whereas the numbers are thriving so much that more letters are added and we’re almost about to fill in the entire alphabet) we have yet to receive such a backlash coming from “supposedly” one of us. Imagine the horror right? True, perhaps your words may have been misconstrued by the public at large or twisted in some form to suit everyone’s selfish needs. I mean after all, isn’t that what camren shippers are called for - delusional AF and toxic as hell. Well, we don’t deny it and couldn’t deny the fact that yes, there are plenty of us who are quite enthusiastic to a fault. Honestly, tell me in what space or bygone era have toxic people never appeared in. Truth of the matter is, it’s how you deal with things and toxicity that affect each and everyone of us. Happiness is only a matter of possessing the right attitude. And no one, not any one, can take that away from you. Not even hardships.

There are several things I would like to personally address though. Camren shippers most likely than not have in some way or the other connected with you. We all something that we could relate to, From your internalized phobia, or from you getting to finally openly admit your own sexuality and fully embracing it wonderfully, or some other things that the others felt truly connected or as you love to so put it “resonate” with you. So don’t blame your fans if they are passionate in expressing themselves because all humans have escapism in them. And to some, perhaps, this is the only means they have some semblance of control to freely express themselves openly. No one is undermining your hardship when you were outed, or that fact that you were bullied for it, or pressured to act in a certain acceptable way so you may be deemed as socially normal “acceptable” human being, whereas all you truly deserve was love and compassion. But I would like to remind you of one very fine detail. When you were outed, camren shippers were there to support you. Because they (wasn’t here yet when it happened so I can’t include myself) understood well above and beyond that what you encountered was so horrendous. You were cheated and robbed of that one pleasure and right given to every LGBT+ member to pride on - the true nature of coming out. See the thing is, the homophobes corrupted the words coming out so much that even as LGBT+ members sometimes forget the true existence of it. it’s not about public declaration or waving the flag, or marching in rainbows, or stamping a giant sign across your forehead declaring that you’re a proud, frolicking, fun-loving, women-loving lesbian (or in any way the others identify themselves as). No! Coming out and its true nature is simply coming to terms with yourself on your own pace and leisure. So truly I am sorry that you have been cheated out of this privilege. But it wouldn’t be fair for you to lump it together with your emotions and throw it at your brethren (if you even consider us as such). Perhaps, that is not your intention. Just to be clear, I am not invaliding how you’ve felt or how you’re feeling now. No one has the power to do that to someone else - I’m referring to telling others how to feel. Yet the message we perceived is quite clear. That we, as a collective known as Camren Shippers, who “supposedly” belong to the LGBT+ community (ok, maybe not all of us. that’s too presumptive on my part) and pride on understanding your own volitions caused this very volitions to surface or in your words “manifest” in you. We are the hindrances that robbed you of your chance to have a decent flirtation towards the same sex. Ironically speaking, Camren Shippers were the ones also on the forefront of defending your honor when some boy belonging to a particular boy band along with his bandmates ridiculed and degraded your feminine existence simply because they thought they were joking around. I mean aren’t jokes like that - it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt. Jokes most often than not are made at the expense of others. Doesn’t make it any less right, but then again who are we to blame them for something they thought of as a joke. Let’s all face it people, we are all guilty of this act. And yet, the CS never did falter. Carrying their banners of delusions and brandishing their armors of grandeurs, all in the name sake of defending someone who is belittled for the sake of “fun and games”. Even after deliberately attacking the CS for their enthusiasm and calling it invasive, they were still there for you especially so when they saw how pressure started affecting you. They were always so attuned to you that they were the first to notice signs that you may possibly be queer or you may possibly be undergoing some form of inner conflict. They all wish you good health and as you put it in words “send their love to you” so you may never feel alone enduring all this pain. And now imagine the heartache that every shipper might or might not be going through right now. Because apparently, that same support that they have been sending you is perceived as pain and suffering from your end. How would you feel if the very thought that the love and adoration you have causes someone pain and insecurity? So far, all that you have discussed is the negativity that surrounds an apparent DEAD SHIP. Negativity? Sounds familiar right? You preach on it on numerous occasion. You even wrote a song 50FT. Maybe you should be the one to listen on your own attunement. You brought so much negativity on the topic whereas it was meant to be about your coming out. Again, sorry that you’re coming out seemed more like a burden than liberation for you. And again, I apologize that we are the reason behind it.

Just to clarify. We never undermined your suffering. We know all too well the pain that one undergoes in this journey called self discovery of one’s true sexuality. To be honest, those of us who fear coming out or being outed because of rejection, bullying, disowning, we are the lucky ones. There are some of us who undergo far more threats by simply accepting who they truly are. They fear for the safety of their family, they fear for their own safety, they fear the valid threats of rape and degradation and being treated as if you are worse than animals. There are those individuals where the very soil that they stood upon view homosexuality as ILLEGAL and violation of such law would yield severe punishments. So tell them, tell them that they don’t know the risks, the pains, the sufferings, the deteriorations of ones’ sanities, tell them that they don’t understand it because all they ever care about is Camren. Tell them that they’re only glimmer of hope on priding on someone that may have found what they yearn for is invalid. Tell them that living vicariously on your life brings so much distraught on your otherwise calm existence. Tell them that and they have been the first ones to apologize that you felt that way. Because I’ve read their posts and I’ve felt their pains. And we are sorry to cause you so much pain.

I will remind you. No one forced you to audition for xfactor in the pursuance of your dream. You even have the support of your family for your journey. And we are all grateful that you did. Otherwise, we may not even have bothered you so much. Otherwise, we may not even know that you existed. So let me remind you that the industry you belong to - spotlight is king. So don’t go complaining if your put under the it - that’s the point of the industry my dear, the limelight. I’m a purchaser, I can’t complain if my daily tasks comprise of purchasing goods. Otherwise, I have no business being a purchaser. I’m clearly in the wrong field if I felt that way. So it wouldn’t be fair to tell your fans (if you even consider us as such) to blame us for putting you under the spotlight. May I make a suggestion? Try holding a concert without the lights on next time. You do have sensitive eyes because of the lack of melanin in your eyes. We get that.

Also, you know Becky G never did mention about camren. You brought it up on your own. Just like you’ve given us “it’s camren yo!”. You did say and i quote (uh oh i’m sure going to butcher this. I failed in quoting people all the time) “i don’t really talk about it” and then preceded to have entire litany about camren and whatnot. Ok, I get it, it was part of your coming out process. Cool. Then you’ve touched upon how reading fanfics have ruined you. And made you feel like a predator. Firstly, camren fanfics are intended for shippers only. Like all mediums, they have their own specific intended audieces. For you to wander into uncharted terrains, you must have understood the risks it entails. I don’t know which ones you’ve read, but most fics from decent authors have disclaimer on them. Did you even bother reading the disclaimer? On the onset of something that made you feel awkward or uncomfortable or disturbing, you should’ve stopped on your own and never be bothered with it again. That’s the usual thing to do. If any human find something or someone repulsive, they would ceased to seek it. But it bothered you so much and made you feel like a predator then you’ve read the entirety of it (maybe i’m exaggerating, ok a good chuck of it, sounds better?) Well someone did tell me it could have been born out of curiosity. Yeah curiosity did kill the cat, you know? Unless of course you’re a masochist, then now I finally understand and I have nothing more to add.

So for my parting words, I would again extend my deepest, sincerest apology I could muster in my current sane state for being the cause and hindrance for your inner peace and wellbeing. I am not mocking you. This is just the nature I write. Troublesome, I know. But I’m being honest. If my being a fan of you, and shipping you in our own little niche, caused you so much pain and suffering then I respect your wishes. It would be foolish of me to continue pouring my support to you when all along I’m actually doing the opposite and harming you in the process. I mean what decent human being would like to inflict pain unto others. So in honor of my last words relating to your brand Lauren Jauregui or the very dead ship that apparently troubled you so much, I bid you the very best. May you flourish on your career and find inner peace and true happiness forever and always. I would not like to be a fan of any brand that I’m the apparent cause whether directly or indirectly impedes in attaining their endeavors. All the best in your album release and who knows maybe I’ll stumble upon your music again someday.

#lauren jauregui #camila cabello #camren

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queerdiaz · 4 years

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Born this way with Alex

I’m sorry this took me a few days but thank you so much for the prompt! Also, this did not mean to be so long. Oops. Anyways. Hope you enjoy :)

Warning: Mentions of past homophobia.

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Born This Way

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Alex was wandering in the hallways of Los Feliz HIgh School after supporting Julie on her first performance in her music class without them. The rest of the band had performed with her at her school a couple of more times after their first time for pep rallies and dances. The principal tried to book them as much as she could to show that the new breakout band, Julie and The Phantoms, who were now starting to perform at big venues, like the Orpheum, were discovered at her school. He always couldn’t help but be amused by that.

For a big part of her final grade for her semester, Julie had to perform by herself. Reggie had been confused as to why she was nervous of singing solo in her high school class when she had already sung solo in the Orpheum of all places. But Alex understood. Not only did he have anxiety about practically everything, but doing things that had a lot of emotional weight to them even when you seemed to be getting passed them could be very nerve-wracking. And even though all three of them had the urge to perform with her, they knew that they couldn’t and that she’d completely kill it anyways. Which she did, of course.

After the class was over, Julie had her free period. But, instead of spending it with the boys and Flynn, she and Luke wanted some ‘alone’ time together. Meanwhile, Flynn had a marketing team meeting for the band, which now had at least eight members from the school and a lot more clamoring for the chance to be a part of it. And Reggie was so excited and happy for Julie that he couldn't help but want to tell Ray right away. And unlike before, Julie’s dad could now see them and respond back to him.

Whatever Julie did to save their souls from being obliterated into existence, not only made her be able to touch them all, but made them able to show themselves to lifers without just performing with her. Usually they had to be with Julie in order for lifers to see them, but if they had a bond with a lifer, like the guys did with Flynn and Julie’s family, then they could see them without Julie. But they still didn’t show themselves to lifers very much.

Alex especially didn’t.

He wanted to focus more on trying to figure just how this was all possible. He and Willie came up with different theories, but nothing too concrete yet.

Besides, he kinda liked being invisible. He could be his full self and still be in front of lifers without worrying about what they were thinking about him. Like Willie had mentioned that day at the museum, being a drummer had not only helped him with his anxieties and frustrations, but helped him feel confident and be his full self in front of an entire crowd of people. And being a ghost gave him that same freedom, they just couldn’t see him. And he was okay with that, for the most part.

It actually sorta liberated him in a way.

Alex could do whatever he wanted in front of someone and he didn’t have to worry about their responses. Like that time when he danced on stage with Carrie. He had felt so free, like he could do whatever he wanted and just be. Of course his band could see him when he did it. And even though he just knew Julie for a short time, he knew he didn’t have to worry about her and the guys judging him or seeing him differently.

Like his family had.

Even after apparently 25 years of being dead, it still was only less than a year for Alex when he came out to his family. And they never treated him the same since. He used to remind himself that he was lucky. They didn’t say anything demeaning to him and kicked him out or anything like that. Heck, they even still let Sunset Curve have their studio in the back of the house.

But they still acted differently toward him after that fateful night.

In retrospect, he supposed that having the guys there as support for him might’ve not been the best approach, especially the way his parents had looked at him and Luke sitting next to each other. But Alex didn’t care, because he knew that he wouldn’t have done it without the band. Maybe he would have later on, but given the fact that just six months later he would die of an oldsmobile street dog, who knows if he would’ve gotten another chance.

And Alex was glad that he did it when he did.

Of course it stung when his parents would treat him so...differently. It was sometimes hard to even explain it. Sometimes they’d give him these strange looks whenever they didn’t think that he was looking. Like he was this weird alien living in their house, and not the son that they had raised and loved for seventeen years. And they also stopped inviting him to places and family outings, even assuming that he wouldn’t want to go to church anymore. And even when he wanted to, they heavily implied that they didn’t want him to go, always using the excuse, “Don’t you want to practice more with your band?”

However, as he and the guys would always say, it was on them and not him for thinking anything of him any less than the same boy they knew who was anxious about everything and allergic to nuts. It wasn’t his fault that they had seen him differently just because they found out that he liked boys instead of girls.

Besides, he had his real family now.

And even though he was...you know...dead, after everything he and the band went through, Alex was happy.

And as far as ghosts went, he had a pretty sweet deal. Unlike most ghosts, he could still connect with lifers, and in the best way too. That connection he’d feel with the audience while he’d rock out on his drums as he and the band would play the best musical experiences? Priceless. But he also just liked being a ghost in general. He could be in a crowd of lifers and do what he wanted, not having to worry about their judgments or what they’d think of him. He also liked to watch people and make faces or do silly dances in front of them because he could. As he said earlier, there was a sort of freedom in all of it.

However, there was that part deep down inside of him that felt like part of the reason why he liked being invisible was because that way lifers couldn’t disappoint him by not appreciating who he was whenever he wasn’t rocking out.

Alex immediately pushed those thoughts away and continued to People Watch as he wandered the hallways some more. It really was a cool thing to be a ghost and see people during moments where they normally weren’t seen.

Suddenly, he heard music with a great pop beat start to play from one of the rooms ahead. Curiosity taking over, he poofed in front of the door, and saw that it was the dance room that Julie and Flynn had talked about before. It was empty except for one person in the middle of the giant space seeming to be dancing in freestyle.

It didn’t take long for Alex to realize that the person was Carrie, Julie’s ex-best friend turned enemy turned back to sorta friend now? He was a little confused and fuzzy on the details. All he knew was that her and Julie and Flynn seemed to be, or at least on their way of becoming, good with each other again. She also found out about the Phantoms being...well actual phantoms, but to everyone’s surprise, she promised not to say anything.

Especially considering who her dad was.

Carrie couldn’t see them without Julie being in the same room, so she didn’t notice Alex’s arrival. Instead she danced to the infectious beat that he couldn’t help but move his feet a bit to.

She then started to sing along to the voice of the song coming from her phone.

My mama told me when I was young

"We are all born superstars"

She rolled my hair and put my lipstick on

In the glass of her boudoir

From his spot near the door, his legs and arms started to move with the music as well.

"There's nothing wrong with loving who you are"

She said, "'Cause he made you perfect, babe"

He stopped for a moment, struck by the lyrics.

"So hold your head up, girl, and you'll go far

Listen to me when I say"

The beat then started to get a little faster, making him start to move his body again, this time faster and more of actual dancing. Carrie then began to sing louder.

I'm beautiful in my way

'Cause God makes no mistakes

I'm on the right track, baby

I was born this way

Don't hide yourself in regret

Just love yourself, and you're set

I'm on the right track, baby

I was born this way (Born this way)

A strange sensation formed within him as he danced to the rhythm and listened to the lyrics. It was mostly like the feelings he’d get when he found a new favorite song or jammed to an old favorite. But this. This felt slightly...different in a way. But a great different. One that made his feet and entire body move with the music, as he danced further into the room.

Don't be a drag, just be a queen, Carrie sang putting one hand on her hip and the other in the air, similar to how she did in her previous performances.

Don't be a drag, just be a queen

Alex mimed her movement, feeling completely consumed by the song.

Don't be a drag, just be a queen

Don't be (Don't be, don't be)

The tempo then slowed just a bit, probably going to the next verse, he figured.

Give yourself prudence and love your friends

Subway kid, rejoice your truth

In the religion of the insecure

I must be myself, respect my youth

A different lover is not a sin

Believe capital H-I-M, hey, hey, hey

I love my life, I love this record and

Mi amore vole fe yah (Same DNA)

Tears formed in his eyes at the words, feeling like the song was talking directly to him, considering what he was just thinking about with his parents. Alex then lifted his hands up in the air, completely feeling the moment. He continued to dance like no one was watching - and literally no one was.

I'm beautiful in my way

'Cause God makes no mistakes

Alex had started to sing along with Carrie and the beautiful voice on her phone, closing his eyes and completely letting the magic of the music consume him.

I'm on the right track, baby

I was born this way

Don't hide yourself in regret

Just love yourself, and you're set

I'm on the right track, baby

I was born this way (Born this way)

Suddenly a loud shriek made Alex quickly open his eyes. Carrie was looking him straight in the eye through the mirror, one hand on her heart and one on her hip, anger seeming to simmer out of her.

“Hey, Casper, you can’t just sneak up on a girl like that!” She exclaimed with a hiss before rushing to get her phone that was in front of the mirror along with her bag. She then turned the music off, making Alex instantly miss it.

He put his hands up in surrender. “Sorry! I didn’t think you could see me!”

Carrie looked at him again and placed both of her hands on her hips this time, sending a deathly glare at him. “Oh. So you were just being a creeper who didn’t think you would get caught, is that?”

“No, no no!” Alex quickly replied, shaking his head and hands frantically. “It wasn’t anything like that, I swear! Trust me.”

She seemed to study him for a moment before giving him an expectant look. “Then what was it like?”

Alex shoved his hands in his pockets and then shyly told her, “I watched Julie’s performance during music class and was just wandering the halls when I heard the song you were playing.”

Her eyes immediately perked at that as a smile spread her face. “You like Gaga?”

He gave her a confused look, though the name sounded vaguely familiar. “What’s a ‘Gaga’?” He asked, using air quotes for the last word.

Carrie stared at him in disbelief. “You don’t know who Lady Gaga is? She’s an icon!”

“Is she some kind of royal who sings killer pop songs?”

She seemed to think about it for a moment before nodding. “Well basically yes. Just not in the kind of royal you’re thinking of. A much more important one.”

“So she’s like pop royalty?” He asked.

“Absolutely.” She then pursed her lips. “I’m actually kinda surprised that Julie or Flynn hasn’t introduced you to her yet. They both love her almost as much as I do.”

Alex thought about it for a moment. “Actually, come to think of it, I think they mentioned her before but I was too afraid to ask what in the world a gaga was.”

Carrie shrugged. “Well now you know.”

An awkward silence passed between them.

“So…” she began to say, breaking the silence first, “that was your first time hearing Born This Way or Gaga in general, right?”

He nodded.

“Did you like it?”

“It was amazing! I haven’t felt so connected to a song that wasn’t our band’s in quite a while.” He felt himself start to get a little emotional thinking about the lyrics and just the song in general, and how it made him feel. It was always an amazing thing when a song could touch your soul like that. Especially when it played right when you needed it.

Carrie smiled, seeming to have a knowing glint in her eye. “Yeah. Gaga can do that to you.”

“Yeah.” He smiled back. “I guess I was feeling it so much while singing and dancing to it along with you that it made you able to see me.”

“Damn.” She began to say in awe. “I knew Lady Gaga was powerful, but wow.”

Her saying that reminded him of the first song he heard her sing. “Hey, that reminds me. I like that song that you sang at that pep rally before our band sang for the first time. The one where you said ‘Wow’ a lot.”

Her eyes lit up again at that. “You mean “Wow”?”

“Yeah! And I like all of the other ones Dirty Candy sang too.” He then placed his hand around his cheek like he was telling her a secret. “But All Eyes On Me is my personal favorite.”

“You like my music?” She asked, pleasantly surprised.

“Absolutely! They always bring my inner ‘Dancing Queen’ out, as what my friends like to call it.”

She let out a small laugh. “Thank you.” Carrie smiled brightly at him. “You know, Gaga is one of my many influences. I listen to her as a warm up every time to help get me inspiration for my new song or choreo.”

“That’s so cool.”

“Wanna dance to her some more?”

He gave her a bright smile and nodded so vehemently that he thought his head was going to pop up. “Yes please!”

She clasped her hands together. “Great! Then I can give you a list of her songs that you have to check out first. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Carrie then went back to her phone and played where the song left off.

Ooh, there ain't no other way

Baby, I was born this way

Baby, I was born this way (Born this way)

They sang and danced with all the energy they had.

Ooh, there ain't no other way

Baby, I was born this way

Right track, baby

They both then sang at the top of their lungs, “I was born this way!”

***

A couple hours later, Alex met up with Willie, having a giant pep in his step and gave his boyfriend a giant smile that was even wider than usual.

“Hey, Hotdog! Someone seems more chipper than usual.”

Alex waved a casually dismissive hand, “Oh it’s nothing.”

He felt a little insecure about telling Willie about his latest music discovery and how much it helped him. Even though he knew that his boyfriend not only knew how much music meant to him, but would never demean things that made him happy.

“It doesn’t seem like nothing. What is it?’ Willie asked, giving him a soft and encouraging smile.

“Oh, it’s just that I found this new song and artist.” Alex shyly began to say.

His boyfriend’s smile grew. “Yeah?”

Alex shoved his hands in his pockets and began to kick the air in front of him. “Have you heard of Lady Gaga?”

Willie laughed, “Yeah I’ve heard of Gaga.” Instant fear shot up within Alex. “She’s great, right?”

The fear dissipated and turned into a sense of relief. He didn’t know why it mattered to him so much if Willie liked this Lady Gaga person. Hell, there were artists and songs that Willie liked that Alex didn’t and vice versa. And it was the same with his band, although they’d often end up having good-natured arguments about it. So why was this any different?

Alex nodded. “Yeah. I really like her songs I’ve heard so far.”

He gave him another encouraging smile. “Yeah, which ones?”

“Well, I like all of them. But Born This Way was the first one I heard and it’s my favorite.”

Willie’s smile brightened. “Yeah, mine too.” He then placed his hand on top of Alex’s. “Here follow me.”

Confused as to what was happening, Alex followed Willie, hands firmly intact, as they headed further down the boardwalk. They then stopped at more of a private part of the beach that seemed to be having some sort of event.

“I heard that someone was having a wedding tonight and I wanted to take you.”

“A-a wedding? Why-why would you want to-to take m-me to a wed-wedding?” Alex stammered and mentally scolded himself for acting like such an idiot.

Willie chuckled. “Relax, Hotdog. I love going to weddings as a ghost.”

“To skate?”

“I do skate, yeah. But I go because I love to see all of the different kinds of people that attend and the drama that no one sees. But mostly I like to see what kind of music they have.” He waggled his brow mischievously. “And if it’s a DJ or DJ system I like to mess with the lifers and put on random songs to see everyone’s reactions.”

It was Alex’s turn to chuckle. “That actually sounds really fun.”

Willy’s smile brightened even more. “I thought you would think so. That’s why I brought you here.” He squeezed his hand three times, making Alex’s ghost heart skip a beat. “Let’s go!” He then pulled Alex with him further into the wedding reception.

They stopped in the middle of the dancefloor, where there were a few lifers slow dancing. Alex gulped, waiting for them to slow dance as well. Willie then pointed to the DJ setup and snapped his hand. Suddenly the beat of a song that Alex may or may not have listened to at least three times that day, started to fill the speakers.

Alex felt his lips spread into a giant smile once more and laughed when he noticed the shocked reactions on the wedding’s patrons' faces from the sudden song change.

“Thought you might like that.” Willy announced proudly, giving him a soft look.

They then noticed how the patrons were now starting to dance to the song, making even more people coming up to the dance floor.

Alex was the first to start dancing, WIlly immediately following right after.

There were some moments where they danced next to each other, and other where their hands would collide and they’d do different moves like swinging each other around. Sometimes they would go through the lifers or dance around them. But all the while they were singing at the top of their lungs as well.

Don't be a drag, just be a queen

Whether you're broke or evergreen

You're black, white, beige, cholo descent

You're Lebanese, you're orient

Whether life's disabilities

Left you outcast, bullied, or teased

Rejoice and love yourself today

Dancing next to each other again, they both then turned to one another, grabbed the other’s hands, and softly sang, “'Cause baby, you were born this way”

They then went back to belting it out at the top of their lungs.

No matter gay, straight, or bi

Lesbian, transgender life

I'm on the right track, baby

I was born to survive

No matter black, white, or beige

Chola or orient made

I'm on the right track, baby

I was born to be brave!

Alex shouted the last part as loud as he could, throwing an arm in the air.

I'm beautiful in my way

'Cause God makes no mistakes

I'm on the right track, baby

I was born this way

Don't hide yourself in regret

Just love yourself, and you're set

I'm on the right track, baby

I was born this way, yeah

They continued to dance and sing, having the time of their ghost lives.

Once the song was getting to the end, the two boys latched their hands together and started to sing the rest to each other.

Ooh, there ain't no other way

Baby, I was born this way

Baby, I was born this way (Born this way)

Ooh, there ain't no other way

Baby, I was born this way

Right track, baby

I was born this way

I was born this way, hey

I'm on the right track, baby

I was born this way

They then leaned closer to each other for the last part.

I was born this way, hey

I'm on the right track, baby

They sang softly to each other, their lips only a few inches apart.

“I was born this way, hey!”

And then their lips collided, their giant smiles remaining.

#julie and the phantoms #alex #alex molina #willex #carrie wilson #willie #jatp fic #kj gets a prompt #my writing #kj's writing #again thank you so much #i'm not sure about

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kinkyacademia · 4 years

Note

I know your requests are closed, and I don’t know if you take emergency requests but could I have Toga, Izuku, and aizawa with an S/O whose being abused by their mom?(emotionally and physically)

Toga, Midoriya and Aizawa

Hey meatball, my requests are open right now, so I can definitely get to this right quick. Since it’s an emergency, it’s going to be head canons (I’m trying to do this as quick as possible). But I hope that you know I care deeply about all of you and hope that you’re safe right now. Situations do get better, and you are worthy of love, I promise.

Trigger Warning for the mention of abuse & villain love, which isn’t always… “normal.”

-Mod Pasta🍜🍝

Toga Himiko:

💉Toga loved you with all her heart. She loved your personality, your appearance, the feel of your skin, your smell, your taste, everything. She commonly turned into you just to “Feel like an angel.” That’s how she figured out you were being abused. You had avoided showing her your body, and this must be why. She knew your mom and you had a strained relationship, and even if her own version of love was twisted and sick, your relationship with your mom fell into what she would classify as abuse. Once she turned into you and saw the bruises in places they shouldn’t be, she knew and it enraged her.

💉She didn’t exactly know what to do, so she confronted you immediately, smiling in the way she always does. Whenever she felt a strong emotion, she would smile, and this time it was anger. You were timid, afraid she was going to lash out just like your mom would. Alas, she just held both of your hands and said she didn’t have a lot of experience with this, but she was going to help in her own way.

💉A day later she approached you again with the location of one of the league’s safe houses near the house you were forced to live in with your mother. She said you could live there for free, and that it wasn’t an option. She was already helping you move and that was that. If you protest, she gets one of the League/Liberation Army’s help to subdue you. She turns into you and goes to get your things from your mother’s house.

💉Obviously this wasn’t a very great plan, and your mother is furious. Toga, being a skilled killer, subdues her instead of murdering her. She only killed people she liked, and right now she hated your mother, and it wasn’t her place to take her life. She gets your things and sets you up in the other house. The league/army is quick to accommodate their new resident, even if they don’t know much about you. They just like having numbers, and if you weren’t already part of the front, you were now.

💉But she knows the abuse doesn’t stop there. She knows you still feel in deep in your heart, and she loves to bear hug you and just wrap her whole body around you to remind you that you’re safe. She’s going to protect you, and if you mom so much as dares to text/call you, she can turn into you and remind her that you’re worth so much more than what she tells you.

Midoriya Izuku:

📚Izuku’s known you since his first year. Having such an intense crush was new for him, and he reacted the only way he knew: Memorizing every piece of you he could. From your smile down to the way your hair moved, he tried to understand the mysteries you tried to hide. This was how he learned that you presented all the signs of being in an emotionally abusive household. When you had to move to the dorms and your family was the last to sign, he knew he was right. You were ecstatic to live away from your family, and he was happy you were gone.

📚But when you came back for the second year and your movements were slow and twitchy, he began to get worried. He would bring you Gatorade and try to talk to you more, but the closer he got, the more you pulled away. He knew you thought of yourself as lesser, and he wishes he could tell you how much you matter every second of every day. He asks you out in the middle of second year, and that’s when you start to open up to him. He holds you, he patches your wounds, and he tries to keep you from home as much as possible. Study dates on Sundays, the only days you’re allowed to go home in the dorms. Anything he can do to give your mother an excuse to let you stay at school.

📚As time goes on and he sees you brightening up, he knows his micro-interventions are working. He’s getting more smiles back, and he adores seeing you know your worth. You’re worth a million stars to him, and even in the times you don’t see it, he’ll remind you.

📚But he knows you still have hard days when you have to go home, when you mother calls/texts you something vile, when your confidence and self-worth is stripped: He’s there to build you back up, because he knows how it feels to feel worthless, and he never wants you to feel like that again. He helps you become a hero who can smile above all else, and he’s there for you when you cry. Once high school ends, however, you’re NOT moving in with her. He and his mom have all the space you’ll need :)

Aizawa Shouta:

🐱You two had been dating for years - he had literally already picked out your ring, and yet you still hadn’t moved in with him. You still questioned if he loved you, and it hurt him to know someone was convincing you otherwise. Only so many bruises and flinches can be explained by “Hero work” and “Hero instincts.” He understood the signs, how you acted, he wasn’t stupid, it just took him a little bit of time to understand.

🐱Once he did, however, he was furious. He didn’t exactly know what to do, but the first thing he did was let you know that he knew. He brought you a cup of coffee and sat you down on his squishy grey couch, grabbing one of his fatter cats and letting you hold him when he let you know. He hugged you, let you cry, told you he wished he could have protected you sooner. He was disgusted by how long it had been going on, how it had been happening under his nose and you were too terrified to tell him. He never wanted you to be afraid to tell him something because he loves and cherishes all of you, and he was willing to do anything for you.

🐱He doesn’t confront her directly, but instead he helps you explain to her face-to-face that the relationship is getting “serious” and you’re moving in with him. Obviously there’s resistance, and he’s disgusted that this woman had so much control over their adult offspring, but he held his pride and convinced her that she didn’t own you, contrary to her belief, and that he would take good care of you. And he does - he helps you move in, you choose a new larger bed, and he even gives you a rare smile when you begin to cry after realizing that this was actually happening.

🐱He knew you were a long way from recovery, but since he’s been through trauma before, he knows you need patience and possibly a therapist. He can provide one of those things, and accompany you to the other. Seeing you come out of your shell really motivates him to actually, finally propose.

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tundrainafrica · 4 years

Note

Hi Sav! Hope all is well! Just wanna ask, do you get writer's block once in a while? If so, how do you fight it? How do you keep yourself motivated in writing?

Omg, thank you for the ask.

I’m honestly surprised people are pretty interested in my writing habits because I guess no one in real life actually knows me as a writer so nobody really asks about this. But yeah, the good news is I do have a set way of how I go about writing so this is a pretty easy ask to navigate.

So to answer your questions...

Just wanna ask, do you get writer's block once in a while?

Yes. I get it all the time. Writing the first few words of the next chapters of my fics or writing the first words of the fic given a prompt is always painful.

If so, how do you fight it?

I actually have some concrete ways which help me keep my head moving so I’ll drop these here. I can’t say it works for everyone but yeah, it might help people I guess?

I write things which I wish would happen no matter how much it doesn’t make any sense.

That’s why when I’m writing a fic, I never start at the start or what I believe the first words will be. I have a document and I write skeletons of dialogues which I want to show up, I write scenes and interactions that I want to happen.

All of my fics started from badly written notes. Most of them usually get deleted once the fic is done so I had to unearth these. I’ll drop a sample here of my shitty notes from fics I’ve been working on and some I actually finished. You might recognize some of the prompts from fics I’ve finished already

Canon fixit: fic where Hänge pulls Levi out of the water again, helps him wake up from his coma of Levi, the world just goes back to normal. Hange figures out her feelings for Levi, lives her cottage core life waiting for Levi to wake up and Levi discuss feelings for each other. reads romeo and Juliet ( is that us?) romeo and Juliet, gets a dream did it hurt?

Rekindle: sad songs more varied than happy songs, Levi saves Hänge drowning, works multiple jobs to make ends meet

Levihanzeke love triangle Hange is a lawyer, Levi is an illegitimate child convicted criminal in a Ponzi scheme, that's the thing about rich kids, Mikasa agrees with him, tries to save him by feeding information Philosophy Other prompts

Soulmates AU but a love child can be born from the love of someone else. Udo is the one who knows that Levijan are together, he goes with Gaby with them to Paradis and he tells them he knows them makes Levi and Hänge analyze their relationship

Lifetime: Levi takes up painting after the war.

Sometimes, I have interactions written out

And it becomes a matter of getting the kinks fixed and the ropes tied together.

Like this one dialogue...

“So, Levi Ackerman and Hange Zoe…” The teacher started as she looked through what could have been her list of names. With the way she was holding it, Levi had found it difficult to sneak a peek at what’s inside. “Commander Hange Zoe and Retired Captain Levi Ackerman…” The teacher corrected, clearing her throat at that.

“Yes, but no need for pleasantries. I mean you have been taking care of our son…” Hange spoke up and held one hand out for a hand shake, obviously trying to ease the tension in the room, or at the least the discomfort in the teacher’s face.

“ according to your son... Shitty four eyes… and Clean freak?”

Or this one...

“Prophylactic… Contraceptive…” Hange read aloud the more unfamiliar words as she turned the box around on her fingertips. She had hoped saying them aloud with ring some bells for her researcher mind. That small effort though turned out to be futile. I should ask Kiyomi about this when she gets back. She thought to herself.

“Never heard those words before,” Levi commented from his own table next to her. He always did keep her company after hours taking on some of the paperwork or reading through records and documentation on communications and deliveries that only rapidly multiplied with every passing day since the building of the port.

“Me neither,” Hange said. She sighed and rested her cheek on her hand as she looked out the window.

And...

The thinking process is, once I have a point A and a point B. Once I have all the dots I want written, connecting the dots becomes a bit more straightforward. I think the harder part really is figuring out the ‘dots’. That’s why I would recommend, once you feel like you wanna write something out, no matter how ugly it is, just get it written on your phone, even if it’s as messy as the notes above, or even if it’s just a dialogue skeleton.

And here’s the thing, I really believe that once you have a point A and a point B, there is a line that will always exist, regardless of how different point A and point B are. It’s just difficult to see from the start.

And yeah, I think this is where writer’s block comes for most people. Because sometimes we can’t find the logical way to connect the two.

So this is where my own concrete methods of fixing that comes in. (I’m sure it wouldn’t work for everyone but it might be worth a try for some people so I’ll leave it here.)

Find a hobby that follows a ‘connect the dots’ thinking process and before you write, do it.

When I get writer’s block, I like to do things in real life where I am reminded that even the weirdest things can easily be connected, or I like doing things that require deep thought and organization and that require good ideas on the fly. I play strategy games like chess or mahjong.

This probably won’t make sense for a lot of people but for the people who does, having a game with set a smaller set of rules than writing yet still requires lots of innovative thinking and organizational thinking, helps keep my head moving in a smaller space, so it’s a good warm up. So when I go back to writing and I look at the point A and the point B again, I’m more easily able to see how I want it to connect. Because chess and mahjong are games where we are given set pieces and we have to find a way to make it connect given our environment and circumstances.

If not chess or mahjong, and if you’re particularly musical, I found that just experimenting on an instrument when dealing with writer’s block actually works. I play the piano, and something which follows the same process as connecting the dots for me, is to open the lyrics of a song, look at a chords and just play the chords on the piano then just play around with the melody and the broken chords. The chords act like that ‘enclosed environment’ and the tinkering I do on the piano act like that ‘innovative thinking’ which gets my head moving.

Music: I go on walks and listen to my spotify on shuffle until a song comes out which I think resonates with the story. And then I listen to it again and again and again until I complete the fic. This is how I’m able to make that line from point A to point B more complete, and this is how I manage to channel my emotions into the writing.

Research: All fics will require some sort of research, especially when you’re writing something more complex. So when I’m going into some particular writer’s block, if it’s a history AU, I read history and watch documentaries. If I’m writing hc, I like to read medical journals. If I need to incorporate some sort of a science law into my fics, I read scientific journals (don’t read the whole thing lmao, the abstract usually works), When particularly writing a scene which requires in depth thought about a certain field or occupation, I talk to someone who has that occupation. I know this sounds totally weird to do over a fanfiction so I just don’t mention it’s fanfiction and just ask. I mean asking people about their job is generally an incredibly normal conversation starter.

How do you keep yourself motivated in writing?

Okay, so there’s one thing I need to point out here, if the pandemic didn’t happen, if I didn’t get laid off in my first job and if I didn’t drop law school for the year, I probably wouldn’t be here writing haha.

Like right now, when I’m stuck in the house 24/7, reading and writing is my only outlet and my only hobby outside my job. I can’t travel. I can’t see friends. I can’t see family. The skating rink is closed. The gyms are closed. Anything which is remotely seen as fun is closed.

So writing has been incredibly comforting in helping me process my emotions.

But I recognize the fact that starting a fic will always be hard especially if people don’t know what to do. So people tend to put it off, and this habit usually extends to work or studies too I’m guessing. I mean I’ve worked in enough groupworks to know that people like to wait for that sense of urgency before they do anything.

‘Motivation’ is such a fleeting thing that I don’t think anybody should be relying on that to get something moving. I think it’s pretty much discipline more than anything that gets people moving. So how do I avoid procrastination or that feeling where ‘just thinking about it makes me freeze so I don’t do it.

I just do it. But it isn’t as easy as that right?

I have this concept of a future self. Like a future me I do not wanna disappoint and I trust that future self when she says ‘ you will not regret doing this.’ So even if the writing process is hard the first few pages, I’m able to write because even if it is painful, I know that in between and actually finishing up those pages isn’t. I’m sure people who have finished a fic know, there is an in between where you aren’t thinking too much about the actual process, you’re just writing. And the painful part is just getting to that trance.

And in the end, you’re just like ‘I’m glad I wrote that.’

But that trance is liberating and it reminds me why the hell I’m doing all this in the first place. And I’m sure this isn’t limited to writing. Any hobby people pursue, working out, staying up all night to get homework done, I’m sure we all experience an in between or maybe some feeling after which makes us realize that it is worth it. It’s a matter of just trusting our future self to actually be grateful we did it.

I know it’s easier said than done but I guess it helps at least to build the habit and the mindset so I’ve dropped some concrete ways it helps me.

#fanfic #drabble #writing

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yeoldontknow · 4 years

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Sheltered Hearts: 4 (FINAL)

Author’s note: for @iq-biased. i hope you all enjoy the last part in this series as much as i enjoyed writing it! Paring: Yoongi x Reader (oc; female) Genre: enemies to lovers; vet!au; angst; romance; fluff Rating (this chapter): PG Warnings (this chapter): angst; some discussion of surgery but nothing graphic; a sick doggo who deserves so many kisses and is a good boy; a very soft first kiss; a very soft yoongi :( someone hug him Word count: 7.5K

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Talia’s hands tremble when you reach out to hug her, the strength in your joints equally as unwavering as the strength of your gaze upon your fingers. For now they are clean, gloves discarded and with them Casper’s blood, but that does not change where they have been, does not erase all that they have touched. You hold her gently, instinctually used to soft touches and gentle movements; lingering in a place and time when any pressure, too hard or too coarse, would cause malleable sinew to sever. The relief in her breath against your shoulder is immeasurable, perhaps her first genuine exhale in hours, but you remain silent, altogether still too aware of your hands, haunted.

‘He’s recovering,’ you hear yourself whisper, though you are unsure of the purpose of this statement. Is it to tether you to the earth? To reassure Talia? You cannot say for certain. It erupts from nowhere, a confident murmur, dawning in the center of your chest and desperate to greet the air within the same second. It is unprompted and likely unprofessional, but it matters, brimming over from the place where emotion latches onto blood.

Dr. Hague stands behind Yoongi, observant and encouraging, as he details Casper’s rehabilitation plan, voice bright and clear with sunlight nestled into the corner of his words. Even without looking at him, you can hear he is smiling, that boyish yet professional expression he wears when he is proud, still love-drunk from the concept of recovery. She breaks away from you, hanging on his every word and forcing herself not to celebrate too soon.

Casper will be held for several days in observation, the first three days the most imperative when infection or rejection can set in. Should he come out of these days unscathed, he will then be transferred to recovery therapy and then spend five weeks on lead, unable to freely play. It will be hard, he advises, and Talia nods, prepared to try to understand, chewing at the only question love ever allows to settle in a space like this:

When can I see him?

You don’t wait for her to ask the question, air in the room becoming thin and altogether too stale for your liking. Pulling off your surgical cap, you turn abruptly, moving through the waiting area to push your way through the doors and out to the parking lot. In the field across the street, the sun has just begun to set, blood on the grass that illuminates the earth like wildfire. A single breath is not enough to contain this, you think, a moment of fierce victory and delicate, unfathomable frailty. It could snap, this sense of pride and pleasure, one white blood cell rejecting the next would bring this moment to an endless, perpetual night.

Breathing deep, the smell of the wild flowers finds its way to you, a Spring evening that will eventually fade and fade until other victories and other failures render this moment painfully ordinary. Breathing deep, you cling to this feeling, the understanding that Gods never marvel at their miracles - the knowledge that surgery is not the act of playing with fate and instead is the summation of human suffering, a desperate plea to continue in life’s brief and limited smallness.

All things live, all things die, and it is a blessing to be present at both.

The clack of the door closing breaks your thoughts, but you do not open your eyes. You want this moment to last a little longer, regardless of who sees you, aware that these kinds of successes look almost the same as defeat, brutal and unforgiving. Yoongi’s presence lifts the hair on your arms to standing, an energetic cascade of safety and understanding. He moves behind you, drifting from your right to the center of your back to your left and off, somewhere away from you and carried by the doppler effect of his even footsteps.

He doesn’t speak, and even in this silent awareness that you are being observed you don’t feel pressured to speak with him. Yoongi lets you be, allows you to continue, uninterrupted, and lets you stand in the ever lowering sun, the warmth from the day giving over to a cool breeze, demanding nothing from you. He lingers at the edge of your awareness, a watchful satellite ensuring you are whole and that, if you do break, you do not break alone. When you finally open your eyes, your turn to face him, hands at your sides too full of blood and swollen, now, with excitement.

Leaning against his car, now in his street clothes, Yoongi stands, arms crossed and expression placid, watching you with a whisper of a smile. Liberated from his scrubs and hugging himself in a thin burgundy hoodie, he no longer is the surgeon or the doctor or the student battling for recognition. Instead, he is simply Min Yoongi, young and handsome and magnificent, watching you as though you are the fading light of the earth, intent on memorizing all your nuanced shades.

For a while, you are content to linger in this silence with him, observing him with the same unfettered focus. Eyes wired, the dimming light catches his irises, making him appear as though he glows from within. Thin lipped, he no longer appears severe in this light, instead he is curious and mercurial, hungry for the truth of things - the truth of you. The last strands of light hold tightly to his hair, lighting him on fire, burning the edges of his aura.

‘How about that diner?’ he asks with a gentle nod of his head towards his car, recalling his earlier suggestion.

The rumble in your stomach at the suggestion makes you giggle, though you are unsure if it is food you desire or if it is him, moments alone with him to truly see who he is when he does not have to fight to be seen.

Yoongi orders pancakes as though it would be a sacrilege to eat anything else at a diner, unbothered with the pretense of looking at the menu. In the pale fluorescent light, a pink blush settles on his cheeks, teased to life either by the rush of blood beneath his cheeks or the soft reflection of the red vinyl seat. You feel his eyes on you as you scan the menu, his inquisitive stare taking its time handling your frame. Gripping the edge of your seat, your eyes glaze over, scanning the words and the pictures, idly wondering why you bother with such false shows of interest when, much like Yoongi, you know you will order the waffles - something slightly different, but similar enough in its texture and form that you begin to see Yoongi as your mirror image.

His gaze remains trained on you even after the waiter has departed, arms folded, again, across his chest in a congenial display of interest. You’re not used to such unbridled attention, the kind of focus that comes from learning a person rather than witnessing them. The steel in his features has disappeared, rendering him soft and human and altogether too sincere for your liking, but the stillness in his focus tells you he is disassembling you. Fidgeting in your seat, heat crawls along your skin, joints tense and tongue heavy against your teeth.

You watch him too, watch the way his head cocks slowly to the side, a small smirk pulling at his lips. Watch the way he lets himself be painted by the light, different now to the sun and do the red and pink and blue kaleidoscope of the sky but equally as mesmerizing. No one is meant to be offered a metamorphosis in this kind of light. No one is meant to become beautiful, but he is. Of course he is.

Tearing your eyes away, a small act of desperation, you think, you glance around the diner. People are scattered, the empty spaces between occupied tables perhaps larger in number than those seated altogether, but you are glad for the quiet hum of life and motion. Thursday evening, and you would not say this particular location is prone to a rush hour, but it’s peaceful, a reminder that the weather turns, hearts beat, and lungs breathe.

A reminder that some things do not change even if the way you are feeling about Yoongi is.

‘I’m realizing,’ he announces, calling your attention back to him with his smooth, low drawl, ‘that we have only spent time together in the context of work.’

‘You’re just realizing this?’

‘No,’ he admits. ‘But I’m saying why haven’t we? In five weeks, amidst everything, why haven’t we?’

It’s not an unfamiliar question, one you have been mulling over for days at a time. At the clinic, things have changed - even before Casper’s surgery, the way you move around Yoongi has shifted not unlike the planets around the sun. But then, it is not just you who has been altered, moved by this sudden unified desire to help. Yoongi, too, smiles more - the kind where his teeth are on full display and for one, precious moment, he is not afraid of being himself; laughs louder; allows the creases at the center of his eyes to form without worrying he is being unprofessional.

In the past several weeks, you have found more reasons to be beside him, more reasons to ask for his advice, found yourself craving the very concept and theology of more - not necessarily love or a crush, but the threatening start of one, the thunder of your heart just a little louder when he laughs. Some days, it is no longer Dr. Hague’s praise you crave but his, as if he has any bearing on your success, as though a word of approval from him holds more weight than any paper rewarded to you by the nature of your own hard work - as if hours spent challenging him are as valuable as hours alone in a lab, giving over and giving in, allowing yourself to become better because he requires it.

Clearing your throat, you let your eyes wander over his easy smile and his cool, collected demeanor. ‘I don’t know,’ you shrug, a casual display of nonchalance. ‘You never asked.’

Yoongi chuckles, unfolding his arms as he leans a little closer to the table. ‘You didn’t ask, either.’

Cocking your brow, you feel yourself smirk, pulling at his words the same way he pulls as yours. ‘Are we calling a truce?’

For a long moment, Yoongi considers your words, mulling them over as his cheeks inflate with air. Folding his arms on the table, he regards you in a playful contest, the diner becoming little more than a boardroom for your false negotiations. Mirroring his position, you rest your arms on the table and narrow your eyes. Chewing at the inside of your cheek, it takes work to swallow the smile you want to offer him, the sort of smile he so badly hides at the corner of his mouth.

‘At work?’ he says, finally.

You nod, resolute in your role and your intent.

‘Never.’ He falls back into his seat, reclining into the cushion with his eyes full of promise and mirth. You wait for him to speak, somehow hanging on every word, relieved that this rivalry can continue as is, uninterrupted and unchanged, yet still expectant. ‘But outside of work,’ he continues, slowly, his wide smile blossoming, ‘I’d like to be friends.’

Everything about Min Yoongi is infectious, the light in his eyes a dangerous glimmer that demands your surrender. Taking a deep breath, you prepare your words, aware that your acceptance of this offer is a commitment not unlike love, yet carrying with it the potential to last longer, eternal, the purest form of connection that could exist.

‘I can do that.’

The arrival of your food ceases all conversation, the growling in your stomach a reminder that you have not eaten since before Casper’s surgery. All morning you had felt uneasy, not nauseous and not queasy, but unable to shake that you were standing at the precipice between fantasy and reality. The statement of wanting to be something is entirely different than the process of becoming, said so long and so often throughout your life that you had almost forgotten that the experience of growth is just as important as the commitment to the desire. And so you had not eaten, certain that the comfort of a meal would distract you from the weight of importance.

Taking your time arranging your plates of eggs and bacon, gathering your napkin and utensils, you greet your waffles with an enthusiastic smile. Glancing upwards, you find yourself laughing at Yoongi and his childlike glee. He falls into his meal the same way he falls into surgery, with diligence and an edge of impatience, as though the plate itself carried a seduction he found irresistible. Hands idle over your fork and knife, you wonder if this is the enthusiasm with which he falls into everything he desires, unbridled though careful, unsatisfied until he has born witness to and tasted it all, with a fidelity of devotion large enough to cradle the sun.

He cuts into his pancakes with diligence, holding his fork and knife with surgical delicacy as he makes elegant cuts, shaping his pieces with precision. You’re sure it’s just a habit, something he can’t quit after so long of learning to be careful, but you feel the onslaught of your sudden similarities in the center of your chest, a weight becoming harder and harder to disregard.

‘What you did for Casper was impressive,' he announces, penetrating your thoughts with the cool tones of his voice. 'The foresight required to make that kind of suggestion...to invent something…’ His words evaporate as he chews, glancing from his pancakes to his bacon and back again, unsure which deserves his attention more. Swallowing, he nods, assuming you have already agreed with him. ‘Remarkable.'

The magic of the moment is broken by the implication this is an unusual occurrence, reminded now that, had you been more vocal, more demanding and less angry that the clinic already had a rising star, there would have been more chances, more opportunities to prove this kind of medicine is not a miracle. Briefly, the sterilized antiseptic scent of the graduate school lab hall floods your synapses. All the bones you watched break, only to be put together by someone else; all the innovations, the universal mystery of 3D printing no longer so out of reach; all the advances humanity makes simply because they want to, and because they can.

What you did for Casper, you think, was not as much impressive as it was the morally correct thing to try. Long ago, you decided magic is real and magic is man made. Magic is the decision of recognizing something is broken and taking the initiative to fix it.

Casting your attention to your waffles, you grip your utensils with the same tender reverence as Yoongi, hands giving pause to make your first incision. ‘It wasn’t really,' you murmur with a shrug.

Yoongi halts his movements and swallows, blinking at you momentarily bewildered.

‘No?' he snorts, disbelieving. 'Tell that to Talia. That dog might walk again, with all four legs mind you. That never would have happened without you.'

Humming, you nod in mild agreement. ‘I mean sure, objectively, it is.'

Dropping your shoulders, you consider your words, wondering how anyone could explain the way careful hands and cold metal can create structure - not necessarily life - but still something vital, necessary, and powerful just the same; the offer of a new life, created and manifested simply because you want it to be. How could you ever, you wonder, explain that you are not bringing someone back to life, but adding to the concept of it, extending it- challenging, not death but, life itself.

‘But,’ you continue, meeting his eyes once more as you decide on a worthy enough explanation, ‘you have to understand that’s the standard for orthopedics, this kind of specialty.’

He eyes you expectantly, hands poised and still, knowing that there is more - so much more you want to say - and leaves you the absolute freedom to say with, unhindered.

‘In our surgery labs, you should see what you can build. What you can make with your own two hands.’ Relaxing into your seat, your mind races, remembering. ‘It’s a fusion of all the sciences really - bones and soft tissue, metal and construction. You’re not trying to resurrect - yeah, sometimes it can feel like that, but that’s not the point. We aren’t bringing someone back from the brink - we’re pushing them over the limit and ensuring they survive.’

You aren’t entirely sure when you became so hungry - for food, for life, for Yoongi - but it does not escape your attention how painfully emphatic you sound. Nothing, you think, has ever been so important for him to understand, so important for him to feel.

‘I have no interest in playing God,’ you continue, quieter now but just as determined. ‘Not the way you would in cardio or…’

‘Oncology?’

He offers it almost like a challenge, and, perhaps, on a different day, long before you truly could say you knew him, you would have felt as though there was no way to escape the unintentional insult he means to force on you. Instead, you see the way he watches you, considerate and gentle, fully aware this is not a slight at him or his choices, managing instead to leave you room to breathe in the space of accepting his statement.

‘Yeah.’ You hold his gaze, smiling as though you cannot help it, as though smiling at him is the most natural and wonderful thing - made for it, you think, made for the wonder of his pleasure.

Yoongi smirks, watching you intently, eyes alive with something that makes him look playful and joyful, content to be sharing this moment with you; honored, if only because you decided to let him in.

‘Makes sense,’ he says with a shrug, leaning forward once more to return his attention to his pancakes.

Bewildered, you cock your head to the side. ‘What does?’

‘Why you were resentful before.’ Yoongi reaches across the table, taking the syrup from beside your glass, pouring more over his pancakes and letting it spill onto his bacon. ‘About working here.’

Your jaw falls open, mock offence mixing with genuine abjection. ‘It’s not that I was resentful,’ you begin, asserting that you were neither ungrateful nor bitter. ‘It’s just hard to rationalize how badly you want to help, and how much you know could do, with the limit of your role.’

Even as you say the words, you know they are little more than platitudes you tell yourself - have been telling yourself - to rationalize the level of dejection you experienced. It seems like ages ago, moons upon moons having passed, a dying age when you accepted your stagnancy and put the blame on Yoongi, choosing him as your scapegoat simply because he took control of his life with both hands.

Cocking an eyebrow in your direction, Yoongi laughs, amused and disbelieving. Pointing a strip of bacon in your direction, he refuses you the comfort of your placating sentiments.

‘You were resentful,’ he states plainly.

The mischievous glimmer in his eyes is infectious, your cheeks warming with a sheepish blush that has you giggling. ‘Okay, maybe I was,’ you concede. ‘All the typing and filing is wearing out my perfect hands.’

Eyeing you through his lashes as he cuts more of his pancakes, he considers you for a long while, as though you are a mystery he is only just beginning to solve.

‘You did good,’ he says eventually, words gentle and voice full.

The genuine affection you find in the statement catches you off guard, chest tight as your heart stumbles over its natural rhythm. More and more, he has become tender - someone who offers support in the form of silence when you need to be heard; someone unafraid to give encouragement or honesty when you need it most; someone who, after everything you have seen from them, from their strength to their arrogance to their dedication, is nothing more than a boy with a heart too big to be contained in the cage of his sternum.

Now, with the lights reflecting the neon of the diner and putting the rainbow in his blonde hair, skin pink and warm and eyes almost brutal in their kindness and their candor, Yoongi is a vision - one you do not think you will ever stop admiring.

‘You did, too,’ you murmur, cheeks hot with a blush of embarrassment. You wish you could be loud, unafraid of him hearing just how much it means to you, but softness is what he has pulled out of you, a compassion for people rather than animals you thought had vanished long ago emerging from deep within.

You want to be as confident in this expression as he is, but the fragility of your tenderness is not unlike a fawn, keeping you close to Yoongi so that you can learn.

‘So here is what I know about you,’ he begins, biting down on his bacon strip and breaking your thoughts. ‘You’re smart, passionate, competitive as hell.’

‘You say that like it’s a threat,’ you laugh, cutting into your waffles, the thickness of the atmosphere diluting down to one of amicable comfort.

‘It’s not a bad thing,’ he laughs. ‘In this profession you need that edge. Life doesn’t wait.’ Swallowing, he takes a sip of his water through the straw, lips forming a soft circle that makes you melt, eyes wide and focused on yours. ‘But,’ he continues, ‘I’m still trying to make sense of you.’

Pouting, you grimace. ‘You mean you’ve spent all that time looking at me and that’s all you’ve figured out?’

Yoongi nods with an affable smile, but he does not allow you the comfort of teasing deflection. Instead, he folds his arms on the table and regards you with a tenacity that feels weighted, too heavy for the jovial, easy comfort you have found yourselves in. ‘I think that’s all you let people see.’

Had you not known him to be incisive, the direct comment might have startled you - months ago, you would have been insulted. Now, you find you have to stop yourself from swooning. In the days and weeks you have spent learning Yoongi of your own accord, he has been doing the same - only, he makes it clear he has been watching, witnessing you, and you, usually so careful and professional, find that you want him to see you. You are desperate for his eyes on you, his eyes watching you in the morning after your coffee; his eyes, studying your lips and your skin in the sun, basking in the post-surgical bliss that comes with risk; his eyes, learning the way you move when you do not know you are being watched, when you do not know that you are wanting him to watch you, or wanting him altogether.

Months ago, you’d have been upset, but now you are relieved, yet still uncertain he has done you justice. You deserve more, you think, than just idle watching. You deserve to be consumed.

‘Then,’ you begin, placing your utensils on the plate and leaning forward, mirroring his posture, ‘maybe you’re not looking hard enough.’

His eyes widen, sparkling as they take you in, his smile brilliant and combating the light - every sliver of it, natural and unnatural, demanding he power the universe. ‘Seductive,’ he announces, gleeful. ‘Like a little imp.’

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you take a slow, shaking in hale at the way he lingers on the word seductive, clinging to the S as though he is reluctant to let it go, to let you go. The world shifts on its axis in the aftermath of his sentence, and you both are aware of it. He waits for your reaction, impatient in the way his joints seem to tense around his fork, unblinking in his desire for your response. Tongue heavy against your teeth, you smile, lowering your gaze and regarding him through the thickness of your lashes, watching the pink swell of a flush creep up his neck.

Yoongi is not ensnared but he is waiting for you to hold onto the moment, to clutch it with both your greedy fists, coming to him like the snake in Eden, ready for you to bite.

‘If only you knew,’ you offer, coquettish and dark.

Yoongi tips his head back against the seat, pleased and reassured that you are just as unforgiving in your lust and flirtation as you are in competition. A vibration has commenced in your nerves, the humming in your skin a foreboding sense of vulnerability and the expectation that these exchanges will continue - somewhere, somewhen, not in the clinic but elsewhere, created by your own accord, because you both wish them to be so. You can feel it, and you are sure he can too, though it is still young - a warm, threatening heat that whispers its demands for you both, not yet large enough to consume you.

But it will. You want it to.

Yoongi smiles, and you smile back, letting it take root deep within your soul, its reach far more sweeping than you ever let this kind of expression reach. Yoongi smiles, and the earth moves, and nothing, you know, will ever be the same.

It continues like that for a long while, days and weeks passing with you watching Yoongi and Yoongi watching you, a silent contract that promises you will kiss one another's thoughts before you will kiss lips, these exchanges somehow more intimate and tender than the exchange of skin to skin. The clinic notices the change, the shift from rivalry to competitive understanding to a friendship that borders, tauntingly, on the barriers of romance. Your colleagues watch you both with smiles tucked into the corners of their mouths, knowing everything because you neither hide nor deny anything at all, rejoicing in the sensuality that comes from the force of finally living.

Day in and day out, you trace the bones and the bodies of the animals that come to you, the end to your service at the clinic looming ever closer, a date you deny but do not dread if only because it means you will have him, all of him exactly as you want him. There was no discussion of your eventual transition from friends to lovers, something as inevitable as the movement of the sun over the earth's horizon, but you felt it. In the way he smiled and the way he waited behind you, watchful and awed, you felt it. Somehow, some when, on a night or a day when you both felt comfortable, placated by one another's presence and more alive than you had ever felt simply because he was at your side, you both had decided it would be so.

But not yet.

For a long while, you hold hands through your surgical gloves, fingers touching fingers for the briefest of moments, only to break apart as quickly as you had come together, choosing the airs of professionalism over the airs of romance; evenings spent beneath his parent's peach trees, reading medical books and medical research, pretending your toes do not touch, that the warmth on your skin is from the blanket and not from his skin. In those moments, he is pink - pink as the blossoms and pink as your blush, breathing in unison and waiting, almost too impatiently, for the thrill of being young and being in lust.

The danger of these feelings is that they always feel immortal, immune to the wear and tear of life itself, a blessing that endures. In these sentiments, you are invincible - but the are dangerous because they are more fragile than your own soft tissue, than the supple muscle of your beating heart. They are dangerous because they always end, and when they end, you are always left bereft.

It ends on the hottest day of the summer, mid-day in August with the sun high in the sky and no clouds to cover it. Yoongi had come to work early, the air conditioning of his apartment broken and the sweat on his neck lingering in a tantalizing shimmer. You watch him scribble notes from a medical lecture onto a thick pad of paper from your seat at your newly earned desk in Dr. Hague's office, a small table with a computer and too many charts and notes scattered across it to be remotely organized, too warm to focus.

You are meant to be writing a pathology report for a cat with a broken femur; you are meant to be running labs and inputting charts for Dr. Hague's review. And you will, you tell yourself you will, but only after you memorize the way the contour of Yoongi's cheek seems to catch the light, golden and bronze and almost too ethereal to belong to man.

The phone to Dr. Hague's office rings, making both you and Yoongi jump. He laughs at himself, sheepish, and you laugh with him, though something in this moment makes your stomach drop, your skin slick now with a sense of dread that refuses to leave you. If he feels it too, Yoongi does not let on, reaching for the phone with a confident hand that does not shake as he pulls it to his ear. It's almost inevitable, the way you start to grieve, though you are unsure why the sadness in your chest has begun to spawn like spores. You are grieving, but for what you cannot tell, you can only sense that you are supposed to by the way Yoongi's brows furrow and his lips drop into a frown, cascading downward, almost sauntering lower alongside the trajectory of your heart, before he expresses his acknowledgement and hangs up the phone.

Without a word, he drops his notepad to his deserted chair and moves past you, knowing you will follow hot on his heels, and you do, rising after him with fire in your veins and an ache in your chest, knowing. Somehow, knowing.

In the clinic waiting room, Talia sits with Casper at her feet, pale and lost. Eyes downcast, she is dark, gaze unfocused as she breathes almost too quietly, so far away from you and this moment she does not lift her head on your approach. You and Yoongi halt your steps by the reception desk, simply watching. Hands fisted at your sides, you feel as though you knew, as though you might have always known that they would be back, that somehow it would be different - another day, another war, another reminder that you are human and humans are not meant to solve the problems of mortality.

It's Dr. Hague who breaks the silence, moving past you and Yoongi with somber footsteps as he calls her name. Talia raises her head, eyes no longer simply dark but wet, attempting a hopeful smile as she rises to her feet.

Before she speaks, you know what she will say, certain you do not want to hear it and, conversely, certain that you must. It will be the fire, you think, the fire that will insight another battle out of you, another way to win the day and, perhaps, even the war.

'The vet,' she manages, voice broken and uneven and so terribly small. 'They said his cancer came back. It's in a different part of his leg...worse now, I guess.'

Her words leave you bitter, as though you have been pressed and completely released of your youthful, jovial glow. In the aftermath, you are hardened and battle-born, angry and lost, the tears threatening to burn at your eyes because you saved him. You saved him once and you will do it again, the sheer force of this sentiment vibrating down through your joints, your fingers, deep into the atoms of your blood. You saved him and you will do so again.

The very nature of your will is unflinching, uncompromising as you take a deep inhale, readying yourself. Turning to your side, you expect to see Yoongi, the blood beneath his skin ablaze with the same relentless passion for victory, but he is not there. At your side, there is nothing, just the long tails of his lab coat as he departs from the room altogether.

Bereft, he departs from the clinic with ferocious speed, your own tongue running dry as you struggle to fathom words and reason for his sudden absence. Talia looks to the door, your eyes meeting at this central point, bewildered yet somehow unified in understanding. If she could leave her skin, departing from this moment with a completeness that leaves no discernible trace, you imagine she would. And so it is unfair, you think, for Yoongi to have the liberty of escape.

Gingerly, you follow him, reminded of the day when he followed you, orbiting around you in the evening sun as he watched and waited. The difference, you suppose, is not the circumstance as much as it is the timing. He gave you space, distance, minutes with just yourself to collect and gather your thoughts; and so you are too soon, almost cruel in your interruption. It washes over you, the understanding that to feel something, anything, is a pain that defies the simplicity of language but to be witnessed in the state of that emotion is an act of unmaking, an unforgiving vulnerability.

But right now, you need him just the same as he likely needs you; consumed, at once, with the need to remind him that the experience of defeat only matters in the actions you take in the aftermath.

Crouched against the back of the clinic, Yoongi holds his head in his hands and trembles, small and shy, defenseless as though he naked and raw. You approach him cautiously, footsteps careful as you train your eyes on the curve of his back, catlike and poised to withdraw at a moment’s notice. He looks as distraught and desperate as you feel, gripped by the fear and the remorse - the magnitude and the full breadth of it - as he takes long inhales, demanding that the air itself grows claws within him.

Stepping forward, a twig snaps beneath the soles of your shoes and he bristles, aware that he is no longer alone. Your gaze departs from him, searching other points of interest, sheepish as you bite the inside of your cheek. The silence is deafening, the breeze refusing to rustle the leaves and the birds refusing to sing. Time moves slowly in this space, inching ever forward and yet you seem detached from it, waiting and waiting and waiting.

‘I know it’s wrong,’ he announces suddenly, alarmingly clear toned for a man so broken. ‘It makes me a bad doctor.’

Softening, you are drawn to his side, leaning back against the clinic as you keep your eyes forward, not wanting to upset him further should your presence be a discomfort. ‘What does?’

‘Attachment,’ he spits, resentful that the very concept could exist. ‘In oncology we learn it in year one. You don’t get attached. You’re not God. You can’t save every animal. This kind of thinking will do you in.’

‘Then,’ you try, keeping your voice low and soothing, ‘why this dog? Because it was special?’

Yoongi shakes his head. You can hear the rustle of his hair as he moves, the sound making your chest constrict in affection.

‘It’s not just this dog,’ he retorts sharply.

‘No?’

‘It’s every dog.’ Behind the bitterness and distress, you hear the truth - the anguish of heart that knows too much benevolence, too much affection; the pressure of a heart too willing to love. ‘Every dog and every cat and every rabbit. Each time, I love them.’

‘You have to love them, Yoongi.’ Lowering your gaze to his crouched form, you keep your words calm and even though their meaning is tenacious in its ardent determination. ‘You have to love them enough to take the risk, and you have to love them enough to do what’s morally right - even if that means letting them go.’

‘I know it’s stupid.’ He continues, as though he did not hear you at all, as though you had not spoken. ‘Day one, they say it will make you a terrible doctor. Thinking like this will break you before your career even starts.’ Rising to a stand, he wipes his palms over absent creases in his trousers before he, too, leans against the clinic, arms folded and chin tucked against his chest. ‘Want to know the truth?’

‘Tell me.’

‘I think human doctors have it easier,’ he explains. ‘You’re not going to love every patient. Some are assholes, and some aren’t very good people. Hell, depending on the case you might not want them to live - they might be a goddamn criminal.’

‘It’s easy not to get attached to people,’ you agree with a nod.

‘Fuck, I don’t even like people very much.’ At this he turns to you, worried and wide eyed, uncertainty tainting his features. He looks to you as though you can help him understand, pleading and so endearingly lost. ‘I don’t do this,’ he whispers. ‘Letting people in…,’ his voice fades as he turns away again, walling off one fear for the next. ‘You don’t get that choice with animals,’ he continues, clear toned and persistent. ‘No animal exists or acts out of bad intentions.’

Looking out over the horizon, you watch the early afternoon sun cast its golden rays over the grass, dappling the field. Something in this experience for him is two-fold, the fear of risk wrapping itself around separate, yet not altogether innocuous, events and ensuring they can no longer be parted. A smile pulls at your cheeks, bemused that you had been learning to trust and breathe through the same fear as he, learning to surrender to someone other than yourself.

And so you offer the same lessons to him, if only because you find the easiest way to fight your battles is by looking in the mirror.

‘I don’t think this is stupid.’

‘No?’ he breathes, turning to face you once again. ‘Because I’ve not even started yet, and I can already feel it ending.’

You’re unsure if he is referring to his feelings for you or his career, though you are confident it does not matter. All risk is risk, regardless of the direction.

‘It’s not stupid,’ you repeat, shaking your head. ‘It’s human. I don’t think any vet truly understands why someone becomes a people doctor. People suck.’

You finish with a shrug of your shoulders, a non-committal sign of agreement you hope informs him that people do suck, but he is the exclusion. Always the exclusion.

At this, Yoongi laughs, casting his gaze downward to his feet as his tell-tale blush wanders across his neck and into his ears. Encouraged, you continue.

‘Even the worst animal has a reason for being, well, the worst,’ you explain. ‘Lots of times, it’s people who made them that way. People and their bad habits and their neglect and their inability to understand or care.’

Sidelong, he looks at you through the curtain of his eyelashes, lips pulling into a small grin that gives your heart wings. ‘I see this furthers your point that people suck.’

‘It does,’ you giggle, unable to help yourself and the way you softly swoon at the sight of him, boyish and young and learning to try. ‘But that’s not my main point.’

‘Then what’s your point.’

‘My point is…’ Your words fade, carefully choosing your words, aware that this is the pinnacle, the moment between now and tomorrow, the moment of change that ensures everything is different. And you, just as guarded and so full to the brim, ready to learn to love, tell yourself you are prepared. This is for you as much as it is for Casper as it is for him. ‘We learn this too, but in Ortho we call it something different. For us, it’s failure to rescue. For us, it’s not about who failed less or who failed more. It’s merely who rescued more, that’s the separation. In surgery, things will go wrong - you cannot take a risk without the probability of failure, otherwise it isn’t a risk. You have to be ready for it, the failure, because it is naturally inevitable. The difference between triumph and defeat, rescue and failure to rescue, is what you do after it.’

Yoongi regards you intently, eyes glimmering not unlike the sun at dawn, watching you with enough attentive vigilance you feel valuable, important, the single most important thing in his small universe at this moment. It’s an odd feeling, the knowledge and acceptance that you matter, that you matter and that you are wanted. The world spins, and you feel it, the lightheaded dizziness that comes from the motion of things rather than the lack making you root your feet to the earth, emboldened.

‘Obviously, you continue, chest full and impassioned, ‘you became a vet to save animals, we all did, but this is the moment you take to heart and try to rescue again. And when you get like this...you have to talk about it with somebody.’

‘Ugh,’ he groans with a soft chuckle. ‘People.’

‘With me,’ you offer, leaning to nudge his shoulder with yours, watching as he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth. The very sight warms your blood, heat wandering down your spine and into your core.‘I wouldn’t say I’m people.’

‘Oh, right,’ he nods, the flirtatious candor in his voice just as raw as his emotions. ‘A person.’

‘I’m serious!’ you laugh, allowing yourself the moment of mock offence and amorous teasing. ‘What do you normally do, go home and drink the night away to forget this?’

‘Well,’ he nods with a grimace, ‘you’re not wrong. Can’t usually forget though. I remember every single one I’ve failed.’

Reaching forward, you take a hold of his right hand, letting your thumb graze over the knuckles. It’s so unlike you, so unlike your careful distance and professional stoicism, but the risk of it is a thrill that sends an electric shock up your arm, breath shuddering in your lungs at the feel of his soft skin. Almost immediately, his grip tightens over yours, holding what he can of you with an unwavering stare, demanding that you feel just as much, that you feel just as vulnerable and exposed. Like this, you let the pad of your thumb explore the ever warming expanse of his hand, learning the smooth texture until you are certain, if demanded, you could remember and explain it in such detail all the world would feel it too.

‘Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?’ he murmurs, breaking the moment with a shallow breath.

Cocking your head to the side, you smile impishly, just as he knew you were, and are, all those weeks ago. ‘What, that your heart is the size of a house?’

‘I meant that I cried,’ he laughs, ‘but yeah, that too.’

Breaking from his hold, you turn to lead him back to the clinic, grinning as you offer him a wink. ‘One of those secrets is safe with me, but I won’t tell you which one.’

‘Wait!’

Yoongi reaches for you once more, pulling with such force that you collide into him with a huff. He’s faster than you, somehow three steps ahead and prepared, holding your face with both hands as he presses his lips to yours, skilled and soft and ensuring his gratitude cascades down and down into your soul. Instinctively, your arms wind around his neck, fingers coming to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck, deepening the kiss as you step closer, close enough you’re certain there is no air between your chests, certain that it would not dare separate you. He hums against your lips, a deep roll of thunder through your opens that has you opening for him, his tongue dipping in for one brief caress against yours before he departs entirely, separating, once more, as though he had not been there at all.

But you feel him. Oh, do you feel him.

Catching your breath, you lose yourself in the honey of his gaze, waiting for the rhythm of your heart to return to its normal pace. But you do not relinquish your hold, and nor does he let you go, both of you gripping one another as though seeking purchase during a fall.

‘I’ll keep both those secrets,’ you whisper, lips still wet and tingling with the force of him, ‘if you come back in and find a way to help Casper.’

Yoongi smiles, a wide gummy expression that makes you feel, yes, you are indeed falling. ‘Deal.’

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ajokeformur-ray · 4 years

Text

My One Companion // Ezzie x J // soft NSFW (sensual) and fluff.

Summary: Cozy. Home. J coming home after wreaking havoc in the streets of Gotham to someone who loves him even though he's rough and callous. He likes it and he'll never admit to it, but I know he does. Begrudging but not reluctant cuddles, J receives some much needed TLC. Sensual cuddles/light smut. @ezziesworld

A/N: asdfghjkl Ezzie omgggggg~ girl I love you <333 you’re such a treasure and such a wonderful person!!! I wanted to do this for you because you do so much for us and you’ve never been anything but endlessly kind to me so I hope that you enjoy this!!! If you want anything redone, please let me know!! ILYYYYY ~ <33333

Also, I’m so so sorry that this is late omgggg~ I hope the length makes up for it!! <3 I reread your Domestic Bliss series and because you referenced it when you gave me your personal info., I did my best to incorporate some pieces of it in this gift!! <3

Word count: 4, 965.

J had been gone for days.

Long stretches of time without your clown were torture for you. You hadn’t heard a single thing from him or even any of his men. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he safe, was he okay? Was he... was he dead? No - you shook that thought from your mind as quickly as it had occurred to you. You didn’t want or need to go down that path, it would only lead to deeper feelings than you were able to stomach or process at the moment.

Oh, but you were so sick with worry for J.

Like the previous three days in a row did the time trickle past, somehow so slowly that you barely noticed and yet so quickly that you did. You felt stuck in limbo, just waiting. Unknowing of where J was or if he was okay. Unsure of what was going to happen, of when he was coming home. Yes, you were waiting for a man to come home and a part of you bristled at that, but the larger part of you, the part which had never bothered to fight what you had with J, was pleased, for surely your worry was the greatest proof you currently possessed of just how dearly, how deeply, you loved J.

Love...

Yes, you loved J. You adored every single thing about him. You had never been afraid of him, not even for a second. You were pretty emotionless as a person, but there was just something so otherworldly, so ethereal about J that you couldn’t help it. He was so intriguing and the numerous layers of darkness you saw in him only added to the overall mystery which surrounded him. You would truly never know J; he was the kind of person who invented himself each and every day. Some days he was a psychopathic killer, other days he was a true jester... every day with your clown was different and you only loved him all the more for it.

The more you thought about J, the more love bloomed in your chest. The heat of such an emotion, so intense and so all-consuming was it that it was bigger than you, spread strongly through your veins and warmed you to the very tips of your toes. Though you knew not where J was, what he was doing, the knowledge that he was out there somewhere as you looked out of the window kept you company. Loneliness lingered in the air of the apartment but it was kept away with thoughts of J. Of that intense chocolate gaze, of that hastily applied greasepaint which he rarely, if ever, fully washed off. Any part of his paint which came off was only painted over. J was almost always covered in at least five layers of greasepaint and it so perfectly represented who he was; he was just a man, just human like you were, but he was protected by layers and layers of mystery, intrigue...

Oh, he was so beautiful.

The longer you thought about J and the more you thought about how he wasn’t here, you only missed him more. You only loved him more, for all that he was and all that he would ever be. If you had your way, he would have come home days ago. Hell, he may even have never left. You knew that J was more than capable of looking after himself. He was most often the one behind riots and fights, heists, of entire buses being tipped over the edge of a bridge... though he said that he never had plans, he always had ideas. It didn’t matter how or why or when those ideas were carried out to fruition, just so long as they were. J could take care of himself, but you worried about him often. It was enough to drive you crazy, but the multiple layers of darkness in J called out to the darkness in you and you found yourself answering his call each and every day. You wondered if perhaps what the two of you shared together, had built together, was unhealthy in some ways, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. If J asked you to jump, your first and only question would be “how high?”. So long as you had J in your life, for all that he was, all that he had ever been and all that he ever would be, why... you had the world.

Perhaps that was why you stayed, no matter how much you missed him, no matter how much he put you through, no matter how long he was gone without a single word to you. J may have been a man of his word but he didn’t use them very often. He was a man of action. If he wanted to do something, he did it. He lived simply, when you really and truly thought about it. He was a man without rules, without plans. J was impulsive, reckless. He kept you on your toes each and every day and no two days were exactly the same. But there was one thing, just one, which you clung to no matter what he said or did: J always, always came home to you eventually. He never said that he was coming back, or when, but you knew that he would. You trusted him, you loved him, and you knew that there was no real reason to worry; J was always just fine and he always came home to you. He was rough and callous but you knew that he liked the tenderness which you greeted him with every time he came through your window; dirty, greasy haired and stinking to high heaven of gunpowder, gasoline and greasepaint, but what mattered was that he stayed. He stayed with you, beside you, and it was for this reason that you did, too. In staying with you, in coming home to you as he did, was J revealing all the untold truths of your situation together. J’s love language was one very few in the world even bothered to hear, let alone listen to, but you... oh, but you had taken the time to learn his love language as intimately as you knew your own, and it was so loud.

It was getting dark outside. You had been stood at the window for some time now, watching the gloomy grey Gotham sky darken into darker hues of purples and blues, which blended together so perfectly as the sun dipped below the horizon. The colours, like a gigantic bruise, as if the world was hurting, only darkened the longer that you stood there watching, waiting, for J. Oh, how had he reduced you to this? A part of you wondered if he stayed away for longer on purpose, just to see what you would do. Social experiments were one of J’s favourite things to do, he loved exposing the darkness in people. As the beautiful shades of the sky became black, the vast limitless expanse of the night sky was left unpunctuated by stars or constellations, so filled with pollution was the city air. It poisoned your lungs each and every day, the city dragged you down and made you feel like you were less than you were. You doubted things precious to you, things you needed as much as you craved oxygen, but J... oh, but J was able to breathe life back into you. He was your reason and your purpose, your drive... he was your everything. J reminded you each and every day of the things which truly mattered and he didn’t even have to try to do so; he achieved it simply by being his refreshingly chaotic self. J didn’t care. He was a true nihilist and his views, his attitudes, were both liberating and depressing; life was just a bad joke. Nothing needed to be taken as seriously as it was and in J did you find peace with yourself and your place in the world. He was right, when you really thought about it all; what did it matter? You would die one day anyway, so you may as well have fun while you’re here.

Your thoughts had no chance to go further, to explore your own views of J’s attitudes, for there was a loud bang at the window and you jumped back at the sight of a ghostly white face and large, black eyes, and - over the pounding of your heart and the roaring in your ears of blood did reality kick in and you realised that there was no ghostly apparition at the window. No. J was home. You gasped, relief and love flowing through your body as you flung yourself forward and almost ripped the window open to let your clown home. J was home. “J, what are you doing? Why didn’t you just use the door?” Oh, but the many risks of harbouring a terrorising murderous clown gave you near daily heart attacks and so much anxiety, but you never regretted it for even a second. J coming home to you meant that he trusted you, that your space was safe. It meant that he was safe with you and it was one of the loudest displays of affection, at the very least, which he could show you.

J lowered himself across the frame, his upper body being lowered carelessly. His head hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud and you winced as gracelessly did his legs follow suit until there was a messy purple puddle of a man on your bedroom floor, his limbs everywhere. Oh, lord, he did not smell good but you didn’t even want to know what he had been doing since he had left without saying anything to you. Any information he gave you, even if it was false or a half truth, could incriminate you. It could put you in danger and that was one thing which J would not stand for. In fewer words had J sworn to always protect you and as such, he never told you anything, not even lies for most often are they grounded in some semblance of truth. Nothing and no one would ever harm you on J’s watch, and that included any harm which you could do to yourself with your fears, anxieties, doubts and worries. You were completely and utterly safe with J. There was nothing you could ever say or do which would send him away. Nothing surprised him, not really, but you did have one advantage over the man who was always the smartest one in the room: your feelings for him surprised him constantly. For so long he thought that you were only showing interest in him because of his title as the clown prince of crime, because of his status in the city. For protection, for money, for brags. But you proved him wrong every single day and it was the one thing which always caught him by surprise.

That, and how fierce you were when you looked after him.

Like right now.

J wasn’t moving. He had just... clumsily rolled in through your hastily opened window and not even bothered to break his own fall, and now he was just lying there. You were torn between being amused and being concerned for how little he cared for his own well being. “Where would you be without me, J?” With an exasperated groan, you reached out for your clown and slid your hands between his armpits, getting as firm a grip on him as you could. “You gotta help me get you up, J. I’m not as strong as you.” Oh, but you were. You were a firecracker who was more than capable of holding her own, and you both knew it. In this instance, you only meant physical strength, and J emitted the softest of grunts which really told you just how physically exhausted he was.

J groaned tiredly as you hauled him up, just barely holding your own weight. You were an exact foot shorter than J. Your much smaller frame was not designed to hold up someone as broad and as muscular as J was, and even through his many layers could you feel the definition of his biceps as you walked with him to the bathroom. You kept a steadying arm around his waist and ignored his protests of, “Ezzie, ya don’t gotta smother me” and “stop handlin’ me”. He was more tired than he was letting on and you both knew it. He was rough and callous but you knew that he had missed you as much as you had missed him, and you also knew that even though he would never admit it, he appreciated all the ways you took care of him. If he had been alone, he would have simply fallen asleep right there on the floor, unshowered, unfed, dehydrated and stinking the room out. He would have woken up with muscle aches beyond what was comfortable and you both knew that even though you were using a firm hand with him, it was a needed one. It was for his own good and you were almost wholly convinced that his grumbling was all just for show, even with how he was almost dead on his feet. J was ever the dramatic man and right now was no different. J appreciated you for everything that you were, hell, even all the things that you weren’t because you were always so unashamedly yourself no matter what you went through.

J had a softer than soft spot for you, and as a result, you were his one and only weakness.

But you never held it over his head. You never questioned it, you never allowed yourself to. You simply accepted J for all that he was and in return did he accept you for all you were. You had taken each other on for all that the other was and you only had a deeper connection for it. Gotham was a city in desperate need of a complete overhaul and everything was chaos. Within that often terrifying lack of order and certainty, you found each other. Two souls, set apart from the rest of the city, had come together and forged such a beautiful and raw connection. Sometimes, when J missed you (not that he would ever admit it, even to himself), he found himself whispering your name to keep him company in a way no one else ever could. No one had gotten as close to him as you. Your name fell from his full lips like a litany and the repetitions blended and merged together until it was the music which he danced to, the song which accompanied the beating of his own heart; for surely you were in there, too.

So often did you play through J’s mind like the most intoxicating symphony. It was maddening, really, the effect that you had on him and you didn’t even know it. You were a strong woman, powerful and so much of you was untouched by J; each and every day did he learn something new about you. That excitement kept him on his toes; you both presented a mystery to the other but you would never solve one another. Your depths were murky, full of contradictions and of untapped potentials and of so much life. Oh, but you and J were so well suited to one another. If either of you were romantics, you would suggest that you were soulmates. At the very least, it was certainly true that you both saw something in the other which kept you coming back for more time and time again. Perhaps that was all that soulmates were; two people who keep falling back together again and again and again for a reason neither of them knew, though each day did they feel it.

You flicked on the water in the shower and slowly, carefully, did you peel J’s royal purple trench coat off his body, mindfully lowering it to the floor. No doubt he had grenades, smoke bombs and the like in there, not to mention the copious blades he kept on him. You undressed his top half and then his bottom half, your eyes moving over his body both appreciatively and critically as you checked him over; looking for cuts, bruises, injuries... oh, but you couldn’t stand the thought of J suffering any kind of pain beyond that which you had inflicted upon him yourself, and it was definitely the same for J when it came to you. Two sets of brown eyes met as J stepped into the shower. He held a hand out for you to take, to help you in once you had undressed yourself, too, and your heart leapt at this small sign of affection from him. His heart was unlocked to you this night, his guard completely lowered. Before you, as you poured shampoo onto your hand, J’s head under the showerhead, wasn’t The Joker or J. Before you was Jack, the human underneath the person the entire city perceived to be a monster. He wasn’t a monster, this you knew, and well, and though you loved who he was and the way that he created himself each and every single day, your heart bled when all of those layers and all of those masks fell down, fell off, and the man beneath it all, when the beauty of who he was, of who he really was, was exposed to you.

You treasured these times like nothing else.

“Come here, J,” You began to lather up his greasy hair, which began to foam up sea green. It’d need a re-dye soon, this you could see, and you wondered idly if he’d let you do it for him. J groaned tiredly, low in his throat, his head tipping back, back, exposing the column of his neck as greasepaint ran down his skin, creating a river of white, black and red which ran down his body, chased away by the hot water. Coupled with the feeling of your nimble fingers in your hair, J was well and truly on the way to falling asleep. His entire body felt so heavy, like it was on clouds, and he found himself sinking into your touch. J trusted you, he realised somewhere in the back of his mind. As shampoo suds ran off his body, cleansing hair and flesh alike, J tipped forward, forward, hunching down, down, so that he could rest his forehead on the slope of your shoulder. You smiled, you smiled, and you pressed a kiss to the top of his fully washed hair, rubbing your hands up and down your back as you used those shampoo suds to wash his back; it was all the same stuff, you knew, but you also knew that J was well and truly too tired to be in the shower for much longer.

“J, you can’t sleep here.”

A grunt, a sigh, and J wrenched himself upwards, shaking his hair like a dog. “I’m up, I’m up,” He sighed heavily and eyed you. “Aren’t’cha gonna shower too, doll?”

You’d almost forgotten about yourself, so concerned for J were you. You had just recently dyed your hair various shades of purple, blue and green and it didn’t really need a wash just yet. Your hair was mostly dry because J had been in the direct path of the water, and you shook your head. “No, I showered yesterday. Let me take you to bed, okay? You’re exhausted.” Blindly did J shut off the water, his eyes closed and his body relying on muscle memory. He grabbed the towel slung over the top of the shower and dried himself off with broad, swift strokes of the towel on both arms, his legs, his shoulders... J fluffed up his hair, not caring for how tangled it would be as a result, and you let him do this; at least he was keeping himself awake. You suspected that he was being rough with the towel to wake himself up, as well as a general and genuine lack of care towards his own person, something which never failed to make your heart twinge in your chest.

You hadn’t mentioned your own exhaustion. You didn’t tell J about how worried and how anxious you had been for him, for where he was and for how he was. Despite his current behaviour, you knew that he wasn’t a man who appreciated being coddled. He didn’t need looking after and times previous when you had tried to do just that had he scoffed at you and rolled his eyes, adjusted his braces and said something along the lines of, “quit naggin’ at me, Ezzie". Sometimes it made you angry but sometimes you didn’t really care. You had long since learned to be unbothered by J’s rough and callous manner. It was who he was and you loved him unconditionally. You wouldn’t ever change a single thing about him and you knew that he felt the same way about you, whether he said it or not. He didn’t need to; everything you ever need to hear J say was in those gorgeous chocolate eyes.

J knew that you were exhausted. He knew that you had missed him. He liked the way that you hadn’t said anything, too, because to him it only made it that much more meaningful when, as he finally collapsed into bed after being on his feet for over three days (how he was still awake at this point, even he didn’t know, but he suspected that his military past had something to do with it), you were instantly laying your head on his chest. Your ear pressed down hard over the spot where his heart was and you heard it beating fiercely through his warm flesh. Oh, but he was like a heater. J always ran hot, even in the dead of winter. He chuckled darkly, lazily, like he almost couldn’t be bothered to even express himself but his amusement overshadowed his need for sleep in that moment. “Ya’ just can’t resist me, can ya’, Ezzie?”

You made a sleepy noise, already feeling the heavy shackles of sleep binding you to the bed, to the duvet which fell so perfectly over your weary form, the way the mattress and J’s body kept you safe, sane... honest in who you were as finally did you succumb to your body’s needs. You had barely slept since he had been gone, only catching snatches of sleep every now and then. Running on naps was not ideal but without your clown could you not rest and you knew, somewhere in the back of your mind, that it was the same for J, too. He never truly relaxed, vigilance was simply integral to who he was after all he had said, after all he had done and experienced and been through. “No, but neither can you.” You raised your head and grinned at J, and he merely cocked an eyebrow in response.

J made a show of pushing you off of him, leaving your body feeling cold, empty without him there beneath you, but then he moved so fast that your naked eyes couldn’t catch up to the movement as he managed to get you on your back. He loomed over you, his hips snug against yours. You could feel his thick cock resting against your inner thigh; he was already half erect and you wondered what it was this time that had done it for him. In truth, nothing had. It was leftover adrenaline which was still coursing through his veins which still had him unable to fully rest, to succumb just as you wanted to do to the blissfully numbing effects of sleep. Morpheus was determined, this you both knew, but the feelings which you had for each other were even more so and after any kind of absence of J’s part did they demand to be felt. There could be no escaping the sweetness of reunion intimacy, even and most especially now.

Your hands, which had been resting on his shoulders as you fought for some semblance of control, over the situation, over reality, slid up, up, into his wet hair, the strands sticking to your fingers. You gripped at those strands and J hissed air in through his teeth as you pulled back, exposing that slender column of your neck. Your lips attached to his neck and J pushed himself into your touch, wanting more of everything. J was your religion and you daily laid worship at his altar. Your open mouthed kisses were slow, reverent as you truly loved on him; as you told him that you loved him over and over and over again with your lips, your hot pink tongue leaving the warm cavern of your mouth as you licked and sucked and marked J as your own in all the same ways that he had done to you in the past.

J’s hands gripped your hips tight, his hold on you bruising. There would be marks on the both of you after this but it was needed, it was wanted; that irrefutable proof that you owned each other; that you were J’s and that he was yours and that, no matter how far he strayed, no matter where he went, no matter what he did or who he was, that he would come home to you. You, with your brightly coloured hair, your gorgeous tattoos and those eyes which so captivated J and held his attention. Only you could ever hold J’s attention for long, but even so did he pull himself from your grip, his hands sliding up your body, his flesh ghosting across yours as he grabbed your face in both hands and kissed you hard. His lips were as bruising as his hands and as he devoured your mouth with his own could you feel the slightly greasy film which remained on his face, the outline of his teeth against yours... oh, but you were on fire and though you were both naked, though you could feel J pressed against your core so deliciously that it was driving you mad with want, with passion, there was nothing sexual in this. No, this was sensual, intimate... this was two souls coming home to each other for the first time in several days.

As quickly as he had kissed you was J gone, moving off of you completely and laying beside you. He groaned, low and deep and passed a hand over his face, looking well and truly fucked. There was a blackness under and around his eyes which could have been leftover greasepaint, but it could also have been real tiredness. Insomnia, nightmares... you knew not what plagued your J but both of you had barely slept since he had left, so in the end you chased away all questions. You wanted J to ask you to cuddle, you wanted him to show that he wanted your body against his as much as you wanted his against yours, but you wouldn’t ask. You wanted him to show you how much you meant to him, in any way he felt comfortable.

But this time, for whatever reason... he told you.

Time ticked past without event, marked only by your breathing. For every inhale you took did J exhale; so alike were you that even your natural systems aligned in some way. You were just on the edge of sleep and then J cracked one eye open and you felt him turn his head to look at you, shuffling over so that he was laying on your hair. The slight sting of that pulling sensation made you look at him. Two sets of dark brown eyes met and J grinned maniacally, his eyes alight with mischief but also with something which tugged your own heartstrings and he grabbed you roughly, his movements slow, as he tugged you into his body. J rutted against you a few times, his cock pressing into your cheeks, his full lips pressing kisses to wherever he could reach. His hands, fingers splayed so that he could touch as much of you as he could all at the same time, moved up and down your uppermost arm, chafing some warmth into you.

“I had, ah - a rough time without ya’, Ezzie.”

You heard what J said, his voice soft, tired, but you listened to what he didn’t and it was this that made you smile and reach a hand back, blindly feeling for his hair. Your fingers slid into his hair and you pushed your body into J, wanting all of him aligned with you. So much shorter than him were you that your feet barely reached his shins, but that barely mattered for J tucked one of his muscular legs between both of yours, anchoring the two of you together for the night. You had no doubt that he would wake you up with a similar activity, once you were both more awake and aware of yourselves and each other, but for right now you could only feel his heated flesh against yours, still slightly damp from his shower, his clumsy, sloppy kisses against your back as he reassured himself of your existence, of your presence beside him, and the love which, though always was it unvoiced, was so potent, so rich that it was like a third entity in the room with you. It shielded you and protected you both. It kept you both safe, sane... and honest.

Finally, finally, had J come home, and so had you.

#heath ledger #heath ledger imagine #ledger!joker #ledger!joker imagine #the dark knight #the dark knight imagine #tdk #tdk imagine #heath ledger joker

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venus-de-lux · 4 years

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7 Ways To Harness The Healing Energy Of 2020's Final Full Moon

By The AstroTwins

Don’t underestimate the power of feelings on Tuesday, December 29. At 10:28 PM EST, 2020’s second full moon in Cancer arrives, rounding off a super-rare year that featured two new and full moons in the sentimental sign of the Crab.

Under these emo moonbeams, the floodgates may burst open.

We’ve already had one Cancer full moon in 2020, a potent lunar eclipse on January 10, which launched the decade on a stirring note. Back-to-back new moons in Cancer shook things up mid-year, beginning with the game-changing solstice solar eclipse on June 21 and the sequel on July 20.

Cancer is the zodiac’s domestic doyenne and sentimental nurturer. With its ruler, the moon, having such a heyday, is it any wonder 2020 kept us tucked away in our “crab shells,” reconfiguring family roles and redefining personal space as we sheltered in place? Some of us learned to appreciate our alone time while others plunged into painful isolation—both familiar themes to private, sensitive Cancer.

According to the Farmer’s Almanac, the full moon in December is known by some Native American tribes as the Cold Moon, since it falls during this frigid time of year. The Ojibwe people called it the Big Spirit Moon and believed its purpose was to purify and heal all of Creation.

You have the power to make changes in your home, family, workplace—or even your corner of the world. As feelings arise, try not to go cold. The only way out is through.

Here are seven ways to blanket yourself in the healing comfort of the December 29, 2020, Cancer full moon.

1. Tend to your roots.

How secure do you feel in the world? Cancer is connected to the fourth house of home, family and foundations, and is anchored at the very bottom of the zodiac wheel. As one of the three water signs (along with Scorpio and Pisces), the zodiac’s Crab is responsible for hydrating our “root systems.”

Under the light of 2020’s final full moon, take stock: Are you tending to the things that stabilize you in the material world? For example: Are you setting aside enough money for your nest egg? In this belt-tightening economy, it may be more important to hang on to a little more of your money. Even if you’re just putting $20 a week in savings, that can add up over the months. The point is to start the habit now.

The Cancer full moon spotlights financial security and a need to be prudent with your funds. It’s not only how much you make; it’s what you do with it. This lunation could inspire pleasurable budgeting ideas that let you save up for the dream purchase, or new ways to share expenses with your innermost circle of friends and family.

On that note, are you nurturing relationships with people who have your back? How well are you nourishing yourself—with food, hydration, ample sleep? During this Cancer full moon, it might feel like an archetypal mother hen is squawking in your ear. Listen up, she knows what’s best for you!

up, she knows what’s best for you!

2. Let your heart what it wants

Cancer Selena Gomez wrote the ultimate anthem for this full moon: The heart wants what it wants. But when was the last time you stopped long enough to listen to the wisdom of your ol’ ticker? Under the high beams of 2020’s final full moon, messages clamor to be revealed.

Find a quiet place where you can drop a bucket into the deep well of feeling that’s been locked inside you. (And then, have any subsequent emotional reaction you need to without worrying about “bothering” other people.) Crying, screaming, pounding a pillow, laughing uncontrollably—whatever it takes to get those emotions in motion.

If you’ve been in denial about your truth, you won’t be able to dodge the issue any longer. But that doesn’t mean you should rush to react. Just allow yourself to want the thing. It may or may not be right for your current lifestyle. But admitting to the urge—at least to yourself—can be oh-so liberating.

3. …but mind your moods.

As the Cancer full moon unblocks dammed-up emotions, there could be an outpouring of grievances like unspoken hurt or lingering resentments. Be generous with your compassion, but firm with your boundaries. As the saying goes, you can get bitter or you can get better.

Since triggering emotions tend to emerge during this time of year, keep compassionate friends and trusted sounding boards close by. The world “lunacy” shares the same root with “luna,” and a Cancer full moon could find people acting wildly out of character. If you need to retreat to your personal safe space, do! It’s a lot smarter than trying to talk sense into someone whose emotions are firing on all cylinders.

4. Phone home.

When was the last time you talked to your parents or your primary nurturer? If you don’t live together, set up a Zoom date or a weekend visit and enjoy some uninterrupted conversation.

This watery full moon activates your intuition. Out of the blue you might start thinking about a relative or role model who’s been off your radar for a while. Rather than brushing this off as a passing thought, reach out! This person might be struggling with an issue you’ve mastered. Maybe they have the very nugget of wisdom that you need to hear. If a parent has passed on, you can still “connect.” Write a letter and place it on your altar. Set out a photo of a special ancestor and light a candle to channel their divine wisdom. Or hop on social media and post a tribute to a beloved elder.

If you’re a parent, honor yourself for your efforts, which have included a lot more than the usual duties in 2020. Maybe you feel like taking your kids on a field trip in nature—but maybe you just need a break! See what you can do to finagle a day off—or at least a sacred block of alone time to follow your bliss.

5. Eat mindfully.

During the stress of holiday season, it’s not uncommon to numb feelings with food or just keep nibbling mindlessly on the leftover sweets and treats. If energy has been sluggish, consider a short-term healthy detox diet.

The two weeks following a full moon are major manifesting time. What if you cut out a vice for 14 days? No, you might not live a lifetime without your coffee, cookies, or sourdough rolls…but then again, you might lose your taste for them when you start integrating healthier, more natural options into your palette. Give it the two-week test and see.

6. Declutter your space.

With 2020’s final full moon in homey Cancer, you may be ready for decor refresh. Do a walkthrough of your home and consider every corner. We get accustomed to the piled-up second bedrooms, cluttered shelves, and knick-knack overload. The visual cues we take in cause our brains to fire off signals, especially when they trigger memories (which then trigger thoughts and feelings, which in turn trigger our brains to flood our bodies with chemicals).

This domestic goddess of a full moon reminds us that cleaning our homes can clear our minds. Start with one area and give it an extreme makeover. Clear everything away then reset it with curated care. Less is more, so be selective about the “collection” you display. Leaving some white space on those walls can give your brain a chance to breathe.

On the flip side, if your energy is lagging, how about painting a wall a cheery hue, adding oxygenating plants or hanging new art? Whatever makes you feel good and happy is great, as long as you don’t overload your senses.

7. Role play.

We easily fall into patterns with the ones we love, becoming The Responsible One, The Wild One, The Chauffeur, The Couch Potato. And once those patterns are in place, they can be hard to break! But who wants to be pigeonholed in such a limiting way?

Granted, there can be benefits to playing these parts…especially if it means our families have given up on trying to force us to do the dishes or clean up after ourselves. Regardless, this Cancer full moon wants us to shake it up. Beware that pivoting under the Cancer full moon might take some internal adjustment, so be patient with the process!

#full moon #2020/21 #cancer #full moon cancer #luna #lunar #lunacy #healing #let go #manifesting #sew seeds

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maleficarfic · 3 years

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Empress

Pairing: Female Lavellan/Solas

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Rating: Explicit

Additional Tags: Mildly Dubious Consent

Summary: Fen'Harel sweeps across the nations like vengeance, and all that will stop him is Ellana Lavellan as his wife.

On AO3: Link

He had razed Halamshiral and built in its place a palace of crystal spires that speared the heavens with their glory. Sunlight glittering off balustrades and parapets and reflecting off towers and arches blinded the devout and the apathetic alike. It was a castle meant to inspire wonder and awe, and it did those things well. It also inspired fear. Bone-deep, icy fear that clawed at the spine and twisted the stomach, and as Ellana stepped from her carriage and regarded the magnificent work of his magic, she felt that fear.

That terror.

Magic had built this castle. The magic of the ancients, once lost and now resurrected. By the man she’d called Solas. The man who was Fen’Harel.

That one name was enough to bring out a host of feelings in her, and fear was the least of them. Her emotions roiled inside of her, a confusing mass of sensation that left her dizzy and weak, and she hated feeling weak. If only she had time to sort through her thoughts.

Time.

He tantalized her with promises of time, coming to her in dreams as he swept across Thedas with his armies. If she would just give in to him, if she would come to him, if she would love him once again, he would give her immortality. He held her in her dreams, possessed of a strength she hadn’t seen in him before, and he’d stroked her hips, her back, her breasts. “Come to me, vhenan’ara, give yourself to me, and I will give you immortality and freedom and a heritage of pride.”

She’d spat in his face. “Look what pride has wrought,” she had snarled, and that dream had dissolved.

But he was nothing if not persistent. Night after night, he had slipped into her dreams, sometimes to whisper promises, sometimes to tease her body to the point of madness, and sometimes to gloat over all he’d done. How Fen’Harel had brought nations to their knees, causing mighty Tevinter to crumble and proud Ferelden to fracture. Orlais, he promised, was next. Unless…

Unless.

Ellana lifted her chin, set her expression into one of stony indifference. She refused to be cowed by his glory, even if she had, at last, agreed to his terms. Her hand in return for peace. She was bartering her body and soul for all of Thedas.

And some dark, awful part of her delighted in it. Her body thrilled to the knowledge that he wanted her so desperately that he would stop his tireless march in exchange for her. The death would stop because she was giving herself over to him. A god desired her beyond all other things.

She took a shuddering breath, horrified at the ache between her legs. It was Fen’Harel who wanted her, the architect of her people’s destruction and, now, the vehicle for their salvation.

Closing her eyes, she took a minute to compose herself.

She was alone, without any of her companions to offer council. She hadn’t dared bring them when she finally gave into his summons. She knew what they thought of him. Half of them wanted to crush him and were still dedicated to resisting him at every turn. The other half simply despised him.

“God or no god,” Vivienne had said with fury lacing her tone, “I will not bow to him.”

A hand touched her elbow, reminding her that she wasn’t truly alone. She allowed herself a moment of fantasy, that the hand belonged to Cassandra. Cassandra would murmur a line from the Chant, tell her she was strong, tell her she was making the right choice. But it wasn’t Cassandra’s hand. The hand’s owner was the only person Ellana’s honor guard.

Once the Hero of Ferelden, now Fen’Harel’s general.

Exerting a subtle pressure, General Mahariel urged her forward. Opening her eyes, forward she went.

In their traveling together, the General hadn’t spoken a single word to her. There were stories that spoke of the Hero as a quiet soul, so Ellana hadn’t expected great amounts of conversations. Maybe a few traded pleasantries. Instead, she hadn’t even received a hello.

Mahariel guided her into the great palace. Its insides were as grand as its outsides, all glittering and glimmering and, quite frankly, breathtaking. Overwhelming. The vaulted ceilings were so high she half expected to see clouds gathered at their peaks. Instead, the ceilings were painted to look like the sky, and starlight glittered in their far reaches.

Magic crackled over her skin. Even a warrior like her could feel it. It pressed all around her, a static force. It tickled her naked arms, ghosted up her legs, curled against her thighs. She stopped walking abruptly, taking long, slow breaths to steady herself. The magic felt like his. She knew well what it felt like when he touched her with the Fade, when he bent the Veil around her to caress her and leave her gasping. How many times had he done that to her in dreams? How many times had he sat, just watching, as he brought her to quaking orgasms with nothing more than the force of his will.

She swallowed a whimper, and still Mahariel said nothing.

So she straightened her back. She took a deep breath, inhaling sharply through her nose and ignoring the spice of his magic on the air. Lacing her fingers before her – ostensibly to appear composed, but truthfully to hide their shaking – she strode forward to meet her destiny.

Destiny, it turned out, was even more breathtaking than she could have imagined. Some part of her expected his throne room to be gaudy to better show off his power. It was not. It was simple, understated, made of white marble threaded through with rich veins of emerald. Golden mosaics on the walls were inspired by those they’d seen in the Temple of Mythal but were clearly crafted by Orlesian hands. They depicted scenes of elven liberation and magic. They depicted him, in his glory. But nothing about the mosaics was tacky. Nothing about any of it was tacky.

All around the throne room, conversations died. The words simply dried up, turning to ash that floated away on a cold wind. Just like her freedom. But this was the duty of a Keeper, and Ellana had no illusions about who and what she was. She was no mage, but she was Thedas’s Keeper now, and Keepers stood between the Dread Wolf and their people. She stood between him and Thedas.

As her eyes swept over the people, her heart broke. There was Tevinter’s once might Archon, now a trembling, broken man. There were rings of scars all over his body, as though someone had tried to flay him. Across from him, the King and Queen of Ferelden. They watched her with hollow eyes. Accusing eyes. If you had done this sooner, they seemed to say, our people would not have suffered and died.

She had failed.

Worst of all was the sight of Celene. Because when Ellana saw Celene, she realized that Orlais was not the last bastion of a dying world. Orlais had fallen long ago, and Celene… Celene was a shell of herself. Gone was the mighty, assured Empress. In her place stood a woman who wore the trappings of royalty without any of the power.

Briala stood beside his throne in the position of a favored retainer, and Ellana had a moment of clarity. Briala had been the first.

Finally, Ellana’s gaze shifted to him. Once Solas, now Fen’Harel, and her breath caught in her throat. He had turned from a missive held in Briala’s hands, straightening slowly. His every motion was grace given physical form. Power dripped from him, distorting the air around him. Gone was the unassuming apostate. The man on the ironwood throne, wearing cloth of gold and a cloak of midnight, crowned with flame, was a god.

His expression didn’t change from one of mild interest as he rose.

All around her, the court went to its knees. Ellana’s eyes darted from face to face, finding rage and hatred on some and devout reverence on others.

“Welcome home, my queen,” he said, striding down the dais. He stopped when he stood an arm’s length from her and extended his hand.

For Thedas, she reminded herself, but she was unable to keep her face as blank as his. He regarded her with the same kind of curiosity one reserved for ants. She felt her expression twist into one of pain.

She hated him. She loved him. She craved him. She despised him.

For Thedas.

She put her hand in his.

His eyes softened with heat and longing, and he drew her close. With barely any space between them, his magic curled around her like a palpable force. It swept over her skin, caressing her cheeks, her throat, the daring neckline of her gown. He’d give her the dress. She’d worn it as a sign of her submission, but she detested it.

“Andaran atish’an, vhenan’ara,” Fen’Harel said to her in a voice so low it rumbled between them. His eyes raked over her, lingering on the swells of her breasts.

“You summoned me,” she returned, trying not to stiffen at his greeting. Trying not to melt.

His brows rose. “Ah. I see it is to be like this between us.” He lifted her hand to his mouth, brushing her knuckles across his lips. His tongue flicked against her skin and she ground her teeth together, ignoring the flood of wet heat between her legs. “It need not be, ma vhenan.”

“You made it this way,” she said tightly, “when you abandoned me only to come sweeping across Thedas, killing everyone who stood in your way.”

“An act of justice for our people.”

“Murder.” She whispered the word, sharing it with no one except him. “Murderer.”

A grin tipped up his lips, but it was not kind. “You see yourself as Thedas’s Keeper though you are not a mage. You view this as a failing. You did not fail, vhenan’ara, this was as inevitable as the changing of the tides.” His thumb brushed over her palm, drawing circles against her flesh, and she shuddered at the prickling heat he conjured beneath her skin.

“You crushing Thedas beneath your heel? Doing to the humans what they did to us?”

“No,” he said, nonplussed. He leaned forward, into her space. The magic that wreathed him curled around her breasts, stroking her nipples through the thin fabric, and she sucked in a sharp breath. She strangled a whimper in the back of her throat as the fingers of his freehand brushed over her cheek. “You coming to me.” He chuckled lightly, softly. “And, soon, for me. I have long dreamed of this day.”

Drawing away from her but not releasing her hand, leaving her trembling and all but panting, he turned to his court. “Let us celebrate,” he called. “Let us feast, for our empress has come at last.” And then, shifting close to her, he murmured, “Come, vhenan’ara.”

Fire washed through her, fierce and sudden, and his magic pressed between her legs. She would have stumbled if he hadn’t taken her arm. Gasping, she clung to him as an orgasm tore through her, sudden and impossible to hold out against.

She lifted her eyes to him, not sure if she should be starting at him with fury or lust, and she found him gazing back with barely concealed lust. “Come,” he said again, gently, and an echo of the pleasure rolled through her, making her legs tremble as he brought her to his throne.

Throughout the wedding, which was vaguely Dalish, and the feast, which was also vaguely Dalish, he toyed with her. He fed her from his own fingers, leaned close to whisper filthy promises in her ear, and used his magic to stroke and caress every inch of her body. She could barely lift her goblet of wine she shook so badly, and when he noticed, he plucked the glass from her hands.

“Allow me,” he murmured, and he lifted it to her lips.

She despised his proprietary behavior, as if he had the right to bring her food and drink. What made it worse was that, now, bound to him, he did have the right. It was his right and his right alone, and there wasn’t a single person in the throne room who would stop him.

“Why do you tremble so?” he asked her as he brushed his thumb over the corner of her lip. His long-fingered hand curled around the back of her neck. Slid between her shoulders. The gown he’d chosen had no back, so his caress fell on naked skin.

“Fuck you,” she breathed, arching away from his touch.

Something like a tongue licked her inner thigh. Fingers of magic caught the crotch of her smallclothes, pushing inside to stroke through the swollen, wet lips of her cunt.

“I plan to.” His voice was so steady. So assured. As if he wasn’t using his magic to wring pleasure from every inch of her body. In public. Where his defeated enemies watched. “Slowly, Ellana.” It was the first time he’d spoken her name. “So very slowly.” He brushed his lips over her ear. “Ellana.”

She went rigid, clenching her hands into fists in her lap. The tongue licking her thigh turned inward. Apparently cloth was no barrier for magic because the tongue swept through her folds without any hindrance, and she gasped softly, all her muscles tightening even more.

“Ellana.”

“Enough,” she spat. “I’m your wife, your empress, at least treat me with respect.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he drew away from her. His hand lingered on her back, but the magic pressing against her cunt withdrew. “You are right, Empress,” he murmured, and he lifted a fruit from her plate, offering it to her.

After a second’s hesitation, she closed her lips around his fingers. Tit for tat, she figured, tucking the fruit to one side of her mouth. Her tongue swept over the tips of his fingers. Her teeth grazed his skin. When she released his fingers to bite into the fruit, he was watching her with wolf-like intensity, his eyes hooded. “Do not tempt me,” he said softly.

The remainder of the feast passed slowly for her, dragging by in agonizingly slow measures. His hand never left her back, and instead of being a comfort it gave her a sense of dread. Soon enough, that hand would be on her hips, her breasts. Between her legs. Before he’d returned, before he’d left her, he’d teased her mercilessly in the Fade, touching her until she screamed for him. But never once had he done anything but kiss her in the physical world.

No one had done anything more than kiss her in the physical world.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted to bed someone. In the Clan, there had never been time, and then once she became Inquisitor, it had always been him, and he had always been very strict about where they drew the line for physical intimacy. After him, she’d had Cullen and Blackwall both being incredibly solicitous, but she could never bring herself to do more than kiss either of them. It just seemed wrong.

And now he was leading her down a shimmering hallway into a room draped with fluttering strips of cloth, a room where the light came from the walls themselves. There were no windows, only gorgeous, vaulted arches, and though it the night was chill, warmth seeped from the very stones beneath their feet.

Neither of them, she realized with a start, were wearing shoes.

He led her to the massive bed in the center of the room. Circular, it had no head or foot, but was laden with sumptuous blankets, pillows made from silk and velvet with gilded fringe.

For Thedas, she reminded herself as he stopped beside the bed.

He released her, lifting his hands to her face. Tilting her head back, he gazed at her with a soul-shaking tenderness, his eyes soft and gentle. He was so much taller than she was, towering over her.

The wicked part of her mind whispered, For you, Ellana.

Beside him, she was so small, so vulnerable. She once thought she was physically stronger than him, but she doubted that was true. He had magical and physical strength, the wisdom of ages, and she had nothing.

“You are terrified,” he observed, and she was.

With him staring down at her, she already felt naked. Her limbs trembled, feeling weak in a way she’d never felt weak before. Even standing before Corypheus, she hadn’t felt like this. Like she was giving away part of herself. It was for the greater good, everything she did was for the greater good. Part of her would die in this room, in his arms, so that everyone else could live. So the fighting would end.

Life was a series of sacrifices. Either you sacrificed yourself or someone else, but in the end, someone had to go to the knife. All she could hope for was a quick death.

Withdrawing his hands, he stepped away from her. She watched him, swallowing hard, trembling as her stomach twisted and turned. All the food he’d fed her burned the back of her throat, but she forced it back down. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her throw up. Then she thought maybe she should. Maybe it would turn him off her.

But she didn’t want to turn him off her. She just wanted things to go back to how they were before all of this, back to the times when he slipped into her dreams. When he—

All the breath left her. He had dropped his midnight cloak and shrugged out of his golden tunic revealing a body that could only be described as perfect. Seeing him in the Fade was one thing. In the Fade, things could be manipulated. He could manipulate them. Reality was… She licked her lips.

How was she supposed to hate him when he was everything she wanted?

“Ask me questions, ma vhenan,” he said as he settled on a padded bench. He didn’t look at her, but she didn’t feel as though he were being dismissive. Rather, as he unwound the lacing around his ankles and calves, he was offering her privacy. Or keeping his. “Let us relearn one another.”

She bit back a waspish first question. Demanding to know why he razed half of Thedas wouldn’t do either of them any favors. Instead, she asked, “How much older than me are you, then?”

He paused, his fingers hovering over his calves. Then he straightened, turning to her with a look of dry amusement. “I make many mountain ranges look young.”

“Cradle robber,” she muttered.

The most miraculous thing happened. He threw back his head and he laughed, a full, rich sound that made colors ripple through the air. She tasted those colors on her tongue, bursts of bright citrus, and felt them like silk against her naked arms and chest. Heat unfurled in her belly, a warm rush of need and want that had her panting.

“Was there ever any doubt?” he asked her when his laughter subsided.

She was still too stunned to answer.

He rose from his chair, naked except for his trousers, and he passed her, moving toward one of the walls. A mural covered it. A living mural of a great forest that stretched for miles, so real she thought she might be able to step into it. He touched it, brushing his fingers over the wall, and the scent of pine filled the room.

“Another question, perhaps,” he said, and he turned back to her, padding slowly toward her. He moved… simply. Still elegant, but not predatory. It was a man’s walk, not a god’s. It set her at ease.

“Do I call you Solas or Fen’Harel?”

“Are you asking who I am or which I prefer?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Solas was a mask you wore to bear your shame,” she said softly.

“Just so,” he agreed.

The setting sun poured scarlet and violet light across the room, across him, painting him in fire and midnight. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to see if his skin burned or froze, but she was afraid to. Afraid of what she might feel if she did. She wanted him, desperately, but he was still the Dread Wolf. She was Thedas’s Keeper. By that logic, she really should just give in to him.

“Fen’Harel,” she breathed, testing the name.

He reached out, his fingers brushing her chin. This time, when their gazes met, his was full of hunger. Desire. Heat flared in her in response, and he inhaled sharply. “Let me show you that it will not be such a burden to be my wife,” he murmured, his fingers sliding over her jaw, along the length of her ear. She shivered, allowing him to draw closer. “My Empress.”

She licked her lips, a flick of her tongue over dry skin, and he groaned softly. It was a sound of need, of weakness, of helplessness, and it made more of that delicious, electric heat crackle through her. A god wanted her. She made a god weak.

“Allow me to taste you, vhenan’ara.”

He’d moved so close that his chest brushed the tips of her breasts, a tantalizing tease. “Yes,” she whispered, hating herself for giving in. A Keeper stood against the Dread Wolf, and here she was giving in to him in the most primal and elemental way.

His mouth brushed over hers. It was hardly a kiss at all, just a simple caress. A strangled sound escaped her. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and drag him against her. She’d never had the patience for these sorts of kisses, these light, teasing, ephemeral things. When she kissed someone, she liked fire and heat, passion and torment. She wanted his arms banded around her like iron, wanted him to crush her to his body as he pressed her to the bed, parted her legs, and—

Wrenching back, gasping, she pressed a hand to her chest, staring at him. Such a light touching of lips should not inspire such a conflagration. But more than that, the ferocious depths of her desire terrified her more than he did. She wanted him beyond reason, with all the strength of her spirit, and it made her shudder with uncertainty and fear.

“Ma vhenan, my Empress,” he said, so gently, so kindly.

“I…” She choked on the words. “You…” She’d faced dragons and darkspawn and terrors untold, and the simple act of going to bed with a man frightened her more than all of them.

Because he wasn’t just a man. He was a god, the one she had been taught to respect and fear more than any other. And he was the man – the god – that she loved. With everything she was, she loved him, and that should make this easier. That should make giving herself to him simple. But there was all the hurt, all the pain, and the deep, yawning stretch of the unknown.

“What frightens you so?” he asked softly. He hadn’t put his hands on her yet. Though he stood achingly close to her, if she stepped back, his arms wouldn’t cage her. His eyes searched her face, bright with wisdom, and then he let out a quiet sound of comprehension. Of wonder. “Virgin.” He uttered the word with no small measure of awe.

Balking, she turned away from him, even though she was acutely aware of how close they were. How every breath brushed her breasts against his chest. How their breath mingled in the space between their bodies. “It doesn’t mean anything. I wasn’t…” She choked on the words. She hadn’t been saving herself for him. Before he left, she had fully intended on him being her first, but after that she just hadn’t wanted anyone else. It hadn’t seemed right.

One of his hands cupped the back of her head, his fingers sliding into her hair. He turned her gaze back to his, and his eyes were full of banked heat. Of want. Of predatory desire. She began to tremble.

“No, no,” he murmured, settling one hand on her hip. In spite of all the lust in his gaze, his touch wasn’t heavy. It was possessive, but not caging. He would let her run if she so chose.

Of course, he would probably chase her. And like it. She knew better than to run from a predator, from a wolf, so she remained in his hold, still like a deer.

“I’m not who I have or haven’t slept with,” she finally said, her voice strangled. She fisted her hands in the gauzy fabric of her skirt, twisting it, wringing it.

His teeth flashed. A feral grin. Animalistic. Unnatural. So much more than elven. “You are mine,” he growled, and he bent his face to hers, brushing his lips against hers in another of those wispy, ephemeral kisses. His gazed fixed on her own eyes, and she released her skirts to brace her hands against his chest.

He felt like fire against her palms. Fire fierce and deadly, like the sun had taken up residence in his form.

“People don’t belong to people,” she whispered against his mouth, shocked that she was arguing with a god.

“My Empress,” he returned, his voice like gravel, rough-edged and jagged. He stepped closed, into her, and she felt the hard line of his cock against her body.

Suddenly, she was in a memory, in the Fade, with him wrapped around her, kissing her, whispering the sweetest things against the point of one ear. His heart, his love, the breath in his lungs, the light by which he saw. His hope, his joy, his relief, his succor. He rubbed against her in that memory, her legs around his waist, their clothes a flimsy barrier between them. And then she was back with him, truly with him, in his arms. His lips were hot on hers, tongue tracing the line of her mouth.

She opened for him, needing that kiss to quench the fire he stoked inside her. Her arms slid around his neck, drawing him to her, against her, and it was all too much and not enough. She thought she might sob with relief that she was holding him again. That he was holding her. That it was real.

The minute his tongue touched hers, he changed. He all but dragged her against him, wrapping one arm around the small of her back so she couldn’t escape. She felt the strength in his embrace, so much greater than any man’s had a right to be, and her body answered it with a flood of wet heat and burning need. He snarled softly into the kiss, the sound one of delight not violence, and he moved her, pushed her, crowded her until her legs hit his massive bed.

Together, wrapped around one another, they tumbled down. He twisted to take the brunt of the fall, landing on his back with her on his chest, and still he kissed her. He devoured her. His tongue swept into her mouth and consumed her with a passion that stole her breath. With him, she didn’t need to breathe. He was all the air she needed.

She was trembling when he finally drew away from the kiss, his hand still in her hair, and it wasn’t from fear or uncertainty. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her, because he looked at her like there was no one else alive in Thedas. Like it was just the two of them. Like there was no such thing as time or conflict or anything else.

“I need to see you,” he said, and though it was a god’s command it sounded like the plea of a desperate man.

It gave her strength. Not the kind of strength it took to swing a sword or lift a shield, but the strength that women held over men, a sexual power of mystery and allure. The power of pleasure promised by the hollows of her body.

Straddling him, she pushed herself up, freezing when the motion brought her into contact with his cock. There were still his trousers and her smalls between them, but that pressure, that rub, arrested her entirely. She gasped, palms flat on his chest, eyes fluttering shut. Slowly, carefully, she rocked against his cock, like she had in so many dreams, and a little moan escaped her.

“Later, ma vhenan,” he said roughly, grasping her hips and stilling her.

“Now,” she insisted, trying to move in spite of his hands and not succeeding in the slightest. He was too strong, too firm, too everything.

“Later,” he said again, rising, trapping her against his chest. “Your gown. Remove it.”

She shot him what she hoped was a venomous look as she started shrugging out of the dress. The sleeves were just caps on her arms, there was no back so there were no buttons. It was a gown for an elven queen, something he’d commissioned and sent to her. Truthfully, it seemed made for slipping into, and out of, easily.

“No.” He stilled her with gentle hands, but his expression was intense. Intent. “You have me in your power, my Empress.” He leaned close, tipping his head to the side and kissing her softly, lingering for a moment. “Kill me with it,” he breathed against her mouth.

She was panting when he drew back, a little dazed by his words. Then, slowly, she rolled her shoulder and drew one of the straps down her arm.

A quiet groan escaped him, and his eyes followed the path of the sleeve. Watched her arm pull free. Fixed on the place her scandalous décolletage started to gape and sag. His lips parted as though he were about to speak, but he didn’t. He simply turned his gaze to her other arm and waited.

There again was that feeling of power. Of control.

Emboldened by his rapt attention, she pushed lightly on his chest. “Down,” she said. He gave her an arch look, and though it pained her, she added, “Please.”

“As my Empress asks,” he murmured, and he stretched himself across the bed, still watching her fixedly. Hungrily.

Astride him still, she felt the hardness of his cock rubbing between her legs, and she had to steel herself against the faint, burgeoning pleasure of it.

Slowly, she stroked her hand over her shoulder, dragging the sleeve with it, her fingertips trailing along her skin. She gasped softly, back arching, surprised by how her own touch sent pleasure feathering through her. When she released the fabric, her bodice sagged, falling away from her breasts. They were firm and high but terribly small, and she’d always been self conscious about them.

He stared at her breasts like they were the humans’ Golden City, like they were the most beautiful things he’d ever beheld. So she lifted her arms above her head, struggling against shyness, and arched her back.

A string of Elvish she couldn’t understand flowed from his mouth, and then his mouth was on her, on her breast, sucking her deep. She cried out, stunned by the shock of pleasure that tore through her, by the sudden fire that burst in her veins. Her body curled toward his, her head bowing over his own, and she shuddered as he suckled her, as his teeth worried one hardened nub. He bit her, just hard enough to hurt, then soothed the pain with a stroke of his tongue, and she was panting, gasping, barely capable of breathing.

“Fen’Harel.” She whispered his name, and he groaned against her breast, turning to the other. His hands swept up her side, lifting her breasts for his teeth and tongue and kisses. His hips shifted under hers, and she couldn’t stop herself from grinding against him. Rubbing over him. The motions were instinctive, needy, and felt so damn good.

Reality exceeded everything he’d ever done to her in the Fade. Which, admittedly, hadn’t been much. Their clothes had never come off. He’d never seen her. Never touched her like this.

His arms came around her, and he bore her gently down to the bed. Then he rose over her, staring, taking her in. The shyness overcame her then, and she started to cross her arms over her breasts.

“No,” he said firmly, catching her wrists in his hands. “Don’t hide from me, ma vhenan, my Empress.” He paused, briefly, before adding, “If you do, I will bind you to my bed. Let me drink in your beauty. Let me feast on the sight of your body.”

Her body flushed with heat at the same time her mind suddenly screamed protests at her. This was Fen’Harel. This was the man who slaughtered his way to his throne. Who had betrayed her. Who loved her, the forgiving part of her whispered. “Who talks like that?” she said aloud, her voice embarrassingly breathless.

He arched a brow. “I do. Hmm.” He ran his palm over one of her breasts, and she arched into the touch mindlessly, already addicted to the reality of him. “Hands above your head, Empress.”

She hesitated for just a moment before obeying, lifting her arms and dropping them above her head as commanded. His eyes swept over her, over her breasts and the toned musculature of her stomach. His fingers followed his eyes, dipping into the valley between her breasts and then following those lines of muscle. “You were always magnificent,” he murmured. “You still are.”

His fingers dug into the fabric of her gown and he pulled it down her legs in a single motion, pulling her smalls with the dress, and he tossed both aside. Leaving her naked. She cried out in surprise, feeling suddenly, terribly vulnerable. But instead of leaning back to stare at her, he stretched over her, curling her against him, and he kissed her.

He kissed her for what felt like hours. The tension in her melted away, replaced by sweet fire. Her body pressed against his, molded itself to his form, and he laughed into her mouth. She whimpered in response. One of his hands curled over her naked hip, pulling her leg over his, spreading her, opening her, and it didn’t frighten her. Instead, she arched against him as he ran his tongue over her lips, into her mouth. She moved sinuously against his body, his cock trapped hard and hot between them, and she moaned softly, eagerly.

“Please,” she whispered into their kiss, the fire inside her becoming too much. Too strong.

“Ah, my sweet Empress, what need have we to rush?” he asked, but he urged her onto her back, settling between her legs. Open-mouthed kissed scalded her neck, her chest. He laved her nipples with a rough tongue, and she shivered against him, whimpering. His hands swept over her sides, curling around her hips, and he rubbed himself against her, the friction of his clothing almost unbearable against her sensitive cunt.

His tongue traced the lines of her muscles. His teeth bit the arch of her hipbone. Then he drew back. He looked at her, splayed and open before him, and there was nothing but desire in his eyes. Hot, hungry desire, and she was too fascinated by it to be ashamed of her nakedness, of her openness.

One of his knuckles brushed over the outside of her sex, stroking her, and the electric pleasure of it bowed her back. She cried out, feeling as though she’d come out of her skin, and anxiety, sharp and terrible, replaced pleasure. Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist to stop him.

“Release me, ma vhenan,” he said so softly she nearly missed the words.

Her eyes flew to his, and she realized she was pushing him. She didn’t want to push him. Well, that was a lie. She wanted to shove back against him. Maybe grasp his cock and stroke it to repay him for that caress between her legs. She wanted more power. More control. With his every touch, he stripped control from her even as he gave her power. Power over him.

“I…” How could she tell him the intensity of this was overwhelming her? Subsuming her? She felt like she was drowning, and it was wonderful and terrible at the same time. “I can’t.”

“This is no different from the Fade,” he said, prying her hand off his wrist. He kissed the tip of each of her fingers and then set her hand aside.

“I wasn’t naked there,” she whispered breathlessly, staring at his face like he was a solid anchor.

He slipped off the bed, and she didn’t know whether to feel relieved or bereft. But then his hands were at the sash holding up his trousers, pulling the knot free. He tossed the red slash of fabric aside, and she stared as he began stepping out of his trousers. Then she turned away, but not before she saw his cock, hard between his legs.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to focus on breathing. But breathing was next to impossible. She wanted him but was afraid of him, she loved him but she detested what he’d done. No, no! She was giving herself to him to save Thedas, not because she cared. Not because she wanted. Not because she desired.

She certainly didn’t want to see him naked.

What a lie that was.

She felt him settle beside her, felt his naked skin on hers. “Now we’re both naked,” he murmured. “Does that help?”

“No.”

His mouth found her ear, and she shivered as he traced the shell of it with his tongue. He took the point of it into his mouth, sucking lightly, and she whimpered. At the same time, his hand settled on her belly, and her eyes flew open as it crept lower. But curiosity kept her silent.

“I dreamed of touching you,” he murmured as he released her ear, as he kissed the tip. “Of dipping my fingers between your legs and finding you wet with your need for me.” She trembled as his fingers curled over her mound, slipping between the swollen lips of her sex. “I have often wondered what I would do to find you—” He broke off with a growl. “Wet,” he hissed, and she moaned as his fingers stroked her, teased her.

“Wonder no more,” she said breathlessly as he began a ruthless perusal of her body.

“Indeed.” He kissed her cheek, the corner of her lips. “Look at me, my Empress. Let me see your face.”

Shaking, she obeyed him as his fingers stroked her, caressed her, traversed every inch of her. He was meticulous but not dispassionate. Every time he coaxed a quiet moan or whimper from her, a restless, needy sound broke from him. His brows drew together, his lips parting. She bit hers, not to hold sound in or for any logical reason. Just because. It made him growl.

Then he slipped one finger inside her. She cried out, grabbing his shoulders hard enough to bruise, her nails digging crescents into his skin, and he snarled, dragging her against his chest. His finger curled inside her, moving hard and fast against tender, sensitive flesh, and she cried out again, her head falling back as her eyes drifted shut. All she could feel was the pleasure, the burning intensity of it, of him.

He whispered to her in Elvish as he stroked her, caressed her, as he burned her with that single finger inside her. She didn’t know the words, but she didn’t need to. She understood his intent. Either he was complimenting her or speaking filth, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was how he was touching her. It was so much more than having her own fingers inside her, so different. So surprising. He did things she’d never tried, stirring her, pressing against her, curling that finger against one spot that made her scream.

“Fen’Harel!”

He snarled against her neck, slipping another finger into her. His fingers stretched her, and there was a shocking, obscene pleasure to that. She let out a keening wail that transformed into his name and then into senseless pleas for more.

She thought he’d bring her to a swift completion.

Wrong. She was so wrong.

He tormented her, thrusting into her and building the pressure but never letting it overwhelm her. She was drowning in it, swept up in it, suffocating in it, but it was wonderful. He was wonderful, and she’d never known. She hadn’t guessed she would find this in the Dread Wolf’s arms, this pleasure, this mindless, aching need.

As he worked her body over, as she arched and twisted and begged senselessly for him to give her completion, he pressed his mouth to her ear. “Beautiful,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Indescribably beautiful. You are perfection, vhenan’ara, my Empress, my wife, and you are mine.” He snarled the word. “No one else shall ever have you. No one else will touch you, taste you, fill you. You belong to me.”

“Yes, yes,” she chanted, beyond any sense of arguing with him.

“My name, Ellana.” He all but purred her name, dragging it out with sinfully rounded vowels. Her body rippled around him, and he laughed, the sound delighted. “My name, and I will give you everything.”

Arching into his hand, trying desperately to get him to touch some nameless place inside her, she whispered, “Fen’Harel.”

His thumb brushed over her clit, his fingers curled, and she came with a shattered, broken cry. Pleasure coursed through her, burned her, scalded her. It devoured her body and left her empty and formless, a piece of clay for him to remake.

Before her orgasm died, he was between her legs, spreading them wide with his hands and dipping his head. She tried to stop him, to tell him not to, but then his tongue touched her, and she was lost. Oh, she was lost to everything except him, except his touch, except the sheer agony of him.

He consumed. He devoured. His tongue ran over every part of her sex until she was shuddering and trembling beneath him, until she was barely sensible. Every thought of resisting him was gone, replaced by the singular need to have him. To be had by him.

She reached out blindly, her back bowed as she gasped his name, and he laced his fingers with hers, his thumb tracing the scar of the Anchor on her palm. She cried out, gasping, for that simple touch made her burn brighter, hotter. He laughed against her, and the sound resonated inside her, shattering her, breaking her into a thousand little pieces as she came undone for him again and again, until she lost all sense of anything but the endless pleasure.

It was dark when he slid up her body, still holding her hand. It was midnight when he finally eased into her. “Ar lath ma, vhenan’ara,” he whispered against her mouth, and she drank in the words, unable to repeat them for her murmurs of more. More of him, more of his pleasure, more of everything he could possibly give her.

There was no pain when he was finally inside her, no discomfort. Only glorious, impossible fullness. She rolled her hips against him to test the feeling, gasping with delight at the pleasure that sparked through her. Her revelation of ecstasy made him laugh again, and his laughter delighted her. She’d never seen him so pleased, so happy. But his eyes shone as he braced himself above her and thrust slowly into her, taking his time taking her.

He brought her hand to his cheek, nuzzling against her palm, and then he kissed the green slash of light. It flickered, crackled. Then he licked the mark, and she whimpered, staring at him.

Releasing her, he bent his head to her lips, teasing her with promises of kisses but making good on none of them. She chased him as he thrust into her, his pace even and steady, until the friction of his cock in her became too much to ignore. Then she wrapped herself around him and pleaded for more, for something, for some end to their dance.

“Do you want it to end?” he asked her, his lips brushing her ear again. “I could make love to you until the sun rose over the mountains and bathed us in its light. I could make love to you until days turned to weeks, my Empress.”

She gasped, straining beneath him. Sweat slicked their bodies, and they slid together so sweetly, so perfectly, but it wasn’t enough.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want…”

“What do you want?”

She wanted to come with his cock inside her, but he was denying her that, keeping her on the edge. She wanted him as mindless as she was.

So she did the only thing that seemed logical. She bit him, digging her teeth into the unyielding flesh of his shoulder, and he howled. Her name echoed through his room, and then he was moving against her, driving into her, his hands on her hips to hold her.

Elvish words spilled from his lips, and she understood some of them, more of them than she expected. He spoke of filling her, of completing her, of branding her with his essence. He snarled softly and dragged her mouth to his, murmuring more words into their kisses as one hand slid between them to find her clit.

He touched her, and with that touch, he ended her. Her world dissolved, and she drowned in the shattered pieces of it, crying out his name as her body clenched around him, rippled around him, grasped at him with greedy pulls to drag him deeper. And again he laughed, the god and the man jubilant and victorious.

“You are magnificent when you come,” he told her, still moving inside her, but now his thrusts were harried instead of measured. “Your sweet cunt squeezing me, your back arching, your gasps and moans.” A groan escaped him, then another. Then his hand closed hard on her hip and he jerked into her, his head falling back and his lips parting. He breathed her name as he came, as he spilled hot jets of his seed into her pliant, open body.

Her fingers curled over his shoulders, brushed over the base of his neck. “Yes, yes,” she whispered, awed by his face, by his pleasure, by the look of utter freedom and contentment he wore.

When he was finished, he dropped his forehead to hers, and for a time they stayed like that, still wrapped around each other. Their gazes locked, they simply breathed.

Then, softly, as if the words might break her if spoken to loud, he murmured, “I have waited ages for you, vhenan’ara. You are the heart that beats outside of my chest.”

She smiled at him tentatively, and because the world and its troubles seemed so far away, she said, simply, “You are everything.”

#Female Lavellan/Solas #dragon age: inquisition #dragon age: inquisition fic #fanfic #female lavellan #solas #dai

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theseerasures · 4 years

Text

so you wanna revolution (but everyone’s being so mean)

this post is a response to a lot of little flare ups that have happened in the past few weeks, but most particularly this post, and responses like these. my usual approach whenever someone has an opinion in front of me in this septic tank of opinions is to just ignore them to death, but this line of rhetoric has been flying around a lot lately, and isn’t going away anytime soon. i don’t think banging my head against this particular pinata will finally break it wide open to reveal the sweet sweet candy of complete and total anti-racism, but as an ally in this fight i’d still rather it be MY head instead of, say, someone with even less time and mental energy to spare, and more cranial trauma.

you all want a civil, even-handed explanation for why you need to put aside your opinions and hurt feelings and just learn? why these activists aren’t giving you the patience and understanding you feel you deserve? then let’s unpack this shit.

for the sake of argument i’m gonna take it as a given that the allies who protest that they’d be better at helping/more people would help if everyone were nicer to them ARE coming from a place of sympathy and desire to help. i’m not here to question anyone’s motives: i’m sure you’re also heartbroken about senseless black death and have been shaking your metaphorical fist at the injustice. but i want to dig a little deeper to figure out why your sympathies manifest so frequently and comfortably in critiques of how people talk to you/other theoretical allies rather than actions or conversations that actually dismantle the systems you’re supposed to be against, and to do that, i’ve laid out a few things that motivate comments like the above.

1) Don’t I have a right to feel hurt when someone is mean to me?

this is already a very commonly discussed point. yes! you do. but get a god damn sense of perspective about it, people are dying. it is perfectly normal–particularly if you’re coming from a position of privilege–to feel shocked or hurt when someone brusquely corrects you for doing/saying something you thought was on the level. no one is asking you to get rid of these feelings (at least, not all at once); what we ARE asking is that you not make the whole thing about your hurt feelings, rather than trying to learn from the critique. derailing productive discussions about what you’re all ostensibly here to do (ie., antiracist activism) so you can bicker over Robert’s Rules does not a good ally make. when you do that, you are implicitly declaring that there is nothing in the world so important that it can’t be postponed in favor of how YOU feel. your feelings cannot be more important than black lives. if the implication is that you won’t help if people are mean to you, you are essentially trying to hold the movement hostage for the sake of your own feelings.

2) We’re all working together. Shouldn’t I get equal say in how we do things?

short answer: no. long answer: if you’ve just jumped onboard the antiracism train, it might help to think of it as a skill that you need to practice and develop like any other. activism requires training and work, and the people who have been doing it for longer generally tend to be better at it. you should try listening to them and thinking about what they say instead of going with your gut response, because your gut response at the moment of criticism is most likely guided by emotional defensiveness. this doesn’t mean that you don’t get ANY say; saying something wrong and being corrected is an essential and constructive part of the process, but Jesus CHRIST learn to read the room. if you’re with people who have been immersed in this work for years, try LEARNING from them instead of criticizing the way they say things. if you all can appreciate asshole artists, critics, and comedians in other aspects of culture, you can definitely learn from activists who don’t have the patience to hold your hand every time you make a mistake.

3) You catch more flies with honey–that’s just how the world works.

sure, okay–i want you to take a moment to recognize the incredible gall and presumption to come freshly into a history and movement that has existed in some form for more than FOUR HUNDRED YEARS and speak to it as if it has no experience with “how the world works.” what you are just now realizing might be an actionable issue is a lived reality every day for black people. the fact that you immediately feel comfortable telling them how to secure their liberation and aren’t comfortable when they correct you is the height of white privilege. this is how knowledge and politics get colonized: colonizers come in under the guise of “helping,” adopt a position that they say is more “rational” or “worldly” compared to that of the colonized, and try to take it over for the colonized’s “own good.” if you are in fact trying to help marginalized people improve their situations, DO NO PRESUME to know how to address their problems better than they do. and if someone calls you out on it, learn to be better.

4) Shouldn’t we be on the side of reasonable discussions? People don’t learn from being namecalled a white supremacist, even when they get over themselves.

you know what? you’re right. education is a hugely important part of activism, and even beyond that, the cohesion and efficacy of activist movements do depend on its members treating each other with a certain generosity. black people have shown us a remarkable level of generosity by letting us–those who have been complicit in their oppression for centuries–into their movement, teaching us how to be most constructive and forgiving us when we make mistakes. so practice being generous to THEM instead of demanding more from them. recognize that it takes an immense amount labor to offer well-thought-out critiques to your shitty actions, and even more to have a long conversation with you. realize that attempting to communicate to you why you should care about their lives and livelihood is a deeply painful and traumatic experience. have some of the fucking empathy that you’re demanding from them! think about how terrible you’re feeling about all the 2020 tumult, and then think about how everything that’s happened this year has been orders of magnitude worse for the black community, and how terrible they must be feeling as a result. think about the fact that these moments of high activism DO NOT LAST FOREVER, so many activists are rightly prioritizing direct action and do not have time to guide you through your emerging wokeness. of course learning about why what you did was wrong is important, but the right way to do that is not to pester black people to educate you. the resources are out there. other, more experienced allies are out there. if you’re behind in a class, the solution isn’t to demand that the rest of the class stop to help you–the responsibility is on YOU to do the extra work to catch up.

5) But aren’t I being generous already? I’m offering to help these people even though I’ve never done anything wrong to them.

short answer: go fuck yourself! long answer: yeah, let’s go back to the “name calling” thing again. i fail to recognize why it’s so difficult–particularly for predominantly queer and/or feminist spaces–to recognize complicity and privilege in THIS arena compared to all others. we don’t say “not all white people” for the same reason we don’t say “not all men” or “not all straights” or “not all cis”–because white supremacy is baked into every aspect of our lives. it is inescapable. white supremacy cannot be restricted by the things other, cartoonishly racist people do. it is blood that is on ALL our hands, and we benefit from it daily. it IS uncomfortable to realize when you’re not the oppressed but an oppressor in a situation, but the way to resolve that is to sit in that discomfort, and learn to be better.

so the next time someone sharply corrects you, or tells you to check your privilege, and you’re upset about it, remind yourself that it is NOT ABOUT YOU. you are literally here because it’s unfair that so many things ARE about you. watch this video to remind yourself of what’s at stake! (it’s also in gif form!) revisit these slides about what you’re experiencing! (they were made by a high schooler, so you can really put yourself in that education mindset.) sit and process that feeling and learn why you were wrong without getting publicly defensive or asking a black person to coach you through it. donate to some MutualAid funds, legal defense funds, and personal fundraisers. badger some elected representatives about defunding the police. and realize that you’re still alive. you lived. you learned how to do better, and it didn’t kill you, and there’s still so much to do.

and if that still isn’t sitting well with you, you can also try eating an entire dick.

#helen gets political #hoo that tag is dusty

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pridesobright · 4 years

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If you’re up for it, what artist or painting do each of the boys remind you of?

disclaimer: art is subjective, so are people’s opinions, and my choices are based on my perception of the boys’ personalities. you may not agree with me, therefore the paintings might not correspond to what you had imagined… still, i tried to shed a light on my own thoughts, which is something i rarely do on tumblr — i tried to remain as objective and positive as possible!

+ louis —

louis is so fiercely good! supportive, loyal, brave… i’ve never seen someone so witty and intelligent, caring and sensitive. louis shines, louis sparkles!!

but he also tells stories like no else. it is truly fascinating how louis can turn the smallest life experiences into masterpieces!! the raw emotions he’s able to convey in just a sentence: we’re sleeping on our problems like we’ll solve them in our dreams…. it’s easy getting lost into louis’ ocean blue eyes but it’s even easier falling for his talent — through storytelling, louis always shares a positive message and i’m in awe of the way he goes through life despite everything that’s been thrown at him. passionate and driven, louis is authentic and unapologetically himself!

i decided to associate louis with gustav klimt — the artist received a conservative and classical training and began his career painting churches and theaters, following the traditional and historical style popular at the time. quite similar to louis’ mindset at the start of his solo career, klimt focused on what the upper class expected of him! however, he kept developing a more meaningful personal style. one that relied on symbolism and the extensive use of the ornamental gold leaf. his paintings were highly decorative and it is the aesthetic of klimt’s work that made the connection so easy ♡

gustav klimt painted many women in erotic positions, embracing their nudity and a celebration of sexuality, which was controversial at the time. but more than that, the artist depicted loving embraces, abandonment and passion. tenderness. and by coating his paintings in golden powder, klimt created a warm cocoon around his subjects! 1. adele bloch-bauer I - 2. judith I (details) - 3. le baiser (details)

louis is so often associated with the color yellow and it’s easy to understand why — yellow is the most luminous color and is the symbol of happiness, optimism and enlightenment. as a warm color, yellow represents light and creates a sense of hope: it is radiant! gold shares many of the same attributes. it is bright, cheerful and is often associated with love, courage and passion. gold illuminates our world and so does louis!

+ zayn —

zayn is very creative, expressive and imaginative. i’d say he’s cautious and overall very intelligent about his privacy! society will often describe quiet people as mysterious, and it romanticizes anxiety in a way that makes my blood boils… it’s a dangerous culture where people with mental disorders are seen as edgy or cool when in reality they are deeply misunderstood. at times defensive, i believe zayn is strong-willed and values his freedom more than anything!

associating zayn with street art was a given. is there anything more liberating than leaving your trace into the world, anonymously and illegally, without knowing if your work will be painted over in the next few days or a couple of years?

artists such as roa, bansky, kobra, invader or shepard fairey have now made a huge impact, and street art has been popularized. many paintings are known worldwide but before then, you had the travel the world to seek out the artists’ works!

and even if some murals can be seen from afar, they draw you in no matter what. like an invisible pull, some are forcing you to cross the street or climb a few stairs to get closer — zayn draws you in! whether people are affected by his quiet personality, his looks or the sheer quality of his voice, you can’t help but want to learn more about him!

i chose behind the curtain by martin whatson for that very reason! at first cold and unreachable, zayn is full of qualities and life experiences deserving to be uncovered.

martin whatson is a stencil artist working in oslo. looking for beauty in decayed and abandoned urban spaces, he developed his style using grey tones as a basis and adding vibrant colours to bring a splash of life. i also love pull back and behind the wall ♡

+ niall —

to me, niall is the type of person who’s enjoying life as best as he can, and fully appreciating everything there is to offer. whether it be passion, irritation, love, fun or distress. mainly because of his cheerful and bubbly personality, he’s seemingly going through life as if it was a big fest! but don’t be fooled, he knows heartbreak too and there’s more to him!!

niall’s albums feel warm, nostalgic and intimate. we’re being let in into a part of him without any flourishes. a melody strummed on his guitar and here we are, transported into the past and reminiscing about an old lover. niall definitely is a romantic! listening to heartbreak weather, there is so much tenderness into his songs…

this painting is called manège de cochons by robert delaunay — it is part of a series devoted to modern urban life and popular shows. carried away by a whirlwind of vibrant colors, it recreates the lively atmosphere of the fairgrounds.

it definitely represents niall and his complex mind. the colors, so vibrant, are an ode to his cheerfulness. for delaunay, primary colors and their complements exalt each other by contrast. and the same tone can be perceived differently depending on its intensity or its arrangement!

at first, only the vibrancy and the warmth shine through but just like everyone else’s, niall’s mind is intricate. his emotions are raw and he puts his pain into songs, as if to compartmentalize everything. as if to tame those feelings and memories, maybe too loud at times! the colors aren’t just splash of nuances scattered across the canvas, they are deliberate. with purpose, they tell a story…

+ liam —

liam is good! and he always goes out of his way to do something good. he often tries to be more mindful of his actions. he’s constantly learning and just like everyone else liam makes mistakes, but he actively grows from them!!

liam is extremely talented, funny and charismatic, yet i feel like he’s not easily understood. he’s a very sensitive, sincere and sweet person, and despite everything liam went through, he remains cheerful, generous and courageous!

he is also passionate and pursues many hobbies — be it fashion, art, cooking or comics: he is well-versed in many topics and it’s a real pleasure to now follow him on youtube!!

robert rauschenberg was passionate about many mediums himself, and he incorporated newspapers, photographs and even some objects (undershirt, parasol parts) onto the canvas before adding broad strokes of paint! he kept exploring the boundaries of art and closely followed the current events of the time, using images of space flight and NASA’s photographs into his work — space (tribute 21) is a personal favorite ♡

i actually picked a selection of artworks to match liam’s personality: 1. untitled (red painting) - 2. untitled (red painting) - 3. red interior. i particularly love that last one, as the far-right stripe reminds me of liam’s chevron tattoo!!

for many years now, liam has been associated with red and it’s no surprise at all — red is the color of passionate love, seduction and adventure. strength, vitality and ambition. it used to be seen as the color of fire, a primal life force. to the greeks, red symbolized super-human heroism. liam is a force of nature, strong both physically and mentally. he is hard-working and energetic!

+ harry —

forget about the way harry has been portrayed ever since he was a sixteen-year-old boy. forget about the curls and the dimples. simply observe the person harry is today. take a closer look at what he decides to share with us. pay attention to the way he’s presenting himself.

fine line (the album) takes us on an introspective journey into his deepest emotions — whether it be torment or happiness. and i think it’s fascinating how well-executed his songs are! even in a catchy and happy song such as golden, harry managed to address quite a raw and painful concept: i’m hopeless, broken, so you wait for me in the sky / i don’t want to be alone — it’s heartbreaking, yet you almost wished you could feel it too!

through various allegories and metaphors, harry makes you question yourself. he interrogates you and talks about a reality you didn’t know existed or could relate to. harry is magnetic.

this painting is called composition XI by vassily kandinsky — and i can’t help but compare both harry and vassily. kandinsky was a painter, professor, poet and art theorist, generally credited as the pioneer of abstract art! he spent years creating sensorially rich paintings, and was fascinated by musicians who could evoke images in listeners’ minds. he strove to work with forms and colors that alluded to sounds and emotions!!

in songs like fine line, the music swells and deflates as if it was a beating heart. each track conveys a different emotion and translates a distinct concept! through his melodies, harry aims to make us feel joy, melancholy, determination or bitterness, even when the lyrics are anything but. his albums leave us speechless and wondering, just like abstract art!

+ overall, this is what art is meant to make you feel! it’s supposed to challenge you. art is meant to make you rethink your boundaries and open up your mind. it’s meant to question you and leave you wanting for more! you are meant to listen to a song several times to fully understand its meaning, and meant to stand in front of a painting for hours to start grasping the artist’s thought process…

yet art remains subjective! depending on your own life experiences and upbringing. art is free for you to interpret as you wish and so is music! i hope you enjoyed this post, thank you for reading it ♡

#have i spent way too much time on this? YES #did i turn the ask into an essay?? YES #i hope at least a few people will be interested in this #and as i said in the disclaimer: those are MY opinions #i hope you're still around there anon ♡#jess parle à la lune #jess répond

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rose-director · 4 years

Text

Blooming Roses, part 1

Content warnings:

Masks

Face covering

Momentary loss of breath

Neural connection

Hypnotic theming

Corporate setting

Cyberpunk

Description:

A new hire at Rose Cybernetics is given their final interview.

~2800 words

Story:

The megalithic building stands proud against the concrete and glass towers beside it, making mortals of titans. Sheer, elegant, imposing; the structure kisses the sky, inspiring awe in those who observe it. This effect becomes overwhelming in its courtyard, where these same observers are rendered ants in a temple of giants. You let a breath fill your lungs, feeling it sweep out through your anxious smile. Here it is. Rose Cybernetics.The sliding doors of the atrium open with a hissed breath as you enter. You knew that the company did its best to impress its visitors, but if the scale of the building hadn't already set an imposing stage, its lobby would finish its show. Seeming as though it was open to the air, the 'ceiling' of this enormous space rests comfortably at the top of the building itself. From this, a tiered array of circular floors wrap along the outer walls like a serpent's coils. Light permeates the structure from a myriad of sources, all carrying a natural hue that - if what you've heard is accurate - mirrors the color of the sky outside. The sterile whites and greys of the building carry accents of saturated color across its industrial carpeting and in stripes along its walls. Of a similar color set, furniture that seems more like modern art gives the entire area an almost organic quality. The structure itself, though, is complemented in its unique qualities by those within. Figures all around you work busily, writing on whiteboards, collaborating in clusters of various sizes, darting from group to group, and delivering items as though their need was known preemptively. Interestingly, these forms all appear dissimilar from each other. They represent myriads of body types, clothing styles, and gender presentations, yet they all wear a sleek cover across their faces; a brushed, dark curve that obscures all facial features while displaying imagery of its owner's choice. Pulling your attention from your surroundings, you return to your task. A desk labeled 'check-in' sits at the atrium's center, and inquiring there seems to be the place to start. "Hello, welcome to the Rose Cybernetics Center! How can we help you?" The person at the desk carries a spritely, delicate voice, and their words appear across their faceplate as they speak. Almost as if understanding your hesitation, the words 'she/her/hers' flash across her screen. "I- um, hi," You've practiced this interaction many times before, but trying to get words out when you're already off-beat is a bit like trying to tame a tiger while wearing rollerblades. The staffer looks at you again, tilting her head curiously in a motion that dangles her blonde ponytail against her shoulder. It's unsettling to interact with someone with no face, yet looking into her faceplate is somehow calming all the same. Rippling waves of various colors splash across the black of her display, soothing cool tones that remind you of northern lights. You take a breath to settle your heart, acclimating yourself to the unusual sight, and try again. "I'm here for my in-person interview. I-I heard that you'd be expecting me?" Even without seeing her face, you get a good sense of the smile under her faceplate as its colors take on a gentle warm hue. "Of course, applicant 3B90, right this way." The staffer stands and walks out from behind the desk, as another worker wordlessly takes her place. You find yourself unsettled by the exchange; it almost felt more mechanical than human. Suppressing a shudder, you follow the staffer as she leads you to one of the elevator wells built into the side of the building."If you don't mind, um," you speak, immediately cursing the way your words always drift away midsentence. "How can I help you, applicant 3B90?" The warmth associated with her smile appears again, easing some of the anxiety in your chest."It's ah. Sydney, please. What's your name?" "Oh, I'm sorry, Sydney. I'm GIU-2CE5, but you can call me 2C if you like!" As with all of her words, these too float across her display, as does a small '^-^' emoticon afterward. Having gotten more accustomed to the way she emotes, you see the way her tone seems to perk up at the opportunity to share this particular bit of information."Sure," you say as she guides you into an elevator and presses a button for one of the middle floors, "that's your employee number, or um. Whatever, but how about your name?" She pauses for a moment, and you can see her faceplate's slow visualization stutter briefly as she thinks. "Nope, but 2C's my nickname!" It's painfully clear to you that she likes that 'nickname' at least, and you doubt you'll get further on this line of questions, so you let it go with a sigh. "2C it is, then." Okay, maybe it *is* a bit cute to see her get excited about something so simple.The elevator dings and she leads you out through its doors, grabbing your hand to pull you along. The contact is startling, but you don't seem to mind too much as you shrug and let the enthusiastic girl drag you along. On these lofted floors, full glass windows look out on the open atrium while the walls of offices and cubicles emerge, finally welcoming you into something more familiar. She pulls you into an office, empty except for two chairs and a small cabinet, and gestures for you to take a seat. You comply, settling into a piece of furniture that has no business being as comfortable as it is. 2C takes the opposite chair, crossing her legs. "Okay, Sydney, I'll be conducting your interview! Let me know, and we can go ahead and get started." Hearing this surprises you. Sure, you keep an open mind when it comes to most things, but getting interviewed by a front desk greeter for a network administration position is almost surreal. "Alright, so what is this, exactly?" 2C's 'smile' flashes again, and she cheerily explains the Rose Cybernetics hiring process. You know most of this stuff already; the company runs a series of difficult online challenges that lead the way to their application portal. From there, you don't need to submit a resume (thankfully, since yours is in desperate need of some TLC), but they do ask you to solve a problem in realtime over an internet call. If you've shown your skill, they speak with you in a brief remote interview to learn more about you as a person, then give you one final in-person meeting. This last interview, to your knowledge, is a formality; they'd already told you to bring everything you needed to move in, after all. It's at this point where the details get fuzzy, though. As much as you've searched for information about what this would even be, you'd found nothing but missing links and dead-ends. "This meeting is a different kind of test! We're going to hook you into our internal network for a moment, and see how you take to it." She reads your confused look, and the waves on her display bubble lightly, almost in a light giggle. "What do you mean? Will I have a laptop?" You watch as the laughing effect grows. She holds up a hand as if to ask for just a moment, then stands and walks over to the cabinet. Sliding out a slim, black box, she strides back over to you and places the box in your lap. It's blank, unadorned, and made of showy cardboard. You start removing the lid, suction keeping the base from falling as it slides slowly, and an idea of what might be waiting inside dawns on you. Tossing away the newly-liberated lid, you stare directly into the item you'd been expecting and dreading; a faceplate, returning your stare.Just above the glossy covering, embedded into the packaging foam, a small bolt-like object sits ominously. You've already seen the faceplates, but this thing..? It makes the whole situation even more concerning. "Don't worry about that receiver - for now, just put your faceplate on - I bet you'd look so cute! Oh, I'm so excited, I get to see what your display shows before anyone else!" 2C's demeanor is a confusing thing; her screen jumps and reacts to her mood, and so does her voice, but her body language and physical responses - while present - are significantly muted. Her posture is almost perfect, and her movement is unsettlingly smooth. Just one more uncanny part of this business, you suppose. Considering your current situation, you catch yourself worrying about the results of this interview again, for very different reasons this time. Your eyes widen with anxiety, as your heart beats faster in your chest. "Sydney, look at me, okay?" her faceplate's coloration shifts back to those comfortable blues and greens. "Putting the faceplate on won't do anything permanent." Her hand is holding yours. "It'll press against your face, make a tight seal, and beam everything its cameras pick up into your eyes once it starts up." She's holding both of your hands now. "When I press the receiver to your neck, it'll let you control the faceplate with your mind, just like I do!" Her display wiggles in a playful pattern for emphasis. Her hands are soft, reassuring. "Once you take them off, it'll be back to normal, okay? Just a taste now, that's what this interview is for." You nod, thoughtlessly. With 2C's hands still holding yours, you reach to the faceplate in your lap. Her reassurance pools in your chest, and after slowing your heartbeat with a couple of deep breaths, you press the dark shape to your face. It's cold, almost like your face is pressed against a window, and begins to shift against your skin. You can feel it exerting a suction force, and for a terrifying instant, you realize that you can't breathe. As you try to pull in a breath, a refreshing current of air wafts in through its respirator, and your brief panic recedes. At first, your vision is blank. Another few deep breaths go by, and imagery starts to flow back into your eyes. Dim at first, most likely to keep you from being immediately overwhelmed, slowly building until your surroundings resolve around you again. You've needed glasses, apparently; the world around you appears sharper now than before, and much more detailed. Looking over at 2C, a small blurb of information hovers over her head. It's a single word; 'contented.' You'd figured that she was just good at reading emotions, but this was cheating!"H-have you been reading me from your s-screen this whole time?" you stammer. "Oh, no, not quite. That info comes from your receiver. I'm just good at guessing!" The panel shifts to 'proud,' before progressing to 'flirty.' You're about to comment on it, when she decides to continue. "By the way, that faceplate looks so so cute on you!" Your cheeks redden, and you're, surprisingly, thankful that the unlit display is covering your face. You still have almost no idea why the company would require wearing these things, but the anonymity is surprisingly refreshing. "O-okay, I've handled the mask-faceplate-whatever, I'm good to keep going." 2C's faceplate lights up a monochrome green as she tilts her head, and you see metadata confirming that it's posed as a question. You nod again in response, and she stands up to walk behind you. Your anxiety builds at the thought of a person directly behind you, but it subsides as chilling metal touches your skin. The mechanism's electromagnetic fields warp your thoughts, pulling at them as though they were elastic. The tension builds and builds as your mind becomes a coiled spring, the receiver forcing it ever tighter. The force, the pulling, the pushing; it feels like everything that makes up your mind is about to explode. "Relax," 2C's voice cuts through the swirling forces and mental struggle, "just let go, let the flow of information sweep over you.” “Relax.” At her last word, your entire being stalls, before sinking into a state of extreme ease. All of that tension, so overwhelming moments ago, courses through your body, letting you accept this new pathway for information to travel through. As you pick up the pieces of your consciousness, you shake your face from the empty stupor it carried a moment ago - thanking your mask once again - and actively sift through the data streaming into your brain.The Rose Cybernetics building is already impressive from a visual perspective, but looking at it for what it is, the glowing connected consciousnesses of every mind in the structure lighting up before you, you feel your jaw drop automatically. Your gaze returns to 2C, whose current emotions register as 'pleased.' [You can talk to me like this now, you know.] The thoughts sound like her voice, and you jump as you hear them. [It's strange to start with, I know, but this is how we all communicate here; much faster.] Realization dawns on you, and without prompting, your thoughts pour through the connection between you. [How do I respond- oh wait I'm responding now this is amazing but hard to control how do I sto-] flows out of you, in combination with a variety of related emotions, images, and half thoughts. You spend the remaining interview time experimenting with this paradigm shift in interaction, communication, and existence that's somehow both entirely new, yet confusingly familiar and natural. After only a few minutes, it feels as though 2C understands you on a deeper level than anyone you've ever met, just as your understanding of her reaches that same depth. She explains that for the sake of getting you used to this, she's the only one linked to you. She shares - with enthusiasm - that after you've had enough time to acclimate to this shift, you'll be able to open connections with anyone and everyone in the entire facility. Her excitement bounces through your mind, and you can't help but let that positivity bubble up until it begins to play across your faceplate, too. Your display is a lot less abstract than 2C's; instead of the amorphous waves against a black background, your faceplate decorates itself with images of the cosmos. Galaxies, nebulas, constellations, all proudly used to emote in a way that words never could. It feels freeing, strangely enough, wearing a screen like this. It's a window, you think, glasses for the mind. You can feel 2C thinking to herself, the sign to expect a burst of new information broadcast from her mind to yours. As you do, you can't help but think just how cute she is! So excited over being called 2C; of course, if someone called you 3B90, you'd probably melt too. It's confusing to you, looking back, why you thought that names were so important. After all, designations are just so much more convenient! [You were broadcasting that, 3B,] 2C's smug feeling drips between your connection. Your blush returns to paint your cheeks bright red, and you notice another - somewhat less innocuous - response between your legs. She waits, perfectly aware of the effect her words carried as she feels it flowing through her mind from yours, before continuing. [I think that our interview was a success! Come back tomorrow, and we can get you fitted with a permanent set.] [I have to take it off?] [It'll be alright, just one more day.] Through your mental link, she sends you more feelings of relief, complemented by a physical hug. She looks up at you for a moment questioningly, before you nod gently, confirming your begrudging acceptance as she pulls the receiver away from your neck. With all that meta-information gone, you squeeze against her even tighter to compensate. As your mask falls away, you feel strange; naked even. Leaving the office room, stepping into the elevator, and giving your goodbyes to 2CE5 all serve the singular goal of making you feel that much more alone. For a brief moment, you consider just how strange it is to be feeling these things at the hand of your new employer, but at this point, you're in far too deep to do anything but shrug. "Before I- um... go, will I see you again?" you stumble out the question, mouth once again failing you. 2C's smile lights up her faceplate again - stars, it's so beautiful to see - and a giggle creeps out too. "I wouldn't be too worried about that, 3B! After all, I'll be your new supervisor!" Hearing your designation excites you in a way that feels almost enchanting, and you blush deeply in response. The part of you that might have questioned why she of all people would be your supervisor remains muted, as the excitement of the prospect tingles down your spine. Only a few hours ago, you would have scoffed at yourself, but now you can't help but be excited; tomorrow is your first day at Rose Cybernetics.

#droneplay #what do you mean this isn't a self insert story totally not hahahahahaaaaa #sometimes you just gotta wear a faceplate bc hhhhh

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